Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (58 page)

Astern the blimp was still bobbing and weaving at the end of its towline. The five Shaara who had left the crippled airship were close now—two, the larger ones, princesses, the other three drones. If the things that they were carrying had been firearms they would have used them by now. Short spears, Grimes decided. Probably the weapons used in the final stages of the Moby Dick hunt—and such weapons could be, would be used against him. Perhaps he should have run below to find something with which to defend himself—a spanner or hammer from the engine room workshop, a knife from the galley. But now it was too late. The wire must surely be going to part at any moment and if he were on the bridge when it did so he would be sliced in two.

Behind him and to either side of him Shirl and Darleen shouted. He heard the whirring noise as the fragments of flung plastic whirled past his head on either side, watched their glittering trajectory. One struck the leading princess, shearing off her iridescent wings at the left shoulder joint. The other would have hit the drone flying beside her had he not swerved and dipped. The injured Shaara fell to the sea, legs and the remaining wings thrashing ineffectually.

Again the makeshift boomerangs were thrown. The other princess was hit, but on the heavily furred thorax. She faltered in her flight, falling behind the three drones, but kept on coming. Grimes could see the spears clearly now, nasty looking tridents. He picked up a shard of plastic, flung it viciously. He gashed his hand but did no other damage while Shirl, exhibiting far greater skill, decapitated a drone.

Then the wire parted. The end on the starboard side of the wheelhouse, with the harpoon trailing from it, slid harmlessly overside. The other end whipped up and back towards the towed airship. The princess was in the way of it. The two halves of her body plummeted to the water.

That left two drones.

These abandoned the chase, dropping to the sea to go to the aid of the injured princess. The last that Grimes saw of them they were flying slowly back to the drifting blimp, carrying between them the body, possibly still living, of their superior.

Chapter 30

TRITON
CAME TO TROY.

Her entrance into port was delayed; Onslow had not been able to notify the authorities of his impending arrival by radio telephone, the transceiver damaged by the Shaara harpoon being irreparable. So she had to lay off to seaward of the breakwaters while her captain tried to establish communication by daylight signalling lamp. His Morse was rusty, although no rustier than the Morse of the duty officer in the signal station. Finally he was able to find out where he was to berth and to order his linesmen; as
Triton
was crewless a mooring party would have to board as soon as she entered the harbour.

Grimes would have liked to watch the berthing procedure but he, with the three women, had to stay in his cabin until Onslow gave the all clear. So the four of them sat there waiting—Fenella in the single chair, Grimes between the two New Alicians on the bunk. The view from the port was very limited, affording only glimpses of cranes and gantries and, once, a huge bulk carrier.

They felt the bump as the launch with the mooring party came alongside. Then there was the vibration as the hydraulic jets were employed to give lateral thrust and, finally, another bump as
Triton’s
starboard side made contact with the wharf fendering. Not long after there was the sound of footsteps as two people came up the companionway from the poop deck. They passed through the passenger accommodation, carried on up to the captain’s quarters.

Port officials? The ship’s agent? Police?

The four of them sat there in silence. Fenella was smoking, one cigarillo after another. So was Grimes, although he would sooner have had a pipe. Shirl and Darleen did not smoke.

At last there was the sound of footsteps again. Three people were coming down the companionway. They did not pause on the passenger deck. After a short delay one person came on up, rapped sharply on the locked cabin door.

It had to be Onslow, thought Grimes as he opened up.

It was.

“The harbourmaster and my agent,” reported the captain. “They wanted to know what the hell had happened to my wheelhouse. I told them the story that
you
cooked up, Fenella. They believed it.” He laughed. “They’d have believed and liked the true story still more. They don’t love the Shaara.”

“My story is safer,” Fenella Pruin said. “For all of us, you included. Don’t forget that Grimes and I are officially dead until we elect to bob up again. You’ve never seen us, any of us. You were just steaming quietly along on your lawful occasions when a Moby Dick surfaced to starboard. Out to port there was this Shaara blimp with a hunting party. The trigger-happy bastards opened fire on their quarry, even though you were between it and them. Something went wrong and the harpoon went right through your wheelhouse, missing you by millimeters. You, looking after your own ship, decided to cut the wire—which had the harpoon, in the water, at one end of it and the blimp at the other. You did so. When you came out on deck you saw Shaara bodies in the water and a couple of drones picking one up. Some of them must have come out of the airship and were flying down to have a few words with you when the wire parted. A couple or three must have been caught by one of the ends when it whipped back. . .

“Is that what you told them?”

“Yes.”

“With no improvements of your own manufacture?”

“No.”

“Good. If anybody else asks questions, stick to my version. I doubt very much if even the Shaara, arrogant insects that they are, would dare to admit to attacking a New Venusberg ship on the high seas. After all, they’re the foreigners and you’re the native . . .”

“Native?”
asked Grimes.

“Clarry’s naturalised,” Fenella told him. “He had to be before he was allowed to command a New Venusberg ship.” She turned to the shipmaster. “And now, how soon can we get out of here?”

“It’ll be sunset in a couple of hours and there’s not much twilight in these latitudes.” He looked at her as he added, “I’ll be rather sorry to see you go.”

“I’m sure that you will.”

Onslow transferred his attention to Grimes. “And who’s going to pay for the repairs to my wheelhouse?”

“Your insurance,” Grimes told him. “Or you can sue the Shaara.”

“But if
you
hadn’t been on board . . .”

“I paid my passage, which is more than somebody else did . . .”

“And I’m still paying
you,
Grimes, so shut up!” snapped Fenella Pruin. She said to the shipmaster, “Let’s go up to your cabin, Clarry. It’s a bit less crowded than here. We can talk things over there.”

Plainly neither Grimes, Darleen nor Shirl was included in the “us”. They remained sitting on the bunk while Onslow and Fenella Pruin left the cabin. Grimes hoped that they would make each other very happy.

***

They helped themselves to a last meal before leaving
Triton;
they did not know where the next one was coming from as, after paying the bar bill, Grimes had only a few credits left. They dressed in the clothing that, supplied by Onslow, was to be part of their disguise. (When captured and when escaping from the Snuff Palace none of them had been wearing sarongs.) Padded brassieres were contrived for Shirl and Darleen— “False upperworks!” laughed Onslow as he, personally, adjusted them on the girls’ chests—as well as binding to reduce the size of their prominent rumps. From the neck down, at least, they no longer looked like New Alician women. Syntheskin from
Triton’s
medicine chest was used to gum Grimes’ prominent ears flat to his skull. Onslow found a wig—it had been left behind by some past female passenger—for Fenella. It transformed her into a quite pretty redhead, somehow softened her features.

Grimes and the two Matilda’s Children were first down the gangway. They waited on the wharf while Fenella and Captain Onslow made a last, passionate farewell on the poop deck. Her wig fell off. Grimes just caught it before it fell into the narrow gap between the ship’s side and the wharf stringer.

At last she came down, took the artificial head covering from Grimes without a word of thanks, put it back on. She waved one last time to Onslow. Then, with Grimes in the lead they made their way to the Port Troy subway station. They kept away from the bright lights. This was easy as the only ship working cargo was a big bulk carrier. Apart from the activity about her the port area was very quiet. They met nobody during their short walk.

The entrance to the station was just an entrance, lacking either crude or subtle sexual symbolism. There were no other intending passengers; the only similitude to life was that presented by the animated, pornographic advertisements to either side of the escalator and on the platform.

There was no through car to Port Aphrodite; they would have to change at New Bali Beach. That station was fairly busy. While they waited on the platform for the Port Aphrodite car Grimes felt uneasily that everybody was staring at them. He told himself firmly that this could not be so; their appearance was no more outre than that of the average tourist on this planet.

But there was one fat woman, herself sarong clad, who was subjecting Grimes, and Grimes only, to an intense scrutiny. He had seen her before somewhere, he thought.

But where?

When?

Then he remembered. She was one of the witnesses to his humiliation on Bali Beach when the Shaara had bombed him with garbage. She was the one whom he, rather childishly, had humiliated in her turn on the Platform of the Port Aphrodite subway station.

She approached him tentatively. She asked. “Isn’t it Captain Grimes? I never forget a face . . .”

“My name, madam,” said Grimes, “is Fenn.” (It was the first one that came into his head. He realised that Fenella Pruin was glaring at him—but she did not hold a copyright on the alias.) He laughed. “I must have a double.”

“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Fenn. But you
are
like Captain Grimes—apart from your ears, that is. And I’m sorry, in a way, that you’re not him . . .”

Is there a reward out?
he wondered.

“Why?” he asked, trying to make his voice unconcerned.

“Because if you were him he’d still be alive. He was such a charming young man, in spite of his wealth so utterly unspoiled. There aren’t many like him in the galaxy . . .”

“What do you, mean, madam?” asked Grimes. “My friends and I are new here. We’ve yet to look at a newspaper or listen to a bulletin . . .”

“Oh, you must be passengers on that big ship that came in yesterday. I can’t remember her name but my hubby, who used to be in shipping—on the business side, of course—told me that she’s one of the Commission’s Beta Class liners under new ownership. But this Captain Grimes is—or was, but they haven’t found any bodies yet although they found wreckage—a shipowner as well as being a space captain. Only a little ship but built, so they say, of gold. I can’t believe that but she shines like gold. He came here with just one passenger, a girl as rich as himself. They chartered one of those camperflies and flew off for a tour. They never came back. They were last seen taking off from Vulcan Island. Pilot error it must have been, although you’d think that a man who could take a spaceship all around the galaxy would be able to manage a
camperfly.
Even my hubby can, although he’s certainly not either a spaceman or an airman. He just sets the controls on automatic and presses the buttons for where he wants to go. Perhaps that was the trouble. Would a
real
captain be happy to let his ship do his thinking for him?

“And then, of course, he had a beautiful young lady with him . . . Perhaps, when he should have been piloting, he was doing something else. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead but the girl—what was her name?—was free with her favours. There was that fat Port Captain for one; I did hear that he actually burst into tears when he heard that his lady love was missing . . . Now what was
her
name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Prudence something or other—but she wasn’t very prudent, was she?

“No, what am I thinking about? Not Prudence. Prunella. Yes, that was it. Prunella . . .? Prunella Fenn. You wouldn’t be her brother, would you? Or perhaps her husband, come here to find out what happened to her . . .?”

“No,” said Grimes. “No relation.”

“But what a coincidence! You looking like Captain Grimes—but much better looking!—and with the same name as the young lady who was with him when he vanished . . .”

Fortunately the Port Aphrodite car came in. Grimes practically shoved his three companions through the open door into the interior. He paused briefly to say, “Thank you for the talk, madam.” He laughed. “After what you’ve told us
we
shan’t be hiring a camperfly! A very good night to you.”

The door closed before he had taken his seat. The car sped through the tunnel.

“Did you have to use Fenn as a name?” asked Fenella coldly.

“It’s as good as any other,” said Grimes. “Or is it? Anyhow, we’ve learned a bit. We—you and I, that is, Fenella—are definitely missing, presumed dead. Your fat friend Jock is heartbroken. He’ll be overjoyed to see you again. You—we—had better concoct a story to satisfy him. We’ll probably need his help to get back on board
Little Sister.”

“All right, Mr.
Fenn.
What are
your
ideas?”

“You’re the writer.”

“Not a fiction writer.”

“No?” He raised his eyebrows, winced as this caused a sting of pain in the skin of his skull under his gummed down ears. “No? Judging from some of your pieces that I read in
Star Scandals . . .
”

“None of them,” she told him, “is more fantastic than the story of what’s happened to us on this world.”

Chapter 31

NO OTHER PASSENGERS
boarded the car at the two stops before arrival at Port Aphrodite. Grimes and Fenella were able to work out the details of what they hoped would be a plausible story. It did not tally with the one that Captain Onslow had told the authorities in Troy but, hopefully,
Little Sister
would be well up and away from New Venusberg before there was any thorough checking up.