Chapter 5
BRASIDUS FLUSHED as he met the spaceman’s appraising—and somehow approving—stare. He heard him murmur to his captain, “Buy that one for me, Daddy,” and heard Johngrimes reply, “Peggy, you’re incorrigible. Get back on board at once.”
“But I am the ethologist, John.”
“No need to get wrapped up in your work. Get back on board.”
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Aye, aye, sir.”
He looked at Brasidus for a long, last time and then turned with a flounce of kilts. The movement of his hips and full buttocks as he mounted the ramp was disturbing.
“Now, perhaps,” said the Commander, “we can get down to business. I may be old-fashioned, but I’ve never cared much for a mixed crew.”
“So it’s true, Lieutenant Commander,” Diomedes said. “So you aren’t from Latterhaven.”
“Of course not. We shall be calling there after we’ve finished here. But tell me, what made the penny drop so suddenly?” He grinned. “Or should I have said ‘obol’?”
“You speak strangely, Johngrimes. What do you mean?”
“Just a figure of speech. Don’t you have automatic vendors? No? What I meant was this: Why should my mention of a mixed crew suddenly convince you that my claim that this is a Federation ship is correct?”
Diomedes did not answer at once. He glared around at Cleon and his aides, at Brasidus and his men. He growled, “You all of you have ears—unluckily. You all of you have heard far too much. But you will not speak of it. To anybody. I need not remind you of what has happened in the past to men who have breached Security.” He turned back to the space captain. “Your arrival here, Lieutenant Commander, has rather upset our notions of cosmogony. It is now a matter for the Council—and for the Council only.”
“But why did the penny drop?” persisted Johngrimes.
“Because you have brought evidence that there is more than one intelligent race in the universe. At first we thought that your Margaretlazenby was deformed—on this world, of course, he would have been exposed immediately after birth—and then you told us that you have a mixed crew.”
The Commander stared at Diomedes incredulously. He said at last, “Of course, it has been said more than once, not altogether in jest, that they aren’t really human . . . But tell me, Captain Diomedes, do you actually mean what I think you mean? Haven’t you anybody like her on your Planet?”
“Like what, Lieutenant Commander?”
“Like her. Like Doctor Lazenby.”
“Of course not. We are all human here. As we should be, Sparta being the birthplace of the human race.”
“You really mean that?”
“Of course,” replied Diomedes.
But does he? wondered Brasidus, who had worked with the Security Captain before.
“And you have no . . .?” began the spaceman, then pulled himself up abruptly. Brasidus recognized the signs. Find out all you can, but give nothing away yourself.
“We have no what?” prompted Diomedes.
Johngrimes made a quick recovery. “No Immigration, no Customs, no Port Health?”
“I’ve already told you that, Lieutenant Commander. And I’ve already told you that you and your crew must remain confined to your ship.”
“Then perhaps you would care to come aboard, Captain Diomedes, to talk things over.”
“Not by myself—and not unarmed.”
“You may bring one man with you,” said Johngrimes slowly. “But both of you will leave your weapons this side of the barrier.”
“We could board by force,” said Diomedes.
“Could you? I think not. Seeker may be carrying out the Census, but she’s still a frigate, with a frigate’s armament. In a matter of seconds we could sweep this field—and the sky over the field—clear of life. This is not a threat, merely a statement of fact.” The words carried conviction.
Diomedes hesitated. “Very well,” he said at last. He looked up to the circling airships as though for reassurance, shook his head doubtfully. He addressed Cleon, “Port Master, please have your radioman inform the Flight Admiral of my movements.” He turned to Brasidus, “Sergeant, you may come with me. Leave Leading Hoplite Hector in charge.”
Brasidus got close enough to Diomedes so that he could speak in a low, urgent whisper. “But, sir, the standing orders . . . the passes, to be signed by a member of the Council . . .”
“And who do you think drew up those standing orders, Sergeant? I am Security.” Diomedes unlocked the gate with a key from his belt pouch. “Come with me.”
“Your weapons,” reminded Johngrimes.
Diomedes sighed, unbuckled his belt with its two holstered pistols, passed it to one of the men. Brasidus followed suit. The Sergeant felt naked, far more so than when stripped for the dance or for field sports. He knew that he still retained one weapon in the use of which he was, as were all members of the police branch of the Army, superbly trained—his body. But he missed those smooth, polished wooden butts that fitted so snugly into his hands. Even a despised sword or spear would have been better than nothing.
Ahead of them, Johngrimes was walking briskly toward the open airlock door, toward the foot of the ramp. Diomedes and Brasidus followed. They could see, as they neared the vessel, that the odd excrescences on its skin were gun turrets, that from at least two of them slender barrels were trained upon them, following them, that from others heavier weapons tracked the circling airships.
Johngrimes was taking no chances.
Although he had been often enough on spaceport guard duties, this was the first time that Brasidus had been aboard a spaceship; usually it was only Diomedes who boarded visiting vessels. Mounting the ramp, the Sergeant eyed professionally the little group of officers waiting just inside the airlock. They all carried sidearms, and they all looked competent enough. Even so, thought Brasidus, they’ll not be able to use their pistols for fear of hitting each other. The knee to the groin, the edge of the hand to the neck . . .
“Better not,” said Diomedes, reading his subordinate’s face.
“Better not,” said Johngrimes, turning back to look at the pair of them. “An incident could have unfortunate—for your planet—repercussions.”
Better not, thought Brasidus.
Soldierlike, he approved the smartness with which the spacemen saluted their commander. And soldierlike, he did not like the feel of a deck under his feet instead of solid ground. Nonetheless, he looked about him curiously. He was disappointed. He had been expecting, vaguely, vistas of gleaming machines, all in fascinating motion, banks of fluorescing screens, assemblages of intricate instruments. But all that there was was a little metal-walled room, cubical except for the curvature of its outer side, and beyond that another little room, shaped like a wedge of pie with a bite out of its narrow end.
But there must be more to the ship than this.
An officer pressed a button on the far, inwardly curved wall of the inside room. A door slid aside, revealing yet another little compartment, cylindrical this time. Johngrimes motioned to his guests—or hostages? Diomedes (but he was familiar with spaceships) entered this third room without any hesitation. Apprehensively Brasidus followed him, with Johngrimes bringing up the rear.
“Don’t worry,” said Diomedes to Brasidus. “This is only an elevator.”
“An . . . an elevator?”
“It elevates you. Is that correct, Lieutenant Commander?”
“It is, Captain Diomedes.” Johngrimes turned to Brasidus. “At the moment, we are inside the axial shaft—a sort of hollow column running almost the full length of the ship. This cage that we’ve just entered will carry us up to my quarters. We never use it, of course, in free fall—only during acceleration or on a planetary surface.”
“Do you have machines to do the work of your legs, sir?”
“Why not, Sergeant?”
“Isn’t that . . . decadent?”
The spaceship commander laughed. “Men have been saying that ever since the first lazy and intelligent bastard invented the wheel. Tell me, did you march out from the city to the spaceport, or did you ride?”
“That’s different, sir,” said Brasidus lamely.
“Like hell it is.” Johngrimes pressed a button. The door slid shut. And almost immediately Brasidus experienced an odd, sinking sensation in his stomach. He knew that the cage was in motion, felt that it was upward motion. Fascinated, he watched the lights flashing in succession on the panel by the door—and almost lost his balance when the elevator slowed to a stop.
The door slid open again, revealing a short stretch of alleyway. Still there were no machines, no instruments—but the air was alive with the subdued murmur of machinery.
Brasidus had likened the ship to a metallic tower, but this was not like being inside a building. It was like being inside a living organism.