Two mornings later he found out.
Billinger, his face almost as purple as the cloth of his gaudy uniform, stormed into Grimes' little office atop the grandstand just as he was settling down to his morning tea, freshly brewed by Shirley who, by now, was working for him as much as for the Mayor, and hot buttered scones liberally spread with jam.
"This is too much!" yelled The Far Traveler's captain.
Grimes blinked, thinking at first that the other was referring to the matutinal snack. But this was unlikely, he realized. "Calm down, calm down," he soothed. "Take a pew. Have a cuppa. And a scone . . ."
"Calm down, you say? How would you feel in my shoes? I was engaged as a yachtmaster, not a tugmaster. I should have been consulted. But she, as per bloody usual, has gone over my head!"
"What is all this about?" demanded Grimes.
"You mean that you don't know either, Captain?"
"No. Sit down, have some tea and tell me all about it Shirley—a mug for Captain Billinger, please."
"She," said Billinger after a tranquilizing sip, "is rolling in money—but that doesn't inhibit her from grabbing every chance to make more of the filthy stuff. She has signed a contract with your pal Delamere, engaging to raise Vega to liftoff position. She just happened to mention it to me, casual like."
"You're not a tugmaster," agreed Grimes, "and a space-yacht is certainly not a tug. Looks to me as though she's bitten off more than she—or you—can chew."
"Maybe not," said Billinger slowly, "maybe not She's a powerful little brute—The Far Traveler, I mean. She's engines in her that wouldn't be out of place in a battleship. But I should have been consulted."'
"So should I," said Grimes. "So should I. After all, this is my spaceport, such as it is." And then, more to himself than to the other, "But Frankie won't be too popular, signing away a large hunk of the taxpayers' money when the Survey Service's own tugs are well on the way to here."
"They're not," said Billinger. "It seems that there's been some indefinite delay. Delamere got a Carlottigram about it Or so she says."
"And so Frankie keeps his jets clear," murmured Grimes in a disappointed voice. "He would."
And just how would this affect him? he wondered. Vega lying helplessly on her side was one thing, Vega restored to the perpendicular, to the lift-off position, would be an altogether different and definitely dangerous kettle of fish. Even should her drives, inertial and reaction, require adjustments or repairs she would be able to deploy her quite considerable weaponry—her automatic cannon, missile launchers and lasers. The city of Paddington would lay at her mercy. And then?
An ultimatum to the Mayor?
Deliver the deserter, ex-Commander Grimes, to Federation Survey Service custody so that he may be carried to Lindisfarne Base to stand trial—or else?
Grimes shrugged away his apprehensions. Handsome Frankie wouldn't dare. Botany Bay was almost in the backyard of the Empire of Waverley and, thanks to certain of Discovery's technicians, now possessed its own deep-space radio equipment, the Time-Space-twisting Carlotti communications and direction-finding system. A squeal to the Emperor—who'd been getting far too uppish of late—and Imperial Navy cruisers would be piling on the lumes to this sector of space. There would be all the makings of a nasty interstellar incident with Frankie having to carry the can back. And, in any case, H.I.M.S. Robert Bruce was already en route to Botany Bay to show the Thistle Flag. But what was Billinger saying?
" . . . interesting problem, all the same. It wouldn't be so bad if she'd let me handle it But not her. It'll either be that bloody computer or that popinjay of an FSS commander, or the pair of 'em working in collusion. With her sticking her tits into everything, as always."
"And, of course," Grimes pointed out just to cheer him up, "you, as master, will be legally responsible if anything goes wrong."
"Don't I know it! For two pins I'd resign. I'd be quite happy waiting here for another ship to come along; after all, I've a pile of credits due in back pay." He got to his feet "Oh, well, I suppose I'd better get back to my noble vessel to see what else has been cooked up in my absence."
"I'll come with you," said Grimes.
The pair of them stood in the Baroness' boudoir like two schoolboys summoned before a harsh headmistress. She did not ask them to sit down. And she, herself, was not reclining decoratively on her chaise longue but seated at a secretaire, a gracefully designed desk—excellent reproduction or genuine antique?—with rich ormolu decoration. It must be, thought Grimes, a reproduction. His mind was a repository for scraps of useless knowledge and he remembered that the original ormolu had been brass imitating gold. Only the genuine precious metal would do for the Baroness.
She looked up from the papers before her. A pair of heavy, old-fashioned spectacles, black-framed, went oddly with her filmy gown—but somehow suited her. She said, "Captain Billinger, I believe that you, as master, are required to affix your signature to this document, this contract I, as owner, have-already signed."
Sulkily Billinger went to stand by the ornate desk, produced a stylus from the breast pocket of his uniform, bent to scribble his name.
"And Port Captain Grimes . . . I understand that I should ask your permission to engage in towage—if that is the correct word—within the spaceport limits."
"That is so, Your Excellency," said Grimes.
"I assume that the permission is granted."
Grimes was tempted to say no but decided against it. Commander Delamere represented the Survey Service and the Baroness d'Estang represented El Dorado, with its vast wealth and influence. There are times—and this was one of them— when it is futile to fart against thunder.
He said, "Yes."
"Good. No doubt you gentlemen feel that you are entitled to be apprised as to what has been arranged between Commander Delamere and myself. The commander will supply the towing wires from his stores. It will be necessary to pierce The Far Traveler's shell plating about the stern to secure the towing lugs. I am informed that the welding of steel onto gold is impracticable—and, of course, the modified gold that was used to build the ship on Electra is unobtainable here. Commander Delamere assures me, however, that his artificers will be able to make good the hull after the job has been completed. All dust and shavings will be carefully collected and melted down to plug the holes." She turned in her chair to address Billinger. "All relevant data has been fed into the computer." She permitted herself a smile. "You will be pleased to learn, Captain, that she does not feel herself competent to undertake what is, in effect, salvage work. Her programmers back on Electra did not envisage any circumstances such as those that have arisen now." She looked positively happy. "The guarantee has not yet expired, so I shall be entitled to considerable financial redress from Electronics and Astronautics, Incorporated." She paused, looked quizzically at Grimes, the heavy spectacles making her look like a schoolmistress condescending to share a joke with one of her pupils. "Commander Delamere did suggest that he assume temporary command of my ship during the operation but I decided not to avail myself of his kind offer."
She's shrewd, thought Grimes. She's got him weighed up.
She turned again to Billinger. "You are the master, Captain. I am paying you a handsome salary. I expect you to begin earning it And I am sure that Port Captain Grimes will be willing to oversee the entire exercise from the ground."
"I shall be pleased to, Your Excellency," said Grimes.
"Your pleasure," she told him, "is of little consequence. After all, this is your spaceport, even though it is normally used for archaic Australian religious rites. Thank you, gentlemen."
They were dismissed.