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Chapter 32

Grimes activated the boat's life-support systems.

Bitterly regretting not having put on his spacesuit when he made the attempt to trap and dispose of the mini-Susies—or, as it had turned out, the life-size pseudo-Susie—he searched the boat's stores for anything, anything at all, that could be used as breathing apparatus. But he was not desperate enough to venture out into the vacuum of the boat bay with a plastic bag over his head—especially since there was little of any use that he could do once he was there.

Meanwhile, he reflected, he could survive in his prison almost indefinitely, breathing recycled air, drinking recycled water, eating processed algae that had proliferated on a diet of his own body wastes. And while he was existing drably Bronson Star would continue her voyage—to Bronsonia, past Bronsonia, dropping through the warped dimensions until such time as her Mannschenn Drive ceased to function. If this happened during Grimes's lifetime he would be able to eject from the ship and make his way to the nearest inhabited planet—if he was able to fix his position, if the boat's mini-Mannschenn didn't break down, if, if, if, . . .

But he could always yell for help on the lifeboat's Carlotti transceiver and, possibly, there would be somebody within range.

And, he thought, I can yell for help now.

He switched on the Carlotti, watched the Mobius strip antenna begin to rotate. It would have to be a broadcast message, of course; a beamed transmission would have given him far greater range but unless he knew the exact azimuth of the target he would only be wasting time.

He said into the microphone, "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. Bronson Star requires immediate assistance. Mutiny on board." And that, he thought, would tie in with the story that he intended to tell to the authorities on Bronsonia. "Master trapped in boat bay. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday."

He waited for a reply. Surely, he thought, that Dog Star liner, Doberman, would still be within range.

He repeated the call.

Again he waited.

He was about to call for the third time when a voice came from the speaker of the transceiver—faint, distorted but intelligible.

"FSS Explorer to Bronson Star. Your signal received. What are your coordinates, please?"

Explorer. . . . A sister ship to one of Grimes's earlier commands, Seeker. Survey Service. . . . A great pity that it wasn't Doberman, thought Grimes. Was he still on the Service's wanted list? But the old adage held true: Beggars can't be choosers.

He said, "I am holed up in my Number One boat I am on trajectory from . . ." he caught himself just in time . . ." Dunlevin to Bronsonia. Not having access to the ship's control room I am unable to fix my position."

That last was true enough. With the boat still inboard the larger vessel it was impossible to obtain accurate bearings of any Carlotti beacons in the vicinity.

"Explorer to Bronson Star. Broadcast a steady note for precisely one minute, then returned to receive mode. Over."

Grimes made the necessary adjustments to the transceiver, broadcast his beacon call for sixty seconds, switched back to Receive.

"Explorer to Bronson Star. We are homing on you. We have you now in our MPI tank. We estimate rendezvous thirty-seven hours and nineteen minutes from now. Can you hold out?"

"Yes," replied Grimes.

"How many mutineers are there?"

"One."

"Armed?"

"Yes," said Grimes after a moment's hesitation. It could be true. The pseudo-Susie had access to all the ship's firearms, including the pistol that Grimes had dropped.

"And you are Captain Grimes—lately Commander Grimes of this Service?"

"Yes."

There was a brief laugh. "Don't worry. We have no orders to arrest you. Confidentially, Commander Delamere didn't exactly cover himself with glory when he tried it on Botany Bay—and your late employer, the Baroness d'Estang, was able to pull quite a few strings on your behalf. We know that you were in charge of Branson Star when she was skyjacked. What happened next?"

Grimes grunted irritably. He would just imagine those bastards in Explorer's control room flapping their big, ugly ears as he told his story, gloating over his misfortunes. So, they would be saying, Grimes's famous luck is really running out now, isn't it?

He said, telling the truth at first, "I was forced, at gunpoint, to navigate Bronson Star to Porlock. There we picked up a bunch of mercenaries and counterrevolutionaries. Then I took the ship from Porlock to Dunlevin. As you may already have heard the invasion didn't come as a surprise to the present government of Dunlevin. Two of the royalists—a ship's engineer and a catering officer—had stayed on board with me and they helped me to escape. But the three of us failed to see eye to eye about where to go next. I, of course, wanted to return the ship to her rightful owners. The other two had some crazy idea of running out to the Rim Worlds and setting up shop as a one-ship star tramp company. They pulled guns on me and ordered me to deviate from trajectory. . . ." And that's the answer, he thought, to the question of why I'm approaching Bronsonia from a slightly wrong direction. "Cutting a long story short, there was a fight. Hodge was killed. After the funeral I adjusted trajectory and resumed passage. I thought that Susie—the catering officer—wouldn't cause any more trouble. But she did." He paused for thought. "She's quite mad, I think. Running around the ship stark naked. There was a bit of a struggle. . . ."

He paused again, heard faintly, "Who said that Grimes's luck was running out? I wouldn't complain if I had to wrestle with naked ladies!"

"Somehow," he went on, "I was pushed into the boat bay. She shut me in and started the exhaust pump. All that I could do was scramble into the boat before I asphyxiated."

A fresh voice came through the transceiver speaker, an authoritative one. "Commander Grimes, this is Commander Perkins here, captain of Explorer. I have one or two questions that I'd like to ask. . . ."

Grimes had known Perkins slightly—an unimaginative man, a stickler for regulations. He hoped that the questions would not be awkward ones.

"Tell me, Commander, why you did not break Carlotti silence until now? Surely Bronson Star's owners would be entitled to learn that their ship was on her way back to their planet."

"I feared," said Grimes, "that units of the Dunlevin Navy might be in pursuit. I did not wish my exact whereabouts to be known."

"The Dunlevin Navy . . ." sneered Perkins. "Two more or less armed converted star tramps and a deep-space tug. . . ."

"But armed," said Grimes. "Bronson Star is not."

"Also," went on Perkins, "the government of Dunlevin has already lodged complaint with the Federation that you, during your escape from that world, threatened to destroy one of their cities. Surely you realized, Commander, that that was tantamount to piracy."

"I merely pointed out," said Grimes, "that if their air force shot me down I should fall onto a major center of population."

"Nonetheless, you disregarded orders given you by the legal authorities of Dunedin."

"I was acting," said Grimes stiffly, "in my owners' interests."

"That," Perkins told him, "will have to be argued out in the courts." His manner seemed to soften. "Strictly between ourselves, I don't think that Dunlevin's pitiful squeals will get much sympathy on Earth. Meanwhile, you can hang on, can't you, until we reach you?"

"I shan't exactly live like a king," said Grimes. "But I shall live."

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Framed