The Rim Gods

Book 0: John Grimes

by A. Bertram Chandler

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Alien Contact

Synopsis

Gods! Dragons! Fairies! Frog Princess! Knights! and much more. John Grimes faces them all.

Release date: December 17, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 203

Sample

“AND WHO,” demanded Commodore Grimes, “will it be this time?” He added, “Or what?”

“I don’t know, sir, I’m sure,” simpered Miss Walton.

Grimes looked at his new secretary with some distaste. There was no denying that she was far more photogenic then her predecessor, and that she possessed a far sweeter personality. But sweetness and prettiness are not everything. He bit back a sarcastic rejoinder, looked again at the signal that the girl had just handed him. It was from a ship, a vessel with the unlikely name of Piety. And it was not a word in some alien language that could mean anything—the name of the originator of the message was Terran enough. Anglo-Terran at that. William Smith. And after that prosaic appellation there was his title—but that was odd. It was not the usual Master, Captain, Officer Commanding or whatever. It was, plainly and simply, Rector.

Piety…. Rector…. That ship’s name, and that title of rank, had an archaic ring to them. Grimes had always been a student of naval history, and probably knew more about the vessels that had sailed Earth’s oceans in the dim and distant past than anybody on the Rim Worlds and, come to that, the vast majority of people on the home planet itself. He remembered that most of the ancient sailing ships had been given religious names. He remembered, too, that rector had once been the shipmaster’s official title.

So what was this ship coming out to the Rim, giving her ETA, details of last clearance, state of health on board and all the rest of it? Some cog, some caravel, some galleass? Grimes smiled at his own fancy. Nonetheless, strange ships, very strange ships, had drifted out to the Rim.

“Miss Walton …” he said.

“Yes, Commodore,” she replied brightly.

“This Piety … see what details Lloyd’s Register has on her.”

“Very good, sir.”

The Commodore—rugged, stocky, short, iron-gray hair over a deeply tanned and seamed face, ears that in spite of suggestions made by two wives and several mistresses still protruded—paced the polished floor of his office while the little blonde punched the buttons that would actuate the Port Forlorn robot librarian. Legally, he supposed, the impending arrival of the Piety was the port captain’s pigeon. Grimes was Astronautical Superintendent of Rim Runners, the Confederacy’s shipping line. But he was also the officer commanding the Rim Worlds Naval Reserve and, as such, was concerned with matters of security and defense. He wished that Sonya, his wife, were available so that he could talk things over with her. She, before her marriage to him, had held the rank of Commander in the Intelligence branch of the Interstellar Federation’s Survey Service and, when it came to mysteries and secrets of any kind, displayed the aptitudes of a highly intelligent ferret. But Sonya, after declaring that another week on Lorn would have her climbing up the wallpaper, had taken off for a long vacation—Waverley, Caribbea, Atlantia and points inward—by herself. She, when she returned, would be sorry to have missed whatever odd adventures the arrival of this queerly named ship presaged—and Grimes knew that there would be some. His premonitions were rarely, if ever, wrong.

He turned away from the banked screens and instruments that made his office look like an exceptionally well fitted spaceship’s control room, walked to the wide window that took up an entire wall, which overlooked the port. It was a fine day—for Lorn. The almost perpetual overcast was thin enough to permit a hint of blue sky to show through, and the Lorn sun was a clearly defined disk rather than the usual fuzzy ball. There was almost no wind. Discharge of Rim Leopard, noted, seemed to be progressing satisfactorily. There was a blue flare of welding arcs about the little spacetug Rim Mamelute, presently undergoing her annual survey. And there, all by herself, was the ship that Grimes—to the annoyance of his wife—often referred to as his one true love, the old, battered Faraway Quest. She had been built how many (too many) years ago as a standard Epsilon Class tramp for the Interstellar Transport Commission. She had been converted into a survey ship for the Rim Worlds’ government. In her, Grimes had made the first landings on the inhabited planets to the Galactic East, the worlds now referred to as the Eastern Circuit. In her he had made the first contact—but not a physical one—with the anti-matter systems to the Galactic West.

And would the arrival of the good ship Piety lead to her recommissioning? Grimes hoped so. He liked his job—it was interesting work, carrying both authority and responsibility—but he was often tired of being a deskborne commodore, and had always welcomed the chance to take the old Quest up and out into deep space again. As often in the past he had a hunch, a strong one. Something was cooking, and he would have a finger in the pie.

Miss Walton’s childish treble broke into his thoughts. “Sir, I have the information on Piety….”

“Yes?”

“She was built as Epsilon Crucis for the Interstellar Transport Commission fifty Terran standard years ago. She was purchased from them last year, Terran reckoning, by the Skarsten Theological Institute, whose address is listed as Nuevo Angeles on Francisco, otherwise known as Beta Puppis VI….”

“I’ve visited Francisco,” he told her. “A pleasant world, in many ways. But an odd one.”

“Odd? How, sir?”

“I hope I’m not treading on any of your corns, Miss Walton, but the whole planet’s no more than a breeding ground for fancy religions.”

“I’m a Latter Day Reformed Methodist myself, sir,” she told him severely. “And that’s not fancy.”

“Indeed it’s not, Miss Walton.” And I’m a cynical, more or less tolerant agnostic, he thought. He went on, “And does Lloyds condescend to tell us the category in which this renamed Epsilon Crucis is now listed? A missionary ship, perhaps?”

“No, sir. A survey ship.”

“Oh,” was all that Grimes could say.

Two days later Grimes watched, from his office window, Piety come in. Whatever else this Rector William Smith might or might not be he was a good ship handler. There was a nasty wind blowing across the spaceport, not quite a gale, but near enough to it; nonetheless the ship made a classic vertical descent, dropping to the exact center of the triangle formed by the berth-marker beacons. It was easy enough in theory, no more than the exact application of lateral thrust, no more than a sure and steady hand on the remote controls of the Inertial Drive. No more—and no less. Some people get the feel of ships; some never do.

This Piety was almost a twin to Grimes’s own Faraway Quest. She was a newer (less old) ship, of course, but the design of the Epsilon Class tramps, those trusty workhorses of the Commission, had changed very little over the years. She sat there in her assigned berth, a gray, weathered spire, the bright scarlet beacons still blinking away just clear of the broad vanes of her tripedal landing gear. From her stem a telescopic mast extended itself, and from the top of the metal staff a flag broke out, whipped to quivering rigidity by the wind. The Commodore picked up his binoculars through which to study it. It was not, as he had assumed it would be, the national ensign of Francisco, the golden crux anasta and crescent on a scarlet ground; even with the naked eye he could see that. This was a harshly uncompromising standard: a simple white cross on a black field. It must be, decided Grimes, the houseflag of the Skarsten Institute.

The after air lock door opened and the ramp extended from it, and to it drew up the beetle-like cars of the various port officials—port captain, customs, immigration, health. The boarding party got out of their vehicles and filed up the gangway, to where an officer was waiting to receive them. They vanished into the ship. Grimes idly wondered whether or not they would get a drink, and what the views of these Skarsten people were on alcohol. He remembered his own visit to Francisco, as a junior officer in the Federation’s Survey Service, many years ago. Some of the religious sects had been rigidly abstemious, maintaining that alcohol was an invention of the devil. Others had held that wine symbolized the more beneficent aspects of the Almighty. But it was hardly a subject worthy of speculation. He would find out for himself when, after the arrival formalities were over, he paid his courtesy call on the ship’s captain.

He went back to his desk, busied himself with the paperwork that made a habit of accumulating. An hour or so later he was interrupted by the buzzing of his telephone. “Grimes here!” he barked into the instrument. “Commodore Grimes,” said a strange voice. It was a statement rather than a question. “This is William Smith, Commodore, Rector of Piety. I request an appointment.”

“It will be my pleasure, er, Rector.” Grimes glanced at his watch. It was almost time for his rather dreary coffee and sandwich lunch. It was not the sort of meal that one asked visitors to share. He said, “Shall we say 1400 hours, our time? In my office?”

“That will do very nicely, sir. Thank you.”

“I am looking forward to meeting you,” said Grimes, replacing the handset in its rest. And shall I send Miss Walton out for some sacramental wine? he asked himself.

William Smith was a tall man, thin, with almost all of his pale face hidden by a bushy black beard, from above which a great nose jutted like the beak of a bird of prey. His eyes under the thick, black brows were of a gray so pale as to be almost colorless, and they were cold, cold. A plain black uniform covered his spare frame, the buttons concealed by the fly front of the tunic, the four bands of black braid on the sleeves almost invisible against the cloth. There was a hint of white lace at his throat.

“I have been told, sir,” he said, sitting rigidly in his chair, “that you are something of an expert on the queer conditions that prevail here, on the Rim.”

“Perhaps, Rector,” said Grimes, “you will tell me first the purpose of your visit here.”

“Very well, sir.” The man’s baritone voice was as cold and as colorless as his eyes. “To begin with, we have the permission of your government, your Rim Worlds Confederacy, to conduct our pressing need of a new Revelation, a new Sinai….”

“A survey, Rector? The Rim Worlds have been very well surveyed—even though I say it myself.”

“Not our kind of survey. Commodore. I shall, as you would say, put you in the picture. We of the Skarsten Institute are Neo-Calvinists. We deplore the godlessness, the heresy that is ever more prevalent throughout the galaxy—yes, even upon our own planet. We feel that Mankind is in sore and pressing need of a new Revelation, a new Sinai….”

“And you honestly believe that you will find your Sinai here, out on the Rim?”

“We believe that we shall find our Sinai. If not here, then elsewhere. Perhaps, even, beyond the confines of this galaxy.”

“Indeed? But how can I help you, Rector?”

“You, we were told, know more about the odd distortions of the Continuum encountered here than anybody else on these planets.”

“Such is fame.” Grimes sighed and shrugged. “Very well, Rector, you asked for it. I’ll tell you what little I know. To begin with, it is thought by many of our scientists that here, at the very edge of the expanding galaxy, the fabric of time and space is stretched thin. We have long become used to the phenomena known as Rim Ghosts, disconcerting glimpses into alternative universes.”

“I believe that you, sir, have personally made the transition into their universes.”

“Yes. Once when the Federation’s Survey Service requested our aid in the investigation of the Rim Ghost phenomena. No doubt your people have read the Survey Service report.”

“We have.”

“The second time was when we, the Confederacy, took our own steps to deal with what we decided was a very real menace—an alternative universe in which our worlds were ruled by particularly unpleasant mutants, with human beings in a state of slavery. And then there was Captain Listowel, who was master of the first experimental lightjammer. He tried to exceed the speed of light without cheating—as we do with our Mannschenn Drive—and experienced quite a few different time tracks.”

“And tell me, sir, did you or this Captain Listowel ever feel that you were on the point of being granted the Ultimate Revelation?”

“Frankly, no, Rector. We had our bad moments—who in Space, or anywhere else, doesn’t?—and anyone who has indulged in time track switching often wonders, as I do, about the reality, the permanence of both himself and the universe about him. For example, I have vague memories of ships that were equipped with only reaction drive for blast-offs and landings and short interplanetary hauls. Absurd, isn’t it, but those memories are there. And my wife—I’m sorry you can’t meet her, but she’s off on a trip—seems to have changed. I have this half recollection of her when she first came out to the Rim, which is there in my mind alongside the real one—but what is real? She was working for the Federation’s Intelligence Service then. Anyhow, in one memory she’s small and blond, in one she’s tall and blonde, and in one she’s tall and red-headed, as she is today, Damn it—that’s three memories!”

“Women have been known to change their hair styles and colorations, Commodore.”

“Right. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she returns with her crowning glory a bright green! But that doesn’t explain the coexistent memories.”

“Perhaps not.” Smith’s voice was bitter as he went on. “But it seems such a waste of opportunities. To have been privileged to visit the many mansions of our Father’s house, and to come back only with confused recollections of the color of a woman’s hair!”

“And quite a few scars, Rector. Physical and psychological.”

“No doubt.” The man’s voice was unpleasantly ironic. “But tell me, sir, what do you know of Kinsolving’s Planet?”

“Not much. I suppose that we shall settle it if we’re ever faced with a population explosion, which is doubtful.”

“I am referring, sir, to the man who appeared there, the Stone Age savage from the remote past.”

“Yes, that was a queer business. Well before my time. Nothing like that has happened there in recent years, although there is still an uneasy, brooding atmosphere about that world that makes it undesirable as a piece of real estate. The original theory is that somehow the—the loneliness of the people out here on the Rim, hanging, as it were, by their fingernails over the abyss of the Ultimate Night, became focused on that one particular planet. Now the theory is that the fabric of Time and Space is stretched extremely thin there, and that anything or anybody is liable to fall through, either way. The rock paintings are still in the caves, but there haven’t been any new ones and the paint is never wet anymore.”

“The Stone Age savage,” said Smith, “eventually became a Franciscan citizen, and a Neo-Calvinist. He died at a very ripe old age, and among his effects was the manuscript of his life story. His great-granddaughter presented it to the Institute. It was thought, at first, that it was a work of fiction, but the surviving relatives insisted that it was not. And then I, when I made a voyage to Earth, was able to obtain access to the Survey Service records.”

“And so?” asked Grimes.

“So Kinsolving’s Planet is to become our new Sinai,” Smith told him.

“You’d better go along, Grimes,” Admiral Kravitz told him, “just to see fair play. Anyhow, it’s all been arranged. You will be recalled to the active list—pay, etc., as per regulations—and ship out in this Piety of theirs as Rim Worlds’ government observer.”

“But why me, sir? If I were taking my own ship, if the old Quest were being recommissioned, with myself in command, it’d be different. But I don’t like being a passenger.”

“You’ll not be a passenger, Grimes. Captain—sorry, Rector—Smith has indicated that he’ll appreciate having you along as a sort of pilot….”

“In a ship full of sky pilots—and myself a good agnostic!” He saw the bewildered expression on the Admiral’s face and explained his choice of words. “In the old days, before there were any real sky pilots, seamen used to refer to ministers of religion as such.”

“Did they, now? And what would those tarry-breeked ruffians of whom you’re so fond have thought of a captain calling himself ‘Rector’?”

“In the early days of sail they’d have thought nothing of it. It was the master’s usual title.”

“I doubt if anybody’ll ever call you ‘Bishop,’ ” remarked the Admiral. “Anyhow, you’ll be aboard primarily to observe. And to report. In the unlikely event of anything occurring that will affect Rim Worlds’ security you are to take action.”

“Me—and what squad of Marines?”

“We could send a detachment of the Salvation Army with you,” joked the Admiral.

“I doubt that they’d be allowed on board. As far as I can gather, these Neo-Calvinists are somewhat intolerant. Only on a world as tolerant as Francisco would they have been allowed to flourish.”

“Intolerant, yes,” agreed Kravitz. “But scrupulously honest. And moral.”

“In short.” said Grimes, “no redeeming vices.”

“Piety lifts ship at 1800 hours tomorrow, Commodore Grimes,” said the Admiral. “You will be aboard.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Grimes resignedly.

Grimes had never enjoyed serving in a “taut ship” himself, and had never commanded one. Nonetheless, he respected those captains who were able to engender about themselves such a state of affairs. Piety, as was obvious from the moment that he set foot on the bottom of the ramp, was a taut ship. Everything was spotless. Every metal fitting and surface that was supposed to be polished boasted a mirror-like sheen. All the paintwork looked as though it was washed at least twice daily—which, in fact, it was. The atmosphere inside the hull bore none of the usual taints of cookery, tobacco smoke or—even though there was a mixed crew—women’s perfume. But it was too chilly, and the acridity of some disinfectant made Grimes sneeze.

The junior officer who met him at the head of the ramp showed him into the elevator cage at the foot of the axial shaft. Grimes thanked him and assured the presumably young man—the full beard made it hard to determine his age—that he knew his way around this class of vessel. A captain, no matter what he calls himself or is called, is always accommodated as closely as possible to the center of control. The elevator worked smoothly, noiselessly, carrying the Commodore speedily up to the deck just below the control room. There, as in his own Faraway Quest, was the semi-circular suite of cabins. Over the door was a brass plate with the title RECTOR.

As Grimes approached this entrance it slid open. Smith stood there and said formally, “Welcome aboard, Commodore.”

“Thank you, Rector.”

“Will you come in, sir?”

There were other people in the day cabin: a tall, stout, white-headed and bearded man dressed in clothing that was very similar to Smith’s uniform; a woman in a long-sleeved, high-necked, ankle-length black dress, her hair completely covered by a frilly white cap. They looked at Grimes, obviously disapproving of his gold-braided, brass-buttoned, beribboned finery. They did not get up.

“Commodore Grimes,” said Smith. “Presbyter Cannan. Sister Lane.”

Reluctantly the Presbyter extended his hand. Grimes took it. He was not surprised that it was cold. Sister Lane nodded slightly in his general direction.

Smith gestured stiffly toward a chair, sat down himself. Grimes lowered himself to his own seat incautiously. He should have known that it would be hard. He looked curiously at the two civilians. The Presbyter was an old edition of Rector Smith. The sister…? She had him puzzled. She belonged to a type that been common enough on Francisco when he had been there—the Blossom People, they had called themselves. They preached and practiced a sort of hedonistic Zen, and claimed that their use of the wide range of drugs available to them put them in close communication with the Cosmic All. Prim she was, this Sister Lane, prim and proper in her form-concealing black, but the planes of her face were not harsh, and her unpainted lips were full, and there was a strange gentleness in her brown eyes. Properly dressed—or undressed—thought Grimes, she would be a very attractive woman. Suddenly it was important that he hear her voice.

He pulled his battered pipe out of his pocket, his tobacco pouch and lighter. He asked, addressing her, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

But it was the Presbyter who replied. “Certainly we mind, sir. As you should know, we are opposed to the use of any and all drugs.”

“All drugs?” murmured the woman, with a sort of malicious sweetness. Her voice was almost a baritone, but it could never be mistaken for a male one.

“There are exceptions, Sister Lane,” the old man told her harshly. “As you well know.”

“As I well know,” she concurred.

“I take it,” said Grimes, “that nicotine is not among those exceptions.”

“Unfortunately,” she stated, “no.”

“You may leave us, Sister,” said Presbyter Cannan. “We have no further business to discuss with you.”

“Thank you, sir.” She got gracefully to her feet, made a curtsey to Cannan, walked out of the door. Her ugly clothing could not hide the fluid grace of her movements.

“Your Nursing Sister, Rector?” asked Grimes when she was gone.

“No,” answered Cannan. And, Who’s running this ship? thought Grimes irritably. But evidently the Presbyter piled on more gravs than did the ship’s lawful master.

Smith must have noticed the Commodore’s expression. “Sister Lane, sir,” he explained, “is a member of the Presbyter’s staff, not of mine.”

“Thank you, Rector.” Grimes rewarded him with what was intended to be a friendly smile. “I’m afraid that it will take me some time to get your ranks and ratings sorted out.”

“I have no doubt,” said Cannan, “that it must be confusing to one who relies upon gaudy fripperies for his authority rather than inner grace.”

“Your baggage must be aboard and stowed by now, Commodore,” Smith said hastily. He turned to his spiritual superior. “May I suggest, sir, that you and your people retire to your quarters? Liftoff”—he glanced at his watch—“will be in fifteen minutes.”

“Very well, Rector.” The old man got up, towering over the two spacemen. Smith got up. Grimes remained seated until Smith returned from seeing the Presbyter out.

He said, “I’d better be getting below myself. If you could have somebody show me to my stateroom, Rector.”

“I was hoping, Commodore, that you would be coming up to Control for the lift-off.”

“Thank you, Rector Smith. It will be my pleasure.”

Smith led the way out of his quarters, up the short ladder that brought the two men to the control room. Grimes looked about him. The layout was a standard one: acceleration chairs before which were banks of instruments, screens, meters, chart tank, mass proximity indicator, Carlotti Beacon direction finder. All seemed to be in perfect order, and much of the equipment was new. Evidently the Skarsten Theological Institute did not believe in spoiling the ship for a ha’porth of tar.

The Rector indicated a chair, into which Grimes strapped himself, then took his own seat. The officers were already at their stations. All those bearded men, thought the Commodore, looked too much alike, and their black-on-black insignia of rank made it hard to tell who was what. But this wasn’t his ship, and she had managed to come all the way out from Francisco without mishap.

The departure routine went smoothly enough, with the usual messages exchanged between control room and spaceport control tower. The Inertial Drive started up, and there was that brief second of weightlessness before the gentle acceleration made itself felt. The ship lifted easily, falling upward to the cloud ceiling. Briefly Grimes was able to look out through the viewports at Port Forlorn and at the dreary countryside spread out around the city like a map. And then there was nothing but gray mist outside—mist that suddenly became a pearly, luminescent white and then vanished. Overhead was a steely sun glaring out of a black sky, its light harsh even though the ports were polarized.

There was free fall for a little while, and then the gyroscopes swung the ship’s head to the target star. The Inertial Drive came on again, its irregular throbbing beat a bass background for the thin, high keening of the Mannschenn Drive. Ahead, save for the iridescent spiral that was the target sun, there was only blackness. Lorn was to starboard—a vast, writhing planetary amoeba that was falling astern, that was shrinking rapidly. And out to port was the Galactic Lens, distorted by the temporal precession field of the Drive to a Klein flask blown by a drunken glass-blower.

Grimes wondered, as he had wondered before, if anybody would ever come up with another simile. But this one was so apt.

Grimes didn’t like this ship.

She was beautifully kept, efficiently run, and with her cargo spaces converted to passenger accommodati. . .