Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (90 page)

The Lord of the Roost squawked derisively, “He is a cock, and he has a hen officer!”

“She is only a very junior officer, Mightiness.”

“She may remain, but she will keep silent.” The glaring, yellow eyes turned to Grimes. “I am told that you have an offer to make to me, Commodore. Speak.”

“Your Winged Mightiness,” Grimes began. He tried to think of what to say next. He had assumed that Lord Delamere would be doing the haggling, would already have done the haggling. “I have come,” he went on, “to offer my services, the services of myself and my ships. I have learned that Kalla is threatened by the Hegemony. Your own fleet, gallant though it is, will be fully employed protecting your world.” He paused for thought. “Warfare is more than actions between opposing fleets of warships. There is economic warfare . . .”

“Are you a spaceman or a banker?” demanded the great bird.

“I am a spaceman, Mightiness. Perhaps my words were ill chosen. By economic warfare I mean the destruction of the enemy’s commerce . . .”

“Which you will do for your profit.” The Lord of the Roost emitted a discordant sound that could have been a laugh. “But do not bother me any more with your talk, Commodore. You are a spaceman, not a salesman. I have seen you now, as well as having heard many reports about you. The Lord Delamere has already made the deal on your behalf. You will harry Hallicheki shipping, for the benefit of the El Dorado Corporation and, of course, for your own benefit. The Letters of Marque have been drawn up. You will be fighting for money, whereas our ships will be fighting for Kalla’s freedom from the harsh rule of the Hegemony. Korndah will give you your precious papers, then you may go.”

One of the lesser birds hopped down from his perch, scuttled to a very prosaic looking filing cabinet that was standing beside the recording apparatus, opened a drawer, used his beak to withdraw a bundle of documents. He hopped/shuffled to Grimes, dropped the papers into the commodore’s hands. Grimes removed the elastic band securing them. He tried to read what was on the top one but in the dim light it was impossible.

“Do not worry, Commodore,” squawked the Lord of the Roost. “All is in order. You can read the authority that I have given you at your leisure. Now you may go, back to your ships, and commence operations as soon as possible.”

“Your Mightiness,” said Grimes, “there is one favor that I wish to ask of you.”

“Speak.”

“I request permission for the fleet to land and to replenish certain items of consumable stores.”

“The permission is not granted. You can replenish your storerooms from those of your victims.”

“But I also want to top up the water tanks. On leaving El Dorado I ordered an exercise in the use of reaction drive. As a result of that our stocks of reaction mass have been reduced.”

“I am not a spacebeing, Commodore.” The Lord of the Roost gabbled briefly in his own language to one of his aides, received a raucous reply. Then, “Very well. I am told that in warfare the rocket drive, the reaction drive, might be employed. Your fleet may come in to the spaceport at first light tomorrow morning, and will depart as soon as the tanks have been topped up.”

“Thank you, Mightiness,” said Grimes.

“Oh, one more thing, Commodore. Do not trust hens.”

The audience was over.

At the end of the corridor they found that the towing team had again been harnessed to the balloon car, were hanging on to projections on the tower, the lines slack. Delamere was first into the basket and began to dump ballast. During the time that they had spent with the Lord of the Roost, Grimes realized, more bags of sand had been loaded and gas replenished. The Countess was next aboard. She and her compatriot obviously did not love each other and were avoiding physical contact. Mayhew was next, and then Grimes, the precious Letters of Marque tucked into his shirt, made the short but perilous passage.

The balloon was cast off from the mooring spar and the towing team beat their wings clatteringly, then pulled the clumsy aircraft out and away from the tower. The flying escort took up their stations. On the return trip Grimes did not admire the scenery but looked through the documents. There was one set of papers for each ship. That issued to
Sister Sue
authorized her to make war upon all enemies of the Independent Nest of Kalla, wherever found. It stated, too, that one Commodore Grimes, while master of this vessel, was fully responsible for the conduct of
Pride of Erin
,
Spaceways Princess
and
Agatha’s Ark
. The signature was a jagged scrawl written with some brownish medium.
Blood?
wondered Grimes. There was an ornate gold seal, bearing the likeness of a rapacious bird with outstretched wings, its taloned feet gripping a planetary orb. The other Letters of Marque were in duplicate—one copy for each captain, the other for the commodore. In each of them it was stated that overall responsibility for the operation rested with Grimes.

So,
he thought wryly,
whoever carries the can back it’s going to be me. He who sups with Drongo Kane needs a long spoon. So does he who sups with Commodore—correction!—Rear Admiral Damien . . .

The balloon sagged down toward the spaceport mooring masts. Lord Delamere valved gas. He miscalculated and had to compensate by dumping a small bag of ballast.

Grimes was amused and thought,
He’s no more perfect than his cousins umpteen times removed . . .

Mooring procedure was carried out quite efficiently. The humans clambered down the light ladder to the ground.

Delamere said, dismissively, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Commodore.”

Grimes led the way to the waiting boat. Inboard, he took the pilot’s seat. The Countess glared at him but went aft to sit with Mayhew. Grimes, starting the inertial drive, lifted with deliberately exaggerated caution. He heard the girl mutter something about Survey Service throw-outs with only two speeds, Dead Slow and Stop. His prominent ears reddened but he maintained his sedate ascent.

Chapter 44

“WELL, MR. MAYHEW?”
asked Grimes.

“To begin with, sir, the Lord of the Roost is not human . . .”

“A blinding glimpse of the obvious. I’m not a telepath but even I could see that.”

Mayhew flushed. “Let me finish, sir. I meant that his thought processes are not human. He would be incapable of being devious. He despises you for fighting for profit but realizes that you will be useful to him in the struggle for Kallan freedom.”

“The free rooster in the free barnyard,” said Grimes. “I don’t think that our two liberated ladies would approve of such freedom.”

“With the Hallicheki,” said Mayhew, “it’s a clear choice. Either the cocks or the hens must rule and roost. The cocks are the more intelligent, the more honest. The hens have mean, petty minds. And didn’t the ones who were towing us
hate
us! All the time they were thinking of tearing the flesh from our bones with their sharp beaks. Oh, we’re on the right side, sir. No doubt of that.”

“And Delamere?”

“I think that what you were thinking about him was quite correct.”

“Talking of Delamere, I suppose that his distant relative is still in the Survey Service.”

“Very much so. He’s a four-ring captain now, and loved by everybody.”

The telephone buzzed.

“Commodore here,” said Grimes.

Williams’ face formed in the little screen and he said, “The boat’s back and inboard, sir. Wally’s finished her mail run. The way she’s carrying on it must be beneath her dignity to act as postwoman.”

“My nose fair bleeds for her. Tell Mr. Stewart to arrange NST hook-up between all ships. I’ll give the captains time to read their Letters of Marque, then I’ll be up to control to give them a pep talk.”

Chapter 45

ONE BY ONE,
at thirty-minute intervals, the four ships dropped down to the spaceport. By the time that
Agatha’s Ark
was landed the hoses connected to
Sister Sue’s
intake valves were already throbbing as tons of reaction mass—water—were being pumped into her tanks and teams of dingy, sullen hens, bullied into activity by strutting male birds, were connecting the pipes to
Pride of Erin
and
Spaceways Princess
.

There was, of course, no planet leave for the privateer crews. Those officers who had come ashore to supervise the work about their ships would not stray from the spaceport. They were all too conscious of the smoldering hate with which the workhens regarded them, of the haughty disdain for mere mammals evinced by the arrogant cocks.

Grimes stood at the foot of
Sister Sue’s
ramp to await Lord Delamere. Mayhew was with him. They were approached by a stocky, dark-featured man wearing master’s uniform with the badge of the Interstellar Transport Commission on his cap.

This person made a sketchy salute. Grimes replied.

“Good morning, Captain,” said the ITC master.

“Good morning, Captain,” replied Grimes.

“Jones is the name, Captain. Of
Cross Eppie
.” He waved his hand toward one of the two Epsilon Class tramps. “Or
Epsilon Crucis
, if you want to be formal.”

“Grimes,” said Grimes, introducing himself.

“Of
Sister Sue,
” said Jones unnecessarily. Then, “What is this? An invasion? Four ex-Epsilon Class tramps, all armed to the teeth . . . We’ve been half expecting a couple or three Hegemony cruisers to come roaring in, but . . . And you must be on
their
side . . . The Kallan rebels, I mean.”

“Mphm,” grunted Grimes, filling his pipe.

“Why all the lethal ironmongery, Captain?” persisted Jones.

“Defensive armament,” muttered Grimes through a cloud of acrid smoke.

“Are you blockade runners, then? And have you any idea of the sort of punch packed by one of the Hegemony’s cruisers? Those vicious hens’d chew you up and shit you out in five seconds flat.”

“Thank you for the information,” said Grimes coldly.

“I’m just trying to be helpful, Captain. I
know
these people. I’ve been running to the various Hallicheki planets for the last twenty years. I think that the commission’s very foolish to be maintaining trading relations with Kalla.”

“So you’re a blockade runner too, Captain Jones. And, like me, you just go where you’re sent.”

Jones would have made a reply, a heated one possibly, but there was a clattering noise from overhead. The men looked up. Dropping down from the murky sky was a helicopter, a small one, little more than a basket dangling beneath rotors. It landed. Delamere stepped out of the flimsy-looking cab. Grimes saluted him—not the sort of salute that he would have given to an admiral or to a pretty girl but a curt greeting to an equal. The El Doradan nodded in reply.

“Excuse me, Captain Jones,” said Grimes. “I have matters to discuss with my agent.”

Followed by Mayhew he walked toward the little aircraft.

“I have arranged for you to see the ex-Minister of Star Shipping,” said Delamere. “She will be able to give you information about the Hallicheki trade routes.”

“That will be useful,” said Grimes. “Do you have transport laid on?”

“Not necessary, Commodore. The . . . prison is only a short walk from here.”

***

The prison—or that part of it in which the ex-Minister was confined—was no more than a hovel, a dingy
kraal
. In it a filthy, more-dead-then-alive hen was chained by one leg to the central pole, was squatting in her own filth. Her skin was scabbed where feathers had been plucked out and the dun plumage around these patches was darkly matted. Where one eye had been was a still oozing wound.

There were two cockbirds in the malodorous hut. Guards? Interrogators? Delamere—who must have been an accomplished linguist—addressed one of the gaudy beings in the Hallicheki language. It sounded like a comedian imitating a parrot. There was a squawking reply from one of the avians.

“She will not talk,” said Delamere to Grimes. “But do not worry. There are . . . methods.”

There was a cacophony of squawks from the larger and gaudier Kallan, answered only by the female’s sullen silence. There was a tearing out of a beakful of feathers from the hen’s breast—which elicited an agonized screech. There was a vicious beak poised menacingly over the remaining eye—and a low, gobbling sound from the prisoner which Grimes did not need to be told was supplication.

The ex-Minister talked. When she faltered she lost yet more plumage. That of newly shed blood was added to the other stinks in the hut. But she talked and Delamere translated. Mayhew recorded the interrogation.

At last, to Grimes’ great relief, it was over. He, with Delamere and Mayhew, left the hut. The air outside was warm, humid, heavy and, compared to the atmosphere inside a well managed starship, almost unbearably stuffy. Compared to that inside the hut it was like champagne after pond water.

“Happy now, Commodore Grimes?” asked Delamere.

“I’m not, My Lord. I thought that I should be fighting on the right side; now I’m not so sure. Was that cruelty necessary? There are other ways—drugs and the like—to get beings to talk.”

“The Hallicheki, male or female, are a cruel race, Grimes.”

“I still don’t have to like them.”

“As long as you do what your Letters of Marque entitle you to do, likes and dislikes don’t come into it.”

“I suppose not.”

As they approached
Sister Sue
Grimes saw that the water hoses had been withdrawn and were being reeled in. They were still connected to the other three ships. He saw, too, that officers from the two ITC tramps were talking with people from the privateers, looking up at the armament as they did so. It didn’t matter. Only one person knew what trajectory the fleet would follow once it was clear of the Kallan atmosphere—and that one person was Grimes. (And, he realized, Mayhew—but he and the telepath were working for the same boss.)

“Good luck, Commodore, and good hunting,” said Delamere.

The two shook hands briefly, without much enthusiasm on either side. The El Doradan clambered into his helicopter and clattered skyward.

“Well, Mr. Mayhew?” asked Grimes when they were back on board and sitting in the commodore’s day cabin.