Gateway to Never (John Grimes) Read online

  Grimes looked at his watch. An hour to wait. Probably the receivers would not be here until just before the drop was due—assuming, of course, that this was the drop site.

  He hoped that the benches in the stand would be padded.

  They were—but the padding had long since lost any softness it had ever possessed.

  Chapter 10

  IT WAS A LONG WAIT, in the cold and the dark, while the little moon, now past the meridian, slowly slipped down the starless sky. The policemen—and, to an only slightly lesser degree, Billinghurst and Pahvani—were used to vigils beside yet-to-be-sprung traps; Grimes was not. He wanted to be doing something. Finding that the lieutenant had a pass key that fitted the lock of the toilets under the stand he borrowed it, although what he really wanted was a smoke. His battered, stinking pipe was very comforting after he got it going and he was in no hurry to rejoin his comrades. Then, looking at his watch, he decided that he had better. The time was 0155 hours.

  As soon as he was back outside he heard the noise. Something was approaching from the direction of the city, something in the sky. The irregular stuttering of a small inertial drive unit was unmistakable. He looked up, in the direction from which the sound was coming, but saw nothing. But it was not likely that the smugglers’ aircraft would be showing running lights.

  It was visible at last, but only when it dropped to a landing in the centre of the ellipsoid formed by the track. It just sat there, but nobody came out of it. Its crew was waiting, just as the police were waiting.

  Grimes looked at his watch again. 0201 . . . 0202 . . .

  “Here it comes!” whispered the lieutenant.

  Here it came.

  At first it was no more than a barely audible, irritable muttering drifting down from the zenith. It became louder, but not much louder. The machine that finally dropped into sight was no more than a toy, no more than a model of a ship’s boat. It might have accommodated the infant child of midget parents who had bred true, but nobody larger. But it could carry quite a few kilos of dreamy weed.

  The police had their stunguns ready, trained on the smugglers’ aircraft and on the robot, which were covered from three points—from the Owners’ Stand, from the Saddling Paddock, from the Totalizator. The lieutenant had stationed his men well; whoever had come to pick up the consignment would be inside the effective range of the weapons, but each police party would be just outside the range of the guns of the others.

  Somebody was coming out of the aircraft at last, walking slowly and cautiously towards the grounded robot spaceboat, hunkering down on the grass beside the thing.

  “Fire,” said the lieutenant in a conversational tone of voice, speaking into his wrist transceiver.

  The air was alive with the vicious buzzing of the stunguns. The smuggler was frozen in his squatting posture, paralyzed, unable to stir so much as a finger. But the robot moved. Its drive unit hammered shockingly and unrhythmically and it shot straight upwards. Beams from hastily switched on police searchlights swept the sky like the antennae of disturbed insects—then caught it, held it, a tiny bright star in a firmament that had never known any stars. At least four machine rifles were hammering, and an incandescent tracer arched upwards with deceptive slowness. The lieutenant had drawn his laser pistol and the purple beam slashed across the darkness, power wasting and desperate. Some hapless night-flying creature caught by the sword of lethal light exploded smokily.

  It might have been the machine rifles that found their mark, it might have been the laser pistol. Nobody ever knew. But the broken beat of the inertial drive ceased abruptly and the robot was falling, faster and faster, still held in the searchlight beams. It hit the ground almost exactly at the point of its initial landing.

  It hit the ground—and, “Down!” shouted somebody. “Get down!”

  It hit the ground, and where it struck an instantaneous flower of intolerable flame burgeoned, followed by a crack! that sounded as though the very planet were being split in two. The blast hit the grandstand, which went over like a capsizing windjammer—but, freakishly, the structure remained intact. Had it not done so there would have been serious injuries, at least to those upon it. Dazed, deafened, Grimes struggled to his feet, crept cautiously along the back of the bench upon which he had been sitting. Lights were flashing as men helped each other from the wreckage.

  Billinghurst got clear of the stand before Grimes. He had found a torch and was running clumsily across the grass to the still smoking crater. The commodore followed him. He gagged as the customs officer’s light fell on the tangle of broken limbs and spilled entrails that had been the smuggler who had come out from the air car. The head was missing. After a cursory glance Billinghurst ignored the dead man, carried on to the wrecked vehicle, which had been blown on to its side. He shone his light in through the open door. The girl inside appeared to be uninjured, but she was very still. A strand of hair glowed greenly across her white face. Her hair? Grimes could see the beam of the torch reflected from her shaven, polished scalp. The fat man stooped, lifted the hank of green fibre, twisted it between his thick fingers, sniffed it.

  “Dreamy weed,” he said flatly. Then, “The poor little bitch got what she came for. It’s the very last thing that she did get.” He shifted the beam of his torch and Grimes saw that the girl’s body, below the waist, was no more than a crimson pulp.

  The commodore looked away hastily, up to the empty blackness of the sky. Somewhere up there was a ship. Somewhere up there was somebody who had killed, ruthlessly, to destroy all evidence that could be used to stop his profitable racket.

  “Losing your neutrality, Commodore Grimes?” asked Billinghurst.

  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.”

  Chapter 12

  THE ODD GODS OF THE GALAXY did not have their peace disturbed. Ditmar was a clean ship—clean, that is, from a custom officer’s viewpoint, although not necessarily from that of a spaceman. She was far scruffier than the generality of tramps. Painted surfaces were not only crying out for a fresh coat of paint but for the washing of what had been applied sometime in the distant past. The ghosts of every meal that had been cooked in her galley since her maiden voyage still haunted her accommodation; the dirt of unnumbered worlds was trodden into her deck coverings.

  But she was clean. There was not even any pornography in her officers’ cabins. Nobody had a drop of liquor or a fraction of an ounce of tobacco over and above the permitted duty-free allowance. Her papers were in impeccable order. She was so clean, in fact, as to invite suspicion.

  From the viewpoint of the authorities it was unfortunate that she was of Tanagerine registry. Had she been under any other flag it would have been possible to clap some of her personnel into jail on some trumped-up charge or another. A fight in a bar, started by a provocateur . . . The imprisonment of all participants and, if necessary, innocent bystanders. The administration of “blabberjuice” in food or water . . . Oh, it could have been done, but little, otherwise unimportant Tanager was a pet of the United Planets Organization. Billinghurst and the Port Last chief of police would have liked to have done it regardless, but orders were given to them to handle Ditmar with kid gloves before they could give orders of their own to their undercover agents.

  Bugs, of course, were planted in the places of entertainment and refreshment frequented by Ditmar’s crew. They picked up nothing of interest. The Tanagerines seemed to be enthusiastic amateur meteorologists to a man and discussed practically nothing except the weather. Bugs were planted aboard the ship herself—a customs searcher, of course, knows all the good hiding places aboard a vessel. The only sound that they recorded was a continuous, monotonous whirrup, whirrup, whirrup.

  All that could be done was to delay the ship’s departure on her return voyage to Eblis. At Grimes’ suggestion the Port Last Department of Navigation surveyor checked up on Ditmar�
�s life-saving equipment. One of her lifeboats was not airtight, and was condemned, and the stores in one of the others were long overdue for renewal. The faulty boat could have been repaired, of course, but the surveyor’s word was law. And, oddly enough, lifeboat stores were practically unprocurable at Port Last and would have to be shipped from Port Forlorn. So it went on. The master of a merchant vessel is peculiarly helpless when the authorities of any port take a dislike to him.

  Meanwhile, Rim Malemute, her armament fitted, was almost ready for space. Grimes was taking her to Eblis. Officially he was visiting that world to inspect port facilities, as the Rim Worlds Navy was thinking of opening a base there. Billinghurst wanted to come with him, saying that he wished to make arrangements for the setting up of a customs office at Inferno Valley. Grimes told him that this would look too suspicious, both of them leaving Port Last in the same ship. This was true, of course, but the real reason for the commodore’s refusal to cooperate was that he did not wish to share the cramped quarters aboard the little Malemute with a man of Billinghurst’s bulk. Alternative transport was available, although not at once. TG Clippers’ cruise liner, Macedon, was due shortly at Port Last, and Inferno Valley was her next port of call.

  “Eblis,” said Billy Williams, when he and Grimes were discussing matters prior to departure. “I’ve never been there, Skipper. What’s it like?”

  “Its name suits it, Commander Williams, very well indeed. It’s mainly red desert, with rocks eroded by wind and sand into all sorts of fantastic shapes. It has volcanoes—big ones and little ones—like other worlds have trees. The atmosphere is practically straight sulphur dioxide. The inhabitants look like the demons of Terran mythology—horns and tails and all—but they’re quite harmless, actually. Earth tremors are more common than showers of rain on normal worlds. The odd part about it is that as long as you keep away from the really dangerous areas you’re as safe there as you are anywhere in the Galaxy. The planet is like a huge amusement park with all sorts of hair-raising rides; you get the illusion of risk with no real risk at all. That’s why it’s such a popular holiday resort.”