First Command (59 page)

“No. It does not. I’m the captain of
Vega,
and you’d better not forget it. Furthermore, I consider myself quite capable of mopping up your mess without any assistance from you. I have
carte blanche
from our lords and masters. I am empowered to treat with the government of Botany Bay as I see fit. When we get to that planet I do not expect to have you working against me, behind my back.” He picked up a thick folder from his desk. “This is the transcript of all evidence so far taken. Yours, of course. And Dr. Rath’s. And Mr. Flannery’s. From the stories of those two officers it would appear that you entered into a liaison with one of the local dignitaries, the Lady Mayor of Paddington.”

“What if I did, Delamere? Who are you to presume to judge my morals?”

“At least I have too much sense to mix business with pleasure, Grimes.”

“You can’t be getting much pleasure out of your affair with the admiral’s daughter,” agreed Grimes pleasantly. “A strictly business relationship, from your viewpoint.”

“Watch your tongue, Grimes!”

“Oh, all right, all right. That must be rather a sore point with you. Now, what do you want me for?”

“I suppose I have to put you in the picture. You’re the alleged expert on Botany Bay. I’m proceeding directly there, with no stopovers. I arrest the mutineers, using whatever force is necessary. I put a prize crew aboard
Discovery
—of which
you
will not be in command—and then the two vessels will return, in company, to Lindisfarne.” He smiled nastily. “Then there will be the courts-martial, yours included.”

“A busy voyage,” commented Grimes. “Yes. And during the voyage you, as a member of this ship’s company, will be expected to attend all drills and musters. You are to regard yourself as one of my officers—without, however, any executive powers.”

“You’d better read the regulations, Frankie,” said Grimes. He quoted, having memorized this passage, “ ‘A senior officer, traveling in a Survey Service vessel commanded by an officer of no higher rank than himself, shall be subject to that officer’s orders only during periods of actual emergency such as enemy action, shipwreck etc.’”

“You bloody space lawyer!” snarled Delamere. “I have to be, in your company,” said Grimes. “Get this straight. I’m here to advise, nothing else. Anything you want to know about Botany Bay, ask me. I’ll tell you. And I’ll turn up for your drills and musters; even a civilian passenger in a commercial space liner has to do that. I might even brush up on my navigation if you’ll let me into your sacred control room.”

“Get out!” snapped Delamere. “I’ll send for you when I want you again.”

“Temper, temper,” chided Grimes. In other circumstances he would have rebuked himself for having been so unwise as to make a dangerous enemy—but he and Delamere had always been enemies, and always would be, and nothing that he could do or say would have any effect upon the situation.

Chapter 40

There were times
during the voyage to Botany Bay when Grimes toyed with the idea of becoming the ringleader of a mutiny himself. Delamere was insufferable. The only members of his crew who took him seriously, however, were among that too sizable minority who have a slavish respect for rank, no matter how earned. The others—officers and ratings alike—paid lip service to their captain’s oft iterated determination to run a taut ship, then did pretty well as they pleased. None of them, however, was foolish enough not to attend the drills that Delamere delighted in springing at odd times, although at every one of these there was much yawning and shuffling of feet.

Grimes did not succeed in making friends with any of
Vega’s
people. They were, he decided, afraid of him. His run of good luck had been followed by one spectacularly bad piece of luck—and the fear was there that his bad luck would rub off on them. After a subjective week or so he no longer bothered to try to be sociable. He spoke when he was spoken to, he took his place at table at mealtimes, he had an occasional drink with the frigate’s senior officers. Delamere never invited him to have a drink, and plainly resented the fact that Service protocol required him to have Grimes seated at his right hand at table.

At last he was obliged to make use of Grimes’s advisory services. It was when the voyage was almost over, when
Vega,
her Mannschenn Drive shut down, proceeding under inertial drive only, was approaching Botany Bay. He called Grimes up to the control room. “You’re the expert,” he sneered. “What am I supposed to do now, Commander?”

“To begin with, Commander, you can make a start by monitoring the local radio stations. They have newscasts every hour, on the hour.”

“On what frequencies?”

“I don’t know. I left all such sordid details to my radio officers.” There was an unsuccessfully suppressed snigger from the Senior Sparks, who was in the control room. Grimes went on. “It will be advisable, too, to make a check to see if there’s anything in orbit about the planet. There weren’t any artificial satellites when I was here—but it’s possible that Brabham may have put up an armed pinnace as a guard ship.”

“I’d already thought of that, Commander,” said Delamere. (It was obvious that he hadn’t.) He turned to his navigator. “Mr. Prokieff, will you make the necessary observations? We should be close enough to the planet by now.”

Grimes looked at the gleaming instrumentation in the control room, all far more up to date than what he had been obliged to make do with in
Discovery. With
that
gear,
he thought,
the satellite search could have been initiated days ago, as soon as we reemerged into normal space-time.

A voice came through the intercom speaker. “Radio office here, control room. We are monitoring a news broadcast. Shall we put it through to your NST transceiver?”

Delamere turned to his senior radio officer. “That was quick work, Mr. Tamworthy.”

“We’ve been trying for some time, sir. Commander Grimes suggested it.”

“Commander Grimes—” Delamere made it sound like a particularly foul oath. Nonetheless, he walked to the NST set, the screen of which was now alive with a picture. Grimes followed him. It seemed to be the coverage of a wedding. There was the bride, tall and slim in white, on the arm of a man in the uniform of an airship captain, smiling directly at the camera. In the background were faces that Grimes recognized—Mavis, and Brabham, and Tangye, and the Paddington City Constable, and the president of the Air Pilots’ Guild, and Brandt. But he knew none of them as well as he did the bride.

“. . . the wedding of Miss Ellen Russell,” the news reader was saying, in that accent that Grimes, now, had no trouble in understanding, “to Skipper Benny Jones, of the airliner
Flying Cloud.
As you all know, Miss Russell—sorry, Mrs. Jones!—was paymaster o’ the Terry spaceship
Discovery,
but Commander Brabham has accepted her resignation so that she may become a citizen of our planet. Our first immigrant, folks, in one helluva of a long time.”

Local girl makes good,
thought Grimes—and then his wry amusement abruptly faded. Vinegar Nell, no less than the other mutineers, was a criminal, and would be arrested, and tried, and would pay the penalty for her crime.

“Talkin’ of
Discovery,
”
the news reader went on, “Commander Brabham has informed us that it would be unwise for him to attempt to send a message to his Base on Lindisfarne. Such a signal, he says, would be picked up and decoded by the monitors of the Empire of Waverley. He says that his instructions are to stay here until relieved. Unless he’s relieved soon his ship’ll be growing roots, an’ more of his crew will be followin’ the good example o’ the fair Miss Russell.”

There followed a shot of
Discovery.
This time she was not berthed in the middle of the Oval. Grimes recognized the site, however. It was in a field to the west of the airport. The people of Paddington could hardly be expected to cancel their cricket fixtures a second time.

“There’s your precious ship, Commander,” sneered Delamere. “What a rustbucket!”

“Meanwhile—I hate ter have ter say it, but it’s true—not all of
Discovery’s
people are endearin’ themselves to us. Her Marines—who should have provided a guard of honor at the weddin’—are all in jail, even their commandin’ officer, Major Swinton. It seems they went on a bender last night. As luck would have it we had a camera crew at the Red Kangaroo, to get some shots o’ the new floor show there. There was a floor show all right—o’ the wrong kind.”

A picture of a large, garishly decorated room filled the screen. Seated around a big oval table were the Marines, including Swinton and Washington. The tabletop was covered with bottles and glasses. Swinton got unsteadily to his feet. “Where’s the music?” he bawled. “Where’s the dancing girls? We were told there’d be both in this dump!”

“We’ll provide our own, Major!” yelled one of his men. “Come on, now! All of yer!”

“
We’re the hellhounds o’ the galaxy,

We’re the toughest ever seen!

Ain’t no one fit ter wipe the arse

Of an FSS Marine!
”

“Gentlemen, please!” It was the manager, a thin, worried looking man. “The floor show’s about ter start.”

“Stuff yer floor show, an’ you with it!” The man who had started the singing swung viciously with his right, and the manager crumpled to the floor. Then half a dozen tough-looking waiters were converging on the scene. The Marines picked up bottles by their necks, smashed them on the edge of the table, held them like vicious, jagged daggers. The waiters hesitated, then snatched up chairs, not caring whom they spilled in the process. People were throwing things. A missile of some kind struck Swinton on the forehead, felling him. Someone yelled, “Get the Terry bastards!” Women screamed. The waiters, reinforced by customers, holding their chairs before them as a protection from the broken bottles, advanced in a rush.

It was then that the scene became chaotic—and blanked out abruptly. “That,” said the news reader, “was when some bastard put his boot through our camera. Over twenty of our people finished up in the hospital. The condition of the manager o’ the Red Roo is critical. An’ the Marines, bein’ behind bars, missed out on their charmin’ shipmate’s weddin’. “An’ that, folks, is all the news to date.”

“Disgusting,” said Delamere, somehow implying that it was all Grimes’s fault.

“Marines will be Marines,” said Grimes. “Not
my
Marines,” Delamere stated smugly. “What are they, then?” Grimes asked interestedly. Delamere ignored this. He said, “I anticipate no difficulties in rounding up this rabble of yours. And now, Mr. Adviser, what do you advise? Don’t bother to answer. I’ve already decided what I am going to do. I shall drop in, unannounced, just after dawn, local time. I shall land close to
Discovery,
covering her with my guns.”

“
Discovery
has guns too, you know,” remarked Grimes. “I shall have the advantage of surprise,” said Delamere. “I’ll blow her off the ground before my vanes kiss the dirt.”

“I thought,” said Grimes, “that your instructions were to put a prize crew aboard her and bring her back to Base. You’ll not be at all popular if you destroy such a large and expensive hunk of Federation property.”

Delamere considered this. He asked, reluctantly, at last, “Then what do you suggest, Commander?”

“Put
Vega
in orbit, one that keeps her always over the daylight hemisphere. That way she won’t be spotted visually. Get your artificers working on sonic insulation for the boats you’ll be using for the landing. Send your force down for a dawn landing, and then go and call on the mayor. She won’t like being called at such a godless time, but I think I’ll be able to smooth things over.”

“Too complicated,” said Delamere.

“Then what are your ideas on the subject?”

“One Falcon missile, with a Somnopon warhead. That should be ample for a city the size of Paddington. And then, while all the Paddingtonians
and
your mutineers are snoring their heads off, we land and take over.”

“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Grimes. “It will be an act of war.”

“Rubbish. Somnopon’s nonlethal.”

“Even at night,” said Grimes, “there are people up and about, doing various jobs. If they fall asleep, suddenly, there are bound to be casualties. Civilian casualties.”

“I think that Commander Grimes is right,” said
Vega’s
first lieutenant.

“You’re not paid to think, Lieutenant Commander Bissett.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Bissett said firmly, “but that is one of the things that I am paid for. High-handed action on our part will, inevitably, drive Botany Bay into the arms of Waverley.”

“Those colonists have never heard of the Empire of Waverley,” said Delamere stubbornly.

“You heard that news broadcast, sir. The Empire of Waverley was specifically mentioned. If you like, I’ll get Sparks to play the tape back.”

Delamere glared at his executive officer, and then at Grimes. He snarled, “All right, all right. Then please tell me, somebody, why I shouldn’t bring
Vega
down in broad daylight, with flags flying and brass bands playing? Or why I shouldn’t do the same as Grimes did before
his
first landing—announce it on the normal broadcast channels?”

“Because,” Grimes pointed out, “either course of action would give the mutineers ample warning. And if we have to fight a battle right over a major city we shall not endear ourselves to the inhabitants.”

“Commander Grimes is right,” said Bissett.

“I’m always right,” Grimes could not resist saying.

Chapter 41

After a long discussion,
during which Delamere’s officers made useful suggestions—which is more than could be said for their captain—it was decided to send only one boat down for the initial landing. This was to be piloted by Grimes himself, accompanied by Major Briggs,
Vega’s
Marine officer, and six of his men. All of the Marines came either from Australia or from Australian colonies and, with a little practice, were able to speak with a fair approximation to the Botany Bay accent. All of the landing party wore civilian clothing—gaily patterned shirts, shorts, and sandals.