Ride the Star Winds (57 page)

The lips moved and . . . .

“Hello, sailor,” said Seiko seductively.

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes. Then, gesturing toward the litter of foam packing, “Get this mess cleaned up.”

Shirl and Darleen laughed.

“Now there’s somebody else to do the fetching and carrying!” said one of them.

Grimes dealt with his mail while Seiko busied herself with what Grimes thought was quite unnecessary dusting and polishing. There was a letter from his father, written before Grimes had left the family home to return to his ship.
I don’t like the idea of returning Seiko to the makers
, the old man had written.
They’d take her apart to find out what went wrong—or went right—and when they put her together again she’d be no more than just another brainless robomaid with no more intelligence than a social insect. And she would, of course, lose her personality. I’m hoping that you’ll be able to use her aboard your ship, as your personal servant. . . .

Then there was a brief note from Admiral Damien, inviting him—or ordering him—to dinner in the admiral’s own dining room that evening.

He was interrupted briefly by his new catering officer, Melinda Clay. He looked up at her approvingly. She was a tall woman, of the same race as Cleo Jones, the radio officer, and Cassandra Perkins, the fourth RD engineer. She was at least as beautiful as Cleo, although in a different way. The hair of her head was snowy white, in vivid contrast to the flawless black skin of her face. Natural or artificial? Grimes wondered.

“I came up, sir,” she said, “to introduce myself . . . .”

“I’m very happy to have you aboard, Ms. Clay,” said Grimes, extending his hand.

She shook it, then went on, “And to find out, before the voyage starts, if you have any special preferences in the way of food and drink. That way I can include such items in my stores.”

“Unluckily,” laughed Grimes, “my very special preferences are also very expensive—and as owner, as well as master, I should have to foot the bill. Just stock up normally. And I’m quite omnivorous. As long as the food is good, I’ll eat it. . . .”

Seiko came out of the bathroom, where she had been giving the shower fittings a thorough polishing.

Melinda’s eyes widened. “What a lovely robot! I didn’t know that you carried your own robomaid.”

“I didn’t know myself until I unpacked her. She’s a gift, from my father.”

“
She
? But of course, sir. You could hardly call such a beautiful thing it.”

“Seiko,” said Grimes, “this is Ms. Clay, my catering officer. When you are not looking after me—and I do not require much looking after—you will act as her assistant.”

“Your father’s last instructions to me, sir,” said Seiko, “were that I was to be your personal servant.”

“And my instructions to you,” said Grimes firmly, “are that you are to consider yourself a member of the domestic staff of this vessel. Your immediate superior is Ms. Clay.”

“Yes, Massa.”

“Seiko, you are not supposed to have a sense of humor.”

Melinda Clay laughed. “Don’t be so serious, Captain! I’m sure that Seiko and I will get on very well.”

A slave and the descendant of slaves
. . . thought Grimes wryly.

Chapter 9

Damien
had another dinner guest,
a tall, severely black-clad, gray-haired woman, with classic perfect features, who was introduced to Grimes as Madam Duvalier, First Secretary of the Aboriginal Protection Society. Grimes had already heard of this body, although it was of quite recent origin. It had been described in an editorial in
The Ship Operators’ Journal,
to which publication Grimes subscribed, as an organization of trendy do-gooders obstructing honest commercial progress. And there had been cases, Grimes knew, where the APS had done much more harm than good. Their campaign on behalf of the down-trodden Droogh, for example. . . . The Droogh were one of the two sentient races inhabiting a world called Tarabel, an Earth-type planet. They were a sluggish, reptilian people, living in filth, literally, because they liked it, practicing cannibalism as a means of population control, fanatically worshipping a deity called The Great Worm who could be dissuaded from destroying the Universe only by regular, bloody sacrifices of any lifeform unlucky enough to fall into Droogh clutches. The other sentient race on Tarabel had been the Marmura, vaguely simian, although six-limbed beings. It was with them that the first Terran traders had dealt, taking in exchange for manufactured goods, including firearms, bales of tanned Droogh hides. It was learned later—too late—that, at first, these hides had been the leftovers from the Droogh cannibal feasts. A little later many of the hides had come from Droogh who had been killed, by machinegun fire, when mounting unprovoked attacks on Marmuran villages, the purpose of which had been to obtain raw material for blood sacrifices to The Great Worm.

Somebody in the Walk Proud Shoe Factory just outside New York had become curious about obvious bullet holes in Droogh hides and had gone to the trouble of getting information about Tarabel and had learned that the Droogh were sentient beings. Then APS had gotten into the act. A SAVE THE DROOGH! campaign was mounted. Pressure was exerted upon the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Affairs. A Survey Service cruiser was dispatched to Tarabel, not to investigate (which would have made sense) but to disarm the Marmura. This was done, although not without loss of life on both sides. Then the cruiser was called away on some urgent business elsewhere in the Galaxy.

The next ship to make planetfall on Tarabel was a Dog Star Line tramp. Her captain did not get the expected consignment of Droogh hides—and, in any case, there weren’t any Marmura for him to trade with. In the ruins of the small town near the primitive spaceport were several Droogh. These tried to interest him in a few bales of badly tanned, stinking Marmura skins. He was not interested and got upstairs in a hurry before things turned really nasty.

And the Droogh were left to their own, thoroughly unpleasant, devices.

Grimes remembered this story while he, the admiral and Madame Duvalier were sipping their drinks and chatting before dinner. Somehow the conversation got around to the problem of primitive aborigines introduced to modern technology, of how much interference with native cultures was justifiable.

“There was the Tarabel affair . . .” said Grimes.

The woman laughed ruefully.

“Yes,” she admitted. “There was the Tarabel “affair.” She extended a slim foot shod in dull-gleaming, grained, very dark blue leather. “You will note, Captain, that I have no qualms about wearing shoes made of Droogh hide. I know, now, that the late owner of the skin was either butchered by his or her own people for a cannibal feast or shot, in self-defense, by the Marmura. We, at APS, should have been sure of our facts before we mounted our crusade in behalf of the Droogh.

“But tell me—and please be frank—what do you really think of people like ourselves? Those who are referred to, often as not, as interfering do-gooders . . . .”

Rear Admiral Damien laughed, a rare display of merriment, so uninhibited that the miniature medals on the left breast of his mess jacket tinkled.

“Young Grimes, Yvonne,” he finally chuckled, “is the do-gooder of all do-gooders, although I’ve no doubt that he’ll hate me for pinning that label on him. He’s always on the side of the angels but, at the same time, contrives to make some sort of profit for himself.”

Madame Duvalier permitted herself a faint smile. “But you still haven’t answered my question, Captain. What do you think of do-gooders?
Organized
do-gooders, such as APS?”

“Mphm.” Grimes took a large sip from his pink gin, then gained more time by refilling and lighting his pipe. “Mphm. Well, one trouble with do-gooders is that they, far too often, bust a gut on behalf of the thoroughly undeserving while ignoring the plight of their victims. They seem, far too often, to think that an unpopular cause is automatically a just cause. Most of the time it isn’t. But, on the other hand, anybody backed by big business or big government is all too often a bad bastard . . . .”

“He may be a son of a bitch,” contributed Damien, “but he’s our son of a bitch.”

“Yes. That’s the attitude far too often, sir.”

“And so, young Grimes, you’re interfering, as a freelance do-gooder, every time that you get the chance.”

“I don’t interfere, sir. Things sort of happen around me.”

“Captain Grimes,” said Damien to Madame Duvalier, “is a sort of catalyst. Put him in any sort of situation where things aren’t quite right and they almost immediately start going from bad to worse. And then, when it’s all over but the shouting—or, even, the shooting—who emerges from the stinking mess, smelling of violets, with the Shaara crown jewels clutched in his hot little hand? Grimes, that’s who. And, at the same time, virtue is triumphant and vice defeated.”

Grimes’s prominent ears flushed. Was the Duvalier female looking at him with admiration or amusement?

The sound of a bugle drifted into Damien’s sitting room—which could have been the admiral’s day cabin aboard a grand fleet flagship. (Damien was a great traditionalist.) Damien got to his feet, extended an unnecessary hand to Madam Duvalier to help her to hers. He escorted the lady into the dining room, followed by Grimes.

The meal, served by smartly uniformed mess waiters, was pleasant enough although, thought Grimes, probably he would have fed better aboard his own ship. But in
Sister Sue
it was his tastes that were catered to; here, in Flag House, it was Damien’s. The admiral liked his beef well-done, Grimes liked his charred on the outside and raw on the inside. Even so, Grimes admitted, the old bastard knew his wines, the whites and the reds, the drys and the semi-sweets, each served with the appropriate course. But it was a great pity that whoever had assembled the cheese board had been so thoroughly uninspired.

During dinner the conversation was on generalities. And then, with the mess waiters dismissed, Damien and his guests returned to the sitting room for coffee (so-so) and brandy (good) and some real talking.

“Yvonne,” said the admiral, “is one of the very few people who knows that you are back in the Survey Service, as a sort of trouble shooter. She thinks that you may be able to do some work for APS.”

“Since the Tarabel bungle,” the woman admitted, “APS doesn’t have the influence in high government circles that it once did. But there are still wrongs that need righting, and still powerful business interests putting profits before all else . . . .”

“And how can I help?” asked Grimes. “After all, I represent a business interest myself, Far Traveler Couriers. Unless I make a profit I can’t stay in business. And if I go broke I just can’t see the Survey Service taking me back into the fold officially . . . .”

“Too right,” murmured Damien.

“And I couldn’t get into any of the major shipping lines without a big drop in rank. I don’t fancy starting a-fresh as a junior officer at my age.”

“Understandable,” murmured Damien. “And I hope that you understand that you need the Survey Service, even though you are, in the eyes of most people, a civilian, and a rich shipowner.”

“Rich!” interjected Grimes. “Ha!”

“Just try to remember how much of your income has been derived from lucrative business that we have put in your way. All the charters, time or voyage. Such as the one that you have now, the shipment of not very essential and certainly not urgently required stores to the sub-base on Pleth.”

“And after Pleth? What then?”

“Arrangements have been made. It will just so happen that there will be a cargo offering from Pleth to New Otago. Pleth exports the so-called paradise fruit, canned. Have you ever sampled that delicacy?”

“Once,” said Grimes. “I wasn’t all that impressed. Too sweet. Not enough flavor.”

“Apparently the New Otagoans like it. Now, listen carefully. Your trajectory will take you within spitting distance of New Salem. What do you know of Salem?”

“I’ve never been there, sir, but I seem to remember that it’s famous for the animal furs, very expensive furs, that it exports. Quite a few of the very rich bitches on El Dorado like to tart themselves up in them. Oh, yes. And this fur export trade is the monopoly of Able Enterprises . . . .”

“Which outfit,” said Damien, “is run by old cobber Commodore Baron Kane, of El Dorado.”

“No cobber of mine,” growled Grimes.

“But you know Kane. And you know that any enterprise in which he’s involved is liable to be, at the very least, unsavory. Well, APS have heard stories about this fur trade. APS have asked me to carry out an investigation. After all, I’m only a rear admiral. But I have clashed, in the past, with the El Dorado Corporation and gotten away with it . . . .”

“With me as your cat’s paw,” said Grimes.

“Precisely. And, admit it, it does give you some satisfaction to score off Kane. Doesn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“It does, and we both know it.” He turned to Madame Duvalier. “Grimes and Kane are old enemies,” he explained. “Apart from anything else there was rivalry for the favors of the Baroness Michelle d’Estang, who is now Kane’s wife—hence his El Doradan citizenship.”

Then, speaking again to Grimes, he went on, “I wanted to send a Survey Service ship to Salem on a flag-showing exercise but there just aren’t any ships available. So I have to fall back on you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Then, “But I shan’t be bound for Salem.”

“Officially, no. But look at it this way. You are bound from Point A to Point C, bypassing Point B. But then, in mid-voyage, something happens that obliges you to make for a port of refuge to carry out essential repairs or whatever . . . .”

“What something?” demanded Grimes.

“Use your imagination, young man.”

“Mphm. . . . A leakage, into space, of my water reserves. . . . And, after all, water is required as reaction mass for my emergency rocket drive as well as for drinking, washing, etc. And so I get permission from the Salem aerospace authorities to make a landing, fill my tanks and lift off again. But I shall be on the planetary surface for a matter of hours only.”