There were what sounded like radio telephone conversations. At first these seemed to be in some quite familiar yet unknown language—and then, as soon as Grimes's ear became accustomed to the peculiarly flat intonation of the voices—they suddenly made sense. The language, save for its accent, had survived almost unchanged, was still understandable Standard English. It became obvious that what was being picked up was an exchange of messages between a ship and some sort of traffic control authority.
"
Duchess of Paddington,
"
Grimes heard, "to Port Ballina. My ETA is now 0700 hours, What's the weather doin' at your end? Over."
"Port Ballina to
Duchess.
Wind west at ten kph. No cloud. Visibility excellent. The moorin' crowd'll be waitin' for yer, Skip. Over."
"Sounds like a surface ship, Captain," commented Brabham.
"Mphm?" grunted Grimes dubiously.
The voice came from the speaker again. "
Duchess of Paddington
to Port Ballina. Please have one 'A' helium bottle waitin' for me. I'd a bastard of a slow leak in one o' my for'ard cells. Over."
"Wilco,
Duchess.
Will you be wantin' the repair mob? Over."
"Thanks muchly, but no. Got it patched me self, but I lost quite a bit o' buoyancy an' I've had to use the heaters to maintain altitude an' attitude. See you. Over."
"More ruddy airships!" growled Brabham. "I hope—" His voice trailed off into silence.
"You hope what?" asked Grimes coldly.
"Well, sir, there seems to be a sort of jinx on the things as far as we're concerned."
"There'd better not be
this
time," Grimes told him.
"Sir!" called one of the radio officers. "I think I'm picking up a treevee transmission, but I just can't seem to get any sort of picture."
Grimes shuffled slowly to the receiver on which the young man was working; with the ship now in free fall it was necessary to wear magnetic-soled shoes and, after the long spell under acceleration, to move with caution. He stared into the screen. It was alive with swirling color, an intermingling of writhing, prismatic flames and subtle and everchanging shades of darkness, an eddying opalescence that seemed always about to coalesce into a picture, yet never did. The technician made more adjustments and suddenly there was music—from a synthesizer, thought Grimes—with the effect of ghost guitars, phantom violins, and distant drums. The ever-changing colors in the screen matched the complex rhythms drifting from the speaker.
"Damn it!" muttered the radio officer, still fiddling with the controls. "I still can't get a picture."
"Perhaps you aren't supposed to," murmured Grimes.
A final crash of guitars, scream of violins and rattle of drums, an explosive flare of light and color, fading into darkness . . . and then, at last, a picture. A young woman, attractive, with deeply tanned skin and almost white-blonde hair, stood with one slim hand resting on the surface of a table. She was simply clad in a long white robe, which somehow hid no smallest detail of her firm body. She said—and it was a pity that her voice, with its flat intonation, did not match her appearance—"An' that was Damon's
Firebird Symphony,
played to you by the composer himself. I hope y'all liked it. An' that's it from this station for today. We'll be on the air again at the usual time termorrer with our brecker program, commencin' at 0600 hours. Nighty-night all, an' good sleepin'."
She faded slowly from the screen and the picture of a flag replaced her—a familiar (to Grimes) ensign, horizontal and rippling in a stiff breeze, dark blue, with a design of red, white, and blue crosses superimposed upon each other in the upper canton, a five-starred, irregularly cruciform constellation in the fly. And there was music—also familiar.
"Once a jolly swagman," sang Grimes, softly but untunefully, "camped by a billabong. . . ."
"Do you
know
it, sir?" asked one of the radio officers.
Grimes looked at the young man suspiciously, then remembered that he was from New Otago, and that the New Otagoans are a notoriously insular breed. He said, "Yes. 'Waltzing Matilda,' of course. Wherever Aussies have gone they've taken her with them."
"Who was Waltzing Matilda?" persisted the officer. "Some old-time dancing girl?"
Brabham sniggered, and Grimes said, "Not exactly. But it's a bit too complicated to explain right now."
And whose ghosts, he wondered, would be haunting the billabongs (if there were billabongs) of this world upon which they would soon be landing? The phantom of some swagman, displaced in time and space, or—
Damn you, Flannery,
he thought,
stop putting ideas into my mind!—
or, even, of the mutiny-prone Bligh?
"We have to let them know we're here," said Grimes.
"The probe is in good working order, sir," said Brabham.
"Not the probe," Grimes told him. He did not want a repetition of all that had happened the last time a probe had been used. He went on, "These people are human. They have maintained a reasonably high standard of technology."
"With
airships
, Sir?" asked Brabham.
"Yes. With airships. It has never ceased to amaze me that so many human cultures have not persisted with their use. Why waste power just to stay up before you even think about proceeding from Point A to Point B? But never mind the airships. They also have radio." He turned to one of the technicians. "Did you note the time when the station closed down, Lieutenant? Good. And the blonde said that she'd be resuming transmission at 0600 hours tomorrow."
"Local time, sir," pointed out Brabham. "Not ship's time."
"When she whispered her sweet good nights," said Grimes, "I managed to tear my eyes away from her face long enough to notice a clock on the wall behind her. A twenty-four-hour clock. It was registering midnight. And we already know, from our own observations, that Botany Bay has a period of rotation of just over twenty-five Standard Hours. I assume—but, of course, I could be wrong—that there are people in this ship, besides myself, capable of doing simple sums."
Brabham scowled. The radio officers sniggered.
"So," went on Grimes, "I want to make a broadcast myself on that station's frequencies when it starts up again with the"—he made a grimace of distaste—"
brecker
program. I think we have the power from our jennies to override anything they may be sending. I shall want a visual transmission as well as sound. There people will have as much trouble with our accent as we had with theirs. I'll leave you to work out the details. I'm going to prepare a series of cards, from which I shall be speaking. Do you think you'll be able to set up your end of it in the time?"
"Of course, sir," the senior radioman assured him.
"Their spelling's probably nothing at all like ours," muttered Brabham.
"It shouldn't have changed all that much," said Grimes hopefully. "And luckily, the blonde bombshell wasn't delivering her spiel in Hebrew or Chinese. Well, I'll leave you to it, gentlemen. You know where to find me if anything fresh crops up."
He went back to his quarters and set to work with sheets of stiff white paper and a broad-tipped stylus.
They were ready for him when he returned to the radio office. He stood where he was told, with the camera trained on him, watching the monitor screen, which was still blank. Suddenly he realized that he had omitted to change into his dress uniform and put on a cap—but, he told himself, it didn't matter.
The screen came alive. Again there was the flag, bravely flying, and again there was music—but, this time, it was "Botany Bay." When it was over the picture became that of an announcer. It was not—to the disappointment of Grimes and the others—the spectacular blonde. It was a young man, comfortably clad in colorful shirt, extremely short shorts, and sandals. Like the girl he was fair haired and deeply tanned. He was far more cheerful than he had a right to be at what must be, to him, an ungodly hour of the morning.
"Mornin', all those of yer who're up, that is. An' you lucky bastards who're still in yer scratchers can get stuffed. Anyhow, this is Station BBP, the Voice of Paddo, openin' transmission on this bright an' sunny mornin' o' December nineteenth, Thursday. I s'pose yer wantin' the news. Now what have we to make yer day for yer?" He looked down at a sheet of paper in his right hand.
Grimes signaled with his own right hand to the senior radio officer. The lights in the radio office flickered and dimmed, except for the one trained on Grimes. The picture in the monitor screen faded—as must also have done the pictures in the screens of all the receivers tuned to that station. It was replaced by the image of Grimes himself, looking (he realized) very important, holding at chest level the first of his cards. He read from it, trying to imitate the local accent, "I am the captain of the Earth Survey Ship
Discovery.
"
He changed cards. "My ship is at present in orbit about your planet." He changed cards again. "I am about to cease transmission. Please make your reply. Over."
The picture of the announcer came back into the screen. The young man's pallor under his tan gave his complexion a greenish tinge. At last he spoke. "Is this some bloody hoax?" And somebody not in the screen said, "I could see the bastard in the monitor plain enough. T'aint nobody
we
know—an' we know everybody who is anybody in the radio trade!"
"Get on the blower to the observatory, Clarry," ordered the announcer. "Tell the lazy bludgers ter get their useless radio telescope on the job." Then, facing his audience—those on the planet and those in space—"Orright, Captain whatever-yer-name-is. It's over ter you again." He grinned. "At least you've saved me the trouble o' readin' the bloody news!"
Grimes reappeared in the screen, holding another card. He read, "Can you understand me? Over."
The announcer came back. "Yair—though Matilda knows where yer learned yer spellin'. An' yer sound like you've a plum in yer mouf." He mimicked Grimes's way of speaking. "And whom have I the honor of addressing, Captain, sir?" He grinned again, quite convincingly. "I used to act in historical plays before I was mug enough to take this job. Over."
"My name is Grimes, Commander Grimes of the Federation Survey Service. I am, as I've already told you, captain of the Survey Ship
Discovery.
I was ordered to make a search for Lost Colonies. Over."
"An' you've sure found one, ain't yer? We're lorst orright. An' we thought we were goin' ter stay that way. Hold on a sec, will yer? Clarry's got the gen from the observatory."
The unseen Clarry's voice came from the speaker. "T'aint a hoax, Don. The bastards say there is somethin' up there, where somethin' shouldn't be."
"So yer for real, Commander Grimes. Ain't yer supposed ter say, 'Take me to yer leader'? Over."
"Take me to your leader," said Grimes, deadpan. "Over."
"Hold yer horses, Skip. This station'll be goin' up in flames at any tick o' the dock, the way the bleedin' phones are runnin' hot. Her Ladyship's on the way ter the studio now, s'matter o' fact. Over."
"Her Ladyship? Over."
"The mayor o' Paddo, no less. Or Paddington, as I s'pose you'd call our capital. Here she is now."
The announcer bowed, backed away from the camera at his end. He was replaced by a tall, ample woman, silvery haired and with what seemed to be the universal deep tan. She was undeniably handsome, and on her the extremely short dress with its gay floral pattern did not look incongruous—and neither, somehow, did the ornate gold chain that depended from her neck. She said—and even the accent could not entirely ruin her deep contralto—" 'Ow yer doin', Skip? Orright?" Then, turning to address the announcer, "Wot do I say now, Don? 'Over,' ain't it? Orright. Over."
"I'm honored to meet you, Your Ladyship. Over."
"Don't be so bloody formal, Skipper. I'm Mavis to me mates—an' any bastard who's come all the way from Earth's a mate o' mine. When are yer comin' down ter meet us proper? Do yer have ter land at one o' the magnetic poles same as
Lode Wallaby
did? Or do yer use rockets? If yer do, it'll have ter be someplace where yer won't start a bushfire. Wherever it is, there'll be a red carpet out for yer. Even at the bloody North Pole." Then, as an afterthought, "Over."
"I have rocket drive," said Grimes, "but I won't be using it. My main drive, for sub-light speeds, is the inertial drive. No fireworks. So I can put down on any level surface firm enough to bear my weight. Over."
"You don't look all that fat ter me, Skip. But you bastards are all the same, ain't yer? No matter what yer ship is, it's
I
,
I
,
I
all the time." She grinned whitely. "But I guess the Bradman Oval'll take the weight o' that scow o' yours. Havin' you there'll rather bugger the current test series but the landin' o' the first ship from Earth is more important than cricket. Never cared for the game me self, anyhow. Over."
"I'll make it the Bradman Oval, then, Your . . .sorry. Mavis. Once we get some less complicated radio telephone system set up your technicians can go into a huddle with mine. I'd like a radio beacon to home on, and all the rest of it." He paused, then went on. "Forgive me if I'm giving offense, but do you speak for your own city only, or for the whole planet? Over."
"I speak for me own city-state. The other mayors speak for their city-states. An' it so happens that at the moment I
am
President of the Council of Mayors. So I do speak for Botany Bay. That do yer, Skip? Over."
"That does me, Mavis. And now, shall we leave all the sordid details to our technicians? Over."
" 'Fraid we have to, Skip. I can't change a bloody fuse, me self. Be seein' yer. Over."
"Be seeing you," promised Grimes.
Grimes had several more conversations with the mayor of Paddington before the landing of
Discovery.
The radio experts on the planet and in the ship had not taken long to set up a satisfactory two-way service, and when this was not being used for the exchange of technical information the spaceship's crew was continuously treated to a planetary travelogue. Botany Bay was a
good
world, of that there could be no doubt. There was neither overpopulation nor pollution. There was industry, of course, highly automated—but the main power sources were the huge solar energy screens set up in what would have otherwise been useless desert areas, and wind- and water-drive turbo-generators. There were oil wells and coal mines—but the fossil fuels merely supplied useful chemicals. The only use of radioactives was in medicine. Airships, great and small, plied the skies, driven by battery-powered motors, although there were a few jets, their gas turbines burning a hydrogen-oxygen mixture. On the wide seas the sailing vessel was the commonest form of ship—schooners mainly, with auxiliary engines and with automation replacing man-power. Efficient monorail systems crisscrossed the continents—but the roads, surprisingly, seemed to be little more than dirt tracks. There Was a reason for this, the spacemen soon discovered.
Lode Wallaby
had carried among other livestock the fertilized ova of horses—and horses were used extensively for private transport, for short journeys.