Gateway to Never (John Grimes) Page 6

  “Inferno Valley . . . isn’t that owned by a retired space captain?”

  “Yes. Captain Clavering. He came out to the Rim quite some years ago, owner/master of a ship called Sally Ann. She was—of all things!—an obsolescent Beta Class liner. Far too big and expensive in upkeep for a little, one-ship company. He’d been getting by somehow, just making ends meet, but when I met him he’d come to the end of the line. I was able to put a charter in his way; the Rim Worlds Universities were sending a scientific expedition to Eblis and we, Rim Runners, hadn’t any ships either handy or suitable.

  “So he went to Eblis. He and his wife, he told me later, quite fell in love with the valley in which the expedition set up its main camp. There are these quite fertile valleys all over the planet, actually, not too hot and the air quite breathable if you don’t mind the occasional whiff of brimstone. But what gave him the idea of a holiday resort was a remark that he’d heard somebody—it may have been me—make: ‘Anybody who comes out to the Rim to earn a living would go to hell for a pastime!’

  “That was his start. He had people living in tents at first, with quite primitive facilities. He used his own Sally Ann to carry holidaymakers from the Rim Worlds to this amusement park inferno. Then TG Clippers, when they started cruising, got into the act. Then the Waverley Royal Mail. Even the Dog Star Line. And Clavering never looked back.

  “His old Sally Ann is still there, I believe. He doesn’t use her himself—he’s too busy being a resort manager. And I don’t think he’s sufficiently sentimental to hang on to her for old time’s sake—it’s just that the market for secondhand ships of that size is a very limited one.”

  Grimes carefully filled and lit his pipe. When it was going he said, “I rather liked Clavering, and I’m pleased that he’s done so well. I only hope that he’s not mixed up in this dreamy weed business.”

  “I don’t see why he should be, Skipper. He must be coining money in his legitimate business.”

  “Nobody is so rich that he can’t use a few extra credits—especially when they’re tax free. Too, very few people from the Inner Worlds would consider the possession, use, or even peddling of a drug like dreamy weed a crime. I’m not at all sure that I do myself. It’s when the racketeers get mixed up in the trade that it’s bad. It’s when two young people get blown into messy tatters by the bastards they’re working for.”

  “And it’s when people make a religion out of what is, after all, just a pleasure,” said Williams, who had his puritanical moments.

  “If all religions had been like that,” Grimes told him, “they’d have done far less harm over the ages.”

  Williams was not convinced.

  Chapter 13

  WILLIAMS PILED ON THE LUMES all the way from Ultimo to Eblis. Grimes was in a hurry; he wanted to get there before Reneck’s principal was fully advised as to what had been happening at Port Last. Ditmar, of course, could not legally use her deep space radio while in port, so any Carlottigrams originated by her master would have to be handled by the Port Last G.P.O. And the Port Last post office telegraphists were on strike. Grimes did not know how much Billinghurst had to do with this, but suspected that it was plenty. The cause of the stoppage had been the quite justifiable dismissal of a shop steward for insolence. Who was Billinghurst’s undercover man—the shop steward or the overseer who had fired him? Perhaps they were both customs agents. Perhaps—but this was unlikely—the strike was coincidental.

  The more Grimes thought about it the more sure he became that Ebbs was the source of dreamy weed shipments to the other Rim Worlds. Inferno Valley was not a Rim Worlds’ port of entry, therefore there was no customs office on Eblis. In theory any ship bound for Eblis was supposed first to land on one of the worlds from which she could be entered inwards. Ditmar, for example, when she had first come out to the Rim had arrived at Port Edgell, on Thule, with a cargo of cheese from Elsinore. She had then loaded general cargo for Inferno Valley, and thereafter had shuttled between Eblis and the other Rim Worlds, mainly Ultimo, with regularity. As a foreign ship she had been liable to customs inspection every time in, but as she was not from a foreign port the inspection, until this last time, had been a mere formality. And as her contraband was always dropped before she entered the atmosphere even a rigorous going over, as on this last occasion, would have revealed nothing.

  Insofar as Eblis was concerned, you could land a battle fleet unobserved as long as it was well away from any of the widely spaced centres of population. There was Aero-Space Control, of a sort, but it had no radar and talked only when talked to.

  The dreamy weed was grown and processed on quite a few of the Inner Worlds, the Federated Planets. As far as the Federation was concerned anybody could smoke the stuff who wished. It was regarded as a rather superior marijuana, the use of which had been legalized, for centuries, on practically every planet of the Federation. If any world government, inside or outside the Federation, cared to make its use illegal it was up to that government to enforce its own laws. The Federation couldn’t care less, one way or the other, as long as it received whatever taxes and duties were due.

  Grimes had his plan of campaign, such as it was, mapped out. He would land at Inferno Valley. He would tell Clavering, who had been made, some time ago, planetary commissioner on Eblis, that he was conducting a survey prior to the possible establishment of a naval base on the Hell Planet. He would use Rim Malemute for his excursions—she was a handy little brute and suitable for work inside an atmosphere—or, if necessary, he would hire air or ground transport. If Clavering were among the smugglers he would be liable to betray himself; if he were not he would afford every possible assistance to Grimes. The owner of a pleasure resort would profit rather than otherwise by the presence of recreation-hungry naval officers and ratings.

  A subjective week after her lift-off from Port Last Rim Malemute was in orbit about Eblis. She circled the fiery world, her people gazing down in wonderment at the cloud envelope of black and brown and yellow smoke that, now and again, was riven by hurricane-force winds to uncover the fire-belching volcanoes on the surface. The night side was even more spectacular, in a frightening sort of way, than the day side. It seemed that life as we know it could not possibly survive in that caldron of incandescent gases.

  Williams asked wryly, “Sure we’ve come to the right place, Skipper?”

  “Quite sure, Commander Williams,” Grimes told him. “Call Aero-Space Control, will you?”

  “Rim Malemute to Aero-Space Control. Rim Malemute to Aero-Space Control. Do you read me? Over.”

  After the seventh call the Inferno Valley duty officer came through.

  “Eblis Aero-Space Control here. Vessel calling, say again your name, please. Over.”

  “Rim Malemute. Repeat, Rim Malemute. Over.”

  “Rim Malemute? Aren’t you the tug? Over.”

  Grimes took the microphone from Williams. “This is the Rim Worlds Naval Auxiliary Rim Malemute, requesting berthing instructions. Over.”

  “Have you been here before, Rim Malemute? The spaceport’s at the eastern end of Inferno Valley.” There was a long pause. “Latitude one three degrees, four five minutes north. Longitude oh, oh, oh degrees east or west. We reckon from the Inferno Valley meridian. The time here is 1149 hours, coming up for Mean Noon. Equation of Time zero as near as dammit. That any help to you? Over.”

  “Yes, thank you. Now, if you’ll switch your beacon on . . .”

  “Give me time, man, give me time. Nobody was expecting you. On now.”

  “Rim Malemute to Aero-Space Control. Beacon signal coming in. We are almost directly above you. Have you any further instructions for us? Over.”

  “Yes. Listen carefully. Berth Number One—that’s the pad furthest to the east—has Sally Ann. She’s our ship. Berth Number Three—that’s the one furthest to the west—has Trans-Galactic Clipper’s cruise liner Sobraon. You should be able to get into Berth Number Two. I suppose you are the tug and not some dirty great battle cruiser wit
h the same name? Over.”

  “Yes, we are the tug. Over.”

  “Watch the wind, Rim Malemute. In the Valley it is calm, but overhead we have west at seventy knots. Over.”

  “Thank you, Aero-Space Control. We are coming in. Over.”

  “We’re coming in,” repeated Williams. He cut the inertial drive and the little ship fell like a stone, applied vertical thrust to slow her descent only when her hull began to heat as she plunged into the outer atmosphere. He explained. “Have ter make it fast, Skipper. With all these bloody winds at umpteen knots we’ll be all over the place unless we get downstairs in a hurry.”

  “Mphm,” grunted Grimes, who had almost swallowed his pipe.

  They were into the first cloud layer now, rolling black vapor slashed by dazzling lightning flashes. They were through it, and dropping through a stratum of clear air—and through turbulence that shook the tug like a terrier shaking a rat. Below them a cloudscape of fantastic castles in black and brown and yellow rushed up to meet them. Williams had no eye for the scenery; he was watching his radar altimeter and the shifting blip of the beacon signal. The ship shuddered as he applied lateral thrust to compensate for the fast drift to leeward.

  They were under the cloud ceiling at last. Inferno Valley lay almost directly beneath them, a rift in the red rocks, a canyon, but one formed by geological upheaval than by erosion. To the north and to the south towered the volcanoes, classical cones, the smoke and steam from their craters streaming out almost horizontally. At the eastern end of the valley stood a great monolith, a fantastic needle of rock. The spaceport must be to the west of this formation.

  Lower dropped Rim Malemute and lower, with Williams fighting to keep her in position relative to her landing site, with his officers calling out instrument readings in voices that, for all their studied calmness, betrayed fear. The nearer of the volcanoes emitted a great burst of smoke and incandescent molten matter and the dull boom! was felt and heard through the insulated hull. A shift of wind blew the Malemute away from the valley, at right angles to the rift—and once again she shuddered and complained in every member as lateral thrust drove her back on to her planned line of descent.

  Then, quite suddenly, she was below the rim of the canyon. Below, deep, deep below, there was a silvery ribbon of water, the dark green of vegetation, the pastel colours of buildings. Below, looking from this altitude to be right alongside each other, were the metallic spires that were Sally Ann and Sobraon.

  But there was room enough, and in this windless valley maneuvering was easy. Neatly, with no fuss and bother at all, Williams dropped Rim Malemute between the other two ships, in the exact centre of the triangle of brilliant red lights that marked his berth.

  Chapter 14

  “AERO-SPACE CONTROL to Rim Malemute. Leave your inertial drive on Stand-By until your stays have been rigged and set up. Over.”

  “Stays?” asked Williams. “Stays?”

  “Yes,” Grimes told him. “Stays. Lengths of heavy wire rope, with bottle screws and springs. Necessary in case there’s an exceptionally heavy earth tremor.”

  “And I suppose if there is one, before I’ve been tethered down, I have to get upstairs in a hurry.”

  “That’s the drill.”

  Grimes, Williams, and Rim Malemute’s officers looked out through the control room viewports. A man had come on to the apron, dressed in white shirt and shorts that were like a uniform, although they were not. He was giving orders to a squad of about a dozen natives. These looked as though they should have been carrying the traditional pitchforks instead of spikes and spanners. In appearance they were more like kangaroos than dinosaurs—but scaled kangaroos, with almost human heads. Almost human—their goatlike horns and the gleaming yellow tusks protruding from their mouths made it quite obvious that they were not. They wore no clothing, and their reptilian hides ranged in colour from a brown that was almost black to a yellow that was almost white. Three of them climbed up the Malemute’s smooth sides, using the sucker pads on their hands and feet, carrying the ends of the wire cables after them with their prehensile tails. Swiftly, efficiently, they shackled these ends to conveniently situated towing lugs. Then they scampered down to join their mates on the ground. The stays were stretched, set up taut. From the transceiver came the voice of Aero-Space Control, “Rim Malemute, you may shut down your engines and leave your ship at your discretion.”

  Grimes had been using binoculars to study the face of the man who had directed mooring operations. “Yes,” he said at last. “That’s Clavering. He’s put on weight, lost that lean and hungry look, but he hasn’t changed much.”

  He led the way down from the control room, followed by Williams. He was first down the still extruding ramp. Clavering came to meet him, threw him a sort of half salute. “Welcome to Inferno Valley, sir,” he said not very enthusiastically. Then recognition dawned on his face. “Why, it’s Commodore Grimes!” Then, with an attractive grin, “I’d have expected you to be in command of something bigger than this!”

  “I’m not in command of Rim Malemute,” Grimes told him. “I’m just a passenger. This is Commander Williams, Captain Clavering, who had the dubious pleasure of bringing me here.”

  There was handshaking all round, then Clavering said, “Come to my office, and tell me what I can do for you.”

  Grimes and Williams looked about them curiously during their walk from the spaceport. It should have been gloomy in the deep ravine, with the murky yellow sky no more than a thin ribbon directly overhead, but it was not. The canyon walls—red, orange, banded with gold and silver—seemed to collect all the light that there was and to throw it back. Here and there on the sheer cliff faces vegetation had taken hold, static explosions of emerald green in which glowed sparks of blue and violet. Similar bushes grew from the firm, red sand that was the valley floor.

  Two natives passed them, bound on some errand. They waved to Clavering, grinning hideously. He waved back. He said, “You get used to their horrendous appearance. They’re good, cheerful workers. They like to be paid in kind rather than cash, in all the little luxuries that cannot be produced on this planet. Candy, they love. And they’ve acquired the taste for the more sickly varieties of lolly-water. Which reminds me—you are in from Port Last, aren’t you? Did you see anything there of Ditmar? She brings my supplies in, and takes back the chemicals produced at my plant on the Bitter Sea, not far from here.”

  “I’m afraid she’s going to be late,” said Grimes. “She ran into all sorts of trouble with the Department of Navigation. Safety equipment was in a shocking state.”

  “I’m not surprised, Commodore. But you can’t blame Captain Reneck entirely. His owners seem to be a bunch of cheeseparing bastards. Still, he might have let me know he was delayed.”

  “You can’t blame him for that, either,” said Grimes. “The post office boys on Ultimo are playing up.”

  “Oh. And I shall have a strike on my hands if I try to pay my devils in cash instead of kind. Still, if worst comes to the worst I shall be able to do a deal of some kind with Sobraon’s catering officer. Now, this is the Devil’s Stewpot that we’re coming to. Between ourselves the story that the waters have marvelous rejuvenating properties is just a story—but a good soak and a good sweat never did anybody any harm.”

  The heat from the huge, circular, natural pool was almost overpowering even though they passed several meters from its rim. The people in it were not engaged in any violent physical activities. They just lay there in the shallows, only their faces, the breasts of the women and the protuberant bellies of both sexes appearing above the steaming surface.

  “There are times,” said Clavering, “when I wish, most sincerely, that young people could afford to come on these TG cruises.”

  “That one’s not bad,” said Grimes, nodding towards a woman who had just emerged from the water and who was walking slowly towards the next pool.

  “Not bad at all,” agreed Clavering. “She’s old Silas Demarest’s secr
etary, quote and unquote. You know—Demarest, the boss cocky of Galactic Metals. Now, this next bath, the Purgatorial Plunge, is not natural. Quite a few of my . . . er . . . customers give it a miss after they’ve sweated all the sin out of themselves. But it’s amazing the extremes of cold that the human body can take after it’s been well and truly heated.”

  “Mphm.” Grimes watched with appreciation as the naked girl dived into the clear, blue-green, icy water and propelled herself to the other side with swift, smooth strokes.

  “And after the Purgatorial Pool you have the choice of swimming back to the Lucifer Arms—that’s my hotel—in the River Styx, or walking along its banks. Or, if you’re really keen, jogging along its banks. The temperature of the Styx is normal, by the way, what we refer to as pee-warm.”

  The girl, Grimes saw, was swimming back, which was rather a pity, especially as she was a fast swimmer.

  “Just around this bend you’ll see the Lucifer Arms and the other buildings. Or ‘inflations.’ I had an architect staying here who tried to convince me that ‘inflation’ was a more correct word. This is earthquake country—this is an earthquake planet—and any normal construction wouldn’t last long.”

  And there, on the north bank of the Styx, was the Lucifer Arms. Imagine an igloo. Color it. Put another one beside it and color that, being careful to avoid a clash. Put another one beside the first two. Put one on top of the triangular base. And so on, and so on, and so on . . .