Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (44 page)

But ships of the air are not like surface vehicles; they have freedom to move in three dimensions. Grimes made a rude, two fingered gesture to the watching Shaara, put the camperfly into a shallow dive as he turned to starboard. It was the easiest maneuver to carry out in these circumstances; it also turned out to be a foolish one.

The camperfly was directly under the airship when Grimes realised this. For the second time during his stay on New Venusberg he was bombed by the Shaara. A shower of missiles fell from the blimp’s car, clattering on to the transparent canopy of the cab, thudding on to the tough plastic containing the wing and fuselage gas cells. The camperfly staggered, heeled over dangerously. The heavy object that had landed on the starboard wing tip and stayed there fell off but not before Grimes had seen what it was, one of those large earthenware containers referred to as honeypots, a jar in which the Shaara had carried semi-fluid refreshment to sustain them during their trip.

“What the bloody hell?” screamed Fenella Pruin.

“Somebody up there doesn’t like us,” muttered Grimes.

But there was no damage to the camperfly. Although some of the jetsam had been heavy none of it had been sharp. A container of some kind had shattered on top of the bubble canopy and overhead vision was obscured by a red, syrupy mess. Through it, dimly, Grimes could see the blimp. It was now little more than a dot in the sky. After that dumping of weight it had gone up fast.

“And just what was all that about?” demanded the girl.

“The Shaara—these particular Shaara—have it in for me.”

“And so I’m liable to suffer for your misdeeds.”

“I’m here too.”

“More’s the pity. Anyhow, what do you intend doing about it?”

“We just carry on,” said Grimes, “until it’s time to land for the night.”

“And get bombed again.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “My guess—for what it’s worth—is that the Shaara are keeping an eye on me. A surveillance mission only. But that princess, seizing a heaven sent opportunity to be nasty, just gathered up everything dumpable in the car and dropped it on us. Just petty spite.”

“It could have been serious.”

“It wasn’t.”

“The surveillance—if your theory is correct—is. I don’t want to be snooped on.”

“The biter bit,” said Grimes.

“Oh, shut up!” Then, after a pause, “And what are you
doing
about it?”

“I’ll think of something,” said Grimes with a confidence that he did not feel.

***

The Shaara blimp kept them company throughout the day. Grimes could not outrun it. The arthropods, however, took no further hostile action; presumably they had nothing else that they could afford to jettison. But it was not a happy flight for Grimes and his companion; they were continually and uncomfortably aware of hostile eyes looking down on them.

As already planned they came in to Camp Diana in the afternoon. Before they landed the Shaara airship sheered off, vanishing beyond a range of low, wooded hills to the northward. Perhaps it was returning to the spaceport, as Fenella Pruin suggested. Grimes did not think so. He feared that they would be seeing more of the arthropods before arrival at Vulcan Island.

Camp Diana was situated on the south bank of the narrow river. There was a little hill overlooking the broad meadow upon which camperflies and pneumatic tents were arranged in orderly lines and upon this eminence was a silver statue of the divine huntress, bow in hand. The artist had depicted a lady who, despite her archaic armament, looked to be more versed in bedroom venery than the outdoor sport for which the same word is used. She did not have at all the appearance of a virgin goddess. By the wateredge was the hunting lodge, so called. It was a large, white building of vaguely classical architecture. On its roof was a mast with a windsock that was hanging limply in the calm, warm air. There was, too, a squat control tower and from this Grimes received his landing instructions.

He set down in a vacant space in one of the lines of camperflies, making an almost vertical descent. He watched from the cab a young woman walking out to the aircraft, looked at her appreciatively. She was dressed in filmy
chiton
that left one breast bare and that revealed most of her long, slender legs. The effect of her pseudo-Grecian attire, however, was slighly marred by a very modern looking shoulder bag. (She had to have something, thought Grimes cynically, in which she stowed the money, camping fees and the like, that she collected from the customers.)

She waited at the door of the camperfly for Grimes and Fenella Pruin to emerge. She said, her voice high and silvery, “Welcome to Camp Diana.” Then, “For how long do you intend to stay, sir and miss?”

“Only for the night,” Grimes told her.

“Only for the night, sir? But you will miss tomorrow’s hunt. Perhaps you will reconsider. This evening you will have ample time for arbalest instruction at the range in the lodge basement . . .”

“What the hell’s an arbalest?” demanded Fenella Pruin.

“A crossbow,” said Grimes. “Its great advantage over the longbow is that little training is required before a bowman is reasonably competent.”

“But
weapons,”
persisted Fenella. “After all the fuss you had with the Customs at Port Aphrodite I got the impression that weapons were banned on this world.”

“They are, miss,” the girl told her. “But for a deer hunt bows must be used—longbows for the few capable of employing them, arbalests for those who must learn archery in a hurry. They are hired from the lodge and during the hunt strict supervision is exercised.” She smiled. “In the extremely unlikely event of any of our guests not returning his bow before leaving the camp he will find it of little use save as a souvenir. After all, it is not a concealed weapon. It is not the sort of thing that one can carry into a cathouse or gambling den unnoticed. In fact if a bow is carried anywhere save in the precincts of a hunting camp such as this it will at once excite the interest of the authorities.” She took time off to recover her breath then continued, “Have I persuaded you to stay for the hunt, sir?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Grimes. “But I should like to get in some arbalest practice this evening.”

“What the hell for?” demanded Fenella Pruin.

“We might enjoy a longer stay here next time we drop in.”

“Oh, well, if that’s your idea of a pleasant evening, go ahead. I’m not stopping you. But you pay for your own tuition; I’m not subsidizing your fun. It’s bad enough having to shell out for camping fees. How much do I owe for one night?” she asked the girl.
“What?
Oh, well, this
is
a hunting camp. You’re the predator and we’re the prey . . .”

She went back into the camperfly for money. Grimes looked at the girl. She looked at him. Two pairs of eyebrows were raised simultaneously.

Grimes asked, “What time are these arbalest lessons?”

“Any time you like,” she said. “Do you plan on shooting her—accidentally, of course?”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes noncommitally.

***

Grimes demanded money.

Fenella Pruin asked, “What for? For an arbalest lesson? Your Survey Service gunnery courses can’t have cost all that much!”

“I may want to grease a palm or two,” he said.

She looked at him. She said slowly, “I think I can guess why. But I’m not asking. I don’t want to know anything about it. I refuse to accept responsibility for any illegality of which you may be guilty.”

“Unfortunately,” said Grimes, “as master I cannot do likewise as far as you are concerned.”

“Here’s your money,” she said, concluding the conversation. She peeled notes of large denominations off the large roll that she produced from her bag.

Grimes counted what she gave him. It should be enough, more than enough. He left the camperfly, walked in the late-afternoon sunlight to the lodge.

***

He found his way to the practice range with no trouble. Apart from the attendant on duty, a young lady got up to conform to somebody’s idea of what a well dressed Amazon should wear—leather straps, brass buckles, an extremely short kilt of some transparent material—the practice range was deserted. She looked at Grimes and smiled invitingly.

“Archery instruction, sir? Or . . .”

“Archery instruction, please.”

The smile faded slightly.

“Longbow or arbalest, sir?”

“Arbalest, please.”

“Have you used such a weapon before?”

“No.”

“In that case, sir, you will require the stimulator if you are to acquire a modicum of skill in the minimum time. It was programmed by Hiroshi Hayashi, for many years the undisputed crossbow champion of all Venusberg.” She added, after a slight pause, “There will be an extra charge, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Grimes.

He was led to a long counter of polished wood. Beyond this, at a distance of about forty meters, was a large target with a bullseye and concentric rings. From under the bar the girl produced a crossbow, put the end of it on the floor and one slim foot into the stirrup, grasped the wire bowstring with both hands—it was suitably padded in the two places necessary—and pulled. There was a click as the sear engaged. She lifted the weapon, put it back on the counter and then inserted a steel quarrel into the slot. Then, with the butt of the arbalest set firmly on her right shoulder, she took casual aim and pulled the trigger. The bowstring twanged musically and the target thudded as the metal bolt sank deep into the bullseye.

It all looked very easy.

“And now you, sir. Cock, load and fire.”

It had all looked very easy when she did it but Grimes was amazed at the effort required to bend those steel arms. He was red in the face and perspiring when finally the thing was cocked. He loaded. He brought the butt to his shoulder. The weapon was too heavy and the balance was all wrong. He tried to steady the primitive sights on to the target but could not hold the crossbow steady. He pulled the trigger at last when his foresight flickered across the bullseye. He missed, of course, not even putting the quarrel on to the quite large target.

The girl
tsked
sympathetically. She brought from its under the counter stowage a featureless helmet of some light metal. She set it firmly on Grimes’ head.

“Now, sir, cock, load and fire.”

It had all looked very easy when she did it. It was surprisingly easy when he did it—this time. It was as though something—somebody—had control of his brain, was telling his muscles exactly what they should do. (This stimulator, he thought, must use a very similar technique to that employed by that obscene game machine in Lady Luck’s games machines room.) He pulled up the bowspring until it engaged with an amazing lack of effort. He raised the arbalest to his shoulder, sighted carelessly, fired. He was well on the target this time although missing the bullseye by a few millimeters. He cocked, reloaded, fired again. A bull. Cock, reload, fire . . . Another bull. And another. Dislodged quarrels fell to the stone floor with a clatter.

This was not, thought Grimes, the quickfiring weapon that a longbow was. Even with his induced skills reloading took too much time.

He asked, “Could I learn to use a longbow the same way?”

“Yes, sir. But it takes much longer. You, obviously, are accustomed to handling projectile firearms employing a chemical propellant. This technique is merely enhancing the skills that you already possess . . .”

And a crossbow, thought Grimes, would be easier to fire from the open door of an aircraft. He would stay with it.

At the girl’s suggestion he switched to moving targets, two dimensional representations of animals that had to be Terran deer, their ancestral stock no doubt imported from Earth. These ran rapidly from left to right, from right to left, bobbed up suddenly.

He scored well after a shaky start.

She said, “You will bring back game from tomorrow’s hunt, sir.”

“I shan’t be at tomorrow’s hunt.”

“The day after, perhaps . . . I must warn you that unless you practice continuously the induced skills fade.”

“Could I take two of these arbalests back to my camperfly so that I and my companion can get in some practice?”

“It is not allowed, sir. Our weapons may be used only under strict supervision.”

“You must have occasional outworld tourists,” suggested Grimes, “who want to keep these beautiful crossbows as souvenirs . . .”

“They are expensive,” said the girl bluntly. At least she wasn’t wasting time by being coy.

“How much?” asked Grimes, equally bluntly.

“Five hundred credits each. And I must warn you that if you are seen carrying one anywhere but within the bounds of a camp such as this you will be liable to arrest and prosecution. And if you say that you bought it you will not be believed. We have an understanding with the police forces. You will be charged with theft as well as carrying an unauthorised weapon.”

“You’re certainly frank,” said Grimes, looking at the girl not without approval. He had his notecase out, was checking its contents. “Now I’m going to be frank. I haven’t enough on me to pay for the arbalests
and
the tuition. And my . . . er . . . friend keeps very tight pursestrings . . .” He tried to look like a gigolo. “Perhaps . . .”

“How much have you got?”

“One thousand, five hundred and seventy five . . .”

She grinned. “Near enough.”

He should have tried to beat her down, thought Grimes. But it wasn’t his money. It wasn’t even Fenella Pruin’s money.
The Bronson Star
could well afford it.

Shortly thereafter, with the dissembled arbalests and a supply of quarrels in a carrying case that the girl had thrown in with the purchase, he made his way through the warm dusk to the camperfly.

Fenella Pruin, although reluctantly approving this acquisition of weaponry, was not at all pleased when he insisted that she learn how to cock and load a crossbow.

These were not quick-firing weapons—but if things came to a crunch they would have to do.

Chapter 11

THE NEXT MORNING,
after a light breakfast that Grimes prepared from the camperfly’s consumable stores, they lifted from Camp Diana. A bored duty officer in the control tower asked them where they were bound and was told that they were just cruising. (On most worlds they would have been obliged to submit a flight plan before departure but New Venusberg concerned itself only about the ability of tourists to pay for their pleasure.) The flight controller told them to have a happy day. Grimes thanked him—and wondered if the day would be a happy one. He hoped that it would be.