Read Ride the Star Winds for Free Online Page B

if Captain Sanchez were Bardon’s man air travel, at least, would be safer for him than it had been for Governor Wibberley. Raoul didn’t look the type to commit suicide just to help somebody else commit murder.

Chapter 8

    A blast of sound assailed Grimes’s ears as he stepped out of the tender’s airlock, onto the top platform of the bunting-bedecked set of steps that had been wheeled into position. With an effort he identified it as music—the brass too strident and the drums too insistent—and with a further effort as the Terran Planetary Anthem, one of those forgettable songs with words and music composed to order by an untalented committee of lyricists and musicians. He stood to attention, his right hand holding his gray silk topper over his breast, his left hand grasping the cylindrical, gold-trimmed leather case in which was his Commission. It must look, he thought wryly, like a Field Marshal’s baton. But would Bardon give him the respect that he would accord to a Field Marshal?
    Sons of Terra, strong and free came to its blaring conclusion. Thankfully Grimes relaxed, put his hat back onto his head. Then there was a roll of drums, followed by more music— Liberia’s sons, let us rejoice . . . He whipped off his hat, came again to attention. That anthem was over at last and he took a step towards the edge of the platform—and again froze. This time it was Waltzing Matilda.
    The familiar words ran through his mind as he listened to the band.
    Up came the squatter, riding on his thoroughbred.
    Down came the troopers, one, two, three. . .
    And there were the troopers, and there were more than three of them. There were Bardon’s Bullies, drawn up for his inspection, resplendent in their dress uniforms of blue and gold and scarlet.
    Up jumped the swagman, sprang into the billabong . . .
    Grimes thought, And this is one helluva billabong that I’ve sprung into this time . . .
    After Matilda there were no more anthems, but Grimes was in no hurry to descend the steps to the ground. He made a slow survey of his immediate surroundings. That must be Bardon down there, waiting to receive him, even more splendidly attired than his soldiers, his finery topped by a plumed helmet. And the tall woman with him, in a superbly tailored suit of faded blue denim, had to be Madam President.
    There was a crowd, but only a small one. There was a group of men and women, attired as was their President. There were the inevitable schoolchildren waving their little flags—the Federation star cluster on a black field, the Terran opalescent sphere on dark blue, the Australian national ensign with the British union flag in the upper canton and the Southern Cross constellation in the fly. There were spaceport workers in shabby, dirty, white overalls, small statured men and women, dark skinned and with Mongoloid features. There were officers from the ships in port. Grimes recognized one of these men—the weedy, ferret-faced Aloysius Dreeble, master of Willy Willy. Dreeble recognized him, grinned and raised two fingers in a gesture that would have been, had his palm been outward, V for Victory.
    Grimes looked coldly at his old enemy and then turned away. He descended the steps with dignity. At the foot of them stood Bardon. The Colonel saluted smartly. Grimes raised his hat. The Colonel said, “Glad to have you aboard, Your Excellency.” Grimes said, swapping lie for lie, “I’m happy to be here, Colonel Bardon.”
    “Your Excellency, may I introduce you to Madam President?”
    Grimes removed his hat, put it to his chest and bowed. She inclined her head graciously. When they had both resumed normal posture they stood facing each other. Her eyes, gleaming black under heavy black brows, were level with his and looking at him appraisingly. The skin of her face was smooth and pale, her lips wide, full and very red. Her jaw was too heavy for a woman. But her smile, revealing strong white teeth, was quite pleasant.
    She said, “I never