had been asleep only for minutes when an annoyingly cheerful voice was chanting, "Rise and shine! Rise and shine!" Nonetheless, he was alert at once, opening his eyes to see that the soft, concealed lighting had come back on. He looked at his wrist watch, which he had set to the Zone Time of the spaceport, adjusting it at the same time to the mean rotation of Eldorado before leaving the cruiser. 0700 hours. It was high time that he was up and doing something about everything.
He slid out of the bed. Kravisky, in his own couch, was still huddled under the covers, moaning unhappily, the voice, louder now, was still chanting, "Rise and shine!"
There was a silver tea service on the table. Grimes went to it, poured himself a cup of tea, added milk and plenty of sugar. He sipped it appreciatively. He called to the Surgeon Lieutenant, "Show a leg, you lazy bastard. Come and have your tea while it's hot."
The doctor's rumpled head emerged from under the sheet. "I never have tea first thing in the morning," he complained. "I always have coffee."
"You should have made your wishes known before you retired last night," said the robot voice reprovingly. At least, thought Grimes, this was a change from that irritating sing-song.
"Oh, all right. All right." Kravisky got out of bed, pulled his robe about his thin body, joined Grimes at the table. He slopped tea from the pot into the thin, porcelain cup, slopping much of it into the saucer. He grimaced at the first mouthful. Then he asked, "What now, John?"
"Get ourselves cleaned up. The fleet's in port, or soon will be, and not a whore in the house washed."
"How can you be so bloody cheerful?"
"I always wake up this way."
Grimes set down his empty cup, went through to the bathroom. On the shelf under the mirror were two new toothbrushes, toothpaste, a tube of depilatory cream. Service, he thought. But, so far, without a smile. By the time that he was in the shower the Surgeon Lieutenant was commencing his own ablutions, was still showering when Grimes walked back into the bedroom. The beds, he saw, had been remade. He had heard nothing, decided that they must have been removed and replaced in the same way that the table service operated. On each tautly spread coverlet was fresh clothing: underwear, a shirt, a pair of shorts, sandals. Very gay the apparel looked against the dark, matte blue of the bedspreads—the shirts an almost fluorescent orange, the shorts a rich emerald green.
He said aloud, "Uniform would have been better."
The disembodied voice replied, "We have not the facilities."
"You won't have to explain to the Old Man why you aren't wearing the rig of the day," remarked Grimes.
There was silence. Haughty? Hurt? But it was better than some mechanical wisecrack.
"Breakfast," said Kravisky, who had come in from the bathroom.
It was standing there on the table—a coffeepot and cups, cream, sugar, two halves of grapefruit, toast, butter, honey and two covered plates. The Surgeon Lieutenant lifted one of the covers. "The spaceman's delight," he complained. "Ham and eggs."
"What's wrong with that? "
"Nothing. But I would have preferred kidneys and bacon."
"We are not telepathic," said the smug voice.
Breakfast over, the two men dressed. They looked at each other dubiously. "And do we have to face the Old Man like this?" asked Kravisky. "You should have let me save our uniforms, John."
"There wasn't time, Doc. It was all we could do to save ourselves."
"Look. The door's opening."
"Take the escalator to the next upper floor," ordered the robot voice. "You will find the Princess von Stolzberg and the Comte de Messigny awaiting you."
"And wipe the egg off your face," said Grimes to Kravisky.
* * *
There was an office on the next floor that, judging by the equipment along two of its walls, was also the spaceport control tower. In one of the big screens swam the image of Aries, a silvery, vaned spindle gleaming against the interstellar dark.
He slid out of the bed. Kravisky, in his own couch, was still huddled under the covers, moaning unhappily, the voice, louder now, was still chanting, "Rise and shine!"
There was a silver tea service on the table. Grimes went to it, poured himself a cup of tea, added milk and plenty of sugar. He sipped it appreciatively. He called to the Surgeon Lieutenant, "Show a leg, you lazy bastard. Come and have your tea while it's hot."
The doctor's rumpled head emerged from under the sheet. "I never have tea first thing in the morning," he complained. "I always have coffee."
"You should have made your wishes known before you retired last night," said the robot voice reprovingly. At least, thought Grimes, this was a change from that irritating sing-song.
"Oh, all right. All right." Kravisky got out of bed, pulled his robe about his thin body, joined Grimes at the table. He slopped tea from the pot into the thin, porcelain cup, slopping much of it into the saucer. He grimaced at the first mouthful. Then he asked, "What now, John?"
"Get ourselves cleaned up. The fleet's in port, or soon will be, and not a whore in the house washed."
"How can you be so bloody cheerful?"
"I always wake up this way."
Grimes set down his empty cup, went through to the bathroom. On the shelf under the mirror were two new toothbrushes, toothpaste, a tube of depilatory cream. Service, he thought. But, so far, without a smile. By the time that he was in the shower the Surgeon Lieutenant was commencing his own ablutions, was still showering when Grimes walked back into the bedroom. The beds, he saw, had been remade. He had heard nothing, decided that they must have been removed and replaced in the same way that the table service operated. On each tautly spread coverlet was fresh clothing: underwear, a shirt, a pair of shorts, sandals. Very gay the apparel looked against the dark, matte blue of the bedspreads—the shirts an almost fluorescent orange, the shorts a rich emerald green.
He said aloud, "Uniform would have been better."
The disembodied voice replied, "We have not the facilities."
"You won't have to explain to the Old Man why you aren't wearing the rig of the day," remarked Grimes.
There was silence. Haughty? Hurt? But it was better than some mechanical wisecrack.
"Breakfast," said Kravisky, who had come in from the bathroom.
It was standing there on the table—a coffeepot and cups, cream, sugar, two halves of grapefruit, toast, butter, honey and two covered plates. The Surgeon Lieutenant lifted one of the covers. "The spaceman's delight," he complained. "Ham and eggs."
"What's wrong with that? "
"Nothing. But I would have preferred kidneys and bacon."
"We are not telepathic," said the smug voice.
Breakfast over, the two men dressed. They looked at each other dubiously. "And do we have to face the Old Man like this?" asked Kravisky. "You should have let me save our uniforms, John."
"There wasn't time, Doc. It was all we could do to save ourselves."
"Look. The door's opening."
"Take the escalator to the next upper floor," ordered the robot voice. "You will find the Princess von Stolzberg and the Comte de Messigny awaiting you."
"And wipe the egg off your face," said Grimes to Kravisky.
* * *
There was an office on the next floor that, judging by the equipment along two of its walls, was also the spaceport control tower. In one of the big screens swam the image of Aries, a silvery, vaned spindle gleaming against the interstellar dark.
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