Read Online To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga by A. Bertram Chandler - Free Book Online

fight his ship if those frigates pounce again?”
    “He thinks he’ll be able to manage—with remote controls for every weapon brought to his main control panel.”
    “Possible,” admitted Grimes, his professional interest stirred. “But not very efficient. In a naval action the Captain has his hands full just handling the ship alone, without trying to control her weaponry.”
    “And you’d know, of course.”
    “Yes.”
    “Yes, you’ve read the books. And Captain Craven commanded a light cruiser during that trouble with the Dring, so he knows nothing.”
    “He still hasn’t got four hands and two heads.”
    “Oh, let’s stop talking rubbish,” she cried. “I probably shan’t see you again, John and . . . and . . . oh, hell, I want to say goodbye properly, and I don’t want you to think too badly about either the Old Man or . . . or myself.”
    “So what are we supposed to do about it?”
    “Damn you, Grimes, you snotty-nosed, stuck-up spacepuppy! Look after yourself!”
    Suddenly she bent down to kiss him. It was intended to be no more than a light brushing of lips, but Grimes was suddenly aware, with his entire body, of the closeness of her, of the warmth and the scent of her, and almost without volition his arms went about her, drawing her closer still to him. She tried to break away, but it was only a halfhearted effort. He heard her murmur, in an odd, sardonic whisper, “wotthehell, wotthehell,” and then, “toujours gai.” It made no sense at the time but, years later, when he made the acquaintance of the Twentieth Century poets, he was to remember and to understand. What was important now was that her own arms were about him.
    Somehow the buttons of her uniform shirt had come undone, and her nipples were taut against Grimes’ bare chest. Somehow her shorts had been peeled away from her hips—unzippered by whom? and how?—and somehow Grimes’ own garments were no longer the last barrier between them.
    He was familiar enough with female nudity; he was one of the great majority who frequented the naked beaches in preference to those upon which bathing costumes were compulsory. He knew what a naked woman looked like—but this was different. It was not the first time that he had kissed a woman—but it was the first time that he had kissed, and been kissed by, an unclothed one. It was the first time that he had been alone with one.
    What was happening he had read about often enough—and, like most young men, he had seen his share of pornographic films. But this was different. This was happening to him.
    And for the first time.
    When it was over, when, still clasped in each others’ arms they drifted in the center of the little cabin, impelled there by some odd resultant of forces, their discarded clothing drifting with them, veiling their perspiration-moist bodies, Grimes was reluctant to let her go.
    Gently, Jane tried to disengage herself.
    She whispered, “That was a warmer goodbye that I intended. But I’m not sorry. No. I’m not sorry . . . .”
    Then, barely audibly, “It was the first time for you, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I’m all the more glad it happened. But this is goodbye.”
    “No.”
    “Don’t be a fool, John. You can’t keep me here.”
    “But I can come with you.”
    She pushed him from her. Somehow he landed back on the bed. Before he could bounce he automatically snapped one of the confining straps about his middle. Somehow—she was still wearing her sandals but nothing else—she finished up standing on the deck, held there by the contact between the magnetic soles and the ferrous fibers in the padding. She put out a long, graceful arm and caught her shirt. She said harshly, “I’m getting dressed and out of here. You stay put. Damn you, Grimes, for thinking that I was trying to lure you aboard the Sexy Eppy with the body beautiful. I told you before that I am not, repeat not, Olga Popovsky, the Beautiful Spy. And I’m not a prostitute. There’s