Chapter 8
A blast of sound assailed Grimes’s ears as he stepped out of the tender’s airlock, onto the top platform of the bunting-bedecked set of steps that had been wheeled into position. With an effort he identified it as music—the brass too strident and the drums too insistent—and with a further effort as the Terran Planetary Anthem, one of those forgettable songs with words and music composed to order by an untalented committee of lyricists and musicians. He stood to attention, his right hand holding his gray silk topper over his breast, his left hand grasping the cylindrical, gold-trimmed leather case in which was his Commission. It must look, he thought wryly, like a Field Marshal’s baton. But would Bardon give him the respect that he would accord to a Field Marshal?
Sons of Terra, strong and free came to its blaring conclusion. Thankfully Grimes relaxed, put his hat back on to his head. Then there was a roll of drums, followed by more music—Liberia’s sons, let us rejoice . . . He whipped off his hat, came again to attention. That anthem was over at last and he took a step towards the edge of the platform—and again froze. This time it was Waltzing Matilda.
The familiar words ran through his mind as he listened to the band.
Up came the squatter, riding on his thoroughbred.
Down came the troopers, one, two, three. . .
And there were the troopers, and there were more than three of them. There were Bardon’s Bullies, drawn up for his inspection, resplendent in their dress uniforms of blue and gold and scarlet.
Up jumped the swagman, sprang into the billabong . . .
Grimes thought, And this is one helluva billabong that I’ve sprung into this time . . .
After Matilda there were no more anthems but Grimes was in no hurry to descend the steps to the ground but made a slow survey of his immediate surroundings. That must be Bardon down there, waiting to receive him, even more splendidly attired than his soldiers, his finery topped by a plumed helmet. And the tall woman with him, in a superbly tailored suit of faded blue denim, had to be Madam President.
There was a crowd, but only a small one. There was a group of men and women, attired as was their President. There were the inevitable school children waving their little flags—the Federation star cluster on a black field, the Terran opalescent sphere on dark blue, the Australian national ensign with the British union flag in the upper canton and the Southern Cross constellation in the fly. There were spaceport workers in shabby, dirty, white overalls, small statured men and women, dark skinned and with Mongoloid features. There were officers from the ships in port. Grimes recognized one of these men—the weedy, ferret-faced Aloysius Dreeble, master of Willy Willy. Dreeble recognized him, grinned and raised two fingers in a gesture that would have been, had his palm been outward, V for Victory.
Grimes looked coldly at his old enemy and then turned away. He descended the steps with dignity. At the foot of them stood Bardon. The Colonel saluted smartly. Grimes raised his hat. The Colonel said, “Glad to have you aboard, Your Excellency.” Grimes said, swapping lie for lie, “I’m happy to be here, Colonel Bardon.”
“Your Excellency, may I introduce you to Madam President?”
Grimes removed his hat, put it to his chest and bowed. She inclined her head graciously. When they had both resumed normal posture they stood facing each other. Her eyes, gleaming black under heavy black brows, were level with his and looking at him appraisingly. The skin of her face was smooth and pale, her lips wide, full and very red. Her jaw was too heavy for a woman. But her smile, revealing strong white teeth, was quite pleasant.
She said, “I never dreamed that I should one day welcome a famous pirate as Governor of Liberia.”
“Not a pirate, Madam President. A privateer.”
“Pirate or privateer, Captain Grimes, you are bound to be an improvement over your predecessor.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. He was a psalm-singing do-gooder. You must know the type.”
“I have met such people.”
“Your Excellency,” interrupted Bardon, “may I suggest that we inspect the Guard of Honor?”
The President shrugged and, with that well-fitting jacket of soft denim, the effect was spectacular.
She said with a smile that was not altogether malicious, “The Colonel wants us to help him play with his toy soldiers, Captain Grimes.”
Bardon scowled, but not fiercely, and said, “My men are not toys, Madam.”
It was, thought Grimes, very like an essentially light-hearted exchange of insults between husband and wife. But sometimes such apparently friendly gibes are symptomatic of well-hidden hostilities.
He walked with the President and the Colonel along the ranks of the Honor Guard, preceded by a Lieutenant with a drawn sword, with other officers bringing up the rear. At close quarters the men were not so impressive as they had seemed from a distance. Even so, Grimes could not fault the uniforms, well-tailored from spotlessly clean and sharply pressed cloth, with gleaming natural leather and brightly burnished metal. The archaic rifles, weapons brought out only for ceremonial occasions, held now at Present Arms, were beautifully maintained. On the features of each man the facial hair, a down-sweeping moustache, was brushed and trimmed into exact uniformity with the whiskers to right and to left. But even those tailored scarlet jackets could not hide the paunches or the wide, gleaming, cross-straps and belts hold them in. And there were the sagging jowls and the shifty eyes, some of them bloodshot.
Bardon’s Bullies, thought Grimes. They look it.
He said, “Thank you, Colonel. A fine body of men.”
“I am pleased that you found them so, Your Excellency. You can rely upon them for loyal service.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“I prefer soldiers in undress uniform,” said the President, turning her sultry gaze on to Bardon. And then, to his rather embarrassed surprise, Grimes was treated to a similar, lingering glance. “And I am sure, Your Excellency, that you would feel far happier in something less formal.”
“Too right,” said Grimes.
She said, “You may dismiss your troops, Colonel Bardon.”
Bardon turned to Grimes and asked, “Permission to dismiss the Guard, Your Excellency?”
Who gives orders to whom on this bloody planet? Grimes asked himself.
He said, “Dismiss the Guard, Colonel.”
Orders were barked. Colonel to Lieutenant, Lieutenant to Sergeant, Sergeant to the enlisted men. Smartly, with a jingle of accoutrements, the detachment formed fours and, behind the band, stepping in time to the thud and rattle of the drums, marched toward the spaceport’s boundary fence. Chattering shrilly, the schoolchildren followed their teachers in the wake of the departing military. The ground staff drifted back to their jobs. The spacemen strolled toward their ships.
Vehicles drove up—a huge, scarlet-enameled limousine for the President with the symbol of a clenched fist, holding a torch, in black, on each of its doors, an olive-drab-painted armored car for the Colonel and one of the Lieutenants, a superb RR Whispering Ghost, gleaming black and shining silver with the forward-leaning nymph on its bonnet holding a staff from which flew a Terran ensign, for Grimes. There was a civilian chauffeur, a young man with a full beard, denim-clad and with a scarlet neckerchief. Beside him, on the front seat, were two soldiers in drab battle dress.
Bardon said to Grimes, “Your ADC will look after you, Your Excellency, and will . . . er . . . show you the ropes at the Governor’s Residence. Lieutenant Smith, please see that His Excellency is at the President’s Reception, at 2000 hrs. this evening.”
Smith saluted. He was old for his rank, his face both pudgy and sulky. The decorations on the left breast of his tunic were of the variety that Grimes referred to as Good Attendance Medals. If he had ever been in a war, even a police action, he had failed to distinguish himself.
“Until this evening, Your Excellency,” said Estrelita O’Higgins.
“Until this evening, Madam President,” said Grimes.
“Until this evening. Your Excellency,” said Bardon, saluting.
“Until this evening. Colonel,” said Grimes, raising his hat.
He had to take it off again when he climbed into the car, through the door which the ADC had opened for him. Smith followed him into the vehicle.