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Chapter 20

It was a long night, and a wearing one, and Grimes was still feeling muzzy from the effects of the mushroom beer. So was Sonya, and so were Carnaby and Brenda Coles, although the Navigator and the Assistant Biochemist had done little more than to take experimental sips of the stuff. Williams, of course, was exhibiting the infuriating, cheerful competency of the virtuously sober—but if it had not been for his efforts the sleeping crew members would never have been tucked away in their own quarters before daylight. Even so, the flush of dawn was bright in the east when the job was finally over.

Grimes turned in all standing, taking off only his jacket and his boots. He did not sleep in his bedroom—relations between him and Sonya were, naturally, rather strained, although it seemed doubtful if the late king had actually done anything—but on the settee in his day cabin. As his head touched the cushion he was using as a pillow he went out like a light.

When he woke up it was as though somebody had switched that figurative light back on. He was suddenly aware that someone was standing over him. He opened his eyes, realized that he was looking almost directly into the muzzle of a large-caliber projectile pistol. At this close range it was like the business end of a forty-millimeter cannon.

Behind the gun, he realized eventually, was Dalzell, who was grinning wolfishly.

"Major!" demanded Grimes. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Not Major, Commodore," replied the Marine. "Not any longer. You will address me as Your Majesty."

He must have had a skinful, thought Grimes. He's still hallucinating like a bastard . . . I shall have to be tactful . . . He said, "Would you mind putting that thing down?"

"Your Majesty," prompted Dalzell. "Yes, I would mind. And get this into your stupid skull—from now on I give the orders."

This was too much. "Have you gone mad?" roared Grimes.

"No, Commodore. Just a sudden rush of sanity to the head. That mushroom beer or whatever it was last night cleared my brain. I am seeing things in their proper perspective. What the hell's the use of beetling all around the Galaxy, not even knowing what we're looking for, when there's a kingdom—the nucleus of an empire—right here and now, just for the picking up?"

"I still say that you're mad."

"Careful, Commodore. Or Mr. ex-Commodore. I hold the ship."

"You? You're not a spaceman."

"I have the military power. And Hendriks is with me—he's a Master Astronaut, for what that's worth, as well as being the Gunnery Officer. And Sparks. And the engineers. And the Quack, and all the tabbies . . ." He laughed at the alarm that must have shown on Grimes' face. "No need to get too worried—yet. We haven't killed any of your pets. We might still find a use for them."

"My . . . pets?"

"The two tame telepaths. Williams. Carnaby. Their popsies."

"Their . . . popsies?"

"Really, Commodore. You surprise me. Your own ship—although not any longer!—and you don't know all that's going on aboard her. Ruth Macoboy and Brenda Coles, that's who. Williams and Carnaby are loyal to you—the Odd Gods of the Galaxy alone know why!—and the two wenches are loyal to their boyfriends. It's as simple as that."

Grimes watched the pistol hopefully, but with all the time that Dalzell was talking, it did not waver so much as a fraction of a degree.

Then—"What's simple?" asked Sonya coldly. She was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, dressed still in her black sweater and khaki trousers, holding Grimes' Minetti. The deadly little automatic was pointing straight at the Major.

Dalzell laughed. He remarked in a very reasonable voice, "If you pull your trigger, Mrs. Grimes—or, if you like, Commander Verrill—reflex action will cause me to pull mine. Not that it much matters as, in any case, your everloving husband will get his fair share of the burst intended for me. Furthermore . . ." He pursed his lips and whistled softly. Grimes did not have to turn his head to see that two Marines had entered his day cabin.

"So . . ." murmured Sonya regretfully.

"So drop your gun, Mrs. Grimes. Or Commander Verrill. Better make it Mrs. Grimes. A Commander's commission in the Terran Survey Service doesn't pile on many G's here and now, does it?"

"Better do as the man says," muttered Grimes at last.

"As the man says? You forget yourself, Commodore. As the king says."

"The Major has promoted himself," explained Grimes mildly.

Surprisingly Dalzell took this in good part. He grinned, then said, "There was a vacancy, and I applied for the job. I displayed my qualifications—noisy ones, and quite spectacular . . ." His face hardened, took on a vicious twist. "On your feet, Commodore! I've wasted too much time yapping to you. My men will escort you to the empty storeroom we're using as a brig."

"I shall need . . ." began Sonya.

"You need nothing. You'll get food and water, and there's a disposal chute for your personal wastes. Shake the lead out of your pants, the pair of you!"

Grimes sighed. A man and a woman, unarmed, against at least three armed men, all of whom were trained fighters. He almost wished that Sonya had used her pistol, disastrous as the results would have been. Now the weapon was on the deck, out of reach.

"All right," he said, rolling off the settee. "All right."

* * *

Grimes and Sonya made their slow way down through the ship. Save for their escort they saw nobody. Were the crew members avoiding him of their own volition or had they been ordered so to do by Dalzell? Not that it mattered. The Major, judging from his attitude, was very firmly in the saddle.

They came at last to the storeroom, one of those on the farm deck. It was ideal for its purpose—that of a jail cell—as it was more of a utility compartment than a storeroom proper, and had been used as a handling room for meat from the tissue-culture vats. There were benches, and washing facilities. Even with six people in it there was no overcrowding. The other four were Williams, Carnaby, Ruth Macoboy and Brenda Cole. The Commander's rugged face was badly battered. He, at least, had put up a fight. He growled sardonically as the Commodore and Sonya were thrust into the prison, "Welcome aboard, Skipper. This is Liberty Hall; you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard!"

Grimes ignored this. "Where are Ken and Clarisse?" he demanded.

"Stashed away somewhere else, I reckon. They musta been pounced on first, so that they couldn't warn us. Not that they could have warned us about Dalzell an' his bloody pongoes, thanks to that fancy anti-telepathic conditioning of theirs."

"But the others. The real crew members. Ken must have had some warning, surely. A mutiny doesn't just happen, out of thin air."

"Gotta be a first time for anything, Skipper—an' this it. Don't forget that all of you were as high as kites on that fancy mushroom juice. Could be, too, that the muck damped out Ken's talents rather than enhancing 'em. But Ken an' Clarisse ain't here, that's for certain. Which is a bloody pity. If they were, we might cook somethin' up between us . . ."

And they can "hear" us, thought Grimes, but we can't "hear" them. I could suggest that they teleport themselves here, but unless Clarisse has sketching materials to hand—which she won't have; Dalzell's no fool—there's no way at all that it can be done . . . There was a faint dawning of hope. But isn't there? Grimes had read of prisoners using their body wastes, their blood even, to write or draw or paint.

A vivid picture formed itself in his mind. Wherever they were, the two telepaths were not very far away and, with a pooling of powers and a great expenditure of psionic effort, transmission of a sort would be possible to the brains of non-telepaths. Had they been in the same cell as Grimes it would have been relatively easy, of course—but not, in those circumstances, necessary.

Grimes, then, saw quite clearly the interior of a storeroom not unlike the one in which he was imprisoned. There were two benches, on each of which was a mattress. On one of the benches Mayhew was stretched supine, on the other one was Clarisse. Each of them was secured firmly to his bed by manacles at wrists and ankles.

And Clarisse could function as a teleporteuse only when she was able to paint the people to be moved or the locations to which they were to be shifted.

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