First Command (3 page)

Old Cleon, the port master, was there, his long white hair streaming out in the breeze. With him were other officials, one of whom carried a portable transceiver. Brasidus could overhear both ends of the conversation. He learned little; it was no more than the exchange of messages to be expected with standard landing procedure. Cleon himself did not seem to be very interested. He turned to Diomedes. “Most unprecedented!” he complained. “Most unprecedented. Had it not been for the Council’s direct orders I should have refused permission to land.”

“It’s not a very large ship,” said Diomedes, squinting upwards.

“Large enough. Too large, for an intruder. Those rebels on Latterhaven might have let us know that they’ve discovered and colonized other habitable planets.”

“They, too, must have a security service,” said Diomedes. “Secrets, secrets! How can I run a spaceport when nobody ever tells me anything? Answer me that, Captain!”

“Descending under full control, to area designated,” reported the man with the transceiver.

Diomedes turned to his men. “I’ve told Sergeant Brasidus all that I know, and he’s passed it on to you. So keep alert. We’re not expecting any hostile action—but be ready for it. That’s all.”

Brasidus checked the freedom of his weapons in their holsters. The others followed his example.

Lower dropped the ship, lower. Even with nothing against which to measure her, it could be seen that she was small—only half the size, perhaps, of
Latterhaven Venus
or
Latterhaven Hera
. The gold letters embossed on her side were now readable. “
SEEKER III
.” (And what, wondered Brasidus, of
Seeker I
and
Seeker
II?
) And above the name there was a most peculiar badge or symbol. A stylized harpy it looked like—a winged globe surmounted by a five-pointed star. It was nothing like the conventional golden rocker worn on Latterhaven uniforms.

The ship came at last between the waiting men and the rising sun, casting a long, chill shadow. The throbbing of its engines made speech impossible. And then, suddenly augmenting their beat, there was the drone of other machinery. Slowly, majestically, no less than six of the great airships of the Spartan Navy sailed over the spaceport and then, in line ahead, circled the landing field. Their arrival was clearly not fortuitous. Should
Seeker
’s crew attempt any hostile action they, and their ship, would be destroyed by a shower of high-explosive bombs—as would be, Brasidus realized, the military ground party and the port officials. The same thought must have occurred to Diomedes. The portly captain looked even unhappier than usual and muttered, “Nobody ever tells me anything.”

With a crunch of metal on concrete the ship landed, an elongated ovoid quivering on her vaned landing gear, in spite of its bulk somehow conveying the impression that the slightest puff of wind could blow it away. Then, as the engines were shut down, it ceased to vibrate, settled down solidly. There was a loud crack and a jagged fissure appeared in the scarred concrete of the apron. But the strange vessel was not especially heavy. The initial damage had been caused by a clumsy landing of
Latterhaven Hera
, and Cleon, with months in which to make the necessary repairs, still hadn’t gotten around to it.

Slowly an airlock door toward the stern of the ship opened. From it, tonguelike, an extensible ramp protruded, wavered, then sought and found the ground. There were beings standing in the airlock chamber. Were they human? Brasidus had read imaginative stories about odd, intelligent lifeforms evolved on other planets—and, after all, this ship could be proof that there were more habitable planets than Sparta and Latterhaven in the universe. Yes, they seemed to be human. Nevertheless, the Sergeant’s hands did not stray far from the butts of his holstered weapons.

Somebody was coming down the ramp, a man whose attire bore no resemblance to the carelessly informal rig of the Latterhaven spacemen. There was gold on his visored cap, and a double row of gold buttons on his odd tunic, and bands of gold on the sleeves of it. His black trousers were not the shapeless coverings worn for warmth and protection in the hill country, but were shaped to his legs and sharply creased. His black, highly polished footwear afforded complete coverage—and must be, thought Brasidus, wriggling his toes, extremely uncomfortable. He reached the ground, turned and made a gesture toward the open doorway. Another man came out of the airlock, followed the first one to the ground. He, although his uniform was similar, was dressed more sensibly, with a knee-length black kilt instead of the constricting trousers.

But was it a man, or was it some kind of alien? Brasidus once again recalled those imaginative stories, and the assumption made by some writers that natives of worlds with thin atmospheres would run to abnormal (by Spartan standards) lung development. This being, then, could be deformed, or a mutant, or an alien. Somebody muttered, “What an odd-looking creature!”

Walking with calm deliberation the two men approached the barrier. The one with the trousered legs called, “Anybody here speak English?” He turned to his companion and said, “That was a silly question to which I should get a silly answer. After all, we’ve been nattering to them on RT all the way in.”

“We speak Greek,” answered Diomedes.

The spaceman looked puzzled. “I’m afraid that I don’t. But your English is very good. If you don’t mind, it will have to do.”

“But we have been speaking Greek all the time.”

“Something odd here. But skip it. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Commander John Grimes, Interstellar Federation Survey Service. This lady is Doctor Margaret Lazenby, our ethologist . . .”

Lady, thought Brasidus. Then he must be a member of some other race. The Ladies? I wonder where they come from . . . And such odd names—Johngrimes, Margaretlazenby. But the Latterhaveneers go in for odd names, too.

Diomedes was making his own self-introduction. “I am Diomedes, Captain of Spaceport Security. Please state your business, Johngrimes.”

“I’ve already done so. And, as you must know, I received clearance to land.”

“Then state your business again, Johngrimes.”

“All right. We’re carrying out the census in this sector of space. Of course, your cooperation isn’t compulsory, but it will be appreciated.”

“That is a matter for the King and his Council, Lieutenant Commander.”

“We can wait. Meanwhile, I’d like to comply with all the usual regulations and clear my ship inwards. I’m ready to receive the officers from Port Health and Customs as soon as you like.”

“We have no need for them here, Lieutenant Commander Johngrimes. My orders are that you and your crew stay on your side of the barrier until such time as you lift off.”

The strange-looking man was talking to the spaceship commander in a high, angry voice. “But this is impossible, Commander. How can we carry out any sort of survey in these conditions? They distinctly told us that we could land—and now they turn their spaceport into a prison camp just for our benefit. Do something, Commander.”

Brasidus saw the Captain’s prominent ears redden. Nonetheless, he replied mildly enough, “But this is their world, Miss Lazenby. We’re only guests.”

“Guests? Prisoners, you mean. A wire barrier around us, and a fleet of antique gasbags cruising over us. Guests, you say!”

Strange, thought Brasidus, how this peculiar-looking spaceman appears attractive when he’s in a bad temper, while poor Achron and his like just get more and more repulsive . . . And why do I compare him to Achron and the others? A finer bone structure, perhaps, and a more slender body—apart from that shocking deformity—and a higher voice?

“Quiet, please!” The owner of the shocking deformity subsided. Johngrimes turned again to the barrier. “Captain Diomedes, I request that you get in touch with some higher authority. I am here on Federation business.”

“What federation?” asked Diomedes.

“You don’t know? You really don’t know?”

“No. But, of course, I’m Security, so nobody ever tells me anything.”

“What a bloody planet,” murmured Margaretlazenby. “What a bloody planet!”

“That will do, Peggy,” admonished Johngrimes.

And how many names do these people have? Brasidus asked himself. Through the wire mesh of the barrier he stared curiously at the Lady. He must be some sort of alien, he thought. And yet . . . Margaretlazenby, suddenly conscious of his stare, blushed, then returned his gaze in a cool, appraising manner that, fantastically, brought the blood flooding to the skin of his own face.

Chapter 5

BRASIDUS FLUSHED
as he met the spaceman’s appraising—and somehow approving—stare. He heard him murmur to his captain, “Buy that one for me, Daddy,” and heard Johngrimes reply, “Peggy, you’re incorrigible. Get back on board at once.”

“But I am the ethologist, John.”

“No need to get wrapped up in your work. Get back on board.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Aye, aye, sir.”

He looked at Brasidus for a long, last time and then turned with a flounce of kilts. The movement of his hips and full buttocks as he mounted the ramp was disturbing.

“Now, perhaps,” said the Commander, “we can get down to business. I may be old-fashioned, but I’ve never cared much for a mixed crew.”

“So it’s true, Lieutenant Commander,” Diomedes said. “So you aren’t from Latterhaven.”

“Of course not. We shall be calling there after we’ve finished here. But tell me, what made the penny drop so suddenly?” He grinned. “Or should I have said ‘obol’?”

“You speak strangely, Johngrimes. What do you mean?”

“Just a figure of speech. Don’t you have automatic vendors? No? What I meant was this: Why should my mention of a mixed crew suddenly convince you that my claim that this is a Federation ship is correct?”

Diomedes did not answer at once. He glared around at Cleon and his aides, at Brasidus and his men. He growled, “You all of you have ears—unluckily. You all of you have heard far too much. But you will not speak of it. To anybody. I need not remind you of what has happened in the past to men who have breached Security.” He turned back to the space captain. “Your arrival here, Lieutenant Commander, has rather upset our notions of cosmogony. It is now a matter for the Council—and for the Council only.”

“But why did the penny drop?” persisted Johngrimes.

“Because you have brought evidence that there is more than one intelligent race in the universe. At first we thought that your Margaretlazenby was deformed—on this world, of course, he would have been exposed immediately after birth—and then you told us that you have a mixed crew.”

The Commander stared at Diomedes incredulously. He said at last, “Of course, it has been said more than once, not altogether in jest, that they aren’t really human . . . But tell me, Captain Diomedes, do you actually mean what I think you mean? Haven’t you anybody like her on your Planet?”

“Like what, Lieutenant Commander?”

“Like her. Like Doctor Lazenby.”

“Of course not. We are all human here. As we should be, Sparta being the birthplace of the human race.”

“You really mean that?”

“Of course,” replied Diomedes.

But does he? wondered Brasidus, who had worked with the Security Captain before.

“And you have no . . . ?” began the spaceman, then pulled himself up abruptly. Brasidus recognized the signs. Find out all you can, but give nothing away yourself.

“We have no what?” prompted Diomedes.

Johngrimes made a quick recovery. “No Immigration, no Customs, no Port Health?”

“I’ve already told you that, Lieutenant Commander. And I’ve already told you that you and your crew must remain confined to your ship.”

“Then perhaps you would care to come aboard, Captain Diomedes, to talk things over.”

“Not by myself—and not unarmed.”

“You may bring one man with you,” said Johngrimes slowly. “But both of you will leave your weapons this side of the barrier.”

“We could board by force,” said Diomedes.

“Could you? I think not.
Seeker
may be carrying out the Census, but she’s still a frigate, with a frigate’s armament. In a matter of seconds we could sweep this field—and the sky over the field—clear of life. This is not a threat, merely a statement of fact.” The words carried conviction.

Diomedes hesitated. “Very well,” he said at last. He looked up to the circling airships as though for reassurance, shook his head doubtfully. He addressed Cleon, “Port Master, please have your radioman inform the Flight Admiral of my movements.” He turned to Brasidus, “Sergeant, you may come with me. Leave Leading Hoplite Hector in charge.”

Brasidus got close enough to Diomedes so that he could speak in a low, urgent whisper. “But, sir, the standing orders . . . the passes, to be signed by a member of the Council . . .”

“And who do you think drew up those standing orders, Sergeant? I am Security.” Diomedes unlocked the gate with a key from his belt pouch. “Come with me.”

“Your weapons,” reminded Johngrimes.

Diomedes sighed, unbuckled his belt with its two holstered pistols, passed it to one of the men. Brasidus followed suit. The Sergeant felt naked, far more so than when stripped for the dance or for field sports. He knew that he still retained one weapon in the use of which he was, as were all members of the police branch of the Army, superbly trained—his body. But he missed those smooth, polished wooden butts that fitted so snugly into his hands. Even a despised sword or spear would have been better than nothing.

Ahead of them, Johngrimes was walking briskly toward the open airlock door, toward the foot of the ramp. Diomedes and Brasidus followed. They could see, as they neared the vessel, that the odd excrescences on its skin were gun turrets, that from at least two of them slender barrels were trained upon them, following them, that from others heavier weapons tracked the circling airships.

Johngrimes was taking no chances.

Although he had been often enough on spaceport guard duties, this was the first time that Brasidus had been aboard a spaceship; usually it was only Diomedes who boarded visiting vessels. Mounting the ramp, the Sergeant eyed professionally the little group of officers waiting just inside the airlock. They all carried sidearms, and they all looked competent enough. Even so, thought Brasidus, they’ll not be able to use their pistols for fear of hitting each other. The knee to the groin, the edge of the hand to the neck . . .