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

that had been so temptingly displayed.”
    “What do you want with us?” Grimes demanded.
    “That, Captain, is for the Queen-Captain to tell you if she so decides.”
    “Do something, damn you, Grimes!” shouted Tamara. “If you won’t, I will!”
    She snatched from the golden belt at her waist something that Grimes had assumed was no more than decoration, that was, in fact, a shin dagger. She sprang towards the princess. One of the drones fired, and she was nursing her scorched right hand, looking down at the hilt that, with a mere centimeter of still-glowing steel protruding from it, had fallen to the deck. The other drone fired. The crystals of her right ear pendant shattered. Blood trickled down her face from a dozen tiny wounds.
    Grimes went to her. “We have to do as they say,” he told her. “Even if we did overpower these three pirates their ship would vaporize us in a second.”
    “But the contract . . .” She was actually weeping, from pain or humiliation, or both. “The contract . . . The parcel mail . . .”
    “It won’t be the first time in the history of Man,” said Grimes, “that the mail’s been late or has never arrived at all.”
    He should not have been surprised when the open palm of her uninjured hand almost knocked his head off its shoulders.

Chapter 11

    UNDER THE WATCHFUL EYES of the three Shaara they divested themselves of their finery—and much good had it done them!—climbed into their longjohns and then their spacesuits. The one that Tamara put on had belonged to the Baroness. She had told Grimes, “You may as well keep it. You may be carrying a passenger some time. And, all too probably, you’ll be getting into a situation where life-saving equipment is essential . . .”
    “You will leave the ship first, Captain,” said the princess. “And then your passenger. You will assist her to make the jump.”
    “Did you ever try to teach your grandmother to suck eggs?” asked Grimes. It was obvious that no passenger could make a space jump without guidance.
    “I do not understand,” said the princess. “But do not delay any further. Go. I shall be quite capable of operating your simple airlock controls.”
    Grimes sealed his helmet. The suit radio was working; he could hear Tamara’s ragged breathing. He checked the seals of her spacesuit then made his way to the airlock. The inner door closed behind him. He watched the needle of the pressure gauge on the bulkhead drop to zero. The outer door opened. He clambered from the chamber into the emptiness, being careful to keep a grip on one of the recessed handholds. Little Sister was still accelerating and if he cast adrift too soon he would follow a weird trajectory relative to her and might well expend all the reaction mass in his suit propulsion unit trying to get back.
    The outer door closed.
    While he was waiting for it to open again he looked across to the Shaara ship, a huge, menacing hulk against the starry blackness. All her lights were on, making it easy to see her. That inside the open airlock door was green, slowly flashing.
    Tamara emerged from Little Sister.
    She whispered, and even the distortion of the helmet phones could not hide the shakiness of her voice, “I’ve never done this before.”
    Grimes said, “And I don’t make a habit of it.”
    And another voice—the princess aboard the pinnace? The Queen-Captain aboard Baroom?— ordered, “Do not delay. Make the jump.”
    “Hang on to me,” said Grimes. “You’ll have to let go of the hand-holds first.”
    And that latter went for him too. He realized that Little Sister was falling up away from him. He got his left arm around her and both her arms went about his body. He could see her face through the transparency of her helmet. She was very pale, and blood was still oozing from the cuts on her cheek. He was lucky, he thought. Looking over her space suited shoulder he could see that he was lined up for the flashing green light. With his left hand he