First Command (81 page)

On each side of the river there were jetties, very old structures of water-worn stone. Alongside one of these piers was a crude boat, little more than a coracle, consisting of the tough hide of some local beast stretched over a wickerwork frame. It must have been used, thought Grimes, by the maintenance workers who, over the long years, had kept the solar power screens free of vegetation.

Kane was first out of the leading dinghy, throwing a hitch of the painter around a wooden bollard. Gallantly he helped the Baroness from the boat to the low jetty. Grimes followed her ashore, then Kershaw. The other dinghy came alongside and Mary Little, Peter Pettifer and Dr. Weldon disembarked. The four robots emerged from the river, their golden bodies gleaming wetly.

Kane led the way to the base of the red granite cliff. Its face, although naturally rugged, seemed unbroken but the Master of
Southerly Buster
knew where the door was. From his pocket he produced a small piece of bright metal, placed it in a depression in the rock. There was a very faint whine of concealed machinery and a great slab of granite swung inward. The tunnel beyond it was adequately lit by glowtubes in the ceiling.

“However did Dr. Morrow manage such feats of construction?” asked the Baroness curiously.

“He had his work robots, ma’am,” replied Kane. “And this cave is a natural one.”

The party walked slowly along the tunnel, the feet of the robots ringing metallically on the stone floor. The air was chilly although not actually cold; nonetheless Grimes could see goose pimples on the backs of the Baroness’s shapely legs, long under the brief shorts, as she strode ahead of him, beside Kane.

Weldon, accompanying Grimes, said conversationally, “Of course, the refrigeration plant cannot produce extremely low temperatures—but Morrow had knowledge of and access to the drug that was popularly known as Permakeep in his day. Now, of course, we work with vastly improved versions—but even with Permakeep in its original form, temperatures only just below zero Celsius were all that were required to maintain the human body in a state of suspended animation almost indefinitely. A massive intravenous injection, of course . . .

“Fascinating,” said Grimes.

“Mine is a fascinating discipline,” admitted Weldon smugly.

They tramped on, into the heart of the cliff. The tunnel made a right-angled turn into a large chamber, a huge cold room with transparent containers arranged in tiers. And there were the people who had been the citizens of Stratford, each in his own capsule, each frozen into immobility. They could have been dead; there was only Kane’s word for it that they were not

“Her Royal Highness,” announced the piratical shipmaster mockingly. “The Queen of Stratford.”

The unlucky Anne was in the first casket She was a comely enough woman, creamy skinned, with tortoiseshell hair. Like many of the other native Morrowvians she possessed pronounced rudimentary nipples under her full breasts. Her face still bore an expression of anger.

And there was living anger in this cold room too. Grimes heard a noise that was both snarl and growl. He turned, saw that Mary Little and Peter Pettifer were glaring at the frozen body, their thin lips pulled back from their sharp white teeth in vicious grins. Kane had heard them as well. He snapped, “Quiet, damn you! Quiet!”

“It is natural,” said Weldon suavely, “that they should hate the cat people after the way that they were treated. Would you like to be bossed around by a
cat!”

No worse than being bossed around by a rich bitch,
thought Grimes. “I suppose,” he said, “that if you hadn’t put Queen Anne and her people out of circulation they and your proteges would have led a cat and dog life.”

For some reason this rather feeble joke did not go down at all well with Kane, who said shortly, “I am responsible for the safety of those whom I awoke from what could well have been eternal sleep.”

“Tilt your halo to more of an angle, Kane,” said Grimes. “That way it might suit you better.”

“Captain Grimes,” the Baroness told him coldly, “that was uncalled for. I am sure that Captain Kane is acting for the best.”

“And
you
are satisfied, ma’am, that the people of Stratford are unharmed?” asked Kane.

“Yes,” she replied.

“We still don’t know that they aren’t dead,” persisted Grimes.

“Dr. Weldon,” said Kane, “please select a sleeper at random—better still, let Captain Grimes select one—and awaken him or her.”

“Captain Kane,” said the Baroness, “that will not be necessary. Please accept my apologies for my employee’s unfounded suspicions. But I am becoming increasingly aware that I am not attired for this temperature. Shall we return to the open air?”

“Your wish is my command, ma’am,” said Kane gallantly.

Outside the cave the light evening breeze was pleasantly warm. Whoever was in charge of the searchlights had elevated their beams so that they did not dazzle the party; enough light, however, was reflected from the cliff face to make it easy for them to find their way back to the river. Weldon and the two resurrectees were the first to embark, casting off in their inflatable dinghy. Weldon may have been extremely able in his own field but he was no waterman. Engrossed in steering a diagonal course to counter the swift current he did not notice the tree branch, torn from its parent trunk by a storm up river, that was being swept downstream. Both Kane and Grimes shouted a warning but he did not seem to hear it. The jagged end of the branch hit the side of the dinghy like a torpedo, ripping along its length. There was a great hissing and bubbling of escaping air. The flimsy craft tipped, all its buoyancy on the side of the damage lost. It capsized, throwing its occupants into the water.

There was very little danger. Weldon did not appear to be a good swimmer but two of the general purpose robots, running along the river bed, positioned themselves on either side of him, supported him on their out-held arms. Mary Little and Peter Pettifer struck out for the shore in a flurry of spray. It was a clumsy stroke that they were using, wasteful of energy, but in spite of their hampering clothing they made rapid progress. The two robots not engaged in assisting the cryoscopist to safety ran down the river in pursuit of the still-floating dinghy.

Then Weldon, dripping and miserable, flanked by his golden rescuers, stood on the stone pier waiting for Kane’s boat to come alongside. Mary Little and Peter Pettifer beat this dinghy to the shore, clambered up onto the jetty. They grinned and panted, shaking themselves. A fine spray of moisture flew from their wet clothing.

Kane made a competent job of berthing. As before, he helped the Baroness out of the dinghy. Kershaw and Grimes stepped ashore unaided.

The Baroness said, “My robots will recover the damaged boat, Captain Kane.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And your robots saved Dr. Weldon from a watery grave. I am indebted to you.”

“I would have managed,” said Weldon shortly.

Grimes ignored the conversation. He was watching Mary Little and Peter Pettifer, he was doing more than just watching. His nose wrinkled.

Kane and the Baroness walked slowly inshore from the jetty, deep in conversation. Grimes made to follow but was detained by Kershaw.

“Will you join us for a few drinks and a meal, Captain?” asked the lawyer.

Grimes accepted the invitation. He assumed that Kane and the Baroness would be present at this social occasion—but they were not. He was quite surprised when he felt a stab of jealously. Nonetheless, he thought, their absence might prove more advantageous than otherwise. With Kane not present his people would be less cautious in their conversation.

The talk over the quite civilized—but not up to
The Far Traveler’s
standards!—repast was interesting enough although, on both sides, guarded. Grimes did learn, however, that one of Kane’s party, Dr. Helena Waldheim, was a hypnoeducationist.

Chapter 31

Grimes did not overstay
his welcome. Drongo Kane’s entourage were not his sort of people, neither was he theirs. There had been too much shop talk, little of it concerned with what was going on at Stratford. As far as Grimes was concerned the only really interesting professional gossip was that of fellow spacemen.

He made his way through the almost deserted village to
The Far Traveler’s
pinnace. He turned the robots to set up two pneumatic tents hard by the small craft, one for the Baroness and one for himself. While he was overseeing the work he was joined by that lady.

She asked, “What are you
doing,
Captain?”

He replied, “I don’t fancy sleeping in a house from which the rightful occupants have been evicted by force, Your Excellency.”

“They never were the rightful occupants,” she said.

“So Drongo Kane’s peddled you his line of goods,” he remarked. “Your Excellency.”

She actually flushed. “Captain Kane is a most remarkable man.”

“You can say that again!” Grimes told her. Then—“Can’t you see what he’s trying to do?” He made an appeal to her business acumen. “You, I well know, are a major shareholder in the Dog Star Line. If Kane, through his thawed-out figureheads, gains control of this planet it will do the Dog Star Line no good at all.”

She laughed. “And what if I become a major shareholder in Southerly Buster Enterprises?”

Grimes said, “I would advise strongly against it, Your Excellency.”

Again she laughed. “I hired you, Captain, as a yachtmaster, not as a financial adviser. After all—which of us is the multi-billionaire?”

Not me, that’s for sure,
thought Grimes.

“So,” she went on, “you may sleep in that glorified soap bubble if you so desire. I shall find the accommodation arranged for me by Captain Kane far more comfortable. A very good night to you.”

She strode away toward the house which had once been Queen Anne’s palace. Two of her robots accompanied her. No harm would come to her, could come to her unless she wished it—and Grimes was not one of those who would regard a roll in the hay as harm, anyhow.

But why with Drongo Kane, of all people!

Eventually he turned in. There was nothing else to do. Nobody wanted him; he was just the hired help. He was settling down into the comfortable pneumatic bed when the door of the tent dilated and one of the golden robots came in. It (he?) stood there, looking down at Grimes. Grimes looked up at it.

“Well?” he demanded irritably.

The voice that issued from the automaton’s chest was not the mechanical monotone that Grimes had come to associate with these robots. The words were in Big Sister’s metallic but still feminine tones.

“Captain Grimes, may I have your report on what has been happening in Stratford?”

Grimes said, “Aren’t the robots your eyes and ears? And aren’t you supposed to be in contact with Her Excellency at all times through her personal radio?”

“Her Excellency,” said Big Sister, “can discontinue such contact at will. In certain circumstances she insists upon privacy. So it is that I am now obliged to work directly with you.”

“I happen,” said Grimes stiffly, “to be employed by Her Excellency.”

“And I,” Big Sister told him, “am
owned
by Her Excellency. Nonetheless she played no part in my initial programming. As you are probably already aware, entities such as myself are required by Interstellar Federation Law to have built-in respect for that same law and its processes. I would not have acted to rescue you from Commander Delamere’s ship on Botany Bay had I not considered that the commander had acted illegally. Also, of course, I am programmed to protect my owner.”

“She is her own woman,” Grimes said harshly.

Big Sister laughed. That crystalline tinkling was distinctly odd as it emanated from the expressionless, masculine even though asexual robot. She said, “I possess an extensive theoretical knowledge of sex. I do not think that Michelle will come to any harm from a brief affair with Captain Kane, any more than she would have done from one with you—which, frankly, I should have preferred . . .”

Grimes interrupted her. “But I don’t like it. A high-born aristocrat in bed with that . . . pirate . . .”

“Are you rushing to the defense of the hereditary aristocracy, Captain Grimes? You surprise me. And as for Captain Kane’s being a pirate, what of it? The founder of the d’Estang fortunes owned and commanded a privateer out of St. Malo during the Napoleonic Wars on Earth, and the dividing line between privateer and pirate was always a very thin one. Even so, I
am
concerned about the possibility of a financial liaison between Her Excellency and Captain Kane. She could come to harm through that. I have taken it upon myself to have all available information concerning
Southerly Buster
and her Master fed into my data bank.”

“You must play it back to me some time,” said Grimes.

“Perhaps I shall,” said Big Sister. “But now I must ask you to make your own contribution to the bank. Please tell me all that you have seen, heard, experienced, felt and thought since your landing at Stratford. My robots have seen and heard and I have recorded. They do not think and they do not have hunches. Neither do I to any great extent, although association with humans is developing—but, so far, only slightly—my paranormal psychological processes. But you are fully human and blessed with intuition.

“Please begin.”

Grimes began. He talked and he talked, pausing now and again to fill and to light his pipe, to take a gulp of a cold drink poured for him by the robot. He talked and he talked—and as he spoke the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle fell neatly into place. The oddities in the appearance of the resurrectees, the peculiar stroke that Little and Pettifer had used while swimming ashore from the wrecked dinghy, the way that they had shaken themselves, the faint yet pungent odor that had steamed from their wet bodies . . . It all added up.

He finished at last.

Big Sister said, “Thank you, Captain. I shall now see to it that the planetary authorities take prompt action.”

“They’ll never listen to you in Melbourne,” said Grimes pessimistically, “especially if this Delamere is anything like his cousin. They’ll not listen to me either. I’ve no status any more. If I were still in the Survey Service . . . but I’m not.”