Chapter 11 
Chapter 11
PETER FELLINI, STUDENT.
Aged 19.75 Years, Local, 18.25 Years, Standard.
Inga Telfer, Artist.
Aged 25.50 Years, Local, 23.05 Years, Standard.
The identification of the bodies had presented no problems. Ultimo is one of those worlds where everybody is fingerprinted, where a record is made of everybody’s retinal patterns and where coded information, including allergies and blood group, is tattooed in everybody’s armpits.
The two victims were known to have been Blossom People. Fellini had been brilliant in his studies. Inga Telfer’s swirling abstracts had been in great demand and had fetched good prices. Their deaths had been remarkably pointless; they had suffered the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
The identification of the ship that had made the drop was also easy. Immediately on return to Port Last Grimes and Billinghurst had gone to Aero-Space Control. The duty officer had at first been uncooperative—as far as he was concerned here were two spheres, albeit beardless ones, invading his office. But once credentials were produced he was very helpful.
Yes, the Tanagerine tramp Ditmar was at present in orbit about Ultimo, having signalled her intention of landing at first light. Her master, one Captain Reneck, did not like pilotage in the dark. He had brought his ship into Port Last on quite a few occasions, but always during daylight hours. Yes, Ditmar was on a regular run between Ultimo and Eblis. She was chartered to bring shipments of minerals from the so-called Hell Planet, and to carry assorted foodstuffs back to the holiday resort in Inferno Valley. And where was she relative to Port Last, to the Fitzroy Crossing, shortly after 0200 hours? To judge by the elements of her orbit, constantly checked by ground radar, she must have been on the other side of the planet.
“Mphm,” grunted Grimes doubtfully on learning this. At the time of the attempted escape of the robot, at the time of its destruction, line of sight communication between it and the mother ship would have been impossible. But there was no reason why Ditmar should not have left at least one relay station in orbit. If this were so, then she ran to a line of highly sophisticated electronic gadgetry not usually, if ever, found aboard a merchant vessel, a tramp freighter at that.
And Tanager . . .
It was one of the older colonies, having been settled during the Second Expansion. It was a Federated Planet, but rather peculiarly situated, being only world with a human population in a sector of space that had been colonised by the Shaara. There was a Federation Survey Service base on Tanager, a base that could be of vital strategic importance should Man and Shaara ever fall out again. The Tanagerines knew this, and every now and again talked of the economic advantages that would accrue if their world became part of the Shaara Empire—so the Federation went to great pains to try to keep them happy. And for many years now the foreign policy of the Rim Worlds Confederacy had been geared to that of the Interstellar Federation.
Don’t let’s be nasty to the Tanagerines, thought Grimes, but if Ditmar’s Master had broken Rim Worlds laws he must expect some nastiness.
Grimes and Billinghurst were out at the spaceport at dawn to see Ditmar come in. The battered tramp dropped down carefully, with a caution that would not have been amiss in a vessel ten times her size. Although she was from one of the other Rim Worlds she was a foreign ship, so officials from port health, immigration, and customs were waiting for her. The customs officers were, in fact, out in force.
Ditmar bumbled in hesitantly, at last hovering a few feet over the beacons that marked her berth. Her inertial drive unit was a particularly noisy one. When at last it was stopped the short-lived silence was deafening—and broken by the tinny crash as the ship’s tripedal landing gear hit the concrete. There was a long delay, and then the after-airlock door opened slowly and the ramp extruded. Billinghurst pushed himself to the head of the group of waiting officials, tramped heavily aboard. Grimes followed him.
Ditmar’s mate, a burly, swarthy young man in shabby uniform, received them. He mumbled, “You’ll find all the papers in the purser’s office, as usual.”
“Take us to the Captain,” snapped Billinghurst.
“This . . . This isn’t usual.”
“I know it’s not usual.” Billinghurst turned to give orders to his officers. “Spread out through the ship. Living quarters, control room, engineroom, everywhere.”
“But, look, mister. We’re in from Eblis. Eblis. That’s one of your bloody Rim Worlds, isn’t it?”
“Take us to the captain,” repeated Billinghurst.
“Oh, all right, all right. You’ll have to use the stairway, though; the elevator’s on the blink.”
Grimes and Billinghurst followed the officer up the internal spiral staircase. It didn’t worry Grimes much, but by the time they got up to the captain’s flat the fat man was soaked with sweat, his face purple. The mate knocked at the open door, said, “Two customs officers to see you, sir.” Grimes glared at him. Admittedly his uniform, which he had put on for the occasion, was similar to Billinghurst’s, but if this young oaf could not distinguish between different cap badges it was time that he started to learn.
“Come in, come in.” Captain Reneck looked up from his desk. “The cargo manifest and the store sheets are in the purser’s office. I don’t have them here.”
“I am the chief collector of customs at Port Forlorn,” began Billinghurst.
“Haven’t you got your ports mixed?”
“And I am in overall charge of an investigation. This gentleman with me is Commodore Grimes, of the Rim Worlds Navy.”
“Indeed?” Captain Reneck’s bushy black eyebrows, the only noticeable feature of his pale, smooth face, lifted. “Indeed? A customs officer and a commodore of the Rim Worlds Navy. Please be seated, gentlemen.”
“Captain Reneck,” said Billinghurst, “I’ll waste no words. At approximately 0200 hours this morning, Port Last time, a powered container of dreamy weed—a powered, booby-trapped container of dreamy weed—made a landing at the Fitzroy Crossing.”
“So? But at 0200 hours this morning I was not over Port Last, or the Fitzroy Crossing.”
“Does your ship carry probes?” demanded Grimes. “Robot probes, remote-controlled? Is she fitted with the equipment to launch and guide and recover such probes?”
Reneck grinned. His ugly teeth showed yellow in his white face. “As a matter of fact she does, and she is. Tanager is a poor world and cannot afford specialized survey craft. All of our merchant ships—all of them tramps like this vessel—are so fitted as to be able to carry out survey work if required.”
“Two people were killed this morning,” said Billinghurst. “A young man and a young woman.”
“I am very sorry to hear that,” said Reneck, neither looking nor sounding sorry.
“What do you know about the container of dreamy weed that was dropped?” blustered Billinghurst.
“What should I know?”
“It must have come from your ship,” said Grimes.
“How could it have done so? I was nowhere near the scene of the alleged smuggling.”
“And murder.”
“Murder, Commodore? Strong word. How could I, a law-abiding shipmaster, be implicated in murder? A naval officer like yourself, maybe, but not a merchant spaceman.” He sighed. “Murder . . .”
“Who’s paying you?” snapped Billinghurst suddenly.
“The TSSL, of course. The Tanager State Shipping Line.” He grinned with another display of discolored teeth. “Between ourselves, gentlemen, they could pay much better than they do.”
“So something a little extra, over and above your salary, tax free,” suggested Grimes.
“Really, Commodore . . . you wouldn’t suggest that, surely.”
“How many robot probes do you carry?”
“Three. You will find that number shown on my store sheets, and you will find that number in the launching bay.”
Billinghurst lumbered to his feet. “Let’s get out of here, Commodore Grimes.” He turned to Reneck. “My men are taking the ship apart. If they find so much as one strand of dreamy weed, may all the Odd Gods of the Galaxy help you. Nobody else will.”