The next day was a heavy one for Grimes. There were, as yet, no Lloyd's Surveyors on Botany Bay; nonetheless The Far Traveler was required to have a fresh Certificate of Spaceworthiness issued to her before she could lift from the surface of the planet. Of course, the Baroness could depart without such documentation if she so wished— but without it her ship would not be covered by the underwriters. And she was, for all her title and air of elegant decadence, a shrewd businesswoman.
She called Grimes to her presence. The robot butler ushered him into the lady's boudoir where she, flimsily clad as usual, was seated at her beautiful, fragile-seeming, pseudo-antique desk. She was wearing the heavy-rimmed spectacles again, was studying a thick, important-looking book.
"Ah, good morning, Acting Port Captain . . . Now, this matter of insurance . . . As you already know, Commander Delamere's artificers were obliged to pierce my hull to fit the towing lugs. Today they are making the damage good as required by the contract After these repairs have been completed a survey must be carried out."
"By whom, Your Excellency?" asked Grimes.
"By you, of course, Port Captain. You will receive the usual fee."
"But I'm not a surveyor . . ."
"You are the Port Captain." A slim index finger tipped with a long, gold-enameled nail stabbed down at the open pages. "Listen. On planets where Lloyds maintain neither offices, agents nor surveyors Lloyd's Certificates may be endorsed or issued by such planetary officials as are deemed competent by the Corporation to carry out such functions. Port Captains, Port Engineers, etc., etc . . . . Commanding officers of vessels or bases of the Interstellar Federation's Survey Service. . ." She smiled briefly. "I have no intention of paying a surveyor's fee to your friend Commander Delamere. In any case, as his people are making the repairs he is ruled out." She read more. "Commanding officers of vessels or bases of the Imperial Navy of Waverley. No, I'm not going to wait around until that Waverley cruiser—Robert Bruce, isn't it?—condescends to drop in. So . . ."
"So I'm it," said Grimes.
"Elegantly expressed, Acting Port Captain. But I suggest that you accept guidance from the computer. After all, she is the ship's brain. She is the ship—just as your intelligence is you—and is fully capable of self diagnosis."
"Mphm," grunted Grimes. He wanted to pull his vile pipe out of his pocket, to fill it and light it, but knew that to ask permission so to do would bring a rebuff. He said, "So you need a Lloyd's Surveyor as much—or as little—as you need a captain."
She said, "I need neither—but Lloyd's of London insist that I must have both. And now may I suggest that you get on with your surveying?"
Bitch, thought Grimes. Rich bitch. Rich, spoiled bitch. He said, "Very well, Your Excellency," bowed stiffly and left her presence.
The humanoid robot in butler's livery led him to the elevator. The upward ride was such a short one that it would have been far less trouble to have used the spiral staircase that ornately entwined the axial shaft. Billinger was waiting in his own quarters for Grimes.
The yachtmaster was not uncomfortably housed; masters of Alpha Class liners or captains of Zodiac Class cruisers would not have complained about such accommodation. The keynote was one of masculine luxury—deep armchairs upholstered in genuine black leather, a low, glass-topped coffee table standing on sturdy, ebony legs, bookshelves all along one bulkhead, well stocked with volumes in gilt and maroon leather bindings, a gold and ebony liquor cabinet, a huge playmaster encased in gold-trimmed paneling of the same expensive timber. Holograms glowed on the other bulkheads— bright windows looking out on seascapes and mountainscapes and, inevitably, an Arcadian beach scene with the inevitable sun-bronzed, sun-bleached blonde in the foreground."
"She does you well, Captain," commented Grimes.
"Careful, Captain," said Billinger. "Big Sister is watching. And listening." He gestured toward the playmaster, the screen of which seemed to be dead, "Coffee?"
"Please."
Almost immediately a girl, a stewardess, came in, carrying a tray. It was a golden tray, of course, with golden coffee pot, cream Jug and sugar bowl, gold-chased china. And the girl was also golden, wearing a short-skirted black uniform over a perfectly proportioned body that gleamed metallically.
She set the tray on the table, lifted the pot and poured. "Sugar, sir?" she asked. "Cream?"
The mechanical quality of her golden voice was barely discernible.
"Quite a work of art," remarked Grimes when she was gone.
I'd sooner have something less good-looking in soft plastic," said Billinger coarsely. "But I've been making up for lost time on this world! Too bloody right—as the natives say—I have!"
"Big Sister. . ." murmured Grimes, looking meaningfully toward the playmaster.
"So what?" demanded Billinger belligerently. "I'm human, not a mess of printed circuits and fluctuating fields. It took humans to handle the raising of Vega, not the bastard offspring of an electronic calculator and a library bank!"
"The first time, Captain Billinger," said a cold, mechanical yet somehow feminine voice from the playmaster. "But should a set of similar circumstances arise in the future I shall be quite capable of handling operations myself."
"Big Sister?" asked Grimes.
"In person," growled Billinger. "Singing and dancing."
"For your information, gentlemen," went on the voice, "the artificers from the destroyer have now commenced work on my stern. I would have preferred to carry out the work with my own GP robots but Her Excellency maintained that Commander Delamere must adhere to the terms of the contract. Be assured, however, that I am keeping the workmen under close observation and shall not tolerate any shoddy workmanship."
"Even so," said Grimes, "we had better go down and see what's happening."
"That will not be necessary, Acting Port Captain. I shall not lift from this planet until I am completely satisfied as to my spaceworthiness."
"I shall be signing the certificate, not you," said Grimes harshly.
He drained his cup—he would have liked more of that excellent coffee but this uppity robot was spoiling his enjoyment of it—put it back on the table with a decisive clatter, got to his feet
"Coming, Billinger?" he asked.
"Yes," said the yachtmaster.
The two men made their way to the axial shaft, to the waiting elevator, and made a swift descent to the after airlock.
Vega's technicians were working under one of the destroyer's engineer lieutenants. This officer turned his head as Grimes and Billinger came down the ramp, straightened up reluctantly and accorded them a surly salute. He knew Grimes, of course, and like all of Vega's personnel blamed him for what had happened to that ship. He did not know Billinger, nor did he much want to.
Grimes watched the artificers at work. Scaffolding had been erected under The Far Traveler's stern, a light but strong framework of aluminum rods and plates. Power cables snaked over the trampled grass from the destroyer to the equipment in use. That seemed odd. Surely it would have been less trouble to use the output from the yacht's generators for the drilling, cutting and welding. He said as much to Billinger.
The engineer overheard. He said bitterly, "She wouldn't allow it. ."
"The Baroness?" asked Grimes.
"No. Not her. It's not her voice that's doing all the yapping. Some other . . . lady. He raised his own voice an octave in not very convincing mimicry. " 'Why should I supply the power to repair the damage that you have done to me? Why should I wear out my generators?'" He paused. "And that's not the worst of it. She hasn't actually showed herself but she must have spy eyes planted, and concealed speakers. Nag, nag, nag . . ."
The voice came from nowhere, everywhere. Grimes had heard it before, in Billinger's cabin. "Careful, you men. Careful. I'm not some duty great battleship that you're patching up. I take pride in my appearance, even if you take none in yours. I shall expect that scratch filled and then buffed to a mirror finish."
"Who the hell is she?" demanded the lieutenant
"Big Sister," Billinger told him, his voice smug and almost happy.
"Big Sister? She sounds more like some wives I've heard."
"Not mine," said Billinger. "Not mine. Not that I've ever had one—but when I do she'll not be like that."
"They never are," said the other philosophically, "until after you've married them."
"Captain Billinger, may I suggest that you abandon this futile discussion and take some interest in the repairs? And Mr. Verity, please supervise the activities of those ham-handed apes of yours. I distinctly said that each plug must be machined to a tolerance of one micromillimeter or less. I will not accept ugly cracks filled in with clumsy welding."
"It's all very well," expostulated the engineer, "but we don't carry a stock of that fancy gold your ship is built from. We could use ordinary gold—but you've already said that that won't do."
"And what happened to the metal that your men drilled out?"
"There were . . . losses. There are always losses."
And how many of Vega's mechanics, wondered Grimes, will be giving pretty little trinkets to their popsies back on Lindisfarne?
"Very well," said the voice of the computer-pilot. "I shall supply you with gold. Please wait at the foot of the ramp."
The men waited. A female figure appeared in the after airlock and then walked gracefully down the gangway. It was Billinger's robot stewardess. The spacemen whistled wolfishly until, suddenly, they realized that she was not human. One of them muttered, "Be a bleeding shame to melt her down. . ."
She was carrying a golden tray and on it a teapot of the same metal, a milk jug and a sugar bowl. Wordlessly she handed these to one of the artificers.
"My tea service!" exclaimed Billinger.
"Nothing aboard me is yours, Captain," Big Sister told him. "As long as you are employed you are allowed the use of certain equipment."
"What is all this?" asked the engineer.
"Just do as she says," muttered Billinger. "Melt down my teapot and make it snappy. Otherwise she'll be having the buttons and braid off my uniform . . ."
Grimes wandered away. The atmosphere around 4he stern of the yacht was becoming heavily charged with acrimony and he was, essentially, a peace-loving man. He was careful not to walk too close to the towering Vega. He had no reason to like that ship and, most certainly, her captain did not like him. He sensed that he was being watched. He looked up but could see nothing but the reflection of the morning sun from the control room viewports—yet he could imagine Delamere there, observing his every move through high-powered binoculars.
"Port Captain! Hey! Port Captain!"
Grimes sighed. There was a small crowd of pestilential cricketers under the destroyer's quarter. What were the police doing? They were supposed to be keeping the field clear of demonstrators. But these men, he saw with some relief, were carrying neither flags nor placards although they were attired in the white uniform of their sport. He walked slowly to where they were standing.
"Wotcher doin' about this, Port Captain?" asked their leader. It was the man whom Mavis had identified as a police sergeant
This was the too deep furrows that had been gouged in the turf by the stern vanes of the destroyer during the lifting operation.
Grimes looked at the ugly wounds in the skin of the planet They were minor ravines rather than mere trenches. The sportsmen looked at him.
He said, "These will have to be filled . . ."
"Who by, Port Captain, who by? Tell us that"
"The groundsmen, I suppose . . ."
"Not bloody likely. You Terries did it. You can bloody well undo it An' the sooner the bloody better."
"The sooner they're off our world the better," growled one of the other men.
"Mphm," grunted Grimes. He, too, was beginning to think that the sooner he was off this world the better. He was the outsider who, by his coming, had jolted Botany Bay out of its comfortable rut He had friends, good friends, the Lady Mayor and those in her immediate entourage—and that was resented by many. This same resentment might easily cost Mavis the next election.
"Wotcher doin' about it?" demanded again the bearded policeman.
I'll see Commander Delamere," promised Grimes, "and ask him to put his crew to work filling these . . . holes."
"Ask him, Port Captain? You'll bloody tell him."
"All right," said Grimes. I'll tell him."
He walked away from the glowering men. He paused briefly at the foot of Vega's ramp, looked up at the smartly uniformed Marine on gangway duty in the airlock. The man looked down at him. His expression was hostile. I'd better not go aboard, thought Grimes. I'll call Vega from my office. He carried on to the grandstand, made his way up the steps to the shed that was grandiosely labelled SPACEPORT ADMINISTRATION.
He accepted the cup of tea that Shirley poured for him, went to the telephone and punched the number that had been alloted to Vega. The screen lit up and the face of a bored looking junior officer appeared. "FSS Vega."
"Port Captain here. Could I speak to Commander Delamere?"
I'll put you through to the control room, sir."
The screen flickered, went blank, lit up again. Delamere's face looked out from it. "Yes, Grimes? What do you want? Make it snappy; I'm busy."
"The local cricket club is concerned about the damage to their field."
"And what am I supposed to do about it?"
"Send some men down with shovels to fill the gashes your stern vanes cut in the turf."
"My men are spacemen, not gardeners."
"Even so, the damage has to be made good, Delamere."
"Not by me it won't be, Grimes. You're supposed to be the Port Captain and this bloody Oval is supposed to be the spaceport. Its maintenance is your concern."
"The maintenance of friendly relations with the natives of any world is the concern of any Survey Service commanding officer. Sending your crew to fill in the holes comes under that heading."
"You did that damage, Grimes, by your mishandling of the raising operation. If it's beneath your dignity to take a shovel in your own hands I suggest that you ask your new girlfriend for the loan of a few of her GP robots."
"My new girlfriend? I thought . . ."
Delamere scowled. "Then think again! You're welcome to the bitch, Grimes!"
The screen went blank.
Grimes couldn't help laughing. So here at last was a woman impervious to Handsome Frankie's charms. And Delamere, being Delamere, would automatically blame Grimes for his lack of success. Meanwhile—just what was the legal situation regarding the damage to the turf?
Grimes stopped laughing. It looked very much as though he would be left holding the baby.