Gateway to Never (John Grimes) Page 7

  Dome upon dome upon dome, and every one a bubble of tough, stiffened plastic, its double skin filled with pressurized gas. It was as though some giant had emptied tons of detergent into the sluggishly flowing river and then stirred it violently so that the iridescent froth was flung up on to the bank. The edifice should have been an architectural nightmare—but, fantastically, it was not. Those soft-hued demispheres should have been in violent contrast to the harsh, red, towering walls of rock on either side of the rift valley—but in some weird way they matched the awe-inspiring scenery, enhanced it, even as did the ghost gums that Clavering had planted along the banks of the river, raised from saplings brought all the way from distant Earth. (But the management of TG Clippers, of course, had probably charged only nominal freight on them.)

  The ex-captain led the way to the hotel’s main entrance, through the force screen into the air-conditioned interior. It was only then that Grimes realized how sulphurous the hot air outside had been. It was a matter of contrasts. After the atmosphere of Rim Malemute, far too small a ship for any sort of voyage, even the natural air of Eblis had smelled and tasted good.

  Clavering took Grimes and Williams to his office, itself a dome within the assemblage of domes. The three men seated themselves in very comfortable chairs that, too, were inflated plastic. A grinning devil, his scales highly polished, came to take their orders for drinks. Save for a tendency to hiss his sibilants his Galactic-English was very good.

  Clavering sat back in his chair, which molded itself to the contours of his body. Save for his almost white hair he had aged very little since Grimes had seen him last—how many years ago? He was as smooth and as smug as a well-fed cat—in that, he had changed.

  After the native had brought the tray of drinks, in tall glasses misted with condensation, he asked, “And now, Commodore Grimes, just what can I do for you?

  Chapter 15

  “I THOUGHT YOU KNEW,” said Grimes innocently.

  “How the hell could I know?” countered Clavering. “I’m not a telepath.”

  “Didn’t you get the letter, Captain?”

  “What letter?”

  “From the Admiralty.”

  “No. Was there supposed to be one?”

  “Yes. I was shown a copy. But the mail services are getting worse than ever these days. The original will probably be in the mail brought by Ditmar, when she finally lifts off Ultimo.”

  “And just what is this famous letter about?”

  “The base.”

  “What base?”

  “Sorry, I was forgetting that you don’t know. I’ll put you in the picture. The Space Lords of the Confederacy, with a surplus of the taxpayers’ money to play with, have decided that it might be a good idea to establish a naval base on Eblis.”

  “What in the Universe for? It would have no strategic value whatsoever.”

  “Just what I tried to tell them, Captain Clavering. But ours not to reason why, and all the rest of it.”

  “I suppose not.” Then, “I’m glad to see you again after all these years, Commodore Grimes, but you might have let me know that you were coming. An ETA would have been useful. As it was, you just appeared out of nowhere and, between ourselves, young Lingard who’s supposed to be in charge of Aero-Space Control isn’t the brightest. He should have told you to stay in orbit until sunset or dawn, when there’s always an hour or so of flat calm. He should have asked you if you wanted a pilot in. I do the piloting, as a matter of fact. I go up in one of Sally Ann’s boats and board outside the atmosphere.”

  “Keeping your hand in . . .”

  “Yes.” Then Clavering returned to his original complaint. “I know that the Navy always does as it damn well pleases, but an ETA would have been useful.”

  “You’d have got one,” lied Grimes, with a warning glance at Williams, “if the Carlotti gear hadn’t gone on the blink. I’m afraid that the poor little Malemute’s showing her age. If it’s not one thing broken down, it’s something else.” Then, as a SOP to Rim Malemute’s skipper, “Of course, she’s very hardworking.”

  “But this base, Commodore,” said Clavering. “The idea’s crazy. Eblis is absolutely unsuitable. There’s a shortage of suitable landing sites, and the climate is quite impossible, and . . .”

  “You made out all right, Captain.” Grimes smiled. “And look at the trade that you’d be doing, as owner of the only recreational facilities on the planet.”

  “And look at the headaches I’d be getting! The natives spoiled by the big money, or its equivalent, splashed around by a spendthrift government. Brawls in my bars . . .”

  “Come, come. I’ll not say that our officers and ratings are fit and proper personnel for a Sunday school treat—but they are quite well behaved.”

  “They may be, Commodore, but are the tourists? I can just imagine it. Mr. Silas Q. Moneybags is staying here with his latest blonde secretary. A handsome young lieutenant, all prettied up in his go-ashore uniform, does a line with the blonde. Mr. Moneybags, after a drink or three too many, takes a swing at the lieutenant. Oh, no, Commodore. That sort of carry on is not for me if I can possibly avoid it.”

  “Mphm. I see your point, Captain. But I was sent here to make a survey, and a survey I have to make. To begin with, I suppose you have Eblis pretty well charted?”

  “Of course. I was a navigator before I became a hotel manager. Suppose you and Commander Williams come with me to my map room.”

  “Thank you,” said Grimes.

  Chapter 16

  THE MAP ROOM was in another of the plastic bubbles. It contained a mounted globe, a huge table upon which flat charts could be spread, a projector, and a wall screen.

  Clavering went first to the sphere, sent it spinning with a touch of a finger, slowed its rotation with another touch, stopped it. “Here,” he said, “is Inferno Valley. A typical rift formation, as you will already have realized. To the north we have the Great Smokies, and to the south the Erebus Alps. North of the Smokies you find the Painted Badlands—and the sandstorms there can strip even one of my armor-plated devils to bare bones in minutes. South of the Alps there’s mountain range after mountain range—the Devil’s Torches, the Infernal Beacons, the Lucifers. . . .” He rotated the globe twenty degrees. “To the west of Inferno Valley there’s the Bitter Sea. Our chemical extraction plant is there. Even if the tourist trade died on us—and it shows no signs of ever doing so—we’d get by. And to the north we still have the Smokies, and to the south the Torches, the Beacons and the Lucifers.” The globe rotated again. “And here there’s a quite remarkable formation, stretching practically from pole to pole. The Satan’s Barrier Range. Worth visiting just to see the fantastic rock formations, such as the Valley of the Winds and the Devil’s Organ Pipes. When conditions are right you’d swear that some supernatural being was playing a gigantic organ—a little light music for Walpurgis Nacht.

  “West of the Barrier there’re the Fire Forests and the Burning Pits. The Fire Forests are . . . clumps of young, new volcanoes, and their number grows every year. The Burning Pits are just what their name implies. Further west still, and we begin to pick up the foothills of the east-west ranges—the Great Smokies, the Torches and all the rest of them. There are, of course, valleys like this one, but smaller. There’s nothing that could accommodate a base, with its barracks and workshops and repair yards.”

  “Mphm. Quite a world you have here, Captain Clavering. I suppose you run tours from Inferno Valley for your customers?”

  “Yes. Unluckily the Organ Pipes Tour was a couple of days ago, and my air cars are now undergoing maintenance. You will appreciate that the abrasive winds make this essential after every outing. I’ll not be running another tour until Macedon comes in. Sobraon, of course, lifts off first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Taking her out?”

  “Yes. Her master’s newly appointed and would like to see the Eblis pilotage both ways, arrival and departure, before he makes a stab at it himself. And now you really must
excuse me. There’s always something to be done around a place like this. But you’ll have dinner with us tonight, of course. Sally will be wanting to see you again. You too, of course, Commander Williams, are invited.” He paused. “Come to that, why don’t you and all Rim Malemute’s people stay at the Lucifer Arms? I’ve plenty of accommodation.”

  “And I’m entitled to reasonable expenses,” said Grimes.

  Clavering laughed. “I should have made it clear that I want you as nonpaying guests. But I’m not averse to taking the government’s money.”

  “And I’m not averse,” said Grimes, “to having some small percentage of what I pay in income tax and customs duty spent of my comfort.”

  And had a flicker of apprehension showed on Clavering’s face when Grimes used the words “customs duty”?

  Damn it all! thought the Commodore. I’m neither a policeman nor a customs officer.

  Then he remembered young Pleshoff, whose career had been ruined, and Peter Fellini and Inga Telfer, who were dead.

  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?”