Chapter 43
GRIMES SUPPOSED that the dimly lit apartment into which they were led could be called a throne room. There was no throne, however. There was a horizontal bar at human eye level on which the Kallan leader was roosting, gripping the perch with his huge, clawed feet. There were other bars at lower levels on which lesser dignitaries stood (sat?). All the avians were males, brightly plumaged. Among the feathers of some of them precious metals and jewels reflected what little light there was, seemed to concentrate it before throwing it back. In one corner of the big room sophisticated recording equipment was humming almost inaudibly, panel lights gleaming. There was a rather unpleasant acridity in the air. Grimes managed to restrain himself from sneezing. The Countess did not even make an effort.
“Your Winged Mightiness,” said Lord Delamere, “I present to you the privateer commodore and his officers.”
The Lord of the Roost squawked derisively, “He is a cock, and he has a hen officer!”
“She is only a very junior officer, Mightiness.”
“She may remain, but she will keep silent.” The glaring, yellow eyes turned to Grimes. “I am told that you have an offer to make to me, Commodore. Speak.”
“Your Winged Mightiness,” Grimes began. He tried to think of what to say next. He had assumed that Lord Delamere would be doing the haggling, would already have done the haggling. “I have come,” he went on, “to offer my services, the services of myself and my ships. I have learned that Kalla is threatened by the Hegemony. Your own fleet, gallant though it is, will be fully employed protecting your world.” He paused for thought. “Warfare is more than actions between opposing fleets of warships. There is economic warfare . . .”
“Are you a spaceman or a banker?” demanded the great bird.
“I am a spaceman, Mightiness. Perhaps my words were ill chosen. By economic warfare I mean the destruction of the enemy’s commerce . . .”
“Which you will do for your profit.” The Lord of the Roost emitted a discordant sound that could have been a laugh. “But do not bother me any more with your talk, Commodore. You are a spaceman, not a salesman. I have seen you now, as well as having heard many reports about you. The Lord Delamere has already made the deal on your behalf. You will harry Hallicheki shipping, for the benefit of the El Dorado Corporation and, of course, for your own benefit. The Letters of Marque have been drawn up. You will be fighting for money, whereas our ships will be fighting for Kalla’s freedom from the harsh rule of the Hegemony. Korndah will give you your precious papers, then you may go.”
One of the lesser birds hopped down from his perch, scuttled to a very prosaic looking filing cabinet that was standing beside the recording apparatus, opened a drawer, used his beak to withdraw a bundle of documents. He hopped/shuffled to Grimes, dropped the papers into the commodore’s hands. Grimes removed the elastic band securing them. He tried to read what was on the top one but in the dim light it was impossible.
“Do not worry, Commodore,” squawked the Lord of the Roost. “All is in order. You can read the authority that I have given you at your leisure. Now you may go, back to your ships, and commence operations as soon as possible.”
“Your Mightiness,” said Grimes, “there is one favor that I wish to ask of you.”
“Speak.”
“I request permission for the fleet to land and to replenish certain items of consumable stores.”
“The permission is not granted. You can replenish your storerooms from those of your victims.”
“But I also want to top up the water tanks. On leaving El Dorado I ordered an exercise in the use of reaction drive. As a result of that our stocks of reaction mass have been reduced.”
“I am not a spacebeing, Commodore.” The Lord of the Roost gabbled briefly in his own language to one of his aides, received a raucous reply. Then, “Very well. I am told that in warfare the rocket drive, the reaction drive, might be employed. Your fleet may come in to the spaceport at first light tomorrow morning, and will depart as soon as the tanks have been topped up.”
“Thank you, Mightiness,” said Grimes.
“Oh, one more thing, Commodore. Do not trust hens.”
The audience was over.
At the end of the corridor they found that the towing team had again been harnessed to the balloon car, were hanging on to projections on the tower, the lines slack. Delamere was first into the basket and began to dump ballast. During the time that they had spent with the Lord of the Roost, Grimes realized, more bags of sand had been loaded and gas replenished. The Countess was next aboard. She and her compatriot obviously did not love each other and were avoiding physical contact. Mayhew was next, and then Grimes, the precious Letters of Marque tucked into his shirt, made the short but perilous passage.
The balloon was cast off from the mooring spar and the towing team beat their wings clatteringly, then pulled the clumsy aircraft out and away from the tower. The flying escort took up their stations. On the return trip Grimes did not admire the scenery but looked through the documents. There was one set of papers for each ship. That issued to Sister Sue authorized her to make war upon all enemies of the Independent Nest of Kalla, wherever found. It stated, too, that one Commodore Grimes, while master of this vessel, was fully responsible for the conduct of Pride of Erin, Spaceways Princess and Agatha’s Ark. The signature was a jagged scrawl written with some brownish medium. Blood? wondered Grimes. There was an ornate gold seal, bearing the likeness of a rapacious bird with outstretched wings, its taloned feet gripping a planetary orb. The other Letters of Marque were in duplicate—one copy for each captain, the other for the commodore. In each of them it was stated that overall responsibility for the operation rested with Grimes.
So, he thought wryly, whoever carries the can back it’s going to be me. He who sups with Drongo Kane needs a long spoon. So does he who sups with Commodore—correction!—Rear Admiral Damien . . .
The balloon sagged down toward the spaceport mooring masts. Lord Delamere valved gas. He miscalculated and had to compensate by dumping a small bag of ballast.
Grimes was amused and thought, He’s no more perfect than his cousins umpteen times removed . . .
Mooring procedure was carried out quite efficiently. The humans clambered down the light ladder to the ground.
Delamere said, dismissively, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Commodore.”
Grimes led the way to the waiting boat. Inboard, he took the pilot’s seat. The Countess glared at him but went aft to sit with Mayhew. Grimes, starting the inertial drive, lifted with deliberately exaggerated caution. He heard the girl mutter something about Survey Service throw-outs with only two speeds, Dead Slow and Stop. His prominent ears reddened but he maintained his sedate ascent.