The Big Black Mark - A. Bertram Chandler [61]
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—and was somehow aware of the disapproving glare that Vinegar Nell was directing at the back of his head.
"That's better," murmured the mayor, pulling reluctantly away. "A lot better. Kiss an' make up, that's what I always say. An' now, Skip, wot about introducin' me to the lady and these other gentlemen?"
"Your Ladyship," Grimes began.
"Mavis, you drongo. Even if you're all dressed up like a Christmas tree, I ain't."
"Mavis, may I introduce my paymaster."
"Paymaster? Paymistress, if I'm any good at guessin'."
"Lieutenant Russell."
Vinegar Nell saluted and contrived to convey by her expression that she didn't want to be mauled.
"Major Swinton, my Marine officer."
Swinton's salute did not save him from a motherly kiss on the cheek.
"And Lieutenant Tangye, my navigator." Tangye's face was scarlet when he was released.
"An' what about these other blokes?" demanded Mavis.
"Er . . ." began Grimes, embarrassed.
"Private Briggs," snapped Swinton, stepping smartly into the breach. "Private Townley. Private Gale. Private Roskov. Private O'Neill. Private Mackay."
"Well?" demanded the big woman. "Well?"
Now it was Swinton's turn to feel embarrassment. The six men stood stiffly like wooden soldiers.
"Well?"
"Stack your rifles," ordered Swinton.
The men did so.
"Advance to be greeted by Her Ladyship."
The order was obeyed with some enthusiasm.
When the introductions were over the mayor said, "Natterin' to you on the radio, Skip, I never dreamed that you were such a stuffed shirt. All o' yer are stuffed shirts. Looks like Earth ain't changed since our ancestors had the sense ter get the hell out."
"And this, I suppose," said Grimes, "is