Ride the Star Winds (26 page)

Perhaps—it was possible although not probable—the uneasy stirrings of a conscience.

“All right, Sergeant,” he said, “I’ll believe you—with reservations. I’m not a soldier—so you shall be my advisor. But I’ll be obliged if you’ll hand your pistol—butt first—to Captain Sanchez. No, cancel that. Keep
very
still while Captain Sanchez takes the gun from its holster . . . Good. Now you can drop your hands. . . .”

They watched him, more than half-expecting an explosion of hostile energy. But the sergeant just stood there, grinning.

He said, “You’ll not believe this, Commodore, but as a boy I used to read space stories, pirate stories especially. I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up. Now, whatever happens, I’ll be able to say that I served under one of the famous pirate captains.”

Grimes started to explain, for the thousandth time, the difference between a privateer and a pirate, then decided that he would be merely wasting his breath.

Out of earshot of the sergeant he had a few words with Wong Lee.

“Get word to the spaceport,” he said, “to Captain Agatha Prinn of the ship
Agatha’s Ark.
I can’t use the telephone; Bardon will be monitoring any calls made from here. See that Captain Prinn is told just what’s been happening since I got back. Then, as soon as she’s off this world, she can make a full report to Earth.”

“Very good, Your Excellency.”

“How many of your people can use firearms?”

“Most of them, Your Excellency.”

“How . . .? But no matter. Round up all the weapons you can and have men on the roof. That parapet is more than merely ornamental.”

Chapter 41

Grimes stood
with Su Lin on the small, railed platform that was at the highest point of the low-pitched roof. They had binoculars with them, powerful night glasses that converted infrared radiation into visible wavelengths. They swept the terrain on all sides of the Residence. Of one thing they could be certain—nothing big was out and moving, although there
were small, glowing sparks representing tiny nocturnal animals.

“How is it,” asked Grimes, “that so many of the domestic staff—if Wong Lee is to be believed—are expert in the use of weapons?”

She said, “You must have guessed by now that the Underground—or one of the many Undergrounds—has seen to it that the Governor’s personal entourage are capable of defending him should the need arise.”

“Mphm. But I thought that only full citizens of this world were allowed to own firearms.”

“Ever since firearms were invented they’ve been falling into the wrong hands. Or—in this case—the right hands. Criminals or freedom fighters have always been able to get arms. When you went a-pirating it wasn’t in an unarmed ship, was it?”

“For about the four thousandth time,” growled Grimes, “I was a privateer, not a pirate.”

“Sorry.” The laugh following the word indicated that she wasn’t.

Grimes broke the short silence.

“Isn’t it time,” he asked, “that I was put into the picture? After all, should things come entirely unstuck who’ll have to carry the can back? Me, that’s who.”

“Too right,” she said, in an imitation of an Australian accent. “But I agree. You have been kept in the dark—by everybody, from Admiral Damien on down. Liberia is on the point of blowing up. Not only is there the OAP but there are the secret organizations of the various refugees. The aim of PAT is that it shall be a
controlled
explosion. We may be People Against Tyranny—but we are also against Anarchy, using the word in its very worst sense, against mob rule and mindless violence. One of our requirements was a Governor who could stand as a figurehead for the rebels and who would recognize whatever sort of government is formed after the revolution.

“We had our doubts about your predecessor. He was a good man, but rather lacking in glamour. But you are a glamorous figure.”

“Who? Me?”

“Yes. The people will rally behind a famous pirate, a man who was a pirate for the very best of motives. . . .”

“Mphm. Well, Su Lin, where do we go from here? What happens next?”

“Bardon sends a detachment here to arrest you. That will be the signal for rioting to break out in the city, for risings on many of the big estates and plantations. . . .”

“And if the detachment Bardon sends,” said Grimes, “is a really powerful one, with hovertanks and aircraft, we stand a very good chance of winding up very dead.”

“Bardon and O’Higgins want you alive, so that you can stand trial for your crimes. And then they’ll crucify you. No, not literally. But you’ll be crucified, all right. Deported to Earth in disgrace together with a curt note from the President. ‘Please do not send us any more criminals as Governors.’ But, of course, they will have to arrest you first. . . .”

Sanchez came up to the lookout point. Grimes handed him his night glasses and then, with Su Lin, went down to his quarters. He sent for Sergeant Martello. The big man soon made his appearance, escorted by two machine-pistol-toting chefs. He drew himself to stiff attention.

“Commodore, sir!”

“Sit down, Sergeant. And that’ll do the rest of you. Oh, Su Lin, will you organize tea for us? Good. . . .”

“You sent for me, sir?” said Martello.

“Obviously, I want your expert advice. I know, of course, what forces the good colonel has at his disposal
on paper.
What’s the situation in actual practice?”

“If any hostile power from outside tried to invade this world, sir, they could take it with an armed space tug and a platoon of Boy Scouts. One of the things that sickened me was the way in which equipment has been allowed to deteriorate. I was in charge of the maintenance of armored vehicles at the barracks—and I made such a nuisance of myself trying to get people to do their jobs properly that I was shifted to the Residence Guard, just to get me out of the way. It’d take all of a week to get the hover-tanks in order for any sort of real action. The wheeled vehicles, the armored cars, are in slightly better nick, but they’re only lightly armed.”

“Aircraft?” asked Grimes.

“Flattery’s ship was damaged after that collision with yours. I don’t think that anybody has gotten around to starting repairs yet. There’s another dirigible but, the last I heard, all the helium cells were leaking badly. Three ex-Survey Service pinnaces, I suppose you’d call them. Inertial drive jobs. Light armament. Half a dozen little helicopters. . . .”

And I’ve a pinnace of my own,
thought Grimes.
And a near-wreck of a helicopter. And, of course, Raoul’s little flitterbug. . . .

He asked, “If you were Colonel Bardon, Sergeant, what would you do?”

“Bardon,” said Martello, “has always liked making arrests in the middle of the night or in the small hours of the morning. The same applies to the civil—if you can call those bastards civil!—police. But they’ve been arresting people who weren’t expecting it. And they haven’t had to be rounded up from the nightspots to go on duty.

“Believe me or don’t believe me as you please, Commodore, but I think that the attempted arrest will be in the morning—and not too early in the morning, either. The approach, I think, will be made by road. Bardon was involved in a minor crash once and he’s scared of flying. He’ll not be expecting any armed resistance except that from you, your pilot and, possibly, Miss Su Lin. . . .” He looked admiringly at the girl, who had just come in with a tea tray. “However did you organize all the Residence Chinks, miss, right under our noses? I can see by the way they’re handling their guns that they know how to use them.”

She smiled coldly. “I suppose that I should thank you for the implied compliment, Sergeant. But in China, many, many years ago, there used to be a saying. Horseshoes are made from inferior iron—and soldiers from inferior men.”

Amazingly Martello did not take offense. He laughed. “That certainly applies to Bardon and most of his officers!”

But not to the enlisted men?
wondered Grimes, but said nothing.

He sipped his tea. So did the sergeant and Su Lin.

He said, “Since it doesn’t seem that anything is going to happen tonight—what’s left of it—I’ll get my head down. You know where to find me if you want me.”

He got from his chair, walked through to his bedroom.

He heard Martello whisper to the girl. “He’s a cool customer, the Commodore. We could do with a few like him in the Army. . . .”

Nonetheless he was a long time getting to sleep. He was hoping that Su Lin would join him. But she, he reproached himself, would be doing all the work while he caught up on his rest.

Chapter 42

Grimes should have given orders
that the prisoners be thoroughly searched before they were locked in a storeroom. He was awakened, shortly before sunrise, by the unmistakable clatter of an inertial drive unit. His first thought was that Bardon had mounted an attack by air after all, especially as there was also the rattle of automatic fire. Snatching the borrowed Minetti from his bedside table, pausing briefly to throw a light robe about himself, he ran into his sitting room, stared out through the wide window. He could see people on the lawn, could see the muzzle flashes of the guns that they were firing upwards. The noise of the inertial drive diminished. So the pinnace—as he assumed that it was—had been driven away.

He decided that it would be better if he stayed in one place rather than go running around, making inquiries. He collected his pipe and tobacco from the bedroom, went into his office and sat down behind the big desk. He had succeeded in establishing his personal smokescreen when Su Lin and Sanchez came in.

He grinned at them.

“So you repelled boarders,” he said.

They did not grin back.

“We failed,” said the girl, “to prevent the prisoners from escaping.”

“They were only a liability,” said Grimes.

“But they escaped in the pinnace,” Sanchez told him.
“Our
pinnace. Worse—before they left they made sure that the two helicopters will never fly again.”

“Who let them out?” demanded Grimes. “Martello? I was a fool to have trusted him.”

“Come in, Sergeant!” called Su Lin, turning to face the open door into the living room.

Martello entered.

“It was my fault, sir,” he admitted.

“So you released your cobbers.”

“No cobbers of mine, Commodore. But I should have remembered that Levine was a professional thief before he joined the Army. Yes—and after. Burglar Levine they call him. He used to boast that he could pick any lock ever made. . . .”

“And now you tell me.” He turned to Su Lin. “Any of our people hurt?”

“None badly. Two sentries knocked out, but they’re recovering.”

“So it could have been worse.”

“But our aircraft, sir! We don’t have any aircraft now!”

“And so what, Raoul?” asked Grimes. “What could we do with them if they were still operational?”

“They’d give us a chance to escape from here.”

“All
of us, Raoul? All the Residence staff? Cooks and gardeners and maids and scullions and . . . and . . . I’m surprised at you. What about the tradition that the captain should be the last to leave the sinking ship?”

Sanchez flushed ashamedly.

“It’s just that, even now, I can’t think of the refugees as being part of the revolution.”

“But they are,” said Su Lin. “And they’ve far more to rebel about than you romantic Original Anarchists.”

Grimes got to his feet.

“Since I’m up,” he said, “I might as well stay up. I’d like breakfast, Su Lin, in half an hour’s time. But let me know if there’s any sign of an attack.”

After the others left his quarters he went through to his bathroom.

Chapter 43

There was a uniform
that he had brought with him in his luggage—his own uniform, that of a Far Traveler Couriers captain. If there was any fighting to be done he would prefer to do it properly attired. So he dressed himself in the slate-gray shorts, shirt and long socks, flicked a few specks of dust off his gold-braided shoulderboards. He contrived a belt from a dressing gown sash, thrust the borrowed automatic pistol into it. He walked into his sitting room just as Su Lin entered with a laden tray.

“No morning paper?” he asked severely.

She looked him up and down with amused approval. She said, “Something seems to have gone wrong with the delivery, Commodore.”

“I wonder what?”

He sat down to enjoy his meal. (The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast?) Su Lin sat down to talk to him, sipping coffee from her own cup.

“All quiet,” she said. “Too quiet. The telephone’s dead. On the credit side, there’s no sign of any air activity. Back to the debit side—I’d have been expecting that there’d have been rioting in the city by now.”

“How would we know if there was any rioting?”

“There would be fires, explosions. All I can think of is that the various rebel factions are waiting to see which way the cat will jump. And there are so many rebel factions. The OAP and all the planetary organizations. The Texans, for example, would be quite happy to see the New Cantonese pulling the hot chestnuts out of the fire from them.”

“And everybody would like to use me as a cat’s paw.”

“We’re here with you, Grimes. Raoul, and all the New Cantonese, and even Sergeant Martello.”

“I still can’t make him out.”

“It’s simple. He just hates Bardon, is all. He had his rackets, as do all the Terran troops on Liberia. He was poaching on Bardon’s preserves. Bardon became the heavy colonel and put a stop to the sergeant’s little games. And then, when Bardon, during that telephone conversation, made it plain that he didn’t give a damn about the safety of his own people in the Residence, that was it.”

“So all his other talk, about playing at pirates and the rest of it, was just so much bullshit.”

“Mm. Maybe. Maybe not. . . .”

Sanchez came in.

He, too, was in his own version of uniform—the faded blue denims, the scarlet neckerchief.

“Armored cars, Commodore,” he announced. “Approaching from the city.”

“ETA?” asked Grimes.

“Thirty minutes from now, sir.”

“Good.” Grimes broke another crisp roll, buttered it and then thickly spread the exposed surfaces with marmalade. “Then I’ve time to finish my breakfast in comfort.”