Ride the Star Winds (33 page)

Meanwhile Darleen was disposing of her own adversary by more orthodox means, using fists only. It was a classical knock-out.

So it went on. Some bouts were ludicrously short, others gave better value for the customers’ money. Some challengers limped out of the arena under their own steam, others had to be carried off.

Brasidus was highly amused. “These wenches,” he said, “would make a better showing in a fight than the Lady Ellena’s Amazon Guards. But I suppose that unarmed combat is all that they’re good at.”

“Not so,” said Grimes. “Their real specialty is throwing weapons. With them they’re lethal.”

“You seem to know a lot about the people of New Alice,” Maggie said. “Have you ever been there?”

“No,” he told her. “I . . . I met some of them once, on another planet.” (Perhaps someday he would tell her of his misadventures on New Venusberg. Had it not been for the inhibiting influence of Eldoradan investors in the more dubious entertainments available on the pleasure planet the galactic media would have given him and Fenella Pruin more than their fair share of notoriety. As it was, hardly anybody knew what had happened and the part that Grimes had played.)

“Javelins?” asked Brasidus, his mind still on weaponry.

“Not quite. For throwing spears they use something called a
woomera
, a throwing stick, which they use like a sling. It gives the spears extra range. But their most spectacular weapon is the boomerang . . . .”

“And what is that, John?”

Before Grimes could reply the voice of the announcer boomed over the auditorium.

“And now, citizens, the two wonder women from New Alice, the splendiferous Shirl and the delicious Darleen, will entertain you with an exhibition of the art of boomerang throwing. The boomerang is a weapon developed on their native world in Stone Age days, millennia before there were such things as computers and yet employing and utilizing the most subtle principles of modem aerodynamics . . . .”

“The boomerang was developed on Earth, long before New Alice was ever dreamed of,” whispered Grimes indignantly.

All the lights came on and the auditorium was now as brightly illumined as the arena itself. Shirl and Darleen stood in the center of the ring, their naked bodies gleaming in the harsh glare. Despite their participation in twelve boxing bouts their skins were unmarked. Slowly they scanned the audience. At one time Grimes thought they were looking straight at him but they gave no sign of recognition. But, of course, they would not be expecting to see him here. After the show he would go around to the stage door, or whatever it was called, to give the girls a big surprise.

Two of the pseudo Amazons came onto the arena, each carrying a small bundle of wooden boomerangs. There were big ones, and some not so big, and little ones. They were decorated with bands of bright paint—white and blue and scarlet.

The attendants bowed to Shirl and Darleen and then strode away. There was the obligatory roll of drums. Shirl picked up a half-dozen of the little boomerangs from the sand. She handed the first one to Darleen, who threw it from her. Then the second one, then the third, then the fourth, and the fifth and the sixth. It was a dazzling display of juggling with never less than five of the things in the air at the same time, each one terminating its short, circular flight in Darleen’s right hand just after the launching of another, resting there only briefly before being relaunched itself. And then the flight pattern was changed and it was Shirl who was catching, one by one, all six of the boomerangs, catching and throwing time after time again. Another half-dozen of the boomerangs came into play and Shirl and Darleen widened the distance between themselves, a boomerang-juggling duo.

Finally each of the things was thrown so that they came to rest in the center of the arena, forming a pile that could not have been neater had it been stacked by hand.

There was the big boomerang flung by Shirl (or was it Darleen? Grimes still had trouble distinguishing one from the other) that made several orbits of the main overhead light, like a misshapen planet about its primary, before returning to its thrower’s hand. There were the medium-sized ones that were sent whirling over the heads of the audience, too high for any rash person to try to catch one at the risk of losing a finger or two. Most of these were directed to the vicinity of where Fenella Putin was sitting amidst her recording apparatus.

At last the girls decided that they had given her enough of a show and turned to face that part of the auditorium where the Archon’s party was sitting. They scanned the faces of the audience and then they were looking directly at Grimes. They held a whispered consultation, then looked at him again. So they had recognized him. So he would not be able to surprise them in their dressing room when the show was over. It was rather a pity. He shrugged.

Shirl (or was it Darleen?) picked up one of the medium-sized boomerangs. She looked at Grimes. He looked at her. He raised a hand in a gesture of greeting. Both girls ignored it. Shirl assumed the thrower’s stance. Her right arm was a blur of motion—and then the boomerang was coming straight at Grimes, the rapidity of its rotation about its short axis making it almost invisible. He tried to duck but he was jammed in between Maggie and Jason and unable to move.

There was a sudden rattle of automatic pistol fire; Paulus had pulled his vicious little Minetti from a side pocket. The boomerang disintegrated in mid-flight, its shredded splinters falling harmlessly onto the people in the front row. There were shouts and screams. There were two of the pseudo-Amazon usherettes making their hasty way to the scene of the disturbance—and they were not so pseudo after all; each was holding a pistol, a stungun but a weapon nonetheless and lethal when set to full intensity. Jason had his pistol out now and he and the other bodyguard were both standing, pointing their Minettis at the approaching Amazons.

“Put them down, you fools!” roared Brasidus.

Grimes hoped that they would have enough sense to realize that he meant the guns, not the chuckers-out.

The stunguns buzzed. They had been set at very low intensity, not even causing temporary paralysis but inducing a dazed grogginess. The two Amazons were joined by four more strapping, uniformed wenches and the Archon’s party was dragged ignominiously to the manager’s office.

Ironic applause accompanied their forced departure from the auditorium.

Chapter 8

Aristotle was a fat man,
bald, piggy-eyed, clad in a white robe similar to those worn by the professional classes, soiled down the front by dropped cigar ash and liquor spillage. He was smoking a cigar now, speaking around it as he addressed the prisoners who stood before his wide, littered desk, supported by the Amazon usherettes.

“You . . .” he snarled. “You . . . Offworlders by the look of you . . . At an entertainment such as mine some riotous behavior is tolerated, but not riotous behavior with . . .
firearms
.” With a pudgy hand he poked disdainfully at the two automatic pistols that had been placed on his desk. “I suppose you’ll try to tell me—and the police, when they get here, and the magistrate when you come up for trial—that you didn’t know that on this world civilians are not allowed to carry such weapons, by order of the Archon. You know now.”

“But this . . .” Jason waved feebly toward Brasidus. “But this is the . . .”

The Archon raised a warning hand, glared at his bodyguard.

“And this is what, or who?” demanded the showman disdainfully. “Some petty tradesman enjoying a night on the tiles with his offplanet friends, at their expense, no doubt. Showing them the sights, as long as they’re doing the paying. And, talking of the foreigners, which of them started the gunplay?”

“This one,” said the Amazon supporting Paulus, giving him a friendly cuff as she spoke.

“So it was you,” growled Aristotle. “And now, sir, would you mind satisfying my curiosity before the police come to collect you? What possessed you to pull a gun in a public place and, even worse, to interrupt a highly skilled act by two of my performers?”

“That . . . That boomerang thing . . . It was coming straight at the Commodore. I did my best to protect him.”

“The Commodore? You mean the gentleman with the jug-handle ears? I do have a distinguished clientele, don’t I? I know of only one visiting Commodore on New Sparta at this time, and
he
is a guest of the Archon. He’d be too much of a stuffed shirt to sample the pleasures of the Street of the Haetaeri.”

“Little you know,” said a familiar female voice.

Aristotle shifted his attention from the prisoners to somebody who had just come into the office. “Oh, Miss Pruin . . .” he said coldly. “I do not think that you were invited to sit in on this interview.”

“I invited myself,” said Fenella. “After all, news is news.”

Grimes managed to turn his head to look at her. She had changed very little, if not at all. Her face with rather too much nose and too little chin, with teeth slightly protuberant, the visage of an insatiably curious animal but perversely attractive nonetheless. She grinned at him.

“Do you know these people?” he demanded.

“Not all of them, Aristotle. But the gentleman with the jug-handle ears is Captain Grimes, although I believe that he did, briefly, hold the rank of Company Commodore with the Eldorado Corporation. That was when he commanded a pirate squadron . . . .”

“Privateers,” Grimes corrected her tiredly. “Not pirates.”

She ignored this. “And the lady is Commander Maggie Lazenby, one of the scientific officers of the Federation Survey Service. Both she and Captain—sorry, Commodore—Grimes were on this planet many years ago and were involved in the troubles that led to the downfall of the old regime.”

“Oh.
That
Grimes,” said Aristotle. His manner seemed to be softening slightly. “But I still am entitled to an explanation as to why his friend ruined the Shirl and Darleen act.”

“The boomerang,” insisted Paulus, “was coming straight at the Commodore. It could have taken his head off.”

“It would not,” said two familiar female voices speaking in chorus. Shirl and Darleen, light robes thrown around their bodies, had come into the office which, although considerably larger than a telephone booth, was getting quite crowded. “It would not.”

“It would not,” Aristotle agreed. “Surely you know what that part of the act signified?”

“The boomerang,” explained Shirl (or was it Darleen?), “would have stopped and turned just short of you, returning to my hand. It was a signal to you that you were to follow it—after the show, of course. I thought that everybody knew.”

“It was announced,” said Aristotle. “Just as it was announced that any boxer who succeeded in knocking down Shirl or Darleen would be entitled to her favors.”

“It was
not
announced,” said Grimes.

“It was
not
announced,” said Jason and Paulus, speaking together.

“Well, it should have been,” admitted Aristotle. “But all of my regular customers know of the arrangement.”

“We are not regular customers,” said Brasidus.

“But that, sir, does not entitle your friends to brandish and discharge firearms in my auditorium.” He raised and turned his head. “Come in, Sergeant, come in! I shall be obliged if you will place these persons under arrest. No, not Commodore Grimes and Commander Lazenby, they are guests of the Archon. But the other three. Charge them with discharging firearms, illegally held firearms at that, in a public place.”

“If you would please tell me who is which . . .” said the Sergeant tiredly.

He looked at Grimes. “Oh, I recognize you, sir. Your photograph was in the
Daily Democrat
. But which of the ladies am I supposed to take in?”

He stood there in his military-style uniform (but black instead of brown leather, stainless steel instead of brass), removing his plumed helmet so that he could scratch his head. The two constables, reluctant to enter the crowded office, remained outside the now open door.

“Just the men, Sergeant,” Aristotle told him impatiently. “Just the men.”

“All right.” The Sergeant grabbed Brasidus by the arm that was not held by an Amazon usherette. “Come on, you. Come quietly, or else.”

“But that is the Archon,” objected Paulus in a shocked voice. He tried to break away from restraint so that he could come to his master’s aid. “Take your paws off the Archon!”

“And I’m Zeus masquerading as a mere mortal!” The Sergeant pulled Brasidus towards the door. “Come on!”

“He
is
the Archon,” stated Grimes.

“Come, come, sir. This lout is nothing like Brasidus. I did duty in the Palace Guard before the Lady Ellena had us replaced by her Amazon Corps. I’ve a good memory for details—have to in my job. His hair and beard are light brown, just starting to go gray. Besides—” he laughed—“Ellena would never allow him to come to a dive like this.”

“My establishment is not a dive!” expostulated Aristotle indignantly.

“Isn’t it? Then what’s it doing on
this
street?” He called to the constables. “Come in, you two, and grab the other two lawbreakers.”

“There’ll be some room for us after you get out,” muttered one of the men.

The Sergeant twisted Brasidus’ right arm behind his back. It must have been painful.

“Take your hands off me!” growled Brasidus. “Take your hands off me, or I’ll have you posted to the most dismal village on all of New Sparta, Sergeant Priam. I am the Archon.”

Priam laughed. “So you think you can fool me by saying my name? Every petty crook in the city knows it.”

“He
is
the Archon,” said Grimes.

“He
is
the Archon,” stated Maggie.

“He could just be,” said Fenella. “There are techniques of disguise, you know. I’ve used them myself.”

“Call the Palace,” Brasidus ordered Aristotle. “The Lady Ellena will identify me.”

The showman pressed buttons at the base of the videophone on his desk. Only he could see the little screen but all of them could hear the conversation.

“May I speak to the Lady Ellena, please?”

“Who is that?” demanded an almost masculine female voice, probably that of the duty officer of the Amazon Guard.