"You do have posh friends, John," said Shirley Townsend as soon as they were down and off the ramp.
"I didn't have any friends on El Dorado," said Grimes, not altogether truthfully and with a note of bitterness in his voice.
Captain Billinger was relaxing. He still looked far from happy but his long face had lost some of the lines of strain. He had changed from his fancy dress uniform into more or less sober civilian attire—a bright orange shirt tucked into a kilt displaying an improbable looking tartan in which a poisonous green predominated, highly polished scarlet knee-boots. He was sitting with Grimes at a table in the saloon bar of the Red Kangaroo.
He gulped beer noisily. "Boy," he said, "boy, oh boy!. Am I ever glad to get off that rich bitch's toy ship!"
"But you're rich yourself, surely," said Grimes. "You must be, to be an El Doradan . . ."
"Ha! Me an El Doradan! That'd be the sunny Friday! No, Captain, I'm just a poor but reasonably honest Dog Star Line second mate. Beagle happened to be on Electra when her ladyship was there to take delivery of her super-duper yacht. Seems that she came there in an El Doradan ship—they do have ships, you know, and a few playboy spacemen to run 'em—and assumed that she'd be allowed to lift off in her own fully automated vessel without having a qualified human master on board. But Lloyds'—may the Odd Gods of the Galaxy rot them—cotton socks!—got into the act. No duly certificated master astronaut on the Register, no insurance cover. But money talks, as always. More than a couple or three Dog Star line shares are held by her high and mightiness. So the Old Man got an urgent Carlottigram from Head Office—I'd like to know what it said!—and, immediately after receipt, yelled for me and then turned on the hard sell. Not that there was any need for it. The offer of a Master's berth at well above our Award rates for the rank . . . Only a yachtmaster, it's true—but master nonetheless and bloody well paid. Like a mug, I jumped at it. Little did I know . . ." He slurped down the remains of his beer and waved two fingers at the near-naked, plumply attractive blonde waitress to order refills.
"So you don't like the job, Captain," said Grimes.
"You can say that again, Captain. And again. Cooped up with a snooty, rich bitch in a solid gold sardine can . . . ."
"Gold-plated, surely," interjected Grimes.
"No. Gold. G-O-L-D. Gold."
"But gold's not a structural material."
"It is after those eggheads on Electra have finished mucking about with it They rearrange the molecules. Or the atoms. Or something."
"Fantastic," commented Grimes.
"The whole bloody ship's fantastic. A miracle of automation or an automated miracle. A human captain is just a figurehead. You watched the set down yesterday?"
"Of course. I am the Port Captain, you know. There was something a bit . . . odd about it I can guess now what it must have been. The ship was coming down by herself without a human hand on the controls—and making a slight balls of it And then you took over."
Billinger glared at Grimes. "Ha! Ha bloody ha! For your information, Port Captain, I was bringing her down. At first Yes, I know damn well that there was drift But I was, putting on speed. At the last possible moment I was going to make a spectacular lateral hedge-hop and sit down bang in the middle of the beacons. And then She had to stick her tits in. Take your ape's paws off the controls!' she told me. The computer may not be as old as you—but she knows more about ship-handling than you'll ever learn in your entire, misspent life!'"
The waitress brought two fresh pots of beer. Grimes could tell by the way that she looked at Billinger that she liked him. (She knew, of course, who he was—and would assume that he, as captain of a solid gold spaceship, would be rich.)
"Thank you, dear," said Billinger. He leered up at her and she simpered sweetly down at him. She took the bank note— the Baroness had traded a handful or so of precious stones for local currency—that he handed her, began to fumble in the sequined sporran that was, apart from high-heeled sandals, her only clothing for change.
"That will be all right," said Billinger grandly.
Throwing money around like a drunken spaceman . . . thought Grimes.
"And what are you doing tonight after you close, my dear?" went on Billinger.
"If you wait around, sir, you'll find out," she promised, her simper replaced by a definitely encouraging smile.
She left the table reluctantly, her firm buttocks seeming to beckon as she moved away.
"I believe I'm on to something there," murmured Billinger. "I do. I really do. And I deserve it I've been too long confined to that space-going trinket box with bitchy Micky flaunting the body beautiful all over the whole damned ship—and making it quite plain that there was nothing doing. You can look—but you mustn't touch. That's her ladyship!"
Grimes remembered his own experiences on El Dorado. He asked, however, "What exactly is she doing out here?"
"Research. Or so she says. For her thesis for a doctorate in some damn science or other. Social Evolution In The Lost Colonies. Not that she'll find much to interest her here. Not kinky enough. Mind you, this'd be a fine world for an honest working stiff like me. . ." He stiffened abruptly. "Talk of the devil . . ."
"Of two devils . . ." corrected Grimes.
She swept into the crowded bar-room, the gleaming length of her darkly tanned legs displayed by a skirt that was little more than a wide belt of gold mesh, topped by a blouse of the same material that was practically all décolletage. Her dark-gleaming hair was still arranged in a jewel-studded coronet She was escorted by no less a person than Commander Frank Delamere. Handsome Frankie was attired for the occasion in mess full dress—spotless white linen, black and gold, a minor constellation of tinkling miniatures depending from rainbow ribbons on the left breast of his superbly cut jacket. They were no more than Good Attendance medals, Grimes well knew—but they looked impressive.
The handsome couple paused briefly at the table at which Grimes and Billinger were seated.
"Ah, Mr. Grimes . . ." said Delamere nastily.
"Captain Grimes," corrected the owner of that name.
"A civilian, courtesy title," sneered Delamere. "A . . . Port Captain."
He made it sound at least three grades lower than Spaceman, Fourth Class. (Grimes himself, come to that, had always held Port Captains in low esteem—but that was before he became one such.)
"Perhaps we should not have come here, Francis," said the Baroness.
"Why shouldn't you?" asked Grimes. "This is Liberty Hall. You can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard." He knew that he was being childish but was deriving a perverse pleasure from the exchange.
"Come, Francis," she said imperiously. "I think that I see a vacant table over there. A very good night to you, Acting Port Captain. And to . . . to you, Captain Billinger? Of course. Forgive me, but I did not recognize you in your civilian finery."
She glided away. Her rear view was no less enticing than that of the waitress had been but, nonetheless, she was the sort of woman who looked and walked like an aristocrat no matter what she was or was not wearing. Delamere, a fatuous smirk on his too regularly featured face, followed.
"A lovely dollop of trollop," muttered Grimes.
Billinger scowled. "It's all very well for you, Captain," he complained, "but I have to work for that bitch!"
"My nose fair bleeds for you," said Grimes unfeelingly.
So Delamere was a fast worker. And Delamere, as Grimes well knew, was the most notorious womanizer in the entire Survey Service. And he used women. His engagement to the very plain daughter of the Admiral Commanding Lindisfarne Base had brought him undeserved promotions. But Delamere and this El Doradan baroness? That was certainly intriguing. She was a sleek, potentially dangerous cat, not a silly kitten. Who would be using whom? Grimes, back in his quarters in the mayoral palace, lay awake in the wide bed pondering matters; in spite of the large quantities of beer he had consumed he was not sleepy. He was sorry that Mavis, the Mayor, had not come to him this night as she usually did. She was well endowed with the shrewdness essential in a successful politician and he would have liked to talk things over with her.
Delamere and the Baroness . . .
The Baroness and Delamere . . .
He wished them joy of each other.
He wished Billinger and his little blonde waitress joy of each other.
But a vague premonition kept nagging at him. Something was cooking. He wished that he knew what it was.