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Chapter 49




THE NEXT CAPTURE WAS EFFECTED without incident and Captain Prinn was ordered to escort the merchantman to port. Her farewell was a cold one. She did not even wish Grimes the usual good luck and good hunting when she and the prize were detached. Alone in the warped immensities Sister Sue cruised the space lanes, maintaining her listening watch, waiting for the Terran ship that was to be the next victim, that was to be the excuse the Survey Service needed to put a stop to the El Doradan privateering operations.

Grimes’ officers sensed that something was wrong.

Vessels, within easy range, were picked up by the mass proximity indicator. Some of those ships, identifiable by their routine Carlotti radio transmissions, were of Hallicheki registry, bound for New Maine with their rich cargoes. Yet Grimes ignored them. There were mutterings. Soon, everybody knew, Spaceways Princess and Agatha’s Ark would be allocated their shares of prize money—and Sister Sue had yet to earn a more or less honest cent.

There was one ship, passing quite close, that, like Sister Sue herself, was maintaining radio silence. Grimes knew who she was—after Mayhew had told him. She was the FSS destroyer Denebola. She had among her people a Psionic Communications Officer. Through the telepaths her captain sent a message to Grimes. It was: “Continue cruising until you fall in with Epsilon Draconis, New Maine to Carinthia with valuable transshipment cargo. Her master has been instructed to surrender without a real struggle. Her PCO, on articles as assistant purser, is a Survey Service officer. All other officers hold Reserve Commissions and know what is expected of them.”

“Long-winded bastard,” commented Grimes. “Commander Cummings, isn’t it? Never uses one word when three will do.”

“It shouldn’t be much longer now,” said Mayhew. “That’s just as well, sir. The natives are getting restless. I quote, ‘When is the old bastard going to take his finger out and find us a prize?’ According to Sparks he’s missed at least four good chances since Aggie left us . . . And, ‘He’s scared, that’s why. He needs at least one other ship to hold his hand when he makes like a bold, bad pirate . . .’”

“Mphm!” grunted Grimes indignantly around the stem of his pipe.

At last a spark of light that could only be the Epsilon Class tramp appeared on the MPI screen. Mr. Stewart monitored her routine transmissions. Mayhew established telepathic contact with her PCO. Trajectories converged.

“But, sir,” expostulated Williams, “she’s a Terran ship!”

“Carrying the Hegemony’s cargo,” said Grimes. “That makes her a legal prize, a blockade runner.”

“Are you sure, Skipper?”

“Of course I’m sure. Our Letters of Marque empower us to seize Hallicheki cargoes, no matter by whom carried.”

“Even transshipment cargoes?” asked Williams.

“Yes,” said Grimes firmly.

(He would have to check that point later, he thought. Probably what he was about to do was piracy—and that was what Damien wanted, anyhow.)

***

The interception and the capture went as planned.

Epsilon Draconis went through the motions of attempting to escape from the precession synchronization field. Captain Mulligan, his fat, florid face filling the screen of the NST transceiver, raved and ranted convincingly, shouting, “You’ll swing for this, you bloody pirate!” Mr. Venner went into his act with the quickfirer, raking the struggling prey from stem to stern. “Accidentally,” there was one round in the drum that did not have a reduced charge and that did carry a high explosive warhead. This blew a large hole in one of the stern vanes.

“Was that necessary?” roared Mulligan.

This time he was not play-acting.

“Are you coming quietly?” asked Grimes.

“Yes, damn you. But somebody is going to get the bill for repairs—and I hope it’s you!”


“He’s very annoyed with you, sir,” said Mayhew when, after the setting of a new trajectory for privateer and prize, he and Grimes were discussing matters in the commodore’s day cabin.

“That’s his privilege,” said Grimes. “I just wanted my act of piracy to look realistic.”

“You did just that. Well, sir, I’ve been in touch with Denebola. She’s making all speed to intercept. She has one of the new Mark XX Mannschenns so she’ll be showing up in the MPI screen at any time now. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go down to the wardroom to mingle with the peasantry. Venner, Malleson and Magda want me to make up a four at bridge.”

“Do you play for money?” asked Grimes.

“Of course, sir. It discourages wild bidding.”

“Isn’t it cheating, as far as you’re concerned?”

“It would be, if I used my talent. But I don’t. When I sit down at the card table I . . . switch off. If—if!—I win it’s just due to luck and skill, nothing more.”

“Mphm.” Grimes grunted, then laughed. “I remember that Rear Admiral Damien warned me against playing cards with Venner, but he didn’t mention you.”

“In ships where I am known for what I am,” said Mayhew, “I don’t play cards. For obvious reasons. And I do enjoy a game now and again . . .”

He got to his feet and drifted out of the cabin.







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