Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (62 page)

So, thought Grimes, he was letting
Little Sister
go to somebody who would regard her as no more than an ingenious toy.

But in a harshly commercial universe that was all that she was anyhow.

Chapter 2

MUCH TO GRIMES’
surprise the formalities of the sale were concluded late the following morning. (When Yosarian wanted something he wanted it
now
.) It was early afternoon when
Little Sister
was handed over to her new owner. Grimes was both hurt and relieved to discover that Yosarian did not expect him to stay around to show the new owner where everything lived and what everything did; in fact the roboticist made it quite plain that he wished to be left alone to gloat over his new possession.

“If that is all, Mr. Yosarian . . .” said Grimes.

“Yes, that is all, Captain. I’ve made a study of ships, as you know. And, in any case, much of the equipment here is of my own design. The autochef, the waste processor . . . There seems to be nothing here that is a departure from normal practice.”

“Look after her,” said Grimes.

“You need have no worries on that score, Captain. When something has cost me as much as this vessel I look after it.”

He extended a fat hand for Grimes to shake. Grimes shook it, then went out through his—no,
the
—airlock for the last time. Yosarian’s ground car was waiting to carry him to his hotel, his baggage already stowed in the rear compartment. There were two large suitcases and a mattress cover that had been pressed into service as a kitbag. (When one is in a ship for any length of time personal possessions tend to accumulate.) Before boarding the vehicle Grimes paused to pat the gleaming surface of the golden hull.

At least,
he thought,
you aren’t being broken up . . .

The chauffeur, a little, wizened monkey of a man in severe, steel-grey livery, watched him dourly. He said, “Old Yosie won’t like it if you put greasy pawmarks all over that finish.”

“She’s had worse on her,” said Grimes. “Like blood.”

“You don’t say, Captain?” The man looked at Grimes with a new respect. Then, “Where to, sir?”

“The Centaurian,” said Grimes, taking his seat beside the driver.

The car sped smoothly and silently toward the spaceport gate. It did not reduce speed for challenge and inspection by the duty customs officer; the flag flying from the short mast on the bonnet, black with a golden Y set in a golden cogwheel, was pass enough.

“That
blood
, Captain . . .” hinted the chauffeur.

“Not human blood,” Grimes told him. “Shaara blood. Or ichor. A couple of drones were trying to burn their way in with hand lasers. So I went upstairs in a hurry, out of a dense atmosphere into near vacuum. They . . . burst.”

“Messy,” muttered the driver.

“Yes,” agreed Grimes.

And where was Tamara, who had shared that adventure with him, he wondered. Probably back on Tiralbin, once again the desk-borne Postmistress General, no longer directly involved in getting the mail through come hell or high water. And where were Shirl and Darleen, also one-time passengers aboard
Little Sister?
And the obnoxious Fenella Pruin . . . And Susie . . . Susie had never set foot aboard the golden pinnace herself but she belonged to the
Little Sister
period of his life.

He may have lost his ship but he would keep the memories.

The driver was saying something.

“Mphm?” grunted Grimes.

“We’re here, Captain. The Centaurian.”

The hotel was the usual elongated pyramid. A porter, who could have been a Survey Service High Admiral making an honest living for a change, was lifting Grimes’ baggage out of the back of the car, sneering visibly at the bulging mattress cover.

“Thank you,” said Grimes to the chauffeur. He supposed that he should have tipped the man but, although he had a fortune in his bank account, he had almost nothing in his pockets. He disembarked, followed the porter into the lobby to the desk. The receptionists, he could not help noticing, were staring at the mattress cover and giggling. But the girl whom he approached was polite enough.

“Captain Grimes? Yes, we have your reservation. Room number 5063. And for how long will you be staying, sir?”

“Probably until
Alpha Sextans
comes in. She’s the next direct ship for Earth.”

“Have a happy stay with us, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Grimes.

He accompanied the porter in the lift up to the fiftieth floor, was ushered into a room from the wide windows of which he could enjoy a view of the city and the distant spaceport.
Little Sister
was there among the grey towers that were the big ships, no more than a tiny, aureate mote. He turned away from the window to the resplendently uniformed porter who was waiting expectantly.

He said, “I’m sorry. I’m out of cash until I get to the bank.”

“That’s all right, sir,” said the man, conveying by the tone of his voice that it was not.

He left Grimes to his own devices.

***

Grimes explored his accommodation.

He treated himself to a cup of coffee from the tap so labeled over the bar. He lowered himself into one of the deep armchairs, filled and lit his pipe. Suddenly he was feeling very lonely in this comfortable but utterly characterless sitting room. He wondered how he would pass the days until he could board that Earthbound passenger liner. He would not, he told himself firmly, go near the spaceport before then. He had made his clean break with
Little Sister
; he would do his best to keep it that way.

The telephone buzzed.

He reached out, touched the acceptance button. The screen came alive, displayed the pretty face of one of the hotel’s receptionists.

“Captain Grimes, a lady and a gentleman are here to see you.”

“Who are they?” Grimes asked.

“A Ms. Granadu, sir. A Mr. Williams.”

The names rang no bells in Grimes’ memory and it must have shown in his expression.

“Spacepersons, sir,” said the girl.

“Send them up,” said Grimes.

He had just finished his coffee when the door chimes tinkled. He had not yet recorded his voice in the opener so had to get up from his chair to let the visitors in. Yes, he thought, the receptionist had been right. These were certainly spacers; the way in which they carried themselves made this obvious. And he, a spacefarer himself, could do better than merely generalize. One spaceman branch officer, he thought, fairly senior but never in actual command. One catering officer.

The spaceman was not very tall but he was big. He had a fleshy nose, a broad, rather thick-lipped mouth, very short hair the color of dirty straw, pale grey eyes. He was plainly dressed in a white shirt and dark grey kilt with matching long socks, black, blunt-toed, highly polished shoes. The woman was flamboyant. She was short, chunky, red-haired, black-eyed and beaky-nosed. Her mouth was a wide, scarlet slash. In contrast to her companion’s sober attire she was colorfully, almost garishly clad. Her orange blouse was all ruffles, her full skirt was bright emerald. Below its hem were stiletto-heeled, pointed-toed knee boots, scarlet with gold trimmings. Jewels scintillated at the lobes of her ears and on her fingers. It looked, at first glance, as though she had a ring on every one of them.

“Williams,” said the big man in a deep voice.

“Magda Granadu,” said the woman in a sultry contralto.

“Grimes,” said Grimes unnecessarily.

There was handshaking. There was the arranging of seats around the coffee table. Magda Granadu, without being asked, drew cups of coffee for Williams and herself, replenished Grimes’ cup. Grimes had the uneasy feeling that he was being taken charge of.

“And what can I do for you, gentlepersons?” he asked.

“You can help us, Captain,” said Williams. “
And
yourself.”

“Indeed?” Grimes was intrigued but trying not to show it. These were not the sort of people who, hearing somehow of his sudden acquisition of wealth, would come to ask him for a large, never-to-be-repaid loan. “Indeed?”

“That ship in parking orbit—
Epsilon Scorpii
. You must have seen her when you came in.”

“I did.”

“She’s up for sale. It hasn’t been advertised yet but it soon will be.”

Grimes laughed. “And so what? The Interstellar Transport Commission is always flogging its obsolescent tonnage.”

“Too right, Captain. But why shouldn’t you be the next owner of that hunk of still spaceworthy obsolescence?”

“Why should I?” countered Grimes. “I’ve just sold one ship. I’m in no hurry to buy another.”

“You would not be happy away from ships,” said the woman, staring at him intently. “As well you know.”

She’s right,
thought Grimes.

He said, “All right. Just suppose that I’m mad enough to buy this Epsilon Class rustbucket. What is
your
interest?”

“We want to get back into space,” said Williams.

“And what makes you think that I’d help you?” Grimes demanded.

“The
I Ching
told us,” said the woman.

Grimes regarded her curiously. With her features, her flamboyant clothing, her garish jewelry, she could well have passed for a Romany fortune teller, one of those who plied their trade in tea rooms and other restaurants. But such women usually practiced palmistry or worked with cards, either of the ordinary variety or the Tarot pack. To find one who consulted the
Book of Changes
was . . . weird. And what was a spacewoman doing as a soothsayer anyhow?

She went on, “We’re old shipmates, Billy—Mr. Williams—and I. In the Dog Star Line. Billy was second mate, waiting for his promotion to mate. I was catering officer and purser. Billy was married to a girl on this planet who did not like having a husband who was always away on long voyages. So, just to please her, he resigned and found a shore job. A little while later I resigned too. I had a bachelor uncle on this world whom I used to look up every time that the ship came here. He was an importer in a small way but big enough to have amassed a neat little fortune. He . . . died. When his will was read it was discovered that he’d left everything to me. So, having said my fond farewells to the Dog Star Line, I thought I’d start a restaurant. I’m still running it although I had some very bad patches; now the bank owns most of it. I’ve come to realize that I was far happier as a spacewoman.

“Billy’s of the same way of thinking. He’s very much at loose ends since his wife left him.”

“You can say that again!” growled Williams.

“It was all for the best,” Magda Granadu told him. “Well, Captain, Billy often comes around to my place just about closing time. We have a few drinks and talk about old times. You know. Anyhow, a few nights back we were crying into each other’s beer and telling each other how we’d sell our souls to get back into deep space, then Billy suggested that I tell our fortunes, his and mine. No, don’t laugh. Quite a few of my customers come to the Tzigane as much for my fortune-telling as the food. I’ve made some lucky guesses. Up to now I’ve always used the cards and it’s only recently that I’ve gotten interested in the Oracle of Change. So I got the book out and threw three coins—I don’t use yarrow sticks—and constructed a hexagram.
Ta Ch’u
, it was. It told us to place ourselves in the service of the king and that it would benefit us to cross the great water. The great water is, of course, deep space. And the king—
you
.”

“Me, a king?” demanded Grimes incredulously.

“You were a sort of god-king once, weren’t you? The story got around. And, in any case, who more kingly than a shipmaster who owns his own ship? The local media gave you a good coverage when you brought
Little Sister
in.”

“I no longer own her,” said Grimes.

“We are well aware of that, Captain, but you were still owner-master when I consulted the oracle. It puzzled us; surely you would not require a crew in such a small ship. Yet yours was the name that came to mind. Too, there was the business of the coins that I used . . .”

“The coins?” asked Grimes bewilderedly.

“Yes. I used these.” She fished in one of the capacious pockets at the front of her skirt, brought out three discs of some silvery alloy. Grimes stared at them. He had seen similar coins in his father’s collection. They had been minted on Earth as long ago as the twentieth century, old style. One side bore the head of a woman, Queen Elizabeth, in profile. On the other was a stylized bird with a tail like an ancient lyre, and the number 10. An Australian ten-cent piece, very old yet in good condition.

“Where did you get these?” Grimes asked.

“They’re Billy’s.”

“My father gave them to me years ago,” said Williams. “They’re out of his collection.”

“My father has coins like them in his collection,” said Grimes.

“And they’re
Australian
coins,” said Magda. “And you’re Australian. There’s a tie-in.”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes dubiously.

“So the
I Ching
pointed to you,” she insisted. “But we couldn’t see how you could help us. And
then
, a day or so later, we heard that you’d sold
Little Sister
to Yosarian at some fantastic price. And we heard, too, that
Epsilon Scorpii
was coming up for sale. My restaurant is a popular place for business lunches and I often overhear conversations at table. Pinnett—he’s Planetary Manager for the Interstellar Transport Commission—was entertaining a couple of ITC masters. They were talking about the
Epileptic Scorpion
. Pinnett was saying that he wished that there was somebody on Austral who’d buy her. He’d get a nice commission on the deal.”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes again.

“You’re the king the
I Ching
told us of, Captain. At the moment you’re a king without a kingdom. But you could buy one.”

Why not?
Grimes asked himself.
Why not?
A sizeable tramp, carrying sizeable cargoes, might make a living. But he would be obliged by law to carry at least a minimal crew in such a vessel.

“What about crew?” he said. “All right, I seem to have two volunteers. One control room officer. I suppose that you hold a Master Astronaut’s Certificate, Mr. Williams? One catering officer cum purser. But I shall require two more control room officers. And engineers, both Mannschenn Drive and inertial drive. And a Sparks. Where do I get them from? More important—where would I get cargoes from?
Little Sister
couldn’t make one man a living. Could this Epsilon Class rustbucket make a living for a crew of at least a dozen?”