There was somebody at the outer airlock door wanting admittance.
It was a supercilious young El Doradan officer in purple uniform, a single gold band on each of his sleeves. He looked curiously at the women, his expression conveying the impression that he had seen much better. He looked with disapproval at Grimes' informal sarong, asked, "You are the captain?"
"I have that honour," said Grimes, blinking at the other's purple and gold resplendence. He looked hard at the young man's face, was both relieved and disappointed when he could find there was no resemblance to himself. His own son, of whom the Princess Marlene was the mother, would be about the age of this youngster.
"Commodore Kane told me to find out what consumable Stores you will be requiring. Sir."
"Come through to the galley while I make a check . . ." The officer followed Grimes into the little compartment. "Mphm . . . Would you have any pork tissue culture in your vats? And we shall be needing fresh eggs. And bacon . . . And coffee. And table wines, of course . . ."
The young man took notes. His manner toward Grimes oscillated between almost contemptuous disapproval and respect. After all, he was an El Doradan and therefore to him Money was one of the many Odd Gods of the Galaxy—and Little Sister, in her construction and appointments, reeked of Money. If only her captain had the decency to dress the part . . .
A Customs officer, a surly, middle-aged woman obviously rudely awakened from her much-needed beauty sleep, came on board with papers for Grimes to sign. He put his name to them, wondering as he did so who had paid Little Sister's port dues. He had not and had no intention of doing so unless compelled. He asked the woman to unseal the locker in which the small arms and the crystals from the laser cannon had been stowed. She complied with his request reluctantly, telling him sternly that he was not to replace the crystals until he was off New Venusberg. He examined the pistols. They were in order. It was ironical that he had weapons now that the need for them (he hoped) was gone.
The stores were brought aboard from Southerly Buster. The young officer handed Grimes a parcel, wrapped in parchment and tied with a golden ribbon, said, "With Her Excellency's compliments, sir."
Grimes opened it. There were two large tins of tobacco and, in its own case, a beautiful brier pipe.
"Thank Her Excellency for me, please," he said.
"Certainly, sir." The young man smiled unpleasantly. "And the commodore asked me to say that he hopes it chokes you."
"You can tell Commodore Kane, from me, to . . . Oh, skip it. He knows what I think about him."
Grimes went into the galley, supervised the two stewards in their stowage of the various items, put the pork into the cooler until such a time as a vat could be readied for its reception. He followed them back into the cabin. They wished him bon voyage and went out through the airlock. The officer saluted stiffly, then left Little Sister.
Fenella Pruin looked at Grimes, looked at Shirl and Darleen.
"Well?" she asked.
"Well what?" countered Grimes.
"Aren't you going to say your fond farewells?" she demanded.
"To whom?"
"Those two."
"They're coming with us," said Grimes.
"What?"
"Of course. What will their lives be worth if we leave them here? They're wanted for a few murders, you know. And we were accessory to some of those killings."
"Always the space lawyer, aren't you? I know something about the law myself, Grimes. I would remind you that I am chartering this ship."
"Your employers are."
"And I decide what passengers may or may not be carried."
"Her Excellency," said Grimes, "is your employer, as you discovered this evening. She charged me to look after Shirl and Darleen. She didn't as much as mention you, by the way."
He brushed past her, stamped forward to the control cab, sat down firmly in the pilot's seat. He turned to look aft into the main cabin. He could see Fenella, in profile. She was glaring at Shirl and Darleen. They were staring back at her defiantly. He pushed the button on the control panel that closed the airlock doors, sealed the ship. He said into the microphone of the NST transceiver, "Little Sister to Aerospace Control. Request permission to lift ship."
"Permission granted, Little Sister."
The voice was familiar. Yes, that was McKillick's fat face in the screen of the transceiver.
There was no bon voyage. There were no pleasantries whatsoever. If looks could have killed Grimes would have died at his controls.
The inertial drive grumbled and Little Sister detached herself from the concrete, rose vertically. To one side of her was the towering Southerly Buster, to the other the great, metallic skep that was the Shaara ship. There was activity in this latter's control room; Grimes could see huge, faceted eyes peering at him through the viewports. He wondered briefly what their owners were thinking. But for all their wealth and influence they were only tourists on this planet. The real power lay with human capitalists, of whom the Baroness was one. Once he had almost—at least!—hated her but, now, he both respected and trusted her. He had no doubt that the worst abuses on New Venusberg would be put a stop to.
Just in time he turned to look out and down to Southerly Buster. There was a white-clad figure in the big ship's control room, one hand raised in a gesture of farewell. He lifted his own arm in reply, hoped that she would see. Then Little Sister was high above the spaceport. In the keel viewscreens were the toylike ships and buildings, the dwindling, floodlit form of the wantonly asprawl White Lady. A lot had happened since he first set eyes on that piece of pornographic landscape gardening.
"Goodbye, Little Sister," said McKillick. "Don't come back."
"If I do," said Grimes, "it will be fifty years too soon.
He heard the sound of quarrelling female voices behind him.
This would not be, he predicted to himself, one of the more pleasant voyages of his career.
But it would be interesting.