Free To Prime the Pump by A. Bertram Chandler Page A

promise to keep well clear of the salvage operations."

    "It's your lake," he said. "And you don't seem to have any watchbirds with you this time."

    "No," she agreed. "But . . ." She gestured with a slim arm. Grimes saw, then, that she was not alone, that she was attended by two things like miniature torpedoes. The analogy came into his mind, like a shark with pilot fish. But she was no shark, and pilot fish are mere scavengers.

    They hung there in the water, silent for awhile. Grimes found that it was better for his peace of mind to concentrate his regard upon her face. She said at last, "Shouldn't you be looking after your men?"

    "Frankly, Your Highness, they can manage better without me. Chief Petty Officer Anderson and his team are experts. I am not."

    "You're not very expert in anything, Mr. Grimes, are you?" A grin rather than a smile robbed her words of maliciousness.

    "I'm a fairish navigator and a better than average gunnery officer."

    "I'll have to take your word for that. Well, Mr. Grimes, since the work seems to be going along very well without you, will you accompany me in a leisurely swim?"

    "Cor stiffen the bleedin' crows, Chiefie," remarked an almost inaudible voice, "officers don't half have it good!"

    "Watch your welding, Willoughby," came Anderson's reprimand. "That's all that you're good for."

    There was a gusty sigh, and then, "Well, I suppose we can't all be fairish navigators and better than average gunnery officers . . ."

    Grimes wished that he were wearing only a breathing mask and not a full helmet. The cool touch of water would have soothed his burning face. He heard the girl's light, tinkling laughter. But he knew that Anderson would deal with matters back at the wreck. And he knew, too, that the petty officer would never report to higher authority that Grimes had wandered away from the work in progress. What was it that he, Anderson, had said once? "You'll be a captain, and higher, while I'm still only a C. P. O. Why should I make enemies?" Then, when asked why he, himself, did not put in for a commission, he had replied, "I like things the way they are. I enjoy reasonable standards of comfort and authority without responsibility. A junior officer has responsibility without authority."

    The Princess Marlene was swimming away now, slowly. She paused, made a beckoning gesture. Should he follow? Yes. To hell with it, he would. He said, "Chief Petty Officer Anderson."

    "Sir?"

    "One of the . . . er . . . local ladies has offered to take me on an inspection of the lake bottom. It could be useful. Let me know when you want me."

    "Very good, sir."

    As Grimes followed the girl it was not the lake bottom that he was inspecting.
    * * *

    He caught up with her. One of the silvery miniature torpedoes dashed toward him threateningly, then suddenly (in response to a telepathic command?) sheered away. He said, "You have vicious pets, Your Highness."

    "Not vicious, Mr. Grimes. Just faithful."

    "That's an odd word to use about machines."

    "These, like our watchbirds, are more than mere machines. They have organic brains. These pilot fish of mine, for example, are essentially the small but highly intelligent cetaceans of Algol III with mechanical bodies." She must have read his expression. "Come, come, Lieutenant. There's no need to look so shocked. This is no worse than the dog's brains used by your Psionic Radio Officers as amplifiers. Not so bad, in fact. Our watchbirds and watchdogs and pilot fish have freedom to move about in bodies which, in fact, are rather superior to their original ones."

    "It's . . . it's not the same."

    She laughed scornfully. "That's what I've been telling you, my good man. One of your poodle's brains in aspic would sell its soul for the motility enjoyed by our guardians."

    "Is that what you call them?"

    "That is the general term. Yes."

    "And their prime function is to protect their owners?"

    "Their only function. Yes."

    "So if I . . . tried