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Chapter 3

It was a good painting.

Clarisse stood before it, sagging with exhaustion, an incongruous figure among her smartly uniformed shipmates, spatters of paint on her naked upper body, smears of pigment on the bedraggled fur kilt that was her only garment. She had dressed the part, that of a cavewoman artist. She had played the part, with a massive dose of hallucinogenic drugs to put her in the proper trance state while she worked. Mayhew, her husband, was beside her, supporting her now that she had finished. She slumped, tired, against him. A dribble of dull red ran from the brush that she still held down his right leg.

But the magic hadn't worked. It had worked before, more than once. It had called the old gods of the Greek pantheon from that distant past when men had believed in them, it had evoked the Mephistopheles of fantasy rather than of religion, it had teleported Grimes and those with him from Faraway Quest II to his own Faraway Quest. It had drawn Faraway Quest herself from the unimaginable nothingness into which she had been flung to the surface of Kinsolving's Planet. Now it had failed to transport the Quest from the Rim of the Galaxy to Earth.

There was no need for Grimes to speak. Gently Mayhew led his wife away from the easel so that the Commodore could see, in full detail, what had been painted.

Yes, the scene was just as he remembered it. There was the desert, green rather than red, carpeted with the growths that flourished briefly during the wet season. The sky was overcast, with drifting veils of rain, except to the westward, where there was a flaring orange sunset, silhouetted against which were the blue domes—blue only by contrast—of the Olgas. To the east, sullenly smouldering against the grey sky, was the great hulk of Ayers Rock . . .

But . . .

But this was how it had looked in Grimes' own time. This was how it would look—how many years, how many millennia in the future? The domes of Mount Olga, products of erosion . . . Mount Olga, a mass of red conglomerate, plum-pudding-stone, shaped by century after century of wind and rain . . . And even the Rock itself, the granite monolith, could not have resisted the working tools of Time, the great sculptor.

How did the Rock and the Olgas look now?

And when was now?

"Nothin' seems to have happened, Skipper," commented Williams.

"It's not too late to go back to Kinsolving, sir," said Major Dalzell.

Grimes looked at the faces looking up at him. He knew what they were thinking. He had failed to deliver the goods. Mutiny, he realized suddenly, was far from impossible. The Marines would be loyal to their own officer rather than to a mere spaceman, no matter what his rank. Hendriks would probably go along with the Major. And the others? Personal loyalty would influence most of them, but not all. Williams he could count on, and Mayhew, and Clarisse, and Carnaby . . . Yes, and Daniels. But altogether lacking was the support given to any captain by Interstellar Law, by the Regulations of his own navy, or by the provisions of his own Merchant Shipping Act. The Age of the Spaceship—or, at any rate, of the human owned, operated and manned spaceship—lay far in the future. The crew of this particular spaceship might well feel fully entitled to make up their own rules as they went along.

Dalzell seemed to be on the point of saying something further, and those around him were turning towards the Major expectantly. Grimes spoke loudly, more to attract and to hold their attention than because he had anything of importance to say.

He said, "This, of course, was only the first attempt. There will be others. The main trouble is that we do not know, yet, just when we are. There is an Earth waiting for us." And how can you be so sure of that, buster? jeered a little voice in his mind. "There is an Earth waiting for us," he repeated firmly. "The only thing to be determined is just what period of its history it has reached." He was warming up. "Perhaps we shall be privileged to see the glory that was Greece." He allowed himself a smile as he quoted from Kipling, "When Homer smote 'is bloomin' lyre . . ."

"Homer?" asked Williams. "An' who was he, Skipper?"

Sonya, beside him, collapsed in helpless laughter.

"Did I say anything funny?" asked Grimes coldly.

"No . . . It was something I remembered."

"And what was it?"

"Nothing important. Just absurd. It just came into my mind. When I was last on Earth I spent some time in the north of England. The people there still have all lands of archaic sports, including pigeon racing. The birds are specially bred for their homing instinct. Oh, anyhow, I heard this story. About a christening. The parson asked the father what name he was giving his son, and the man said, 'Homer.' 'Ah,' said the parson, 'you, like me, are an admirer of the great Greek poet . . .' 'No,' the father replied, 'I keep pigeons.' "

"Ha," commented Grimes. "Ha. Ha."

"I thought that it was quite funny at the time," Sonya told him defensively.

Nobody else does, that's for certain, Grimes thought, looking down at Faraway Quest's people. And what the hell does Carnaby want?

"Sir," asked the Navigator, "didn't you once tell me about a similar sort of bird that was used in an automatic steering system, for surface ships, on Tharn?"

"Not quite automatic steering," Grimes said. "But the birds were, in effect, used as compasses."

Carnaby turned to Mayhew. "Commander, you're our expert on all forms of E.S.P. Do human beings have a homing instinct?"

"Yes," replied the telepath. "Not all, but some."

Is there an Earthman in the house? thought Grimes. Yes, there was, and he was it.

You will have to allow yourself to be placed under hypnosis, said a voice, Mayhew's voice, in his brain.

But who'll mind the shop, Ken?

Sonya, and Billy Williams . . . And Clarisse and myself. We'll manage.

What about Dalzell and his bully boys? And Hendriks?

I'm keeping tabs on them, John. They'll not be able to pull any surprises.

What about your Rhine Institute's famous Code of Ethics?

I'll worry about that when there is a Rhine Institute . . .

Grimes spoke aloud once more. He said, "Mr. Carnaby has given us what may be the solution to our problem. I have seen the records of all of you, so I know that I am the only Earthborn person aboard this ship. At times, in the past, I have prided myself on my sense of direction. I may or may not possess a homing instinct. I hope, most sincerely, that I do. In any case, I have to leave the . . . er . . . technicalities in the capable hands of Commander Mayhew . . ."

Mphm, he thought. That bloody Major would still like to have things his way, but Hendriks seems to be coming round . . .

Put it to the vote, John, came Mayhew's soundless voice.

"Nonetheless," Grimes went on, "there are those of us who think that we should return to Kinsolving. I propose, therefore, that a decision be reached by a show of hands. All those who think that we should return, please indicate!"

Only Dalzell and his men raised their hands.

"Those in favour of continuing towards Earth?"

The Marines were outvoted. There were no abstentions.

And Grimes wondered what odd sort of rabbit he would be pulling out of the hat this time.

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Framed