First Command (23 page)

The natives came to a halt by
Southerly Buster’s
ramp. The men stood aside to let two of the women, the two who carried no weapons, advance slowly to where Drongo Kane was standing by his table of trade goods. These two women were a little taller, a little larger than their companions, but no less graceful. They wore an air of maturity, but they were no less beautiful. They were talking to Kane and he seemed to be having no trouble understanding them, and they seemed to be having no trouble in understanding him.

“Here they come, sir,” said Philby.
“Our
lot.”

Grimes lowered the glasses, turned to face the visitors. This was a smaller party, only six people. Once again there was an equal division of the sexes.

Their leader, flanked by a spearman on either side of her, advanced slowly to where Grimes, with Maggie Lazenby beside him, was standing. Grimes saluted with a flourish—and a part of his mind stood back and laughed wryly at his according this courtesy to a naked savage. But a savage she was not. Savages tend to be dirty, unkempt; she was fastidiously clean. Her short hair was snowy, gleaming white, her lustrous skin was brown, the lips of her generous mouth a red that seemed natural rather than the result of applied cosmetics. The overall effect was definitely erotic. Grimes heard one of the Marines whistle, heard another whisper, “Buy that one for me, Daddy . . . .” He could not blame either of them—but felt definitely censorious when Maggie murmured, “And you can buy either—or both—of her boyfriends for me . . . .”

The two men were tall. Both were golden skinned; one had orange-colored hair, the other was black-haired. Of their essential maleness there was no doubt. Each, however, was built more on the lines of an Apollo than a Hercules, and each moved with a fluid grace as pronounced as that with which the woman walked.

To her, not at all reluctantly, Grimes returned his attention. He knew that the slow inspection that he was making was not mannerly, but he could not help himself. He told himself that it was his duty, as captain of a survey ship, to make such an inspection. Her eyes, he saw, were a peculiar greenish-yellow, and the tips of her ears were pointed. Her cheekbones were prominent, more so than the firm chin. His regard shifted slowly downward. Beneath each full but firm breast there was a rudimentary nipple. But she was human, human—even though the bare feet, which should have been long and slender, were oddly chubby.

She was human when she spoke. She said, “Welcome to Morrowvia.” The accent was strange (of course) and the timbre of her voice held a quality that was hard to define.

“Thank you,” replied Grimes. Then, “And whom do I have the honor of addressing?” The words, he realized as soon as he gave them utterance, were too formal, too far removed from everyday speech. But she understood them. Evidently the vocabulary had not become impoverished during the long years between first settlement and rediscovery.

She said simply, “My name is Maya. I am the queen.”

So I’m saved the trouble of saying, “Take me to your leader,”
Grimes thought smugly.
Drongo must be doing
his
dickering with some very minor court official . . . .
He asked suavely, “And what is the name of your country, Your Majesty? Is it, too, called Morrowvia?”

Puzzle lines creased her rather broad face. And then she smiled. Her teeth were very white and looked sharp, the teeth of a carnivore rather than of an omnivore. She said, “You do not understand. The captain of the ship called
Corgi
made the same mistake when he landed at Melbourne, many kilometers from here. I have been told that he called the Queen of Melbourne ‘Your Majesty.’ He explained, later, that this is a title given to queens on your world, or worlds . . . .” She added modestly, yet not without a touch of pride, “I am the elected Queen of Cambridge, the town to the south of where you have landed.”

“Melbourne . . .” echoed Grimes.”Cambridge . . .” But it made sense. Homesick colonists have always perpetuated the names of their home towns.

“He—
Morrow—left us a book, a big book, in which he had written all the names that we are to use for our towns . . . .” Maya went on.

Yes, it made sense all right. It was all too probable that the people of a Lost Colony would deviate from the human norm—but if they still spoke a recognizable major Earth language, and if their centers of population were named after Earth cities, whoever rediscovered them would have no doubt as to their essential humanity.

“Then what shall I call you,” asked Grimes, “if ‘Your Majesty’ is not correct?”

“Maya,” she told him. “And I shall call you . . .

“Commander Grimes,” he said firmly. It was not that he would at all object to being on given name terms with this rather gorgeous creature—but not in front of his subordinates.”Have you a second name, Maya?” he asked.

“Yes, Commander Grimes. It is Smith.”

Maya Smith,
thought Grimes, a little wildly.
Maya Smith, the Queen of Cambridge . . . And not a rag to cover her, not even any Crown Jewels
. . .
And escorted by henchmen and henchwomen armed to the teeth with spears and bows and arrows . . .

Spears and bows and arrows . . . they could be just as lethal as more sophisticated weaponry. Grimes looked away hastily from the Queen of Cambridge to her people, saw, with relief, that there was no immediate cause for worry. The Morrowvians were not using the time-honored technique of enthusiastic fraternization, of close, ostensibly friendly contact that would make the snatching of guns from their owners’ hands all too easy when the time came. There was a certain stand-offishness about them, in fact, an avoidance of too close physical proximity. Some of the Marines, to judge by the way that they were looking at the native women, would have wished it otherwise—but Philby and his sergeant were keeping a watchful eye both on their men and on the visitors.

Grimes felt free to continue his conversation with Maya. He gestured toward
Southerly Buster,
where the people from the other village were still clustered about Kane and his officers.”And your friend . . . what is she called?”

“She
is no friend of mine. That
cat!”

“But who is she?”

“Her name is Sabrina. She is the Queen of Oxford.” The woman turned away from Grimes, stared toward Kane’s vessel and the activity around her boarding ramp. She said, in a rather hurt voice, “The other ship has brought gifts for the people. Did you bring no gifts?”

“Mphm,” Grimes grunted. He thought,
There must be something in my storerooms that she’d fancy . . . .
He said, “We did not know what you would like. Perhaps you would care to come on board, to take refreshments with us. Then we shall be able to discuss matters.”

Maggie Lazenby snorted delicately.

“Thank you, Commander Grimes,” said Maya Smith. “And my people?”

“They may come aboard too. But I must request that they leave their weapons outside.”

She looked at him in some amazement. “But we never bring weapons into another person’s home. They are for hunting, and for defense. There will be nothing to hunt in your ship—and surely we shall not need to defend ourselves against anything!”

You
have
been away from the mainstream of civilization a long time!
thought Grimes.

He called the first lieutenant on his wrist transceiver to warn him to prepare to receive guests, then led the way up the ramp, into the ship.

9

The Survey Service
has procedures laid down for practically everything, and as long as you stick to them you will not go far wrong. Grimes didn’t need to consult the handbook titled
Procedures For Entertaining Alien Potentates.
He had entertained Alien Potentates before. Insofar as the milking of such beings of useful information was concerned he had conformed to the good old principle—candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker. Of course, it was at times rather hard to decide what constituted either candy or liquor for some of the more exotic life forms . . . .

The majority of the natives had been shown into the wardroom, there to be entertained by the first lieutenant and—with the exception of Maggie Lazenby—the senior scientific officers. In his own day cabin Grimes had Maya Smith, the two men who constituted her bodyguard, and Maggie. He knew that it was foolish of him to feel ill at ease sitting there, making polite conversation with a naked woman and two naked men. Maggie took the situation for granted, of course—but her upbringing had been different from his. On Arcadia, the planet of her birth and upbringing, clothing was worn only when the weather was cold enough to justify the inconvenience.

“Tea, Maya?” asked Grimes. “Coffee?”

“What’s tea?” she asked him. “What’s coffee?”

“What do you drink usually?” he asked.

“Water, of course,” she told him.

“And on special occasions?”

“Water.”

“Mphm.” He got up, opened his liquor cabinet. The light inside it was reflected brightly from the labels of bottles, from polished glasses.

Maya said, “How pretty!”

“Perhaps you would like to try . . . What would you like to try?”

“Angels’ Tears,” she said.

So she could read as well as speak Anglic.
Grimes set out five liqueur glasses on the counter, uncorked the tall, beautifully proportioned bottle and filled them. He handed one to Maya, then served Maggie, then the two men. He lifted the remaining glass, said, “Here’s mud in your eye!” and sipped. Maya sipped. The two men sipped. Maya spat like an angry cat. The men looked as though they would have liked to do the same, but they were too overawed by their unfamiliar surroundings.

“Firewater!” ejaculated the Morrowvian woman at last.

Grimes wondered what the distillers on Altairia would think if they could hear their most prized product so denigrated. This liqueur was almost pure alcohol—but it was smooth, smooth, and the cunning blend of spices used for flavoring could never be duplicated off the planet of its origin. Then he remembered a girl he had known on Dunsinane. He had not minded buying her expensive drinks, but he had been shocked by the way in which she misused them. The ending of what promised to be a beautiful friendship had come when she had poured Angels’ Tears over a dish of ice cream . . . .

He said, “Perhaps this drink is a little strong to those who are not accustomed to it. But there is a way of making it less . . . fiery.” He pressed the button, and in seconds a stewardess was in the cabin. The girl blushed furiously when she saw the nudity of the two Morrowvian men, but she tried hard to ignore their presence.

“Jennifer,” said Grimes, “bring three dishes of ice cream.”

“What flavor, sir?”

What flavor ice cream had that girl used for her appalling concoction?
“Chocolate,” said Grimes. “Very good, sir.”

She was not gone long. Grimes took the tray from her when she returned; he was afraid that she might drop it when attempting to serve the naked bodyguards . He set it down on the table, then took Maya’s glass from her. He poured the contents over one of the dishes of ice cream, handed it to her. “Now try it,” he said.

She ignored the spoon. She raised the dish in her two hands to mouth level. Her pink tongue flickered out. There was a very delicate slurping sound. Then she said to her bodyguards, “Thomas, William—this is
good!
”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Grimes, handing their portions to the two men. Then—“The same again?”

“If I may,” replied Maya politely.

Alcohol, even when mixed with ice cream, is a good lubricant of the vocal cords. Maya, after her second helping, became talkative. More than merely talkative . . . she became affectionate. She tended to rub up against Grimes whenever he gave her the opportunity. He would have found her advances far more welcome if Maggie had not been watching amusedly, if the two bodyguards had not been present. Not that the bodyguards seemed to mind what their mistress was doing; were it not for her inhibiting presence they would have behaved toward Maggie Lazenby as she, Maya, was behaving toward Grimes . . . .

“Such a long time . . .” gushed Maya. “Such a long, long time. . . . We knew we came from the stars, in a big ship . . . . Not
us,
of course, but our first fathers and mothers . . . . We hoped that some time some other ship would come from the stars . . . . But it’s been a long, long time . . . .

“And then, after the ship called
Corgi
came, we thought that the next ships would land at Melbourne, and that it’d be
years
before we saw one . . . . The Queen of Melbourne, they say, now has a cold box to keep her meat and her water in, and she has books,
new
books, about all sorts of marvelous things . . . . And what are
you
giving
me,
Commander Grimes?”

I
know what I’d like to give you,
he thought. The close proximity of smooth, warm woman-flesh was putting ideas into his head. He said, trying to keep the conversation under control, “You have books?”

“‘Course we have books—but we can’t make any new ones. Every town has a copy of The History; it was printed and printed and printed, years ago, when the machines were still working. . . .”

“The History?” asked Grimes.

“Yes. The History. All about Earth, and the first flights away from Earth, and the last voyage of the
Lode Cougar . . .”

“The ship that brought you here?”

“Of course. You don’t suppose we
walked,
do you?”

“Hardly. But tell me, how do you get about your world? Do you walk, or ride, or fly?”

“There were machines once, for riding and flying, but they wore out. We walk now. Everywhere. The Messengers are the long walkers.”

“I suppose that you have to maintain a messenger service for the business of government.”

“What business?” She pulled away from Grimes, stood tall and erect. It was a pity that she spoiled the effect by wavering lightly. “What government?
I
am the government.”

“But surely,” Grimes persisted, “you must have some planetary authority in overall charge. Or national authorities . . . .”