Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III by A. Bertram Chandler

one by one, the drones.”
    “Wilco,” replied Grimes briefly.
    The airlock, he saw was re-pressurized. He opened the inner door. The princess came through into the main cabin, looking like a sheeted ghost out of some old story of the supernatural. Anything at all could have been under the folds of that white shroud. Then the protective garment fell away from her, dropped to her taloned feet. She stood there, a splendid creature, as tall as Tamara, taller than Grimes, regarding the two humans through her glittering, faceted eyes. Her gauzy, iridescent wings hung down her back like a flimsy, bejewelled cloak. Golden filigree gleamed in the rich, chocolate brown fur that covered her body and bracelets of fine gold wire encircled, between every joint, her four slender arms. Her voice box, strapped to her thorax, was also of gold.
    “Which of you is the captain?” she asked.
    “I am,” said Grimes. “And this is Madam Tamara Haverstock, the Superintending Postmistress of Tiralbin.”
    “And your name, Captain?”
    “Grimes. John Grimes.”
    “We have heard of you.” Although the artificial voice was without inflection Grimes could detect disapproval. He had become involved with an alcoholic Shaara princess some years ago and the news must have gotten around. “Now, please to admit my escort.”
    Grimes admitted them. They were smaller than the princess, each about half the size of a grown man. Like her they were lavishly bedecked with personal jewelry. Even their gun-belts and holsters and the butts of their laser pistols were as much ornamental as functional.
    “May we offer refreshments, Highness?” asked Grimes politely.
    The two drones started towards the laden table; the princess put out two long arms to restrain them. Then she walked slowly towards the display of refreshments. From her complex mouth a long, tubular tongue slowly uncoiled. She dipped it into one of the bottles, that containing the homemade Benedictine. Grimes, watching carefully, saw that the level of liquid fell, at the most, only half a millimeter.
    She said tonelessly, “It is a pity that I must do what I must do.” Her orders to the drones were telepathic. They approached the table, picked up the bottles, carried them through to the galley-cum-engine room. Then, with obvious reluctance, they poured the contents into the waste-disposal chute. Grimes wondered what would happen to the algae in the vats—but, of course, all sewage and galley refuse was processed before being used as nutriment for the primitive but especially bred organisms.
    “So you do not accept our hospitality,” said Grimes.
    “But I do,” replied the princess. She picked up a little fondue in a dainty claw, lifted it to her busy mandibles. “This is quite excellent.”
    One big advantage of an artificial voice box, thought Grimes, was that it allowed its possessor to talk with her mouth full.
    “I believe,” she went on, “that your interstellar drive is inoperative.”
    “It requires only a few minutes’ work, Highness, to make it operational,” Grimes told her. “Work that I am quite capable of carrying out myself.”
    “And are you a qualified engineer, Captain?”
    “No.”
    “Then I strongly advise against any tinkerings, on your part, with that delicate piece of machinery. It would be a pity if this very valuable little ship were hopelessly lost in a warped continuum. Our technicians will put matters to right.”
    “I am quite capable of making the necessary repairs,” said Grimes.
    “You are not,” stated the princess. “And now I extend to you and your distinguished passenger an invitation to repair aboard Baroom.”
    “Thank you,” said Grimes, “but I regret that we must decline.”
    “Perhaps,” said the princess, “I should not have used the word ‘invitation’.”
    The drones, Grimes saw, had drawn their pistols. They looked as though they knew how to use them. And they would be bad tempered at being deprived of the free drinks