First Command (52 page)

“I’m glad to be here, Your Ladyship,” replied Grimes formally.

“It’s a pleasure ter have yer. But is it safe ter come near yer ship? You ain’t radioactive or anythin’, are yer?”

“Quite safe,” said Grimes. “I’ll meet you at the after airlock.”

Chapter 26

Grimes, after issuing instructions,
went down to his quarters to change. He had decided that this was an occasion for some show of formality, no matter how free and easy the people of this Lost Colony seemed to be. Or—he had his contrary moments—it was this very freeness and easiness that had induced in him the desire to be stiff and starchy. He got out of his comfortable shorts and open-necked shirt, replacing the latter with a stiff, snowy-white one. He knotted a black necktie about his throat, then thrust his legs into sharply creased black trousers. The bemedaled frock coat came next, then the sword belt and the quite useless ceremonial sword. Highly polished black shoes on his feet, the fore-and-aft hat with its trimmings of gold braid on his head. He inspected his reflection in the full-length mirror inside his wardrobe door, holding himself stiffly at attention. He’d do, he decided.

He took the elevator down to the after airlock. The others were waiting for him—the Mad Major, temporarily forgiven, with a half dozen of his men. The Marines, too, were in their dress finery, blue and scarlet and gleaming brass. Swinton was wearing a sword, his men carried archaic (but nonetheless lethal) rifles. Tangye, one of the few officers to possess a presentable full dress uniform, was there, as was Vinegar Nell, in the odd rig prescribed by the Survey Service for its female officers on state occasions, best described as, a long-skirted, long-sleeved black evening frock, trimmed with gold braid and brass buttons and worn over a white shirt and black tie, topped with a hat like the one Grimes was wearing. But she carried it well.

The outer airlock door slowly opened, and as it did so the ramp was extruded, its end sinking to the close-cropped grass. Grimes stepped out into the warm, fresh air, the bright sunlight. He was thankful that his uniform had been tailored from the lightest possible material. As he appeared there was a great welcoming roar from the crowds in the Stands. He paused, saluted smartly, then continued down the ramp. After him came Tangye and the paymaster, and after them, their boots crashing rhythmically on the metal gangway, marched the Marines.

There was a stir among the crowd on the stand immediately facing the airlock. In the broad aisle between it and its neighbor a coach appeared, a vehicle drawn by four gleaming black horses, the first of what looked like a procession of such vehicles. Grimes, standing at the foot of the ramp, the others drawn up behind him, watched with interest. Yes, that was the mayor in the first coach, and other women and men with her. From this distance he could not be sure, but it did not look as though anybody had made any attempt to dress up. The driver was in some sort of khaki uniform with a broad-brimmed hat. But what was Brabham waiting for?

Suddenly, from overhead, there came a deafening
boom,
the first round of the twenty-one-gun salute, fired from one of the forty-millimeter cannon, using special blank cartridges.

Boom!

The coachmen were having trouble controlling their horses.

Boom!

The horses of the second and third coaches had bolted, had begun to gallop around the Oval like the start of a chariot race.

Grimes lifted his wrist transceiver to his mouth. “Brabham, hold. . .”

Boom!

“Brabham, hold your fire!”

“But that’s only four rounds, sir,” came the tinny whisper in reply.

“Never mind. Hold your fire.”

The driver of the mayor’s coach had his animals under control at last. He came on steadily, then reined in about ten meters from the foot of the ramp. From one of his pockets he produced a cigarette, lit it with a flaring lighter, then sat there stolidly with the little crumpled cylinder dangling from the corner of his mouth. He stared at Grimes and his entourage with a certain hostility.

Another khaki-uniformed man was first out. He assisted the mayor to the ground. She emerged from the vehicle with a lavish display of firm, brown thigh. She was wearing a short tunic, with sandals on her feet, only the mayoral chain of office adding a touch of formality. Her blue eyes were angry, her mouth drawn down in a scowl.

Grimes saluted with drawn sword. The Marines presented arms with a slap and rattle.

She demanded, “Wodyer playin’ at, you stupid drongo? You said there’d be no bleedin’ fireworks.”

Grimes sheathed his sword. He said stiffly. “It is customary, Your Ladyship, to accord heads of state the courtesy of a twenty-one-gun salute.”

“That may be where you come from, Skip, but it certainly ain’t here. You scared shit outa the horses.”

“Too flamin’ right,” commented the coachman. “Wodyer think me wheels was skiddin’ on?”

“I’m sorry,” Grimes began lamely.

The mayor smiled, broadly and dazzlingly. “So’m I. But this ain’t a way for me to be welcomin’ long-lost relatives from the old world.” Suddenly she threw her plump arms about Grimes and drew him to her resilient breast, kissed him warmly full on the mouth. He felt himself responding—and was somehow aware of the disapproving glare that Vinegar Nell was directing at the back of his head.

“That’s better,” murmured the mayor, pulling reluctantly away. “A
lot
better. Kiss an’ make up, that’s what I always say. An’ now, Skip, wot about introducin’ me to the lady and these other gentlemen?”

“Your Ladyship,” Grimes began.

“
Mavis,
you drongo. Even if you’re all dressed up like a Christmas tree, I ain’t.”

“Mavis, may I introduce my paymaster.”

“
Paymaster?
Paymistress, if I’m any good at guessin’.”

“Lieutenant Russell.”

Vinegar Nell saluted and contrived to convey by her expression that she didn’t want to be mauled.

“Major Swinton, my Marine officer.”

Swinton’s salute did not save him from a motherly kiss on the cheek.

“And Lieutenant Tangye, my navigator.” Tangye’s face was scarlet when he was released.

“An’ what about these other blokes?” demanded Mavis.

“Er . . .” began Grimes, embarrassed.

“Private Briggs,” snapped Swinton, stepping smartly into the breach. “Private Townley. Private Gale. Private Roskov. Private O’Neill. Private Mackay.”

“Well?” demanded the big woman. “Well?”

Now it was Swinton’s turn to feel embarrassment. The six men stood stiffly like wooden soldiers.

“Well?”

“Stack your rifles,” ordered Swinton.

The men did so.

“Advance to be greeted by Her Ladyship.”

The order was obeyed with some enthusiasm.

When the introductions were over the mayor said, “Natterin’ to you on the radio, Skip, I never dreamed that you were such a stuffed shirt. All o’ yer are stuffed shirts. Looks like Earth ain’t changed since our ancestors had the sense ter get the hell out.”

“And this, I suppose,” said Grimes, “is one of those worlds like Liberty Hall, where you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”

“You said it, Skip, you said it!” exclaimed Mavis, bursting into delighted laughter. Grimes laughed too. He had thought that expression very funny the first time that he had heard it—how many years ago?—and he was delighted to be able to use it on somebody to whom it was new and brilliantly witty.

Chapter 27

Grimes had liked Mavis
since his first sight of her in the monitor screen. He liked her still more now that he had actually met her. He kept on recalling a phrase that he had once heard—
A heart as big as all outdoors.
It applied to her. She was big in all ways, although in her dress that concealed little it was obvious that her body was all firm flesh, with no hint of flabbiness.

He was entertaining her and other officials in his day-cabin, with some of his own officers also present—Dr. Brandt, Brabham, and Vinegar Nell, who was kept busy refilling glasses and passing around dishes of savories. She, alone of all those present, seemed not to approve of the informality, the use of given names rather than titles and surnames. There was Jock, the man in the khaki shorts-and-shirt uniform who had assisted the mayor from the coach and who was City Constable. There was Pete, with a floral shirt over the inevitable shorts and sandals, who was president of the Air Pilots’ Guild. There was Jimmy, similarly attired, who was master of the Seamen’s Guild. There was Doug and Bert, mayors of Ballina and Esperance respectively, who had flown by fast jet from their cities to be present at
Discovery’s
landing.

Mavis, watching Vinegar Nell, said, “Why don’t yer scarper, dearie, an’ change inter somethin’ more comfy? Any o’ our barmaids havin’ to wear wot you’ve got on ‘d go on stroke, an’ quite right, too!”

“What do your barmaids wear?” asked Grimes interestedly.

“At the beach eateries, nuffin’.”

“So you have a culture similar to that of Arcadia?” asked Brandt.

“Arcadia? Where in hell’s that?”

“It’s a planet,” explained Grimes, “with an ideal climate, where the people are all naturists.”

“Naturists, Skip? Wot’s that?”

“Nudists.”

“You mean they run around in the nudie all the time?”

“Yes.”

“No matter
wot
they’re doin’?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds screwy ter me—as screwy as wearin’ anything when yer goin’ inter the sea for a dip. Oh, well, takes all sorts ter make a universe, don’t it?”

“Have I your permission to change into undress uniform, Commander Grimes?” asked Vinegar Nell coldly.

“Of course, Miss Russell.” Grimes wondered what the effect would be if Vinegar Nell returned to the daycabin in the undress uniform in which he had often seen her.

“And ain’t it time that you got outer yer admiral’s suit?” Mavis asked Grimes.

“I think it is,” he admitted.

He went into his bedroom, changed back into shirt and shorts. “Now yer look more human, Skip,” said Mavis. She held out her empty glass to him. “Wot about some more Scotch? We do make whiskey here, but t’ain’t a patch on this. But you should try our beer. Best in the universe. And our plonk ain’t bad. Nor’s our rum.”

“You’ll be tryin’ it at ternight’s party, Skipper,” said Jimmy.

“An official reception?” Grimes asked the master of the Seamen’s Guild.

“Not on yer nelly. If yer thinkin’ o’ gettin’ all dressed up again, forget it. A beach barbecue. Come as yer please, preferably in civvies. Jock’s makin’ the arrangements.”

“Twenty guests. Yerself an’ nineteen others,” said the City Constable. “There’ll be other parties for the rest o’ yer crowd. Transport’ll be at yer gangway at 1900 hours.”

“I’ll pick up the skipper me self,” said Mavis.

Vinegar Nell returned, wearing her shortest skirted uniform. The mayor looked at her and added, “When I drive me self, I use me little run-about. Only room for one passenger.”

The paymaster said, “As you know, Commander Grimes, we have many guests aboard the ship. I have arranged for two sittings at lunch in the wardroom. I imagine that you will prefer second sitting.”

“Don’t bother about us, dearie,” Mavis told her. “Just send up some more o’ this Scotch, an’ some more blottin’ paper to soak it up afore it rots the belly linin’.” She nibbled appreciatively. “This sorta sausage stuff is very moreish.”

The other two mayors agreed with her enthusiastically.

“I’ll see if there’s any more of that Rimini salami left in the storeroom,” said Vinegar Nell, conveying the impression that she hoped there wouldn’t be. “It comes from Rimini, a world settled mainly by people of Italian ancestry. They make the salami out of a sort of fat worm.”

“It still tastes good,” said Mavis stoutly.

Grimes treated himself to an afternoon sleep after his guests had left. He felt guilty about it; he knew that as a conscientious Survey Service captain he should be making a start on the accumulation of data regarding this new world. It must be the climate, he thought, that was making him drowsy. It was a little too much to drink, he admitted.

He was awakened by somebody shaking him gently. He ungummed his eyes, found that he was looking up into the face of the mayor. She grinned down at him and said, “I had to pull me rank on that sodger you’ve got on yer gangway, but he let me come up after a bit of an argy-bargy.”

“I . . . I must have dozed off, Mavis. What time is it?”

“Eighteen-thirty hours. All the others’ve gone, even that snooty popsy o’ yours. They left a bit early for a bit of a run-around first.”

“My steward should have called me at 1700,” muttered Grimes.

“He did, Skip. There’s the tray wif a pot o’ very cold tea on yer bedside table.”

Grimes raised himself on one elbow, poured himself a cup. It tasted vile, but it helped to wake him. He hesitated before throwing back the coverlet—he was naked under it—but Mavis showed no intention of leaving the bedroom. And he wanted a brief shower, and then he had to dress. He said over his shoulder, as he tried to walk to the bathroom with dignity, “What do I wear?”

“Come as you like if yer want to, Skip. It’s a hot night, an’ the weather bastards say it’ll stay that way. But you’ve civvy shorts, ain’t yer? An’ a shirt an’ sandals.”

Grimes had his shower and was relieved, when he had finished drying himself, to find that Mavis had retired to the dayroom. It was not that he was prudish, but she was a large woman and the bedroom was small. He found a gaily patterned shirt with matching shorts, a pair of sandals. She said, when he joined her, “Now you
do
look human. Come on; the car’s waitin’ by the gangway.”

“A drink first?”

“Ta, but no. There’ll be plenty at the beach.”

The Marine on gangway duty, smart in sharply pressed khaki, saluted. He said, “Have a nice night, sir.”

“Thank you,” replied Grimes. “I’ll try.”

“You’d better,” the mayor told him.

Grimes took her arm as they walked down the ramp. Her skin was warm and smooth. He looked up at the clear sky. The sun was not yet set, but there was one very bright planet already shining low in the west. The light breeze was hotter than it had been in the morning. He was glad that he was not attending a full-dress function.