Grimes expected that Fenella Pruin would be all sweetness and light the following morning. She was not. She started almost as soon as she opened her eyes. To begin with it was the toilet facilities—a unisex trench latrine in the bushes, a cold bath in the billabong using a crude, homemade soap that would have been quite a good paint remover. Then it was breakfast—the remains of the previous night's feast, not even heated up, with only water to wash it down.
Then, puffing furiously at the last cigar, she led Grimes on a tour of inspection of the camp. She complained bitterly about the lack of a camera or other recording equipment and was more than a little inclined to blame Grimes for this deficiency. Grimes told her that she'd just have to make a thousand words worth one picture. She did not think that this was funny.
They were joined by Shirl and Darleen, who seemed to be in little better temper than Fenella. Shirl muttered, "They live rough, these people. Too rough . . ." Darleen said to her, "We should have got our paws on to some of those cushions . . ."
"There were plenty of cushions in the camperfly," said Grimes.
"And Mal's got them. Him and his wives," was the reply.
Fenella Pruin said something about male chauvinist pigs.
"Rank has its privileges," said Grimes.
She stalked on, stiff-legged, the others tailing after her. They came to what seemed to be an open air school. There were the children, squatting on the ground around their teachers. One of these, an elderly woman, was fashioning throwing spears, using a piece of broken glass to shape the ends of the straight sticks to a point. Another one, a man, was demonstrating how to make fire by friction, rubbing a pointed piece of hard wood up and down the groove in a softer piece that he held between his horny feet.
This teacher was Mal.
"Good morning," said Fenella, implying by the tone of her voice that it wasn't.
Mal looked up. "Gidday. I'll find jobs for yer soon as I've finished with this mob."
Fenella ignored this offer. She asked. "These children . .. Were they born here? In Kangaroo Valley?"
"Most of 'em. But all born on this world."
"Were they all conceived here?" She was looking hard at one of the naked boys, who seemed to be in his early teens.
"Conceived?" asked Mal.
"Started. You know . . ."
"Oh. That. Some here. Some on the way here, from New Alice . . . Like Kev."
Grimes looked at Kev. There was something vaguely familiar about the youth's appearance. Physically he would not have attracted much attention on a bathing beach.
"And what ships did you come here in?" persisted Fenella Pruin.
"Just . . . ships."
"They must have had names."
"Yair. Lemme see, now. I came in one called Southerly something. Southerly Buster. Yair. That's it. Some o' the others in Willy Willy. An' Bombora . . . But yer wastin' my time an' it's time you did somethin' to earn yer own keep. What do yer do?"
"I'm doing it," she told him. "Now. I want to help you, Mal. You and your people . . ."
"You can help by bringin' in some firewood."
"You can help—yourself as well as us—by telling us how to get back to Port Aphrodite."
"You must be round the bend."
"I'm not. I have friends in Port Aphrodite. John Grimes has a ship there. Get us there and we'll be able to lift the lid off this planet."
"An' what good will it do us?"
"Plenty, I assure you. You'll be repatriated to your own world, if you so desire . . ."
"Rather stay here. I'm somebody here. A chief."
"But wouldn't you like to be recognised as such by the New Venusberg government? With rights, definite legal rights, for you and your people? Look at the money you could make from tourists, money that you could spend on little luxuries . . . Decent beer instead of the muck you brew yourselves from the Odd Gods of the Galaxy alone know what . . ."
"Nothin" wrong with our beer . . ."
But Mal, Grimes knew, had promptly commandeered the remaining bottles of Venuswasser from the wreck of the camperfly.
"An' there'll be women, Mal. Tourist women . . ."
"You're too skinny," he told her.
"Maybe I am. But before you were too old to perform in the house where you worked you must have enjoyed all the foreign pussy."
"I'm not too old!" he roared. "If you weren't such a bag o' bones I'd soon show yer! I was caught on the nest with the boss's wife—that's why I'm out here!"
"I never really thought that you were too old," said Fenella Pruin placatingly. She had moved so that she was between the morning sun and the chief, so that the strong light revealed the outlines of her body under the single, flimsy garment.
"Too bloody skinny," muttered Mal. "No bloody thanks!"
"Skinny perhaps," she said. "But rich certainly. Help us and I'll pay."
"What with?" he asked sceptically.
"I've money, plenty of money in the safe aboard Captain Grimes' ship."
"But it ain't here."
"I'll make out a promissory note . . ."
"There's only one thing that such a piece of paper would be any use for here."
"My word is good," she said. "And I have a name, a famous name . . ."
"Not to me it ain't."
Grimes was aware that Darleen was tugging at his sleeve. She had something to say to him, in private. He followed her into the bushes. Shirl accompanied them.
As soon as they were concealed from view, out of hearing from Mal and Fenella, she opened the shoulder bag that she was carrying, extracted a purse. It was very well filled, with notes of large denominations. So was the purse produced by Shirl. Evidently the dead women whose personal effects the New Alicians had appropriated had not believed in credit cards.
Grimes counted the money. It came to twelve thousand, three hundred and fifteen. Federation Credits.
"You take it," said Darleen. "On our world women do not handle business."
Grimes stuffed the notes into his sporran, walked back to where Mal and Fenella were still arguing.
"How much do you want to help us?" he asked bluntly.
Mal looked at him. "I was wonderin' why the hell you were lettin' this skinny bitch do all the dickerin'. How much have yer got?"
"How much do you want? A thousand?"
"Fifteen hundred. For you. But the tribe could do with three new women." He laughed nastily. "The ones we've got wear out pretty soon."
"The woman . . ."He corrected himself when he saw the way that Shirl and Darleen were looking at him. "The women come with me."
"That will cost yer, mister."
"Then an extra five hundred for each woman."
Mal spat. "Surely they're worth more to you than that. There's years o' wear in each of them."
"This is degrading!" flared Fenella Pruin.
"Isn't it?" agreed Grimes: "But keep out of this, will you?" Then, to Mal, "They aren't worth more than six hundred apiece."
"She ain't. All she's good for is collectin' firewood. But the other two sheilahs . . . Good breeders, by the looks of 'em. An' they're from my world. They're Matilda's Children, like me. So they'll be hunters. They'll be able to pull their weight."
"Six hundred for her, then . . ."
"You bastard!" snarled Fenella.
"Shut up! And a thousand each for the other two."
"Two thousand each."
Until now Grimes had been enjoying the chaffering. Now he was annoyed. "You mean," he demanded, "that they're worth more than me?"
"Too bloody right, mate. I need a spaceman in this camp like I need a hole in the head."
"Fifteen hundred each."
"No go. Two thousand. Cash on the nail and no bits of useless bumfodder."
Oh, well, thought Grimes, it wasn't his money. He said, "I have to talk this over, Mal."
"Don't take too long or I'll up the price."
Back in the bushes, with Fenelfa, Darleen and Shirl watching, he counted out the money. He had not wanted Mal to know how much was in his pouch. Six thousand, one hundred credits exactly; it was just as well that there was no need to ask Mal to make change.
The chief took the notes, made his own count.
"All right," he said. "You've sealed the bargain. You can loaf around all day, an' then ternight, when Cap'n Onslow comes by in his Triton, I'll get yer on board. He owes me a coupla favours."