- Chapter 22






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22
Flandry was gone.
Grimes wondered why there had been no miniature clap of thunder as the air rushed in to fill the vacuum caused by his abrupt departure. Had the exactly correct volume of atmosphere been teleported from the room in which Clarisse was imprisoned to fill the space that the Imperial Captain had occupied? What did it matter, anyhow? Magic is an art, not a science.
Flandry was gone—and who next?
Grimes was more than a little hurt. He had known Clarisse for years. Sonya had known her for almost as long. And yet she called a stranger to her. She had met Sir Dominic only once; he must have made an impression on her.
He turned to the others. "Well, it seems to be working. But why him?"
"Why not?" asked Sonya sweetly. "He's resourceful. He's tough."
"And he's out of my hair," added Grimes II. He did not say aloud that he hoped that other people would soon be out of his hair. He did not need to.
Mayhew, still unconscious in his chair, twitched. He looked as though he were having a bad dream.
"Is she all right?" demanded Grimes of Metzenther.
"Yes, Commodore," answered the telepath. "Yes." He looked as though he had been about to say more but had decided against it.
"Can't you tell her to get the rest of us shifted across?"
"I . . . I will try. But you must realize that teleportation is a strain upon the operator."
"Damn it all, this is urgent."
"I know, Commodore. But . . . she will not be hurried."
"Druthen, von Donderberg. . . . Do they know that Flandry is aboard the ship?"
"No. And with von Donderberg actually in charge everything—including the prisoners' meals—is very much to timetable. There is little chance that Clarisse and Sir Dominic will be disturbed."
Disturbed? thought Grimes. An odd choice of words. . . .
"You must be patient, Commodore," said Metzenther.
Grimes was never to know if it was his own imagination, or if the telepath had deliberately planted the picture in his mind. But he knew what was happening, what had happened. He saw Clarisse, her clothing cast aside the better to emulate her savage forebears, working at the sketch she was making on a signals pad. She saw the picture growing out of her swift, sure stylus strokes, the depiction of Sir Dominic. What subconscious desires had been brought to the surface by the drug that Mayhew had taken, the effects of which he had shared with her?
And then. . . .
And then Flandry was with her.
Flandry, the unprincipled, suddenly confronted with a beautiful, naked, available and willing woman.
If Metzenther had not put thoughts, impressions into Grimes' brain he had read the Commodore's mind. He said, telepathically, "Mayhew will never know. We shall make sure of that."
"But . . . but how can she?" asked Grimes silently.
He got the impression of quiet laughter in reply. "How could you? How could Sonya? How could Maggie? Some of us—even you, Commodore—have regarded this straying into other continua as a sort of a holiday. A pubic holiday. . . . Forgive me. That just slipped out. And Clarisse has been under strain as much as any of us, more than most of us. What's more natural than that she should greet her deliverer in the age-old manner? Are you jealous, Commodore?"
"Frankly, yes," thought Grimes. He grinned ruefully.
"What the hell do you find so amusing?" asked Sonya sharply.
"Oh, er . . . I was just wondering where Sir Dominic had finished up. As we both of us know, this talent of Clarisse's is rather . . . unreliable."
"You have an odd sense of humor," she told him. She was beginning to look anxious.
There were no pictures in Grimes' mind now. He was rather thankful for that. But still he did not know how long it would be before Clarisse resumed her magical activities. He knocked his pipe out into one of the large ashtrays that were placed all around the control room. He refilled it. He lit it.
"Please, John," said Clarisse, "not in here. It's dreadfully stuffy."
She was, as he had visualized her, naked. She was standing at the desk, adding the last touches to the sketch she had made of Grimes. Flandry was seated on the bunk. He was fully clothed.
But. . . .
"Wipe the lipstick off your face, Sir Dominic," said Grimes coldly.
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