Read Online To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga by A. Bertram Chandler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: A. Bertram Chandler
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one thing I wouldn’t sell if I were offered the services of the finest Gunnery Officer (which you aren’t), in the whole bloody Galaxy in payment!”
“You’re beautiful when you flare up like that,” said Grimes sincerely. “But you’re always beautiful.” Then, in a louder voice, “Jane, I love you.”
“Puppy love,” she sneered. “And I’m old enough to be your . . .” A faint smile softened her mouth. “Your maiden aunt.”
“Let me finish. All right, it’s only puppy love— you say. But it’s still love. But”—he was extemporizing—convincingly, he hoped—“but my real reason for wanting to come with you is this. I can appreciate now what Captain Craven lost when Epsilon Sextans was pirated. I can see—I can feel— why he’s willing to risk his life and his career to get his revenge. And I think that it’s worth it. And I want to help him.”
She stood there, her shirt half on, eying him suspiciously. “You mean that? You really mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re a liar, Grimes.”
“No,” he said slowly. “No. Not altogether. I want to help the Old Man—and I want to help you . This piracy has convinced me that you Rim Worlders are getting the dirty end of the stick. I may not be the finest Gunnery Officer in the whole Galaxy—but I’m better acquainted with the new stuff than Captain Craven is.”
Her grin was openly derisive. “First it’s fellow-feeling for another spaceman, then it’s international politics. What next?”
“Where we started. I do love you, Jane. And if there’s going to be any shooting, I want to be on hand to do the shooting back on your behalf. I’ll admit that . . . that what’s happened has influenced my decision. But you didn’t buy me, or bribe me. Don’t think that. Don’t ever think that.” There was a note of pleading in his voice. “Be realistic, Jane. With another officer along, especially an officer with recent gunnery training, you stand a damn sight better chance than you would otherwise.”
“I . . . I suppose so. But I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to. But why look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“All right. You win. Get your clothes on and come and see the Old Man.”
11
JANE PENTECOST led Grimes to the airlock. The ship seemed oddly deserted, and he remarked on this. The girl explained that the passengers had been requested to remain in their accommodations, and that most of Delta Orionis’ personnel were employed in work aboard Epsilon Sextans.
“ So I haven’t been the only one to be kept under lock and key,” commented Grimes sardonically.
“You’re the only one,” retorted the girl, “who’s been compensated for his imprisonment.”
There was no answer to that, so the Ensign remained silent. Saying nothing, he inspected with interest the temporary tunnel that had been rigged between the airlocks of the two ships. So Epsilon Sextans’ pressure hull had been made good, her atmosphere restored. That meant that the work of installing the armament had been completed. He hoped that he would not have to insist upon modifications.
The wreck—although she was a wreck no longer—bore her scars. The worst damage had been repaired, but holes and slashes that did not impair her structural strength were untouched, and spatters of once molten metal still made crazy patterns on beams and frames, stanchions and bulkheads. And there were the scars made by Craven’s engineers—the raw, bright cicatrices of new welding.
Forward they made their way, deck after deck. The elevator in the axial shaft was not yet working, so Grimes had time and opportunity to appreciate the extent of the damage. They passed through the wreckage of the “farm”—the burst algae tanks, the ruptured vats in which yeast and tissue cultures were black and dead, frostbitten and dehydrated. They brushed through alleyways choked with the brittle fronds of creeping plants killed by the ultimate winter.
And then they
“You’re beautiful when you flare up like that,” said Grimes sincerely. “But you’re always beautiful.” Then, in a louder voice, “Jane, I love you.”
“Puppy love,” she sneered. “And I’m old enough to be your . . .” A faint smile softened her mouth. “Your maiden aunt.”
“Let me finish. All right, it’s only puppy love— you say. But it’s still love. But”—he was extemporizing—convincingly, he hoped—“but my real reason for wanting to come with you is this. I can appreciate now what Captain Craven lost when Epsilon Sextans was pirated. I can see—I can feel— why he’s willing to risk his life and his career to get his revenge. And I think that it’s worth it. And I want to help him.”
She stood there, her shirt half on, eying him suspiciously. “You mean that? You really mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re a liar, Grimes.”
“No,” he said slowly. “No. Not altogether. I want to help the Old Man—and I want to help you . This piracy has convinced me that you Rim Worlders are getting the dirty end of the stick. I may not be the finest Gunnery Officer in the whole Galaxy—but I’m better acquainted with the new stuff than Captain Craven is.”
Her grin was openly derisive. “First it’s fellow-feeling for another spaceman, then it’s international politics. What next?”
“Where we started. I do love you, Jane. And if there’s going to be any shooting, I want to be on hand to do the shooting back on your behalf. I’ll admit that . . . that what’s happened has influenced my decision. But you didn’t buy me, or bribe me. Don’t think that. Don’t ever think that.” There was a note of pleading in his voice. “Be realistic, Jane. With another officer along, especially an officer with recent gunnery training, you stand a damn sight better chance than you would otherwise.”
“I . . . I suppose so. But I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to. But why look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“All right. You win. Get your clothes on and come and see the Old Man.”
11
JANE PENTECOST led Grimes to the airlock. The ship seemed oddly deserted, and he remarked on this. The girl explained that the passengers had been requested to remain in their accommodations, and that most of Delta Orionis’ personnel were employed in work aboard Epsilon Sextans.
“ So I haven’t been the only one to be kept under lock and key,” commented Grimes sardonically.
“You’re the only one,” retorted the girl, “who’s been compensated for his imprisonment.”
There was no answer to that, so the Ensign remained silent. Saying nothing, he inspected with interest the temporary tunnel that had been rigged between the airlocks of the two ships. So Epsilon Sextans’ pressure hull had been made good, her atmosphere restored. That meant that the work of installing the armament had been completed. He hoped that he would not have to insist upon modifications.
The wreck—although she was a wreck no longer—bore her scars. The worst damage had been repaired, but holes and slashes that did not impair her structural strength were untouched, and spatters of once molten metal still made crazy patterns on beams and frames, stanchions and bulkheads. And there were the scars made by Craven’s engineers—the raw, bright cicatrices of new welding.
Forward they made their way, deck after deck. The elevator in the axial shaft was not yet working, so Grimes had time and opportunity to appreciate the extent of the damage. They passed through the wreckage of the “farm”—the burst algae tanks, the ruptured vats in which yeast and tissue cultures were black and dead, frostbitten and dehydrated. They brushed through alleyways choked with the brittle fronds of creeping plants killed by the ultimate winter.
And then they
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