The Big Black Mark - A. Bertram Chandler [25]
"Mphm," grunted Grimes noncommittally, helping himself to more caviar. He noticed that the civilians in the vicinity had begun to flap their ears. He said firmly, "Things aren't as bad as they seem." He tried to make a joke of it. "In any case, I haven't lost a ship yet."
"There has to be a first time for everything," she said darkly.
"Some people are lucky," commented Brabham. "In the Survey Service, as everywhere else, luck counts for more than ability."
"Some people have neither luck nor ability," said Vinegar Nell spitefully. The target for this barbed remark was obvious—and Brabham, feared Grimes, would be quite capable of emptying the bowl of caviar over her head if she continued to needle him. And the captain of a ship, justly or unjustly, is held responsible for the conduct of his officers in public places. His best course of action would be to separate his first lieutenant and his paymaster before they came to blows.
"Shall we dance, Miss Russell?" he asked.
She produced a surprisingly sweet smile. "But of course, Captain."
The synthesizer was playing a song that he had heard before, probably a request from those of Sundowner's people who were still at the party. The tune was old, very old, but the words were new, and Rim Worlders had come to regard it as their very own.
Good-bye, I'll run to find another sun
Where I may find
There are worlds more kind than the ones left behind . . .
Vinegar Nell, fitting into his arms as though she belonged there, had always belonged there, was singing softly as she danced. And was he, Grimes, dancing as well as he thought he was? Probably not, he admitted to himself, but she made him feel that he was cutting a fine figure on the polished floor. And she was making him feel rather more than that. He was acutely conscious of the tightness of the crotch of his dress trousers.
When the number was over he was pleased to see that Brabham had wandered off somewhere by himself, but he was not pleased when Commander Denny claimed Vinegar Nell for the next dance, and still less pleased when he found himself having to cope with Denny's wife. He suffered. It was like having to tow an unwieldy captive balloon through severe atmospheric turbulence. But then the Mayoress made a welcome change, although she chattered incessantly. After her, there were a few girls whose names he promptly forgot.
Vinegar Nell again, and the last dance.
Good night! ladies,
Good night, ladies,
Good night, ladies . . .
We're bound to leave you now. . . .
"But you don't have to leave me, John," she whispered.
Mphm?
And everybody was singing:
Merrily we roll along,
Roll along, roll along,
Merrily we roll along
O'er the bright blue sea. . . .
He said, "We have to roll along back to the ship, after we've said our good nights, and thanked the mayor for his party."
She said, her mood suddenly somber, "There's no place else to roll. Not for us."
The synthesizer emitted a flourish of trumpets, a ruffle of drums. The dancers froze into attitudes of stiff—or not so stiff—attention. Blaring brass against a background of drumbeats, an attempt to make dreadfully trite melody sound important. It was one of those synthetic, utterly forgettable national anthems, the result, no doubt, of a competition, selected by the judges as the poor best of a bad lot. The words matched the music:
New Maine, flower of the galaxy,
New Maine, stronghold of liberty. . . .
Then: "Good night, Mr. Mayor. On behalf of my officers I must thank you for a marvelous party."
"Good night, Captain. It was a pleasure to have you aboard. Good night, Miss Russell. If the Survey Service had more