To Prime the Pump by A. Bertram Chandler Page A

bedroom."

    His clothing was there, hung neatly on hangers, folded away in drawers. But of the Minetti pistol and its ammunition there was no sign.

    "Damn it!" he swore aloud, "where the hell's my gun?"

    "It will be returned to you, Lord, when you leave the castle. Should Her Highness wish you to accompany her on a boar hunt, a suitable weapon will be provided."

    Suitable? A Minetti, used intelligently, could kill almost any known life form.

    "I'd like my own weapon back," snapped Grimes.

    "For centuries, Lord, it has been the rule of this castle that guests surrender their weapons when accepting its hospitality. We are programmed to maintain the old traditions."

    "It's a good story," said Grimes. "Stick to it."

    In an atmosphere of mutually sulky silence he went to the bar and poured himself a Scotch on the rocks, without too many rocks.

Chapter 17

    Slowly, savoring its expensive aroma and smoothness, Grimes finished his Scotch. He poured himself a second glass, being more generous this time with the ice. He let it stand on the glass top of the bar, prowled through the apartment. He considered leaving it to explore the castle, but decided that this would be one sure and certain way of incurring the Princess Marlene's hostility. He found a window that had been concealed by heavy drapes, stared out through it. His quarters were high in the building, must be just under the battlemented roof, but as the casement could not be opened he was not able to stick his head out to confirm this. For long minutes he looked out at the scene—the wooded hills, the green valleys, the silvery streams, over which poured the golden light of the afternoon sun. Earth born and bred as he was, he found himself pining for the sight of another human habitation, of a road with vehicles in motion, of a gleaming airliner in the empty sky.

    He returned to the sitting room, examined the catalogue of playmaster spools that stood by the machine. It was comprehensive, fantastically so, putting to shame the collection of taped entertainment available in Aries' wardroom, or in any of her recreation rooms. There were the very latest plays and operas, and there were recordings of films that dated back to the dawn of cinematography. There was too much to choose from. Fleming, perhaps? A screened version of one of the 007 novels? Grimes had read them all during his course in English Literature at the Academy and, although his tastes had been considered somewhat odd by his fellow students, had enjoyed them. A title in the catalogue, CASINO ROYALE, caught his eye. He pressed the right sequence of buttons.

    The playmaster hummed gently and its wide screen came to glowing life. Grimes stared at the procession of gaudy credits, then at the initial scene depicting the meeting of the two agents in the pissoir. Surely this was not James Bond as he had been described by the master storyteller, as he had been imagined by his reader. And then, a little later, there was Sir James Bond, dignified in his mansion with its lion-infested grounds. Grimes gave up, settled down to enjoy himself.

    Suddenly, annoyingly, the screen went blank. It was just as Mata Bond had been snatched by the scarlet-uniformed Horse Guardsman, who had galloped with her up the ramp of an odd-looking spacecraft. Grimes got up from his chair to investigate. As he did so, that smug mechanical voice remarked, "Lord, I regret that there is no time for you to witness the end of this entertainment. If you are to perform your ablutions and attire yourself fittingly before escorting Her Highness to dinner, you must commence immediately."

    Grimes sighed. After all, he had not become the Princess's guest to spend all his time watching films, no matter how fascinating. He went through to the bedroom, shed his clothing, and then into the bathroom. It operated on the same principle as the one in the spaceport's accommodation for transients. When he came out, he found that somebody (something?) had removed