Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III by A. Bertram Chandler

had been processed was not a pig, the toast had a nutty taste and the preserve, although slightly acid, was not marmalade, but the coffee was genuine.
    She told him, “I have had a long talk with Dinnelor. She is the wife of Lennay, the High Priest and Dog Star Line Agent. They’re real Terraphiles. This meal . . .”
    “And these cigarillos—Smoke?”
    “Thanks.”
    Lennay came in accompanied by his wife, a woman apparently younger than himself, her blue skin unwrinkled, the little pseudo horns on her bald head less prominent. The High Priest (the Dog Star Line Agent?) made a gesture. The serving women cleared the table, came back with fresh coffee and four mugs, two more chairs.
    “You are ready for the day’s work, Captain?” asked Lennay politely.
    “What is a god supposed to do?” asked Grimes, then regretted the words. An agnostic himself he had always tried to avoid giving offense to sincere believers.
    Lennay frowned sorrowfully. “Captain Grimes, please do not jest. I do not believe that you and Madam Tamara are actually Samz and Delur in person. But I do believe that the god and the goddess are using you as their instruments. I know that you are—or were—a member of the military profession . . .”
    “How do you know?” demanded Grimes.
    “The Dog Star Line captains and officers have told me about what happened on Morrowvia, have shown to me pictures of the people who were involved. I recognized you. Surely there is only one spaceman Grimes with such splendidly outstanding ears . . .”
    Those prominent appendages flushed angrily. Tamara Haverstock laughed.
    Grimes said, “All right, I was in the Survey Service. I held the rank of Commander when I . . . resigned. But I’m no expert on land warfare.”
    “But you are familiar with weaponry, Captain Grimes. For example, laser pistols. My chief clerk acquired six of them when you and the Lady Delur were rescued.”
    “Mphm. Have you any means of recharging them?”
    “Regrettably, no. My Carlotti transceiver was solar-powered and, in any case, it was destroyed by the Shaara. But there were also four machine pistols and two light machine guns . . .”
    “Ammunition?”
    “Only the cartridges that were in the magazines.”
    “Mphm.” Somehow that all-purpose grunt was not as satisfactory when delivered around a cigarillo rather than around the stem of a pipe. “Do you people have weapons of your own? Oh, you do have. When we were first put on show a man ran out waving what looked like a pistol and the Shaara cut him down . . .”
    “One of us,” said Lennay. “He—how do you put it?—jumped the gun. But, to answer your question, we do have weapons. Unfortunately there are, now and again, wars between our nations. I could have made a huge fortune by importing sophisticated killing devices but I always refused to do so. Now I am sorry. Well armed we would not have been a bleeng— a plum, that is—ripe for the picking.”
    “What do you have?” demanded Grimes.
    “Cutting weapons. Stabbing weapons. Firearms. A variety of lethal and incapacitating gases and the means for their delivery. One of these latter, actually a potent insecticide, was used to effect your rescue.”
    “And do you, personally, the Deluraixsamz, have these weapons?”
    “We have access to them. Unfortunately they are all relatively short range and the few attempts that have been made to fight the invaders have ended in disaster. Too, the high ranking military are all devotees of Darajja and fear a resurgence of Deluraixsamz and actually regard the Shaara as their natural allies. There was a Shaara ship here just over a year ago and the Queen-Captain ignored me but, to my certain knowledge, entertained and was entertained by Hereditary President Callaray and General Porron. They will learn, of course, that he who sups with the devil needs a long spoon, but by the time the lesson has sunk in it will be too late for Darijja.”
    “Aircraft?” asked Grimes.
    “None