Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (68 page)

“And Aerospace Control confirms that we’re all set for lift-off at 1400 hours.”

Grimes looked at the bulkhead clock. The time was 1350. He left his quarters and went up to the control room.

Chapter 10

SISTER SUE
lifted from Port Southern.

It was not, of course, the first time that Grimes had handled her; he had brought her down from the parking orbit to the spaceport. This, however, was his first lift-off in the ship. He could not help thinking that she appreciated his touch on the controls—and inwardly laughed at his subscription to the pathetic fallacy. But he persisted in his imaginings.
Little Sister
had been little more than a girl, eagerly responsive to his lightest caress.
Sister Sue
was a woman, no longer young, an experienced woman. She required—demanded, even—a heavier hand.

She lifted steadily, accelerating smoothly. Below her the glittering city dwindled and the horizon began to display curvature. Up through filmy upper clouds she drove, up through the last, tenuous shreds of atmosphere, into the blackness and the hard vacuum of space.

Soon it was time to set trajectory for the interstellar voyage. Grimes cut the inertial drive, then used the directional gyroscopes to swing the vessel about her axes. He brought the bright star that was Sol directly ahead, then made the small correction for galactic drift. He started the inertial drive.

The temporal precession field built up.

As always there was disorientation, visually and aurally, while colors sagged down the spectrum and perspective was distorted. As sometimes, although not always, happened there was prevision, a consequence of the warping of the fabric of space and time.

Grimes stared at what, at first glance, had seemed to be his reflection on the inner surface of one of the viewports. With a shock he realized that it was the image of a much older man than himself that was staring back at him. There were the same prominent ears, there was a foul-looking pipe clamped between the teeth. (The here-and-now Grimes’ pipe was still in his pocket.) The apparition was grey-haired. He was, like Grimes, in uniform but the gold braid on his shoulderboards was a single broad stripe, not four narrow ones. Above it was a winged wheel device, not the Far Traveler stylized courier. Somehow the name of the ship was in the background but the letters were wavering, squirming as though alive, dissolving, reforming. They stabilized and no longer spelled
Sister Sue
but
Faraway Quest
. . . And was that Williams there beside this other—this future—Grimes? An older Williams, just as it was an older Grimes in the reflection.

Then, the field established and holding, things snapped back to normal—or as normal as they ever could be in a ship running under interstellar drive. The pseudo reflections vanished. Outside the control room the warped continuum now presented an uncanny, even to a seasoned spaceman, aspect with every star no longer a sharp point of light but a writhing, coruscating spiral nebula, slowly but visibly drifting across the field of vision.

Grimes looked at Williams. Williams looked at him. There was mutual acknowledgment that their futures were somehow interlinked. Then Williams looked at the Green Hornet, slumped and sulky in her chair. He grinned at Grimes as though to say,
Whatever happens, whatever is going to happen, we won’t be saddled with
her,
Skipper.

With slow deliberation Grimes filled and lit his pipe. He said, “Deep space routine, Mr. Williams.” He turned to the girl and told her, “You have the first watch, Ms. Connellan.”

“I still haven’t had time to unpack properly. Sir.”

“That will have to wait until you come off duty. The chief officer has been watch on and stay on ever since we opened Articles.”

She glowered at him but said nothing. Grimes wondered if, should he log and fine her for the crime of dumb insolence, he could make it stick. He looked back at her coldly, then released himself from his chair and walked to the hatch leading down to the axial shaft. Williams followed him.

“A stiff drink before you get your head down, Number One?” asked Grimes.

“Thanks, Skipper. I could use one.”

Grimes led the way into his quarters. He went to the liquor cabinet. Williams asked for beer. Grimes mixed himself a pink gin. Seated, the two men faced each other across the coffee table.

The mate raised his condensation-bedewed can in salutation. “Here’s to a long and prosperous association, Skipper.”

“I’ll drink to that, Mr. Williams. Oh, by the way, when the time-twister was warming up did
you
see anything?”

Williams laughed. “I saw myself as a frosty-faced old bastard—and you even frostier faced! I’ve had these glimpses of the future before and, just between ourselves, they’re more reliable than Magda’s
I Ching
!”

“On one occasion,” Grimes told him, “I was treated to the prevision of a naked lady riding a bicycle . . .”

“I doubt if
that
came true, Skipper!” laughed Williams.

“But it did. By the time it was all over I was allergic to both the wench and her velocipede!”

He got up, went to the filing cabinet and brought out the mahogany box. He opened it, lifted out the beautiful . . . toy, set it down on the deck. “Ride around the cabin,” he ordered. “Slowly.”

Williams stared as the naked cyclist made her leisurely rounds.

“Where did you get that, Skipper? One of Yosarian’s specials, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Grimes. “A parting gift. From him, and . . .”

“And?” Williams bent down in his chair to look more closely at the tiny, golden cyclist as she glided past him. “And? Surely not! Isn’t that our beloved Police Commissioner?” He laughed. “But she is a friend of Yosarian’s. And I know that she was a Sky Marshal before she settled down on Austral. Don’t tell me, Skipper, that she was the lady in your, er, vision!”

Grimes allowed himself a small grin.

“Gentlemen don’t tell,” he said.

“Come off it, Skipper! We aren’t in the wardroom of a Survey Service warship; this is a merchant ship. Religion, politics and sex are quite permissible topics of conversation. In any case it’s highly unlikely that any of us will ever be seeing Commissioner Freeman again—and thank the Odd Gods of the Galaxy for that!”

“All right,” said Grimes. “I met Sky Marshal Freeman, as she was then, when she was supposed to be taking possession of the pirated, then abandoned
Delta Geminorum
. You may recall the case. The ship was just wandering around, going nowhere in particular, with her Mannschenn Drive in operation. Ms. Freeman called upon the Survey Service for assistance. I was between ships at the time and was put in charge of the prize crew. We—Ms. Freeman, the people in the prize crew and myself—went out in the Lizard Class courier
Skink
to intercept the derelict. We found her and synchronized temporal precession rates. It was arranged that Ms. Freeman and I would be the first to board her; we left
Skink
in a Class A boat, practically a spaceship in miniature, complete with mini-Mannschenn, Carlotti radio, life-support system and all the rest of it. As far as we could work things out afterward there was some sort of interaction between the temporal precession fields of the ship,
Delta Geminorum
, and the boat as we made a close approach. This caused the detonation of the bomb which the pirates had left as a booby trap. It was a thermonuclear device. We were as near as dammit at ground zero—and, as I’ve said, there was this interaction between temporal precession fields.

“We weren’t killed . . .”

“That’s obvious, Skipper!”

“It wasn’t at the time. Not to
Skink’s
captain and his crew, and to my prize crew, who were still aboard his ship. They all thought that Sky Marshal Una Freeman and Lieutenant Commander John Grimes had been well and truly vaporized, together with the boat and the derelict. It was so reported. Of course I was able to report differently some time later, after our return to this universe.”

“I’ve heard all these stories about alternate universes,” said Williams, “but I’ve never quite believed them. Oh, there were a few odd stories about
Delta Geminorum
and Ms. Freeman and yourself—but most people thought that they were some sort of Survey Service smokescreen, covering up something with serious political implications, or . . . When Ms. Freeman first came to Austral—with her Corps of Sky Marshals background she started in the police force with senior inspector’s rank—a few of the local rags and stations tried to interview her. All that she’d say about the
Delta Geminorum
affair was that it was classified. I hope that you won’t say the same.”

“I’m a civilian shipmaster now,” said Grimes. “I don’t even hold a reserve commission. But if I tell you, keep it to yourself, will you?

“We were flung, somehow, into a more or less parallel universe. There had been a galaxy-wide war, resulting in the destruction of all organic life. Life, of a sort, had survived—the intelligent machines. The ruling entity, regarded as a god and with godlike powers, wanted to give his late creators, the human race, a fresh start. (Not that they’d been human, as we understand the term. They’d been more like centaurs.) Una—Ms. Freeman—and I were captured. We were set down in an oasis on an otherwise desert planet. There were plants, animals. There was water and a wide variety of edible fruits and nuts. The implication was that we were to become the Adam and Eve of the new race. Una wasn’t all that keen on the idea—and neither was I. After her last contraceptive shot wore off we were very, very careful.

“There were guardian angels in this Garden of Eden—although we didn’t realize that they were until they tried to force us to do the bidding of the robot god . . .”

“What form did they take, Skipper?”

“Bicycles,” said Grimes.

Williams’ eyes followed the little golden Una as she rode around the day cabin on her graceful golden steed. He laughed.

“So she has a sense of humor! The only time that I met her personally I thought that she was humorless. But what happened in the end?”

“I don’t like uppity robots,” said Grimes. “I never have. After we discovered the true nature of those bicycles I . . . disposed of them. It wasn’t all that easy. If you’ve ever been a cyclist you’ll know that even an ordinary bicycle can be quite vicious at times. The robot god made his appearance. He’d decided that we were not fit and proper persons to be the parents of the new race. He banished us from the garden. He slung us back into our own universe. Luckily he had us put back in the boat first.

“We found ourselves in orbit around a world—Tamsin IV, as a matter of fact—with one of those unmanned beacon stations. I tried to convert the beacon into a transmitter so that I could send a call for help. Frankly, I rather buggered it up. So we had to wait until the beacon tender dropped by on its normal rounds. The station had emergency stores, luckily. Unluckily there wasn’t much variety. Can you imagine a steady diet of baked beans in tomato sauce for seven weeks?”

“What was wrong with honeymoon salad, Skipper?” asked Williams. “Just lettuce alone, with no dressing.”

“The honeymoon was over, Mr. Williams, before we were expelled from the garden. Conditions weren’t right for its resumption.”

“From what I’ve seen of Commissioner Freeman,” said Williams, “I’m surprised that conditions were ever right.” He looked again at the unwearying golden cyclist. “But, to judge by that, she doesn’t look too bad out of uniform.”

Chapter 11

THE VOYAGE FROM AUSTRAL
to Earth was a relatively short one—long enough, however, for, Grimes to get the feel of his ship and to make an assessment of his crew. The ship he liked. He knew that during her service under the Commission’s flag she had been regarded as a notoriously awkward bitch; he did not find her so. Perhaps the change of ownership had sweetened her nature. Already—at least insofar as Grimes was concerned—she was as comfortable as an old shoe.

Regarding his personnel he was not so happy. Only the mate, Billy Williams, and the Catering Officer, Magda Granadu met with Grimes’ almost unqualified approval although he was developing a liking for a few of the others.

One day he amused himself by making out a Voyage Staff Report. Had he been still in the Survey Service this would have been required of him, as it would have been had he been in command of a vessel owned by any of the major shipping lines. As owner-master he could report only to himself.

Williams, William,
he wrote.
Chief Officer. A very good second in command. A tendency to be overzealous. Competent spaceman and navigator. Pleasant personality.

He filled and lit his pipe, cogitated on what he had written. If this were a real report he would have no hesitation in signing it and sending it in.

He resumed writing.
Connellan, Kate. Second Officer. A typical Donegalan female chauvinist bitch. Carries a perpetual chip on her shoulder. Is perpetually complaining about the ship, her shipmates, the meals, etc., etc. and etc. Barely competent as spaceperson and navigator.

And that, he thought, would be letting her off lightly. If Billy Williams or Magda Granadu were called upon to make a report on her their words would scorch the paper. At every change of watch she would annoy the Chief Officer with her complaints and comparisons. “In the Commission’s ships we used to get so-and-so and such-and-such. In the Commission’s ships we used to do it
this
way . . .” The Catering Officer had tried her best to please everybody, but the Green Hornet could not—would not—be pleased. There was no Donegalan whisky in the bar stores. Donegalan national dishes never appeared on the menu. (Among the edible vegetables grown on the farm deck were no potatoes.) She was allergic to paprika. Sour cream made her come out in spots.

But there would be no need to put up with her any longer once
Sister Sue
got to Port Woomera. There should be no trouble in filling any vacancies on Earth.

Stewart, Andrew. Radio Officer. Conscientious and competent. Has no interests outside his profession.

Just an old-time Sparks, thought Grimes, and none the worse for that.