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fart.
Do you have sparrows here? asked Grimes interestedly.
Nab. Not reel sparrers. But it s what we call one o the native birds.
Don t know how it got by before it had human bein s ter bludge on.
Mphm, Excuse me, Mavis, but I d like to concentrate on my pilotage
now.
That s what me late husband useter say. He was skipper o one o the
coastal schooners. Oh, well, I can take a hint.
Grimes could see the city now red roofs and gray, a few towers of
pseudo-Gothic appearance. He could see the airport, with one big
dirigible at its mooring mast like an oversized wind sock. And there, just
beyond it, was the Bradman Oval, a darkly green recreation area with
spectators stands around it and, he was pleased to note, a triangle of red
flashing lights, bright even in the general brightness of the morning. The
radio beacon had been set up as requested by Grimes, but he preferred to
use visual aids whenever possible.
The Oval expanded to fill the screen. The stands, Grimes saw, were
crowded. He thought sourly, These bastards have more faith in my innies
than I do. If the inertial drive were to break down, necessitating the use of
the emergency reaction drive, there would be a shocking tragedy. But the
beat of the engines still sounded healthy enough. He applied a touch of
lateral thrust, brought the three beacons into the center of the screen. He
looked at the clock: 0953. He was coming down just a little too fast. A
slight, very slight increase of vertical thrust. The figures on the face of the
radar altimeter flickered down in slightly slower succession.
That should do it, thought Grimes smugly.
Eleven& ten& nine&
And, on the clock, 0955.
Seven& six& five& four& three& two & one& 0959.
Gently, gently, thought Grimes.
Zero!
And, on the clock, the sweep second hand jumped to the same numeral.
The ship groaned and shuddered as her weight came onto the shock
absorbers, and silence fell like a blow when the inertial drive was shut
down. But there was another noise, a tumult that Grimes at first could not
identify. Then he realized that it was cheering, noisy cheering, loud
enough to be heard even inside the buttoned-up ship. And, faintly, there
was the noise of a band. Waltzing Matilda (of course).
He looked out of the port at the waving crowds, at the blue flags, with
their Union Jacks. and Southern Crosses, flying from every mast around
the Oval.
So yer made it, Skip, the mayor s voice issued from the speaker. Bang
on time, too! Welcome to Botany Bay! Welcome to Paddo!
I m glad to be here, Your Ladyship, replied Grimes formally.
It s a pleasure ter have yer. But is it safe ter come near yer ship? You
ain t radioactive or anythin , are yer?
Quite safe, said Grimes. I ll meet you at the after airlock.
Chapter Twenty-Six
« ^ »
Grimes, after issuing instructions, went down to his quarters to
change. He had decided that this was an occasion for some show of
formality, no matter how free and easy the people of this Lost Colony
seemed to be. Or he had his contrary moments it was this very freeness
and easiness that had induced in him the desire to be stiff and starchy. He
got out of his comfortable shorts and open-necked shirt, replacing the
latter with a stiff, snowy-white one. He knotted a black necktie about his
throat, then thrust his legs into sharply creased black trousers. The
bemedaled frock coat came next, then the sword belt and the quite useless
ceremonial sword. Highly polished black shoes on his feet, the fore-and-aft
hat with its trimmings of gold braid on his head. He inspected his
reflection in the full-length mirror inside his wardrobe door, holding
himself stiffly at attention. He d do, he decided.
He took the elevator down to the after airlock. The others were waiting
for him the Mad Major, temporarily forgiven, with a half dozen of his
men. The Marines, too, were in their dress finery, blue and scarlet and
gleaming brass. Swinton was wearing a sword, his men carried archaic
(but nonetheless lethal) rifles. Tangye, one of the few officers to possess a
presentable full dress uniform, was there, as was Vinegar Nell, in the odd
rig prescribed by the Survey Service for its female officers on state
occasions, best described as a long-skirted, long-sleeved black evening
frock, trimmed with gold braid and brass buttons and worn over a white
shirt and black tie, topped with a hat like the one Grimes was wearing.
But she carried it well.
The outer airlock door slowly opened, and as it did so the ramp was
extruded, its end sinking to the close-cropped grass. Grimes stepped out
into the warm, fresh air, the bright sunlight. He was thankful that his
uniform had been tailored from the lightest possible material. As he
appeared there was a great welcoming roar from the crowds in the stands.
He paused, saluted smartly, then continued down the ramp. After him
came Tangye and the paymaster, and after them, their boots crashing
rhythmically on the metal gangway, marched the Marines.
There was a stir among the crowd on the stand immediately facing the
airlock. In the broad aisle between it and its neighbor a coach appeared, a
vehicle drawn by four gleaming black horses, the first of what looked like a
procession of such vehicles. Grimes, standing at the foot of the ramp, the
others drawn up behind him, watched with interest. Yes, that was the
mayor in the first coach, and other women and men with her. From this
distance he could not be sure, but it did not look as though anybody had
made any attempt to dress up. The driver was in some sort of khaki
uniform with a broad-brimmed hat. But what was Brabham waiting for?
Suddenly, from overhead, there came a deafening boom, the first round
of the twenty-one-gun salute, fired from one of the forty-millimeter
cannon, using special blank cartridges.
Boom!
The coachmen were having trouble controlling their horses.
Boom!
The horses of the second and third coaches had bolted, had begun to
gallop around the Oval like the start of a chariot race.
Grimes lifted his wrist transceiver to his mouth. Brabham, hold&
Boom!
Brabham, hold your fire!
But that s only four rounds, sir, came the tinny whisper in reply,
Never mind. Hold your fire.
The driver of the mayor s coach had his animals under control at last.
He came on steadily, then reined in about ten meters from the foot of the
ramp. From one of his pockets he produced a cigarette, lit it with a flaring
lighter, then sat there stolidly with the little crumpled cylinder dangling
from the corner of his mouth. He stared at Grimes and his entourage with
a certain hostility.
Another khaki-uniformed man was first out. He assisted the mayor to
the ground. She emerged from the vehicle with a lavish display of firm,
brown thigh. She was wearing a short tunic, with sandals on her feet, only
the mayoral chain of office adding a touch of formality. Her blue eyes were
angry, her mouth drawn down in a scowl.
Grimes saluted with drawn sword. The Marines presented arms with a
slap and rattle.
She demanded, Wodyer playin at, you stupid drongo? You said there d
be no bleedin fireworks.
Grimes sheathed his sword. He said stiffly. It is customary, Your
Ladyship, to accord heads of state the courtesy of a twenty-one-gun
salute.
That may be where you come from, Skip, but it certainly ain t here.
You scared shit outa the horses.
Too flamin right, commented the coachman. Wodyer think me
wheels was skiddin on?
I m sorry, Grimes began lamely.
The mayor smiled, broadly and dazzlingly. So m I. But this ain t a way
for me to be welcomin long-lost relatives from the old world. Suddenly
she threw her plump arms about Grimes and drew him to her resilient
breast, kissed him warmly full on the mouth. He felt himself responding
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