First Command (53 page)

The mayor’s car, a runabout, was little more than a box on relatively huge wheels, an open box. Grimes opened the door for her on the driver’s side and she clambered in. She was wearing the shortest skirt in which he had yet seen her, and obviously nothing under it.
And yet,
thought Grimes,
she says that the Arcadians are odd.

He got in on the other side. As he shut the door the car started with a soft hum of its electric motor. As it rolled smoothly over the grass toward the entrance to the Oval the mayor waved to groups of people who had come to stare up at the ship from the stars. They waved back. When she nudged him painfully, muttering something about stuck-up Pommy bastards, Grimes waved as well. They were worth waving to, he thought, the girls especially. Botany Bay might not be another Arcadia—but a bright shirt worn open over bare, suntanned breasts can be more attractive than complete nudity. He supposed that he would have to throw his ship open to the public soon, but by the time he did all hands would have enjoyed ample opportunity to blow off excess steam.

“We’ll detour through the city,” said Mavis. “This is the time I fair love the dump, wif the sun just down an’ the street lights comin’ on.”

Yes, the sun was just dipping below the rolling range to the west, and other stars were appearing to accompany the first bright planet. They drove slowly through the narrow, winding streets, where the elaborate cast-metal balconies of the houses were beginning to gleam, as though luminous, in the odd, soft greenish-yellow glow of the street lights.

“Gas lamps!” exclaimed Grimes.

“An’ why not? Natural gas. There’s plenty of it—an’ we may’s well use what’s left after the helium’s been extracted. An’ it’s a much
better
light.”

Grimes agreed that it was.

“This is Jersey Road we’re comin’ inter. The city planners tried to make it as much like the old one as they could. I s’pose it’s all been pulled down long since.”

“It’s still there,” said Grimes, “although the old bricks are held together with preservative.”

“An’ how does it compare?” she asked. “Ours, I mean.”

“Yours is better. It’s much longer, and the gas lighting improves it.”

“Good-oh. An’ now we turn off on ter the West Head Road. That’s Macquarie Head lighthouse we’re just passin’. One lighthouse ter do the work o’ two. The main guide beacon for the airport as well as for the harbor.” Something big fluttered across their path, just ahead of them, briefly illumined in the glare of the headlights. Grimes had a brief impression of sharp, shining teeth and leathery wings. “Just a goanna,” Mavis told him. “Flyin’ goannas they useter be called, but as we’ve none o’ the other kind here the ‘flyin’ part o’ the name got dropped. They’re good eatin’.”

They sped through the deepening darkness, bushland to their left, the sea to their right. Out on the water the starboard sidelight, with a row of white accommodation lights below it, of a big schooner gleamed brightly.

“
Taroona,
”
said Mavis. “She’s due in tonight. Ah, here’s the turn-off. Hold on, Skip!”

The descent of the steep road—little more than a path—down to the beach was more hazardous, thought Grimes, than any that he had ever made through an atmosphere. But they got to the bottom without mishap. Away to their right a fire was blazing, its light reflected from the other vehicles parked in its vicinity. Dark figures moved in silhouette to the flames. There was the music of guitars, and singing.

“
Tie me kangaroo down, sport. . .
”
Grimes heard.

“I got yer here, Skip,” said Mavis.

“And in one piece,” agreed Grimes.

“Come orf it!” she told him.

Chapter 28

As well as voices
and music a savory smell of roasting meat drifted down the light breeze from the fire. Grimes realized that he was hungry. Unconsciously he quickened his step.

“Wot’s the hurry?” asked Mavis.

He grinned—but at least she hadn’t called him Gutsy Grimes. He said, “I want to join the party.”

“Ain’t I enough party for yer, Skip? I didn’t think you’d be one fer chasn’ the sheilas.”

Grimes paused to kick his sandals off. The warm, dry sand felt good under his bare soles. He said, gesturing toward the parked cars, “I thought you people used horses for short journeys.”

“Yair, we do—but not when we’ve a crowd o’ spacemen along who, like as not, have never ridden a nag in their bleedin’ lives.”

“I have ridden a horse,” said Grimes.

“An’ what happened?”

“I fell off.”

They both laughed, companionably, and then Grimes stopped laughing. He was able to distinguish faces in the firelight. This, obviously, was not an officers-only party. There was Langer, the burly bos’n, and with him Sergeant Washington. And there was Sally, the little slut of a stewardess who had ministered to the needs of his predecessor in the ship, Commander Tallis. Obviously their hosts were determined to maintain their egalitarian principles. Well, that was their right, he supposed.

“What’s eatin’ you, Skip?” asked Mavis.

“I’m thinking that it was time that I was eating something.”

“Spacemen are the same as sailors, I suppose. Always thinkin’ o’ their bellies.” She raised her voice. “Hey, you drongoes! One o’ yer bring the skipper a mug an’ a sangwidge!”

Surprisingly it was the girl, Sally, who obliged, presenting him with a slab of steak between two halves of a thick roll. She seemed in an unusually happy mood as she walked toward him, her breasts—she had discarded her shirt—jouncing saucily. She said, “You see, Captain, I
can
make a sandwich when I want to.” And it was Langer who came with a mug of beer in each hand, one of which he presented to Grimes. As he raised his own to his lips he said, “Your very good health, Captain.”

“And yours, Bos’n. (He thought,
This may not be the finest beer in the universe, but it’ll do till something better comes along.)

“Here’s to your luck, Captain. I knew
our
luck would change as soon as we got
you
in command.”

“I hope it stays that way,” said Grimes. (Damn it all, the man seemed positively to
love
him.)

He took a bite from his sandwich. It was excellent steak, with a flavor altogether lacking from the beef in the ship’s tissue culture vats.

Dr. Rath drifted up. His informal civilian clothing was dark gray—but, amazingly, even he looked happy. He was smoking a long, thin cigar. “Ah, so you’ve joined us, Captain. Miss Russell was wondering when you were going to turn up.”

“Oh. Where is she now?”

“Haven’t a clue, my dear fellow. She sort of drifted off among the dunes with one of the local lads. Going for a swim, I think. At least, they’d taken off all their clothes.”

“Mphm.” What Vinegar Nell did, and with whom, was her own affair—but Grimes felt jealous. He accepted another mug of beer, then fumbled for his pipe.

“Have one of these, Captain,” said Rath, offering him a cigar. “Not exactly Havanas, but not at all bad.”

“Better than Havanas,” said Langer.

And you’d know,
thought Grimes uncharitably.
With your flogging of ship’s stores you could always afford the best.
He accepted the slim, brown cylinder from the doctor, nonetheless, and a light from the attentive Sally.

Not bad,
he thought, inhaling deeply.
Not bad. Must be a local tobacco.

He turned to Mavis and said, “You certainly do yourselves well on this world, darling.” She seemed to have changed, to have become much younger—and no less attractive. It must, he thought, be the effect of the firelight. And how had he ever thought of her abundant hair as silver? It was platinum-blonde.

She said, “We get by. We always have got by. We had no bloody option, did we?” She took the cigar from his hand, put it to her own lips, drew in. She went on, “Still an’ all, it’s good to have you bastards with us at last, after all these bleedin’ years.”

How had he ever thought her accent ugly?

She handed the cigar back, and again he inhaled. Another mug of beer had somehow materialized in his free hand. He drowned the smoke with a cool, tangy draft. He thought,
This is the life. Too bloody right it is.

By the fire the singing had started again, back by thrumming guitars.

Farewell to Australia forever,

Good-bye to old Sydney, good-bye,

Farewell to the Bridge an’ the Harbor,

With the Opera House standin’ on high.

Singin’ tooral-i-ooral-i-addy,

Singin’ tooral-i-ooral-i-aye,

Singin’ tooral-i-ooral-i-addy,

We’re bound out fer Botany Bay!

“The opera house isn’t all that high,” complained Grimes. “Never mind, dearie. It’s only a song.” She added almost fiercely, “But it’s
ours.
”

Farewell to the Rocks an’ to Paddo,

An’ good-bye to Woolloomooloo,

Farewell to the Cross an’ the Domain,

Why were we such mugs as ter go?

“You’re better off here,” said Grimes. “You’ve a good world. Keep it that way.”

“That’s what I thought, after talkin’ to some o’ yer people this arvo. But will you bastards let us?”

“You can play both ends against the middle,” suggested Grimes. He was not conscious of having been guilty of a grave indiscretion.

“Wodyer mean, Skip?”

“Your world is almost in the territorial space of the Empire of Waverley, and the emperor believes in extending his dominions as and when possible.”

“So . . . the thot plickens.” She laughed. “But this is a
party,
Skip. We’re here to enjoy ourselves, not talk politics.” Her hands went to a fastener at the back of her dress. It fell from her. She stood there briefly, luminous in the firelight. She was ample, but nowhere was there any sag. Her triangle of silvery pubic hair gleamed brightly in contrast to the golden tan of her body. Then she turned, ran, with surprising lightness, into the low surf. Grimes threw off his own clothing, followed her. The water was warm—
pee-warm,
he thought—but refreshing. Beyond the line of lazy breakers the water was gently undulant. He swam toward a flurry of foam that marked her position. She slowed as he approached her, switched from a crawl to an energy-conserving breaststroke.

He followed her as she swam, parallel to the beach. After a few moments of exertion he caught up with her. She kept on steadily until the fire and the music were well astern, then turned inshore. A low breaker caught them, swept them in, deposited them gently on the soft sand like stranded, four-limbed starfish. He got to his feet, then helped her up. Their bodies came into contact—and fused. Her mouth was hot on his, her strong arms were around him as she pulled him to her—and, after they had fallen again to the sand, above the tidemark, her legs embraced him in an unbreakable grip. Not that he wished to break it. She engulfed him warmly.

When they were finished he, at last, rolled off her, falling on his back onto the sand. He realized that he and Mavis had performed before an audience. Somehow he was not at all embarrassed—until he recognized, in the dim starlight, the naked woman who, with a young man beside her, was looking down at him.

“I hope you had a good time, Commander Grimes,” said Vinegar Nell acidly.

“I did,” he told her. “And you?” he asked politely. “
No!
”
she snapped.

“Fuck orf, why don’t yer?” asked the mayor, who had raised herself on her elbows.

The young man turned at once, began to trudge toward the distant fire. Vinegar Nell made a short snarling noise, then followed him.

“That Col,” remarked Mavis, “never was any good. That sheila o’ yours couldn’t’ve picked a feebler bastard. All blow, no go, that’s him.”

“The trouble,” said Grimes, “is that she is, as you put it, my sheila. Or thinks she is.”

“Then wot the hell was she doin’ out with Col?” she asked practically. “Oh, well, now we
are
alone, we may as well make the most of it.”

Chapter 29

The next morning
—not too early—Grimes held an inquest on the previous night’s goings-on. He, himself, had no hangover, although he had forgotten to take an anti-ale capsule on his return to the ship, before retiring. He felt a little tired, but not unpleasantly so.

He opened by asking Brabham how he had spent the evening.

“I went to a party at Pete’s place, sir.”

“Pete?”

“The president of the Air Pilots’ Guild.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, we had a few drinks, and there was some sort of help-yourself casserole, and then we had a flight over the city and the countryside in one of the airships.”

“Anything else?”

The first lieutenant oozed injured innocence. “what else Would there be, Captain?”

“Any relaxation of what we regard as normal standards? Any . . . promiscuity?”

Brabham looked injured.

“Come on, Number One. Out with it. As long as you do your job your sex life is no concern of mine. But I have a good reason for wanting to know what happened.” He grinned. “Some odd things happened to me. Normally I’m a very slow starter.”

Brabham managed to raise a rather sour smile. “So
that’s
what Vinegar Nell was dropping such broad hints about! Well, sir, I had it off with one of our tabbies—I’ll not tell you which one—during the flight over the city. Have you ever done it on the transparent deck of a cabin in an airship, with the street lights drifting by below you?” The first lieutenant was beginning to show signs of enthusiasm. “And then, after we got back to the airport, there was a local wench . . . I can’t remember her name. I don’t think that we were introduced.”

“Mphm. And how do you feel?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Presumably you had plenty to drink, as we all did. Any hangover?”

“No, sir.”

“Mphm. Commander MacMorris?”

“The Seamen’s Guild laid it on for us, Captain. Plenty o’ drinks. A smorgasbord. Plenty o’ seawomen as well as seamen. There were a couple—engineers in the big schooners.” He grinned. “Well, you can sort o’ say it was all in the family.”