But there was, after all, shore leave of a sort.
Just as Grimes was about to go down to the wardroom for his luncheon he had another caller, this one human, an ensign from the Sub-Base. This not-so-young (for his lowly rank he seemed quite elderly) gentleman handed Grimes a large, rather condescendingly but more or less correctly addressed envelope. Commander John Grimes, FSS (Rtd.), Master dss Sister Sue. (Grimes had held the rank of commander at the time of the Discovery mutiny but he had not been retired; he had resigned his commission in some haste.)
Inside the envelope was a stiff sheet of official Survey Service stationery. On it was typed, "Commander David Dravitt, Federation Survey Service, Officer-in-Charge Sub-Base Pleth and his officers request the pleasure of the company of Commander John Grimes, Master dss Sister Sue, and his officers to dinner this evening, 1800 for 1930. Your prompt reply by bearer will be appreciated."
So far as he could remember Grimes had never been shipmates with Dravitt during his own days in the Service. He had never met, nor even heard of Dravitt. But, all too probably, Dravitt would have heard of him.
He asked, "Is there any limit to the number of guests, Mr . . . . Mr . . . . ?"
"Sullivan, sir. No, there is no limit. We enjoy commodious facilities. The Sub-Base was once much more important than it is now."
"Mphm. Can you handle fourteen, including myself?"
"Easily, sir. Will that be your entire complement?"
"No. Executive and engineer officers of the watch will remain on board. Will you be arranging transport?"
"It is only a short stroll to the Sub-Base officers' quarters, sir."
"In a thick fog, Mr. Sullivan?"
"We can lay on a ground car for yourself and your senior officers, sir. Native guides will be supplied for the others. The natives, as you may know, have eyes adapted to local conditions."
"Very well. You will call for us then at . . ."
"Shortly after 1730, sir."
"Thank you. Would you care to stay for lunch?"
Sullivan was obviously tempted but he said, "No thank you, sir. Commander Dravitt would like your reply as soon as possible so that the necessary arrangements may be made."
She, Paymaster Lieutenant Commander Selena Shaw, extricated herself from the tangle of bed sheets and limbs (half of these latter belonging to herself) and padded to the well-stocked bar set against one wall of her bedroom. Grimes watched the tall, naked blonde appreciatively. She returned to the bed bearing two condensation-bedewed glasses of sparkling wine.
"What," asked Grimes, "is a girl like you doing in a place like this? A highly competent officer attached to Sub-Base Pleth, the last resting place of all the Survey Service incompetents? Well, some of them, anyhow."
She laughed, her teeth very white in her tanned face. (She was one of the few officers of the Sub-Base who made regular use of the solarium; artificial sunlight was better than none at all.)
She said, without false modesty, "There has to be one competent officer, even in a sub-base like this. And I just happen to be it. Or her."
Grimes sipped his chilled wine. "And what am I," he continued rhetorically, "doing in a place like this? First of all, I never thought that a high and mighty sub-base commander would condescend to entertain a mere tramp skipper. Secondly, I was expecting a rather boring evening. I never dreamed that it would finish up like this."
She said, "Actually the invitation was Droopy Delia's idea. You've met her now, talked with her, so your opinion of her probably coincides with mine. A typical wife for a typical passed-over commander, like Davy Dravy, swept with him under the carpet to a dump like Pleth. Social ambitions that will never now be realized. A plumpish blonde—and now she's rather more than plump—getting spliced to an ambitious young lieutenant and seeing herself, after not too many years, as an admiral's wife. An admiral's wife she'll never be—but she kids herself that she's running this sub-base. Shortly after you'd set down she came barging into my office. My office, mind you. Davy Dravy was there—well, after all he is the sub-base commander—to discuss various matters and she started browsing through the papers on my desk. 'David,' she squeaked, 'have you seen who's master of this tramp, this Sister Sue?' He grumbled back, 'What is it to me what star tramp skippers call themselves?' She said, 'It's Grimes. John Grimes. The Grimes.' Davy Dravy was less than impressed. 'So bloody what?' he snarled. 'He was emptied out of the Service, wasn't he? And not before time.' She said, 'Yes. He was emptied out of the Service—or, according to some, he resigned before he could be emptied out. And now he's a shipowner. And he's been a planetary governor. At least he hasn't finished up with a dead-end appointment, frozen in rank, like some people.' Davy mumbled something about this being just your bloody luck. Droopy Delia said that she wished this famous luck would rub off on to some people she knew. And so it was decided to invite you to dinner. Or she decided to invite you to dinner. And then I took pity on you—or, as it's turned out, it was enlightened self-interest. Davy and Delia just aren't the Universe's best hosts. I threw in my two bits' worth. 'Why not,' I asked her, not him, 'issue a general wardroom invitation to the captain and officers. Our own officers, and the few civilian spouses, will enjoy having somebody fresh to talk with . . . .' "
"To talk with," said Grimes. "And . . . ." "Yes. As you say, and as we've been doing, and . . . Apart from ourselves, I think that there has been rather more than just talking. But I don't think that Tony Cavallo and Billy Brown, our two prize wolves, got any place with those two cadets of yours. Odd looking wenches, somehow, but very attractive. And, despite their names, I don't think that their ancestors were Irish. I may be wrong, but I think that they had eyes only for you. And me, when I was making my invitation rather obvious. If looks could have killed . . . ." "Mphm," grunted Grimes, embarrassed.
"Talking of their eyes . . . ." she went on. "Is there anything odd about them?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, I was in charge of picking you people up and supplying the native guides for the junior officers. Your Ms. Kelly and Ms. Byrne arrived at the base officers' quarters well before the rest of the crowd—and they had nobody to guide them. And the fog was as thick as the armor plating of a Nova class battlewagon."
"Probably," said Grimes, "they regarded it as a sort of navigation test, got themselves headed in the right direction and then set off hopefully."
"Then they were lucky. It's not a straight line walk. There are two bridges to negotiate, and that mess of alleys and cross alleys through the workshops and stores."
"Mphm," grunted Grimes.
He finished his drink, she finished hers. It would soon be time for him to get back to his ship so as to spend what remained of the night in his own bed. But before he got dressed there were things to do better done naked.
At last it was time for him to say good night—or, more exactly, good morning. She threw on a robe and took him out to where the ground car, with native driver, was awaiting him.
He said, "I'll see you at about 1100 hours, then, Selena. Drinks before lunch. And I think I can promise you a rather better meal than tonight's dinner was."
She said, "It should be. Aboard your ship you're the boss."
They kissed a long moment and he boarded the waiting vehicle.
She arrived aboard Sister Sue shortly after 1100, supported, almost carried, by Ensigns Cavallo and Brown. She was dazed, bleeding profusely from a deep cut on the forehead. The efficient Melinda Clay was called upon to administer first aid and, after some delay, the sub-base's medical officer was in attendance.
At last Grimes was able to find out what had happened.
Selena had decided to walk from the sub-base to the ship, escorted through the fog by one of the native guides. Suddenly, without warning, she had been struck by a heavy missile. The guide had run to the ship to fetch help.
"I suppose, sir, that it was our fault," said Ensign Cavallo unhappily. "We should not have encouraged them. But, after all, sir, they're your officers, aboard your ship . . . ."
"Encouraged them? How?"
"We came on board for morning coffee. In the wardroom Ms. Kelly and Ms. Byrne were giving a demonstration of throwing weapons, using ashtrays and such, making them sail around and come back to their hands. I asked if this technique would be effective over a distance. They said that it was. So we all went down to the after airlock, and Ms. Kelly threw a rather thick glass saucer of some kind into the fog. We expected that it would come back, but it didn't . . . ."
"Ms. Kelly," asked Grimes severely, "Ms. Byrne, is this true?"
"Yes, sir," replied Shirl innocently. "But we had no idea that there would be anybody out in the fog. After all, if Ms. Shaw had been making her approach by ground car we should have seen the glare of the headlights . . . ."
"And so, quite by chance," said Grimes, "your random missile inflicted grievous bodily harm on Lieutenant Commander Shaw—"
And with that he had to be content. He could prove nothing—and, even if he could, what could he do about it? Shirl and Darleen were essential— or so he had been told by Damien—to the success of his mission. Selena had been no more than a pleasant diversion.