Chapter 10
HE HAD THE THING together again. It looked all right—a complexity of gleaming, fragile golden wheels, the spindles of which were set at odd angles one to the other, an instrument rather than a mere machine, a work of abstract sculpture rather than an instrument. A work of mobile, abstract sculpture . . . He put out a tentative ringer, gently pushed the rim of one of the rotors. It moved under his touch, as did, in sympathy, the other components of the device. He felt a momentary dizziness, a brief temporal disorientation, as precession was briefly initiated. So it worked. No one part was fouling any other part.
So he had proved his capabilities.
So who needed engineers?
He called out cheerfully, “Stand by for temporal precession!”
He reached out for the master switch—there should be no need to reset the Mannschenn Drive controls on the console forward—pressed it down. There was a sputtering, a brief, brilliant coruscation of blue sparks, a wisp of acrid smoke.
Damn!
He must have scraped a wire clean of insulation with a probing screwdriver.
He switched off.
Yes, that was the wire, or, to be more exact, that had been the wire. Luckily he would be able to replace it without disturbing the rotors. He heard Tamara cry out, ignored her. She called out again.
“Yes?” he replied irritably.
“Grimes! They’re here! You’d better get some help before you do any more damage.”
“All I have to do is replace a lead.”
There was another voice. That woman must have switched on the Normal Space Time radio, Grimes realized. “Baroom to Little Sister. Stand by to receive us aboard.”
He called out, “Tell them that I don’t need assistance.”
“Grimes! That looks like a warship! There are guns, pointing at us!”
He hurried forward. Through the control cab ports he stared at the Shaara ship. She was a huge, truncated cone surmounted by a transparent hemisphere. She looked like an enormous, metallic beehive. And, thought Grimes, staring at the extruding muzzles of laser and projectile cannon, these bees had stings . . .
He spoke into the microphone, “Little Sister to Baroom. Thank you for standing by us. But, I repeat, we do not require assistance.”
“But you do, Little Sister, you do. It is obvious that your interstellar drive is not operative. By the time that you arrive at your destination you will be dead of old age.”
Grimes doubted that. With a steady acceleration of one gravity, which could be increased if necessary, it would not be all that long before a respectable fraction of the speed of light was attained. And then there would be the time dilation effects . . . Nonetheless, planetfall would be made at Boggarty a long time after, a very long time after the expiry date of the contract. But the problem was purely academic. Once that wiring was replaced Little Sister would be on her way with time to spare.
“Baroom to Little Sister. Stand by to receive our boarding party.”
“I do not require assistance,” repeated Grimes stubborn.
He saw a flash of blue flame from one of the menacing guns and flinched. This was it. But the projectile exploded a good half kilometer from the pinnace in a dazzling pyrotechnic display. Nonetheless, Grimes could recognize a warning shot across the bows when he saw one.
He said, “All right. I can take a hint. I’m opening the airlock door now.” He pressed the necessary button on the console. He told Tamara, “Get dressed. The Shaara are only glorified insects, but we have to keep up appearances. Put on something with as much gold trimming as possible. And jewelry.” Then again into the microphone, “You will have to wait a few minutes, I’m afraid. We have to do some minor housekeeping before we can receive guests.”
“Do not attempt any treachery, Little Sister. And I warn you that our engineers are standing by to synchronize should you succeed in restarting your interstellar drive.”
They possibly could, too, thought Grimes. With the two ships practically alongside each other Baroom’s space-time-warper would be the master and Little Sister’s the slave . . . He hurried aft, opened the locker that he was using as a wardrobe, practically threw on to his body the hated gold and purple livery that was a relic of his servitude to the Baroness d’Estang. As he fastened the last button he turned to see Tamara looking at him. She had attired herself in a long robe of dark blue velvet down the front of which sprawled a dragon worked in gold and jewels, its snout practically nuzzling her throat, a gleaming claw over each breast. Rings glittered on her fingers, pendants that were almost miniature chandeliers dangled from her ears. A golden tiara, set with diamonds, was dazzling against the blackness of her hair. He grinned, “You’ll do.”
She grinned, “And so, Grimes, will you. Anybody would think that you were a Galactic Admiral.”
“Now,” he told her, “we put out a fine display of booze and sweetmeats on the table. Those liqueurs of yours . . .”
“Anyone would think,” she said, “that you like the Shaara.”
“I get along with them—when I have to. And I know them, and their weaknesses . . .”
When they had put the liquor and candy on display they went back forward. Looking through the control cab ports Grimes saw that an airlock door was open in the side of the other ship. He said, “We’ve tidied up. You can board now.”
“We are boarding,” came the reply. “The Princess Shree-la and Drones Brrell and Boorrong are on their way . . .”
Through his binoculars Grimes watched three figures, clad in cocoon-like Shaara spacesuits, emerge from the airlock, saw a puff of vapor from the rear of each almost featureless sack.
He said to the girl, “In their ships the captain is a queen. The princesses are her officers. The drones are, more or less, like the marines in our warships. The workers are the engineers and technicians.” He paused. “I notice that the Queen-Captain isn’t sending any workers across. Doesn’t look as though she’s in any hurry to help us to get the drive fixed.”
“Then what does she want?” asked the Superintending Postmistress.
“Loot,” said Grimes bitterly. “She’s a Rogue Queen. She and her swarm are on a flight to try to find a suitable planet on which to settle down and found a new colony. They’ll not be too concerned about the rights of any indigenes who may be in residence. Meanwhile, they snap up anything left lying around. Like us . . .” He paused, watching the three cocoons drawing closer and closer. “And this ship, this pinnace, will represent untold wealth to them. Their instruments will have told them what she’s built of. And they love precious metals—for themselves, not only just for their monetary value.”
“And the liquor? I’ve heard that they . . . er . . . tend to overindulge . . .”
“You heard right. With any luck at all the princess will dip her proboscis into a bottle, and the drones will follow suit. And when they’ve passed out I’ll replace that burned out wire.”
“But the Queen-Captain said that her ship would be able to synchronize temporal precession rates . . .”
“Yes. But I think that I shall be able to set my controls for random precession . . .” He hoped that he would be able to do so. He had seen the technique demonstrated during a Survey Service engineering course for spaceman officers. It involved hooking up the Carlotti antenna with the Mannschenn Drive controls, thereby engendering a sort of unholy mechanical hybrid. “They’re here,” she said.
“They’re here,” he agreed, watching the tell-tale lights on the panel that showed that the airlock was occupied.
From the NST transceiver came the voice of the Queen-Captain. “The princess is in the chamber. You will admit her to your ship, and then, one by one, the drones.”
“Wilco,” replied Grimes briefly.
The airlock, he saw was re-pressurized. He opened the inner door. The princess came through into the main cabin, looking like a sheeted ghost out of some old story of the supernatural. Anything at all could have been under the folds of that white shroud. Then the protective garment fell away from her, dropped to her taloned feet. She stood there, a splendid creature, as tall as Tamara, taller than Grimes, regarding the two humans through her glittering, faceted eyes. Her gauzy, iridescent wings hung down her back like a flimsy, bejewelled cloak. Golden filigree gleamed in the rich, chocolate brown fur that covered her body and bracelets of fine gold wire encircled, between every joint, her four slender arms. Her voice box, strapped to her thorax, was also of gold.
“Which of you is the captain?” she asked.
“I am,” said Grimes. “And this is Madam Tamara Haverstock, the Superintending Postmistress of Tiralbin.”
“And your name, Captain?”
“Grimes. John Grimes.”
“We have heard of you.” Although the artificial voice was without inflection Grimes could detect disapproval. He had become involved with an alcoholic Shaara princess some years ago and the news must have gotten around. “Now, please to admit my escort.”
Grimes admitted them. They were smaller than the princess, each about half the size of a grown man. Like her they were lavishly bedecked with personal jewelry. Even their gun-belts and holsters and the butts of their laser pistols were as much ornamental as functional.
“May we offer refreshments, Highness?” asked Grimes politely.
The two drones started towards the laden table; the princess put out two long arms to restrain them. Then she walked slowly towards the display of refreshments. From her complex mouth a long, tubular tongue slowly uncoiled. She dipped it into one of the bottles, that containing the homemade Benedictine. Grimes, watching carefully, saw that the level of liquid fell, at the most, only half a millimeter.
She said tonelessly, “It is a pity that I must do what I must do.” Her orders to the drones were telepathic. They approached the table, picked up the bottles, carried them through to the galley-cum-engineroom. Then, with obvious reluctance, they poured the contents into the waste-disposal chute. Grimes wondered what would happen to the algae in the vats—but, of course, all sewage and galley refuse was processed before being used as nutriment for the primitive but especially bred organisms.
“So you do not accept our hospitality,” said Grimes.
“But I do,” replied the princess. She picked up a little fondue in a dainty claw, lifted it to her busy mandibles. “This is quite excellent.”
One big advantage of an artificial voice box, thought Grimes, was that it allowed its possessor to talk with her mouth full.
“I believe,” she went on, “that your interstellar drive is inoperative.”
“It requires only a few minutes’ work, Highness, to make it operational,” Grimes told her. “Work that I am quite capable of carrying out myself.”
“And are you a qualified engineer, Captain?”
“No.”
“Then I strongly advise against any tinkerings, on your part, with that delicate piece of machinery. It would be a pity if this very valuable little ship were hopelessly lost in a warped continuum. Our technicians will put matters to right.”
“I am quite capable of making the necessary repairs,” said Grimes.
“You are not,” stated the princess. “And now I extend to you and your distinguished passenger an invitation to repair aboard Baroom.”
“Thank you,” said Grimes, “but I regret that we must decline.”
“Perhaps,” said the princess, “I should not have used the word ‘invitation’.”
The drones, Grimes saw, had drawn their pistols. They looked as though they knew how to use them. And they would be bad tempered at being deprived of the free drinks that had been so temptingly displayed.”
“What do you want with us?” Grimes demanded.
“That, Captain, is for the Queen-Captain to tell you if she so decides.”
“Do something, damn you, Grimes!” shouted Tamara. “If you won’t, I will!”
She snatched from the golden belt at her waist something that Grimes had assumed was no more than decoration, that was, in fact, a shin dagger. She sprang towards the princess. One of the drones fired, and she was nursing her scorched right hand, looking down at the hilt that, with a mere centimeter of still-glowing steel protruding from it, had fallen to the deck. The other drone fired. The crystals of her right ear pendant shattered. Blood trickled down her face from a dozen tiny wounds.
Grimes went to her. “We have to do as they say,” he told her. “Even if we did overpower these three pirates their ship would vaporize us in a second.”
“But the contract . . .” She was actually weeping, from pain or humiliation, or both. “The contract . . . The parcel mail . . .”
“It won’t be the first time in the history of Man,” said Grimes, “that the mail’s been late or has never arrived at all.”
He should not have been surprised when the open palm of her uninjured hand almost knocked his head off its shoulders.