To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga Read Free

his guest opened the liquor cabinet. “Pity to have to suck this excellent Manzanila out of a bulb—but that’s one of the hardships of Free Fall. Here!” He tossed a little pear-shaped container to Grimes, kept one for himself. “Your health, Ensign!”
    “And yours, sir.”
    The wine was too dry for Grimes’ taste, but he made a pretense of enjoying it. He was thankful that he was not asked to have a second drink. Meanwhile, his host had pulled a typewritten sheet from a drawer of his desk and was looking at it. “Let me see, now . . . You’re in cabin 15, on D Deck. You’ll be able to find your own way down, won’t you?”
    Grimes said that he would and unbuckled his lapstrap. It was obvious that the party was over.
    “Good. Now, as an officer of the Survey Service you have the freedom of the control room and the engine rooms. . . .”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Just don’t abuse the privilege, that’s all.”
    After that, thought Grimes, I’m not likely to take advantage of it, let alone abuse it. He let himself float up from his chair, said, “Thank you, sir.” (For the drink, or for the admonition? What did it matter?) “I’ll be getting down to my cabin, sir. I’ve some unpacking to do.”
    “As you please, Mr. Grimes.”
    The Captain, his social duty discharged, had obviously lost interest in his guest. Grimes let himself out of the cabin and made his way, not without difficulty, to the door in the axial shaft. He was surprised at the extent to which one not very large drink had interfered with the control of his body in Free Fall. Emerging from the elevator cage on D Deck he stumbled, literally, into the purser. “Let go of me,” she ordered, “or I shall holler rape!”
    That, he thought, is all I need to make this trip a really happy one.
    She disengaged herself, moved back from him, her slim, sandaled feet, magnetically shod, maintaining contact with the steel decking, but gracefully, with a dancing motion. She laughed. “I take it that you’ve just come from a home truth session with B.B.”
    “B.B.?”
    “The Bearded Bastard. But don’t take it too much to heart. He’s that way with all junior officers. The fact that you’re Survey Service is only incidental.”
    “Thank you for telling me.”
    “His trouble,” she went on. “His real trouble is that he’s painfully shy.”
    He’s not the only one, thought Grimes, looking at the girl. She seemed even more attractive than on the occasion of their first meeting. She had changed into shorts-and-shirt shipboard uniform—and she was one of the rare women who could wear such a rig without looking lumpy and clumpy. There was no cap now to hide her hair—smooth, lustrous, with coppery glints, with a straight white part bisecting the crown of her finely shaped head.
    She was well aware of his scrutiny. She said, “You must excuse me, Ensign. I have to look after the other customers. They aren’t seasoned spacemen like you.”
    Suddenly bold, he said, “But before you go, what is your name?”
    She smiled dazzlingly. “You’ll find a list of all ship’s personnel posted in your cabin. I’m included.” Then she was gone, gliding rapidly around the curve of the alleyway.
    He looked at the numbers over the cabin doors, outboard from the axial shaft, making a full circuit of that hollow pillar before he realized that this was only the inner ring, that he would have to follow one of the radial alleyways to reach his own accommodation. He finally found No. 15 and let himself in.
    His first action was to inspect the framed notices on the bulkhead.
    I.S.S. Delta Orionis, he read.
    Captain J. Craven, O.G.S., S.S.R.
    So the Old Man held a Reserve commission. And the Order of the Golden Star was awarded for something more than good attendance.
    Mr. P. Kennedy, Chief Officer.
    He ignored the other names on the list while he searched for one he wanted. Ah, here it was.
    Miss Jane Pentecost, Purser.
    He repeated the name to himself,