Chapter 22
AT A NORMAL SPACEPORT, on a normal planet, ground cars would have brought the various officials—Customs, Immigration, Port Health and all the rest of them—out to a newly arrived ship. Here, at Port Bluewater, there was only a solitary figure walking out from one of the white office buildings, pacing slowly over the grey apron. It was wearing a uniform of some kind, black with gold trimmings. It looked human.
Grimes went to the big mounted binoculars, swung and focused them. He looked at the dull-gleaming, pewter-colored face under the gold-embellished peak of the cap. A robot. So none of this world’s human inhabitants considered it worth their while to receive him and his ship.
He said to Mr. Venner, “Go down to the after airlock to meet that . . . that tin Port Captain. Take him—no, it—up to Ms. Granadu’s office. She’ll have all the necessary papers ready for our Inward Clearance.” He allowed himself a laugh. “At least I shan’t be put to the expense of free drinks and smokes for a pack of bludging human officials!”
“He might want to plug into a power point, Skipper, to get a free charge,” said Williams.
Venner left the control room. The Green Hornet began, in a desultory manner, to tidy things away.
Williams said, “I suppose I’d better go down to the office myself. There might be some word about discharging arrangements.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Grimes.
Anywhere but here he would have waited in his day cabin for the ship’s agent, there to discuss matters over coffee or something stronger. He did not, however, feel like entertaining in his own quarters what he had already categorized as an uppity robot.
The elevator was not immediately available so Grimes and Williams made their descent into the body of the ship by the spiral staircase. Magda was waiting in her office. All necessary documentation was arranged neatly on her desk, as also was a box of cigarillos. On a table to one side was a steaming coffee pot with the necessary crockery and containers of cream and sugar.
“You can put those away,” said Grimes, gesturing.
“Not so fast, Skipper,” said Williams. “We can use some coffee. And I’m never averse to a free smoke.”
“All right. Pour me a cup while you’re about it.”
“Why should the coffee and the smokes not be required, Captain?” asked the catering officer.
“You’ll see,” said Grimes.
Venner appeared in the doorway.
“The Port Captain, sir,” he announced, then withdrew.
The robot entered.
It said, in a quite pleasant, not overly mechanical voice, “Yes. That is my title. I am also Collector of Customs, Port Health Officer and Immigration Officer. If I may be allowed to scan your papers I shall soon be able to inform you whether or not all is in order.”
Grimes had seen the thing’s like before, both on El Dorado and aboard the Baroness d’Estang’s spaceyacht. It could have been a handsome, well-made human being with a metallic skin. Williams and Magda, however, were familiar only with the common or garden varieties of robot, only crudely humanoid at the best. (They had seen, of course, the exquisite, golden figurine that had been given to Grimes before lift-off from Port Southern—but she was only a beautiful miniature, not life-size.)
The automaton moved to the desk, went through the papers like a professional gambler dealing playing cards. It seemed to have no trouble reading things upside down. After only seconds the documents were back in their original order.
The subtly metallic voice said, “You are cleared inwards.”
“Don’t I get certification?” asked Grimes.
“That, Captain, is not required. The Monitor has cleared you. You will, however, be issued the usual Outward Clearance documents prior to your departure.”
“When will discharge be started?” asked Grimes.
“Your cargo is not urgently required, Captain. Perhaps tomorrow the shipment of caviar will be off-loaded. The other items? At the moment there is no warehouse space available.”
“So I have to sit here,” exploded Grimes, “with my ship not earning money, paying wages to my crew and feeding them . . . And you, I suppose, will be charging port dues.”
“Of course, Captain.”
“Demurrage . . . ?” wondered Grimes aloud. “Compensation for delay?”
“That is not applicable in your circumstances.”
Perhaps, perhaps not, Grimes thought. He would have to make a careful study of The Shipmaster’s Business Companion.
“Another point,” he said. “I was last here as an officer of one of the Survey Service’s cruisers.”
“We are aware of that, Captain Grimes.”
“ . . . so I had no cause to find out what facilities are available to merchant vessels. Is there a Shipping Office here? I may have to pay off one of my officers.”
“There is no Shipping Office here. In any case, as you should know, outworlders may not be dumped on this planet. And that seems to have concluded all immediate business. Should you require stores, repairs or other services you may call the Port Master’s office on your NST. I wish you good day.”
“Is my NST hooked up to the planetary telephone service?” asked Grimes.
“It is not, Captain. You may, however, use the telephonic facilities in the reception area in the main office. Such calls will be charged against you. Again I wish you a good day.”
The Port Captain turned, strode out of the office. They could hear his (its) footsteps, too heavy to be those of a human being, in the alleyway outside—and, for quite a while, on the treads of the spiral staircase leading down to the after airlock.
Grimes, Billy Williams and Magda Granadu looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
Williams said, “I don’t think that I shall like this world, Skipper, where even robots treat us like dirt.”
“The last time I came here,” said Grimes, “there was a human Port Captain. The Comte Henri de Messigny. He wasn’t must better than his tin successor.”
“What happened to the . . . Comte?”
“He . . . died.”
“Were you involved, Skipper?”
“Yes,” said Grimes shortly. “And now, Mr. Williams, you’d better see to it that the caviar is ready for discharge when somebody condescends to send a team of stowbots out to us. And you, Ms. Granadu, can let the Port Captain’s office know what stores you require. Try to confine yourself to inexpensive items, will you? That is, if anything here is inexpensive . . . Mphm.” He poured himself another mug of coffee, sipped it thoughtfully. “I think I’ll take a stroll ashore,” he went on. “I might make one or two phone calls . . .”
“Looking up the old girl friends, Skipper?” asked Williams cheerfully.
“Surely you don’t think, Mr. Williams,” said Grimes coldly, “that any El Doradan lady would have anything to do with a mere spaceman?”
“There are precedents,” said the Mate. “Drongo Kane, for a start . . .”
And me before him, thought Grimes—but maintained his sour expression.