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Chapter 20




VENNER’S JUSTIFIABLE beating up of Paulus and Singh was not the only outbreak of physical violence on the ship before her arrival at El Dorado, although it was the most serious one. There was the fight between Paulus and Trantor, no more than an undignified exhibition of inexpert fisticuffs. The reason for it, Grimes discovered, was the transferal of Ms. Connellan’s affections from one engineering department to the other. He lectured all those concerned, telling them sternly that even while he did not subscribe to archaic moral codes he was still a strong believer in the old standards of shipboard discipline and good conduct.

Paulus muttered something about Survey Service bullshit.

Grimes said coldly, “I’m inviting you to say that again. Louder, Mr. Paulus—and warning you that if you do I’ll throw the book at you. Insolent and contemptuous behavior toward a superior officer will do for a start—and that carries a fine of one hundred credits.”

The engineer lapsed into surly silence.

Grimes dismissed the bruised combatants and the glowering Green Hornet. Williams remained with him.

“Billy,” asked Grimes, “what am I going to do with that bitch?”

“You could have her fitted with a chastity belt, Skipper,” suggested the mate.

“Yes. And a scold’s bridle. But would the engineers make them?” He laughed. “Old Mr. Crumley might. I think that he’s past it as far as women are concerned.”

Williams laughed too. “Could be. But suppose he does make a belt . . . Who’s going to fit it about dear Katie’s female form divine? The fat . . . And that sweaty, greasy, green skin of hers . . .” He glanced at the bulkhead clock. “But I must ask you to excuse me, Skipper. I promised Magda that I’d lend her a hand thinning out the lettuces on the farm deck.”

Grimes felt a stab of envy. The engineers—or some of them—were getting theirs. Williams was getting his. And what did he have? A solidograph of a naked woman on one shelf, an animated golden statuette of another naked woman on a ledge on the opposite bulkhead. And both ladies were light-years distant . . .

He said, “All right, Mr. Williams. Go and do your gardening. The Green Hornet for Second Mate . . . Mr. Greenfingers for Mate . . .”

And the Captain green with envy?

Williams said, “Magda’s promised us that Vietnamese dish for dinner, Skipper. You know. The one where you scoop up the pieces of meat, fish and whatever with lettuce leaves.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Grimes a little sourly although the meal was one of his favorites. He, in fact, had told the Catering Officer how to prepare, cook and serve it. “Off you go, then.”

He buzzed Mayhew, who was in his cabin, asked him to come up for a drink and a talk.

***

“Well, Mr. Mayhew,” asked Grimes after glasses had been filled and sipped, “what do you think of this shipload of malcontents? Will they be any good as the crew of a privateer?”

“You told me, sir, that I was not to snoop.”

“But even if you aren’t snooping you must pick things up, without trying to or wanting to.”

“But I am not supposed to pass what I . . . hear on to anybody else.” He laughed softly. “All right, all right. I know, and you know, that in the Survey Service the PCO is the captain’s ears. It’s no secret that we’re fast getting to the stage where everybody hates everybody. Well, almost everybody. The honeymoon’s not over yet for Mr. Williams and Ms. Granadu—and it’s been going on for quite a while. Ms. Connellan? She despises the men she uses, just as they despise her. Oh, I know that she kicked up a song and dance when Mr. Venner made a mess of Mr. Paulus—but that was only because she resented having her property damaged by somebody else . . .”

“Never mind the moral issues, Mr. Mayhew. What I want to know is this. If—if—Admiral Damien’s plot succeeds, if I’m admitted to Drongo Kane’s gang of pirates, what about my crew?”

“No real worries there, Captain. Pirates and privateersmen have usually been malcontents. Of course, there is the danger of mutiny—but not even warships of the Federation Survey Service are immune to that.”

“No need to remind me, Mr. Mayhew.”

Mayhew ignored this. “In the case of the Discovery mutiny, Captain, there was an officer quite capable of taking over the command of the ship from you. Here there is not. Your Chief Officer, Mr. Williams, is personally loyal to his Captain. Your Third Officer, Mr. Venner, is loyal to the Survey Serviceto you, as long as you are his legally appointed commander. The Green Hornet? There’s no loyalty there—but, assuming that the engineers do think of mutiny they have no confidence in Ms. Connellan’s abilities. The feeling is that she couldn’t navigate a plastic duck across a bathtub.”

“No more could she. I have known many extremely capable women, but she is not one of them.”

They are, though,” said Mayhew, looking from the solidograph to the golden figurine.

“Yes,” agreed Grimes. He thought, I could do with either one of them here, although not both at once . . .

Mayhew said, “I don’t think that a Police Commissioner, an ex-Federation Sky Marshal, would approve of privateering.”

Grimes laughed. “Come to that, she didn’t approve of me much. Although, if it hadn’t been for her, I’d never have lifted from Port Southern on time.”

“Perhaps,” said Mayhew, “she had her orders.”

“You mean that Damien—may the Odd Gods of the Galaxy look sideways at him!—was behind my getting the contract to carry Survey Service records from Austral to Earth?”

“It is hard to keep secrets from a telepath,” said Mayhew. “But our beloved Admiral had no hand in your purchase of this ship. He’s just an opportunist.”

And Damien, thought Grimes, could have had nothing to do with the truly beautiful gift that Yosarian and Una Freeman, jointly, had presented to him. He got up from his chair, carefully lifted the golden cyclist and her steed down from the shelf, set her gently on the carpeted desk.

“Ride,” he ordered. “Ride. Round and round . . .”

Fascinated, he and Mayhew watched as she circumnavigated the day cabin, slowly at first and then with increasing speed. Grimes remembered the real Una in the garden, the Eden from which they had been evicted by the robot deity. He remembered her graceful nudity in delightful contrast to the equally graceful machine that she had ridden.

“There’s something odd about that bicycle . . .” murmured Mayhew.

Keep out my memories! thought Grimes. Yes, there had been something odd about the bicycles that both of them had ridden on that faraway world in another universe. He recalled that final showdown when he had been obliged to fight the things . . .

“Sorry, Captain,” apologized Mayhew. “But I couldn’t help getting pictures of you as a naked bullfighter, with a bicycle playing the bull!”






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Framed