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Chapter 26

BEFORE THEY COULD ALL SIT DOWN to their evening meal there was the conducted tour of the bottling plant—all very boring unless one happened to be an engineer. Larwood pointed out with pride the way in which the machinery was mounted on floating platforms so that it would suffer no damage, and even go on functioning, in the event of an earth tremor. There were free samplings of the mineral-rich water, from which Grimes and Williams abstained. What had happened during their first night on Eblis had put them off the stuff.

Grimes, more out of spite than from any desire to know, asked, “And what’s behind that door, Mr. Larwood?”

“Just the office, Commodore Grimes. Nothing of any interest whatsoever.”

“I’d rather like to see it, Mr. Larwood. As I spend most of my days behind an office desk I might get some ideas as to how to make myself more comfortable. If your office is like the plant it’ll be up to the minute.”

“I’m sorry, Commodore. Only Captain Clavering has the keys. In any case, there’s nothing at all to see.”

“Some other day, perhaps?” said Grimes vaguely.

“Yes, Commodore. Some other day.”

And then they were all sitting down at the tables in the mess hall, and the devils were bringing in steaming platters of food and bottles of cold wine, and everybody was tucking in to the bouillabaisse made from various denizens of the Bitter Sea as though none of them had eaten for at least a week. Even Williams enjoyed it, leaving nothing in his bowl but empty shells and cracked claws. Denise Dalgety, who was at the next table, was eating with a very good appetite, but Larwood was off his feed.

It was bedtime then, and the tourists retired to the dormitory. The air mattresses were very comfortable, and even the chorus of snores from all around him could not keep the commodore awake. He was vaguely conscious of a slight earth tremor just before he dropped off, but it did not worry him.


Music over the public address system woke the tourists. Most of them went out for a last swim in the Bitter Sea, but Grimes and Williams did not. Apart from anything else there was privacy for conversation in the shower room.

“I wonder just who SB Three is,” said Grimes. “That voice sounded familiar. I’ve heard it before, but a very long time ago. It made quite an impression on me.”

“One o’ the Australoid accents, Skipper,” said Williams.

“Pots and kettles, Commander. Pots and kettles. But it hadn’t got that peculiar Rim Worlds twang, like yours.”

“Austral?” suggested Williams doubtfully.

“Mphm. Yes. Could be. And those initials, SB, ring some kind of bell too. IC is obviously Ian Clavering, and RL is Ron Larwood. Do we know anybody who has SB for initials?”

I don’t, Skipper, ’cept for a sheila back on Lorn called Susan Bartram. It couldn’t have been her.”

“How do you know? In this sort of business all sorts of odd people may be implicated.”

“It wasn’t a woman’s voice,” began Williams, then realized that Grimes was not entirely serious.

“Yes, as you say, Commander, it was a man’s voice. But whose?”

“There’re one helluva lot o’ men in this Galaxy—an’ you, in your lifetime, have met at least your fair share of ’em.”

“Too right.”

And then the first of the bathers came in from the Bitter Sea, and the attendant devils got busy with detergent and long-handled brushes, and there was no more opportunity for conversation.


After a good breakfast the tourists got back into the coaches. The first pallor of dawn was showing in the eastern sky, with the black plumed Great Smokies in silhouette against the yellow luminosity, when the vehicles lifted. To the south’ard the low clouds reflected the glare from the Erebus Alps and the Devil’s Torches. The wind had yet to rise, although the Bitter Sea was well enough in the lee of Satan’s Barrier to be shielded from the full fury of the westerlies.

Larwood and the other two pilots wasted no time. Was he in a hurry, wondered Grimes, because he wanted to report that odd deep space radio call to Clavering, or because he wanted to get back to Inferno Valley while the dawn lull lasted? But he must have called Clavering again last night, after he had got rid of Denise Dalgety. And Clavering was to lift off at sunset in Sally Ann on his charter voyage, so Larwood must have made sure of getting in touch with him as soon as possible.

The sun came up—and there, ahead, was the dark gash in the ochre desert that was Inferno Valley. From its eastern end white steam, from the Devil’s Stewpot, was lazily rising, curling in wreaths about the Devil’s Phallus. One thing about this world, thought Grimes, there’s no need to go the trouble and expense of putting up wind socks.

Larwood started to lose altitude as the coaches approached the western end of the valley, dropped below the lips of the canyon as soon as possible, skimmed over the placid waters of the Styx at reduced speed, almost brushing the upper branches of the ghost gums along its banks.

He grounded just in front of the main entrance to the Lucifer Arms, said into his public address microphone, “Well, that’s all, folks. Thank you for your company and cooperation.”

Williams looked at the back of Denise Dalgety’s blonde head and whispered,

“She and the Mate

“Would cooperate

“Upon the office table.”

“There’s probably a settee in there,” said Grimes, taking a malicious pleasure in seeing the girl’s ears redden.

“All ashore what’s going ashore!” said Larwood with spurious heartiness. “This is the end of the penny section!”

Clavering, Grimes noticed, was waiting just inside the hotel entrance. He looked impatient. Grimes could not see Larwood’s face, but the back of his neck looked impatient too. Slowly, clumsily, the tourists extricated themselves from the coach. Grimes and Williams politely held back to let Denise Dalgety out first. She said sweetly, “After you, Commodore,” but Larwood seemed anxious to be rid of her.

At last they were all out, standing in gossiping groups on the firm red sand. Larwood, his responsibilities at an end, went straight to Clavering. The two men exchanged a few brief words and then went into the hotel, brushing past Billinghurst, who was on his way out. Denise Dalgety walked swiftly towards the fat customs chief to make her report.

“Nobody loves us, Commander,” said Grimes sadly.

“Is it surprising, Skipper?” countered Williams.


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Framed