"
Princess Helga . . .
" murmured Grimes.
"Light cruiser, Captain," Slovotny told him. "Royal Skandian Navy."
"And is the Federation on speaking terms with Skandia?" wondered Grimes audibly. He answered his own question. "Only just. Mphm. Well, there's no future—or too bloody much future!—in sitting here until somebody really friendly chances along. Get the
Princess
on the Carlotti, Sparks. Give her our coordinates. Ask her for assistance. Perhaps her engineers will be able to repair our Drive, otherwise they can tow us to the nearest port."
"Shouldn't we report first to Base, Captain?" asked Slovotny.
Yes, we should,
thought Grimes.
But I'm not going to. I'll put out a call for assistance before Her Highness shoves her oar in. After that—
she
can have a natter to Base. He said,
"
Get the signal away to Princess Helga.
Tell her complete Mannschenn Drive breakdown. Request assistance.
You
know."
"Ay, Captain." Slovotny busied himself at his Carlotti transceiver. The pilot antenna, the elliptical Mobius strip rotating about its long axis, quivered, started to turn, hunting over the bearing along which the Skandian cruiser, invisible to optical instruments, unreachable by ordinary radio—which, in any case, would have had far too great a time lag—must lie.
"Locked on," announced the radio officer at last. He pushed the button that actuated the calling signal. Then he spoke into the microphone. "
Adder
to
Princess Helga. Adder
to
Princess Helga.
Can you read me? Come in, please."
There was the slightest of delays, and then the swirl of colors in the little glowing screen coalesced to form a picture. The young woman looking out at them could have been Princess Helga (whoever
she
was) herself. She was blue-eyed, and hefty, and her uniform cap did nothing to confine the tumbling masses of her yellow hair.
"
Princess Helga
to
Adder.
I read you loud and clear. Pass your message."
"Complete interstellar drive breakdown," said Slovotny. "Request assistance—repairs if possible, otherwise tow. Coordinates . . ." He rattled off a string of figures from the paper that von Tannenbaum handed him.
The girl was replaced by a man. He should have been wearing a horned helmet instead of a cap. His eyes were blue, his hair and beard were yellow. He grinned wolfishly. He demanded, "Your Captain, please."
Grimes released himself from his own chair, pulled himself into the one vacated by Slovotny. "Lieutenant Grimes here, Officer Commanding Courier Ship
Adder.
"
"Captain Olaf Andersen here, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?"
"Can your engineers repair my Drive?"
"I doubt it. They couldn't change a fuse."
"What about a tow to Dhartana?"
"Out of the question, Captain. But I can take you in to my own Base, on Skandia. The repair facilities there are excellent."
Grimes weighed matters carefully before answering. Skandia, one of the small, independent kingdoms, was only just on speaking terms with the Interstellar Federation. At the very best the Skandians would charge heavily for the two, would present a fantastically heavy bill for the repair work carried out by their yard. (But he, Grimes, would not be paying it.) At the worst,
Adder
and her people might be interned, could become the focus of a nasty little interstellar incident, a source of acute embarrassment to the Survey Service.
And so,
Grimes asked himself mutinously,
what?
That Promotion List had made him dangerously dissatisfied with his lot, the Commissioner had strained what loyalties remained to the breaking point. The Commissioner . . .
"What exactly
is
going on here?" she asked coldly.
So she was getting in his hair again.
"I'm arranging a tow," Grimes told her. "The alternative is to hang here . . ." he gestured towards the viewports, to the outside blackness, to the sharp, bright, unwinking, distant stars . . . "in the middle of sweet damn all, thinking more and more seriously of cannibalism with every passing day."
"Very funny, Lieutenant." She stared at the screen. "Is that officer wearing
Skandian
uniform?"
"Of course, Madam," replied the Skandian Captain, who seemed to be very quick on the uptake. "Captain Olaf Andersen, at your service." He smiled happily. "And you, if I am not mistaken, are Mrs. Commissioner Dalwood, of the Federation's Board of Admiralty. According to our latest Intelligence reports you are
en route
to Dhartana." He smiled again. "Delete 'are.' Substitute 'were.' "
"Mr. Grimes, I forbid you to accept a tow from that vessel."
"Mrs. Dalwood, as commanding officer of this ship I must do all I can to ensure her safety, and that of her people."
"Mr. Slovotny, you will put through a call to Lindisfarne Base at once, demanding immediate assistance."
Slovotny looked appealingly at Grimes. Grimes nodded glumly. The grinning face of the Skandian faded from the screen, was replaced by a swirl of color as the pilot antenna swung away from its target. Sound came from the speaker—but it was a loud warbling note only. The radio officer worked desperately at the controls of the Carlotti transceiver. Then he looked up and announced, "They're jamming our signals; they have some very sophisticated equipment, and they're only light minutes distant."
"Are you sure you can't get through?" demanded the Commissioner.
"Quite sure," Slovotny told her definitely.
She snorted, turned to Hollister. "Mr. Hollister, I'll have to rely on you."
"What about your own chrome-plated telepath?" Grimes asked her nastily.
She glared at him. "John's transmission and reception is only relatively short range. And he can't work with an organic amplifier, as your Mr. Hollister can."
"And
my
organic amplifier's on the blink," said Hollister.
"What do you mean?" demanded Grimes.
The telepath explained patiently. "There has to be a . . . relationship between a psionic communications officer and his amplifier. The amplifier, of course, is a living dog's brain . . ."
"I know, I know," the Commissioner snapped. "Get on with it."
Hollister would not be hurried. "The relationship is that which exists between a kind master and a faithful dog—but deeper, much deeper. Normally we carry our own, personal amplifiers with us, from ship to ship, but mine died recently, and so I inherited Mr. Deane's. I have been working hard, ever since I joined this ship, to win its trust, its affection. I was making headway, but I was unable to give it the feeling of security it needed when the temporal precession field of the Drive started to fluctuate. The experience can be terrifying enough to a human being who knows what is happening; it is even more terrifying to a dog. And so . . ."
"And so?" demanded the woman.
"And so the amplifier is useless, possibly permanently." He added brightly, "But I can get in touch with
Princess Helga
any time you want."
"You needn't bother," she snarled. Then, to Grimes, "Of all the ships in the Survey Service, why did I have to travel in this one?"
Why?
echoed Grimes silently.
Why?
Even the Commissioner was obliged to give Captain Andersen and his crew full marks for spacemanship.
Princess Helga
emerged into normal space-time only feet from the drifting
Adder.
At one moment there was nothing beyond the courier's viewports but the blackness of interstellar space, the bright, distant stars—at the next moment she was there, a vague outline at first, but solidifying rapidly. She hung there, a great spindle of gleaming plastic and metal, the sleekness of her lines marred by turrets and antennae. Another second—and the shape of her was obscured by the tough pneumatic fenders that inflated with almost explosive rapidity. Another second—and
Adder's
people heard and felt the thump of the magnetic grapnels as they made contact.
Andersen's pleasant, slightly accented voice came from the transceiver. "I have you, Captain. Stand by for acceleration. Stand by for resumption of Mannschenn Drive."
"I suppose that your temporal precession field will cover us?" asked Grimes.
"Of course. In any case there is physical contact between your ship and mine."
"Where are you taking us?" demanded Mrs. Dalwood.
"To Kobenhaven, of course, Madam. Our Base on Skandia."
"I insist that you tow us to the nearest spaceport under Federation jurisdiction."
"You insist, Madam?" Grimes, looking at the screen, could see that Andersen was really enjoying himself. As long as somebody was . . . "I'm sorry, but I have my orders."
"This is piracy!" she flared.
"Piracy, Madam? The captain of your ship requested a tow, and a tow is what he's getting. Beggars can't be choosers. In any case, Space Law makes it quite plain that the choice of destination is up to the officer commanding the vessel towing, not the captain of the vessel towed."
She said, almost pleading but not quite, "In these circumstances the Federation could be generous."
Andersen lost his smile. He said, "I am a Skandian, Madam. My loyalty is to my own planet, my own Service. Stand by for acceleration."
The screen went blank. Acceleration pushed the group in
Adder's
control room down into their chairs; Mrs. Dalwood was able to reach a spare seat just in time. Faintly, the vibration transmitted along the tow wires, they heard and felt the irregular throbbing of
Princess Helga's
inertial drive—and almost coincidentally there was the brief period of temporal-spatial disorientation as the field of the cruiser's Mannschenn Drive encompassed both ships.
"You realize what this means to your career," said the Commissioner harshly.
"What was that?" asked Grimes. He had been trying to work out how it was that
Princess Helga
had been able to start up her inertial drive before the interstellar drive, how it was that there had been no prior lining up on a target star.
"You realize what this means to your career," repeated the woman.
"I haven't got one," said Grimes. "Not any longer."
And somehow it didn't matter.
The voyage to Kobenhaven was not a pleasant one.
The Commissioner made no attempt to conceal her feelings insofar as Grimes was concerned. Rosaleen, he knew, was on his side—but what could a mere lady's maid do to help him? She could have done quite a lot to make him less miserable, but her mistress made sure that there were no opportunities. The officers remained loyal—but not too loyal. They had their own careers to think about. As long as Grimes was captain they were obliged to take his orders, and the Commissioner knew it as well as they did. Oddly enough it was only Hollister, the newcomer, the misfit, who showed any sympathy. But he knew, more than any of the others, what had been going on, what was going on in Grimes's mind.
At last the two ships broke out into normal space-time just clear of Skandia's Van Allens. This Andersen, Grimes admitted glumly to himself, was a navigator and shiphandler of no mean order. He said as much into the transceiver. The little image of the Skandian captain in the screen grinned out at him cheerfully. "Just the normal standards of the Royal Skandian Navy, Captain. I'm casting you off, now. I'll follow you in. Home on the Kobenhaven Base beacon." He grinned again. "And don't try anything."
"What can I try?" countered Grimes, with a grin of his own.
"I don't know. But I've heard about you, Lieutenant Grimes. You have the reputation of being able to wriggle out of anything."
"I'm afraid I'm losing my reputation, Captain." Grimes, through the viewports, watched the magnetic grapnels withdrawn into their recesses in
Princess Helga's
hull. Then, simultaneously, both he and Andersen applied lateral thrust. As the vessel surged apart the fenders were deflated, sucked back into their sockets.
Adder,
obedient to her captain's will, commenced her descent towards the white and gold, green and blue sphere that was Skandia. She handled well, as well as Grimes had ever known her to do. But this was probably the last time that he would be handling this ship, any ship. The Commissioner would see to that. He shrugged. Well, he would make the most of it, would try to enjoy it. He saw that Beadle and von Tannenbaum and Slovotny were looking at him apprehensively. He laughed. He could guess what they were thinking. "Don't worry," he told them. "I've no intention of going out in a blaze of glory. And now, Sparks, do you think you could lock on to that beacon for me?"
"Ay, Captain," Slovotny replied. And then, blushing absurdly, "It's a damn shame, sir."
"It will all come right in the end," said Grimes with a conviction that he did not feel. He shrugged again. At least that cast-iron bitch and her tin boyfriends weren't in Control to ruin the bitter-sweetness of what, all too probably, would be his last pilotage.
Adder
fell straight and true, plunging into the atmosphere, countering every crosswind with just the right application of lateral thrust. Below her continents and seas expanded, features—rivers, forests, mountains, and cities—showed with increasing clarity.
And there was the spaceport, and there was the triangle of brilliant red winking lights in the center of which Grimes was to land his ship. He brought her down fast—and saw apprehension dawning again on the faces of his officers. He brought her down fast—and then, at almost the last possible second, fed the power into his inertial drive unit. She shuddered and hung there, scant inches above the concrete of the apron. And then the irregular throbbing slowed, and stopped, and
Adder
was down, with barely a complaint from the shock absorbers.
"Finished with engines," said Grimes quietly.
He looked out of the ports at the soldiers who had surrounded the ship.
"Are we under arrest, Captain?" asked von Tannenbaum.
"Just a guard of honor for the Commissioner," said Grimes tiredly.
Grimes's remark was not intended to be taken seriously—but it wasn't too far from the mark. The soldiers were, actually, members of the Royal Bodyguard and they did, eventually, escort Mrs. Commissioner Dalwood to the Palace. But that was not until after the King himself had been received aboard
Adder
with all due courtesy, or such courtesy as could be mustered by Grimes and his officers after a hasty reading of
Dealings With Foreign Dignitaries; General Instructions.
Grimes, of course, could have appealed to the Commissioner for advice; she moved in diplomatic circles and he did not. He
could
have appealed to her. He thought,
As long as I'm Captain of this ship I'll stand on my own two feet.
Luckily the Port Authorities had given him warning that His Skandian Majesty would be making a personal call on board.