Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (40 page)

“Of course. It’s what it’s for, isn’t it?”

“But you didn’t see . . . me . . .”

“But we did, Grimes. We did—although you’re far better looking and far better endowed in your perverted imagination than you are in actuality. And we saw what happened to you. Proper bloody it was, too.” She turned to her escort. “Why don’t you see if you can do any better, Jock? Go on, be a sport. I’ll pay.”

“No,” said the Port Captain. ‘No.”

“Goodnight,” said Grimes.

Acutely and miserably aware of the state of his clothing he turned away from them, slunk through the gambling halls and down to the subway station. He did not have long to wait for a car back to Port Aphrodite.

The Customs guard at his airlock was far too cheerful.

“You look like you’ve had a fine night on the tiles, Captain!” he laughed.

“It was interesting,” said Grimes shortly as he retreated into his own little sanctuary.

Chapter 5

HE STRIPPED OFF HIS SOILED CLOTHING,
had a long, hot shower. Cleansed, he was beginning to feel better. And hungry. He went into the little galley and assembled a thick, multitiered sandwich, opened a can of cold beer. He carried these refreshments to his part of the main cabin, put them down on the deck by his bunk. He stretched out and then, his body disposed like that of an ancient Roman banqueter, munched and gulped. He almost finished the sandwich but was suddenly asleep before all the beer was gone.

He dreamed, re-enacting the game—but this time he caught the girl before she reached the temple. This time her hair did not come away in his hand. He turned her around, threw her to the ground, fell heavily upon her. His right knee prised her thighs apart. He . . .

The loud ringing of a bell jerked him back to reality.

Action Stations!

Then he realised where he was and that the noise was being made by somebody seeking admission to
Little Sister.
He got out of his bunk, reached for and shrugged into a light robe. The bell went on ringing, in short, irritable bursts.

He went aft to the airlock, operated the local controls. Prunella Fenn stood there, glaring at him. “You keep a tight ship,” she snarled sardonically. “Are you afraid that the wild, wild women will come and get you?” She brushed past him, looked down at the remnants of his supper. “Didn’t I hear somewhere that your Survey Service nickname was Gutsy Grimes?” She stooped to pick up the can of now-flat beer, sniffed it disdainfully. “I could do with a drink myself—but not this gnat’s, piss. Fix me one, will you? A large brandy on one, small rock.”

“I wasn’t expecting you back,” said Grimes.

“Surely you weren’t expecting me to spend all night with that fat, boring slob? But the drink, Grimes. Now.”

He went to the galley, poured a generous measure of brandy over one ice cube. She snatched it from him without thanks.

He said, “I’ll rig the privacy screen.”

“Don’t bother,” she told him. “I want to talk.”

She gulped from her glass, put it down on the table and started to undress. There was nothing at all sensual about the display, not the merest hint of invitation. There were bruises, Grimes noted clinically, on the pale skin of her upper thighs. She saw what he was looking at, laughed shortly.

“There are times when a girl has to suffer to get a story. Or to get a lead . . .”

She picked up the glass again, sat down on her bed, facing him.

She said, “I think that I shall be able to blow the lid off two very unsavoury rackets. Soon I shall have the makings of a couple or three stories that will have readers and viewers all over the galaxy literally
drooling.
There’s white slavery—that’s been a sure seller for centuries. The others are even better . . .”

“Better?”
echoed Grimes.

“You can bet your boots it is. Why do you think that the Shaara come here?”

“For the gambling?” hazarded Grimes.

“More than that. You told me yourself that the Shaara—or some of them—are voyeurs.”

“Nothing especially sensational in that. You’re a voyeur yourself.
You
watched what was happening to me in that damned machine.”

“But that wasn’t for real, was it? Anyhow,
you
should know what the Shaara are capable of. Didn’t you and that postmistress wench have a rough time when you were prisoners of that Rogue Queen? The Shaara like to humiliate, torture even, other intelligent beings—but such practices are frowned upon on their own planets.
Here
they can indulge their vices. Money—enough money—can buy anything.”

“I can’t quite believe that even on New Venusberg human beings could make a profit from allowing their fellow men and women to be tortured.”

“Grow up, Grimes! I’ve heard that you’re something of an amateur historian—so you should know the extent of the evil of which humanity is capable. But you spacemen, for all your phoney machismo, lead very sheltered lives, know almost nothing about the
real
universe. There’s a lot more to it than the clean, empty spaces between the stars!

“Anyhow, this commercialised sadism ties in with the white slave racket. Innocent little bitches—yes, and innocent little puppies—recruited on backward planets (and some not so backward) and brought here to make their fortunes (they think!) on fabulous Venusberg. An old friend of yours, Drongo Kane, is in the business up to his eyebrows . . .”

“That bastard!” growled Grimes.

“Jock told me that one of the ships Kane owns—
Willy Willy
—is due in shortly from a world called New Alice . . . I sort of gained the impression that he wasn’t supposed to talk about it—but you know what men are like. When they’re trying to make a girl they tend to boast, to show how big they are, how important. But there’s only one way of being big that counts.”

“Mphm.”

“Where is New Alice? What sort of world is it?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“You’re the expert. Or supposed to be. You were hired as such.”

“I still haven’t a clue,” growled Grimes. He got up from his bunk and padded to the playmaster, set the controls so that it was hooked up to the memory bank of the ship’s computer. He hit the question mark symbol on the keyboard, then typed NEW ALICE.

The reply appeared in glowing letters in the screen: NO DATA.

Fenella Pruin laughed. “That thing is as useless as you are.”

Grimes’ prominent ears flushed angrily. He said, “This memory bank, especially insofar as navigational data is concerned, is as good as anything in a battleship.”

“So
you
say.” She yawned, not bothering to hide her gaping mouth with her hand. “Another drink, then I’ll be ready for a spot of shut-eye. And don’t
you
come mauling me. I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

He refilled her glass. She downed its contents in one gulp; some of the amber spirit dribbled down her chin and on to her breasts. Grimes felt no desire to lick it off. She stretched out on her bunk, not bothering to cover herself. Grimes stretched out on his, operated the switch at its head that dimmed the cabin lights.

She went to sleep almost at once, snoring not unmusically.

He found it hard to get off again. Two names kept flashing before his mind’s eye like an advertising sign: DRONGO KANE. NEW ALICE.

He already knew far too much about Kane—but where the hell was New Alice?

Chapter 6

EVEN AFTER A LATE
and disturbed night Grimes was inclined to be an early riser. He did not always greet the dawn with a song, however; this was such a non-choral occasion. He ungummed his eyelids, looked up blearily at the golden deckhead. He had omitted to close various doors before retiring and the morning sunlight was streaming through the control cab viewports, was reflected from burnished metal. He groaned softly. He slowly pushed the bed cover down from his body, swung his feet to the deck. He looked across to Fenella Pruin’s bunk. She was still sleeping, her right forearm covering her eyes and most of her face. The rest of her was uncovered. If Grimes had been feeling stronger he would have been sexually stirred by the sight of her naked body, as it was he felt only disgust. In her sluttish posture, with the dark bruises on the skin of her inner thighs, she looked
used.
And used, moreover, by that fat slob of a Port Captain.

He padded aft to the little galley, switched on the coffee maker. After a second or so he was able to draw a steaming mug of the dark fluid. He added sugar, stirred. He sipped cautiously. He felt a little stronger. He allowed the coffee to cool slightly, then gulped and swallowed.

“Must you make that disgusting noise at this jesusless hour?”

He looked around. Fenella Pruin was sitting up in her bed, glaring at him.

“And you might put something on,” she added. “Your hairy arse isn’t the sort of sight that I like to wake up to.”

Grimes muttered something about pots and kettles.

She ignored this. “And what’s that you’re drinking? Don’t you ever stop stuffing yourself?”

“Coffee.”

“Why didn’t you say so before? Well, you can bring me some. With cream. And sugar. You know how I like it.”

Grimes did know. More than once during the voyage from Bronsonia he had wondered if he were owner-master or cabin steward; the Pruin had been determined to get her—or her employer’s—money’s worth. He made coffee to her requirements, brought it to her. As he handed her the mug he was strongly tempted to slop some of the scalding fluid over her uncovered breasts. She snatched it from him ungraciously and a few drops were spattered on to her stomach.

“You clumsy oaf!” she snarled.

He did not feel obliged to apologise. He left her mopping her belly with the bed cover and went to the minuscule bathroom. After he had showered and depilated and all the rest of it he-walked back to his side of the main cabin, ignoring the way in which she glowered at him. He took a brightly patterned civilian shirt from its hanger in his locker, hesitated between a pair of orange shorts and a kilt in the astronauts’ tartan, gold, blue and silver on black. He decided on the shorts; he was never really happy in a kilt.

“A sight for sore eyes,” she remarked sourly. “You’re making mine sore. Going some place?”

“Probably. Do you want breakfast?”

“Two four minute hen’s eggs, with buttered toast. Orange juice. Coffee.”

There was no
please.

“We’re out of fresh eggs but the autochef can do you scrambled eggs or an omelette.”

“Why are we out of fresh eggs?”

“Because I haven’t ordered any stores yet.”

“Why not? In my girlish innocence I assumed that the service in a chartered spaceship would be slightly superior to that in an Epsilon Class tramp.”

“If your friend the Port Captain and the others hadn’t been underfoot all day yesterday . . .”

“If
you
hadn’t made such a pig of yourself every breakfast time there’d have been some eggs left.”

The bells rang. Somebody was outside the ship seeking admission.

“See who it is!” she snapped.

Grimes went to the airlock, opened both doors. The Port Captain was there. His face was still florid but it was an unhealthy looking flush. His gorgeous uniform looked sleazy. More than ever he looked like the doorman of a brothel rather than a spaceman.

“Morning,” he grunted. “Miss Fenn on board?”

“Where else, Captain McKillick? But come aboard. This is Liberty Hall, you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”

“You can’t come aboard until I’m presentable,” called Fenella Pruin.

“Miss Fenn’s not dressed yet,” said Grimes.

“That doesn’t worry me,” said the Port Captain, managing a faint leer. “I don’t suppose that it worries you either.”

“It doesn’t,” said Grimes.

“You can say that again!” came the voice from within
Little Sister.
“Whoever perpetuates that myth about big, strong, virile spacemen wouldn’t know if a big black dog was up him!”

Grimes’ prominent ears reddened, the Port Captain superimposed an angry flush on his normally ruddy complexion. (After all he was—or had been—a spaceman himself.)

But he said, “I like a woman with a little fire in her.”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes.

“Last night for example . . .”

“Mphm?”

“Never kiss and tell, eh, Captain? I can take a hint. But that dance she did at the Kathouse put the professionals to shame. In fact Katie told her that she’d give her a job if she ever wanted one. It was the business with the bottle and the two wine glasses that really impressed her, though . . .”

Grimes’ active imagination treated him to a series of lubricious mind pictures.

“When you’ve quite finished gossiping like a couple of old women you can come in,” called Fenella Pruin.

***

Not only had she made herself presentable but had actually tidied up the main cabin. Inflatable chairs were set around the collapsible table, on which stood the golden coffee pot and its accessories. She was wearing an ankle length dress of patterned spidersilk, grey on grey, under which it ‘was obvious that she was naked. From the neck down there was nothing at all wrong with her.

“Good morning, Jock,” she said with spurious sweetness. “Coffee?”

“Thank you, Prue.”

“Breakfast?” asked Grimes, whose belly was rumbling.

“I’ve had mine. Such as it was.”

“Well, I’m having mine. Miss Fenn?”

“You mentioned omelets earlier . . . Something savoury if your autochef can manage it.”

Grimes went into the galley to initiate the process of cookery. He could overhear the conversation.

“Last night—or early this morning—I asked Captain Grimes about that world you told me about. New Alice. He didn’t know a thing, of course. Nor did his computer.”

The Port Captain laughed. “Hardly surprising. It’s one of Drongo Kane’s secrets. My guess is that it’s a Lost Colony that he’s keeping to himself.”

“A fine, profitable source of slave labour. Or white slave labour.”

“Not that, Prue. The girls are paid. They aren’t
slaves.”

“But they are exploited. I noticed last night that they were in great demand. Of course some men would find those oddly shaped legs of theirs very attractive . . . Do you suppose that they’re mutants? Like those wenches from Heffner with two pairs of breasts . . .”