Chapter 17 
Chapter 17
THE DINING ROOM of the Lucifer Arms was yet another plastic hemisphere, but a huge one. Clavering and Sally, his wife, had their table in the exact centre of the circular floor. It was on a low dais, raised above the level of the others so that the ex-captain could oversee everything that was going on. Not that his supervision was really necessary; his devils, looking more than ever like refugees from a black humor cartoon in their stiff white shirts, black ties and black jackets, were superbly trained, attentive without being obtrusive. And there were three human headwaiters, circulating slowly among the diners, watching everything.
Grimes enjoyed his meal. For almost as long as he could remember he had liked highly spiced, exotic foods, and every item on the menu was either deviled or flambèed—or both. Williams, who preferred good plain cooking, was not so happy—but to judge by his rate of consumption he found nothing at all wrong with the excellent chilled hock. Neither did Captain Gillings of Sobraon who, with his chief officer Mr. Tait, made up the party. So far he was showing no effects, but—Any moment now! thought Grimes. And—It’s none of my business.
Yet when Gillings put his hand firmly over the top of his empty glass, saying, “I lift off at dawn,” Clavering persuaded him to accept a refill, remarking, “I’m taking your ship up for you, Captain. As long as I’m on the ball in the morning.” Mrs. Clavering, a tall, very attractive blonde, looked as though she were about to interfere, especially when she saw that her husband’s glass was also being refilled. She asked Grimes rather pointedly, “What are the rules about drinking in the Navy, Commodore?”
Grimes said, “It all depends. Sometimes you know that you can afford to relax, at other times you know that you can’t. Mphm. But drink is not the major problem. You can always tell if a man is under the influence. With other drugs you can’t tell if a man’s judgment has been seriously impaired. Not so long ago—in my civilian capacity as Rim Runners’ Chief Astronautical Superintendent—I had to try to sort out a most distressing business. The third officer of one of our ships had been among those involved in a dreamy weed orgy. The next morning, apparently quite normal, he was testing the gear prior to his vessel’s lift off from Port Last. The inertial drive, which had been given a trial run by the engineers after maintenance, was on Stand-By. The officer noticed this—and thought it would be a good idea to take the ship up, himself, for a joyride.”
“And what happened?” asked Sally Clavering.
“General alarm and despondency. Luckily there was nobody hurt, and no serious damage. The young man, I’m afraid, will have to serve a jail term—the Rim Confederacy takes a very dim view of drugs in general. And his spacegoing career is ruined.”
“If your government,” said the TG Clipper Captain, “weren’t so many years behind the times that sort of thing wouldn’t happen. In the Federated Planets we accept the consciousness-expanding drugs. We know that there are some people affected more strongly than others, just as there are some people more strongly affected by alcohol than others. On Austral—my home planet—a smoker has to take out a license and is subjected to various physical and psychological tests. He knows just what effect marihuana, dreamy weed or anything similar will have on him, and regulates his activities accordingly. In my own case, for example, I know that if I were enjoying a pipe instead of Captain Clavering’s excellent wine I should be, no more than two standard hours after the last inhalation, perfectly capable of taking my ship into or out of any spaceport in the Galaxy—more capable, in fact, than if I had not smoked. This third officer of yours was unlucky.”
“You can say that again, Captain Gillings,” agreed Grimes. He looked casually around the table. Sally Clavering was showing interest in the conversation. So was Mr. Tait, Gillings’ chief officer. Williams looked as though he were interested only in the wine. And Clavering was suddenly taking great interest in a party of rather noisy revellers six tables away.
He said, “I hope those people don’t carry on like that aboard your ship, Captain Gillings.”
“Not all the time, Captain Clavering. They’re usually quite quiet at breakfast.”
“Black coffee and two aspirins, I suppose. Talking of coffee, shall we adjourn to the Grotto? I’ve some rather decent Altairian Dragon’s Blood that we could have as a liqueur.”
He got up from the table and, as soon as his wife and his guests were on their feet, led the way from the dining room, pausing slightly now and again to exchange salutations with the people at the other tables.
A short tunnel led to the Grotto, its walls coloured and shaped in the likenesses of rough granite. Grimes had to put his hand out to convince himself that they were not granite and was almost surprised by the soft spongy texture under his fingers. In the Grotto itself amazingly realistic stalactites hung from the high ceiling, and stalagmites grew upwards from the floor. But if there should be an earth tremor there would be no danger of frail human flesh being crushed and torn by falling masses of jagged limestone. Should, by any chance, a stalactite be shaken adrift from its overhead anchorage it would float gently downwards like the plastic balloon that in actuality, it was. Nonetheless, the effect was convincing, enhanced by the dim green and blue lighting, by musical trickling of water somewhere in the background.
They sat around a table that could have been a slab of waterworn limestone, on surprisingly comfortable chairs simulating the same material. A devil brought a tray with coffee pot and cups, another devil the teardrop decanter and the slim glasses. Sally Clavering poured the coffee, her husband the liqueur.
“Here’s to crime,” said Grimes, raising his glass.
“An odd toast, Commodore,” said Clavering.
“A very old one, Captain.”
“It all depends,” said Captain Gillings, whose speech was becoming a little slurred, “on what you mean by crime.”
“Too,” said Williams, who enjoyed an occasional philosophical argument, “one has to distinguish between crime and sin.”
“Smuggling, for example,” said Grimes, “is a crime, but is it a sin?”
“Depends on what you smuggle,” said Gillings.
“Too right,” agreed Williams.
“Take gambling,” said Clavering a little desperately. “It’s a crime—I mean, it’s classed as a crime—when the state doesn’t get its rake-off. But as long as the government gets its cut it’s perfectly all right.”
“I ’member once on Elshinore . . .” began Gillings. “Ticket in Shtate Lottery . . . only sheventeen off million creditsh . . .”
“I always think,” said Grimes, “that the people of these very agricultural planets, like Elsinore and Ultimo, need such outlets as gambling and, perhaps, drug-taking. The essentially rural worlds tend to be more—sinful, shall we say?—more sinful than the heavily industrialized ones.”
“Who shaid gambling wash a shin, Commodore?” asked Gillings.
“It’s only a sin,” said Clavering thoughtfully, “if somebody else, somebody apart from the gambler himself, is hurt. That can be said about most crimes, so-called.”
“Take forgery,” contributed Williams. (Blast you! thought Grimes. Why must you go changing the subject?) “Take forgery. S’pose I print a million Ten Credit notes. S’pose they’re all perfect. Undetectable. I win. But who loses?”
“I’ll go into partnership with you, C’mander Williamsh,” said Gillings. “When d’ we shtart?”
“Time we started getting back to the ship, sir,” said Mr. Tait, looking pointedly at his watch.
“A nightcap, Captain Gillings?” asked Clavering.
“Thank you, Captain Clavering. I will take jusht one li’l hair o’ the dog thash bitin’ me. After all, it’sh a long worm that hash no turning. Thank you. Thank you. Your very good health, shir. An’ yoursh, Mishess Clavering. An’ yoursh, Commodore Grimesh. An’ yoursh, Commander Williamsh. An’ . . . an’ . . . Shorry, Mishter Tait. Glash’s empty. Musta ’vaporated. Very dry climate here. Very dry . . .”
Somehow Tait got his captain out of the Grotto. Mrs. Clavering looked at her husband angrily. “You know he can’t take it. That Dragon’s Blood on top of what he had before and with dinner.” She looked at Grimes. “I’m sorry, Commodore. But this sort of thing makes me angry.”
“It’s not as though he were taking his ship up himself,” said Clavering.
“It makes no difference. As you were always telling me, before you came ashore, the master is always responsible for his ship. You should have known better than to encourage him.”
“He’ll be all right in the morning, Sally.” He yawned. “Time I was getting some shut-eye myself. And I’m sure that you and Commander Williams must be tired, Commodore. I’ll show you to your rooms.”
“Thank you, Captain. Oh, I’d rather like to see you take Sobraon up tomorrow. Both of us would, in fact. Do you think you could have us called in time?”
“Surely. You can come along for the ride, in fact. I put her in orbit, then my boat will pick us up and bring us back. I’ll tell the devil in charge of your level to call you in good time. What do you want with your morning trays? Tea? Coffee? Or whatever?”
“Coffee,” said Grimes and “Tea,” said Williams.
Clavering took them to a lift shaft that was one of the very few really rigid structural members in the hotel, accompanied them to their levels, and then took them to their rooms. Williams, who was not quite sober, looked at the inside of his hemispherical sleeping compartment and said that he wanted Eskimo Nell to keep his bed warm. Clavering told him that the devils who looked after the bedrooms were female devils. Williams said that, on second thoughts, he would prefer to sleep alone. He vanished through the circular doorway.
Grimes said goodnight to Clavering then went into his own bedroom. It looked to be very comfortable, with an inflated bed and matching chair, a shower and toilet recess and—the only solid furnishing—a refrigerator. Suddenly he felt thirsty. He looked in the refrigerator, found fruit and several bottles of mineral water, together with plastic tumblers. He opened one of the bottles, poured himself a drink. But he only half-finished it. It was deliciously cold but, after the first few swallows, its flavor was . . . wrong. The water from the tap in the shower recess was lukewarm and tasted of sulphur, but it was better. Grimes drank copiously—the dinner had been conducive to thirst—then undressed and got into the soft, resilient bed.
No sooner had his head hit the pillow than there was an earth tremor, not severe but quite noticeable. He grinned to himself and muttered, “I don’t need rocking.” Nor did he.