Mack Reynolds: Amazon Planet

Evidently, she wasn’t overly worried about her lack of visas. And, ordinarily, she would have been right. The visa was a permission to land, seldom required on most of the member worlds of the United Planets. And even less often was an exit visa needed for a citizen of one world to leave that planet for another. Most usually, only the more backward, the more reactionary of governments required the bureaucratic red tape involved in the issuing of visas, or even the possession of a UP passport. Only a minority of worlds were afraid that their institutions would be subverted, their sometimes extreme religious beliefs held up to scorn or their sociopolitical system threatened, if outsiders were allowed to come among them.

But Amazonia? Pat O’Gara simply couldn’t believe that the world of her dreams could possibly be serious about the requirement for a landing visa for visitors from any other UP planet.

The captain, when the matter had been brought before him by Rex Ravelle, had shrugged and had had a few words to say to his second officer on his not having checked the passengers’ passports before burn off of the Schirra . He was not going to upset his schedule to return Citizeness O’Gara to Earth, but if the Amazonian immigration authorities prevented her landing, he was going to have no alternative but to continue with her until they reached far Phyrgia and then returned to Earth. If such was necessary, Citizeness O’Gara was going to be held responsible for the full fare.

She tossed her head at that. “I have no funds, Captain Buchwald. I told you I was a refugee from my home planet. I used my last credit to exchange for my ticket to Amazonia.”

He looked at her in bafflement. Captain Buchwald was not used to being baffled, his life was so organized as to avoid such upsets.

“But what did you plan to do, if they refused to allow you to land, Citizeness O’Gara?” he asked in bewilderment.

“I planned to argue with them,” she said defiantly.

Rex Ravelle chortled in the background. They arrived off Amazonia during the sleeping hours and went into orbit around the destination of the passengers while those two were asleep, not having been informed by the ship’s officers that their goal was so near. It was not deliberate. Each had assumed that someone else had notified the travelers.

They awoke, then, to find the ship’s personnel hurrying through an abbreviated breakfast so as to be ready to receive port officials.

Guy had come into the salon first, looking over his shoulder at Jerry Muirhead who had brushed hurriedly past him, a piece of toast still in hand.

“What’s the emergency?” Guy said to the steward.

Happy Harrison shifted his little eyes about. For the present the lounge was empty. He sneered, “These deck officers—nothing to do with themselves, week on end—when something comes up they gotta charge around showing how-important-like, they are. I shoulda gone in for deck, instead of this nardy steward department.”

“What’s up?” Guy repeated.

“Them big mopsies are coming alongside. What’d’ya think? Customs and immigration and all that curd.” Rex Ravelle came bearing in, grabbed up a cup of coffee, took a deep swallow, popped his eyes as though he was about to spit it all out again. He got the coffee down and glared at the steward.

“Harrison, damn your cloddy soul. As long as we’re in space the coffee is too cold to drink. But come up with a hurry and it’s so boiling hot you’d crisp yourself drinking it.”

“Always complaints on this kettle,” Happy whined. “I don’t know why I’ze ever so flat as to sign up on the Schirra”

Guy said to Rex Ravelle, “When are they coming aboard? These are the Amazonian authorities, eh?”

“Right as rain, fella,” Rex told him, blowing on his coffee. He cocked his head to one side as though he had heard a sound that hadn’t come through to the other. “That’s contact. They’ll be here in a couple of minutes. Happy, Holy Jumping Zen, get a move on. Get some refreshments on the table. Some guzzle , some sandwich things.”

“Guzzle,” the steward said indignantly. “You know there ain’t supposed to be no alcohol in space, Second.”

“Knock it, we’re not legally in space. We’re in planet orbit. These mopsies are two-fisted bottle babies. Get some guzzle on the table. You got to butter these curves up. It’s not like most planets. Amazonians don’t want you to be coming around. Doing business here’d like to drive you drivel-happy.”

Happy, grumbling, got about it.

A few minutes later the second officer set down his coffee and faced the entry.

“Ah, welcome aboard, Major.”

Guy Thomas did a double take.

Through the entry strode a figure straight out of the historical fiction Tri-Di shows. It took a fraction of a second for him to realize that it was a woman.

Not that…well, not that it didn’t look like a woman. It was a woman, all right. It was just that…

She was probably about five foot ten. It was the high boots, which had an effect of looking like greaves, that gave her the added inch or two of height, and then the helmet, which wasn’t really gold, on quick second scrutiny, also exaggerated her size. Nor was she as brawny as first impression gave out. That was attained by the cuirass she wore, and partly by the heavy military cloak that hung from her shoulders almost to her ankles. Strictly out of a Tri-Di historical, Guy Thomas decided all over again, and so were the others who pressed behind her, somewhat less ostentatiously dressed, but in the same tradition.

“Morning,” she snapped to Rex Ravelle. Her eyes went around the small salon, touched on Happy Harrison, who had shrunk back into his pantry corner, touched on Guy Thomas, and went on.

There were four of them in all. The major, as Rex had ranked her, alone was weaponless. Her three assistants bore quick draw holsters on one hip, a decorative short sword, or possibly heavy dagger would be the better term, on the other. Their helmets were a pseudo-silver, rather than gold. They looked remarkably efficient. All, including the major, wore their hair short in what would have been called page-boy bobs in an earlier age, and all wore a type of heavy shorts, reminiscent of the pedal-pushers of the past.

Rex said hospitably, “The skipper suggested you might like a bit of refreshment before coming up to his office for business.”

One of the younger women caught up a bottle of pseudo-whiskey from the table where Harrison had laid it out along with sandwich meats, cheese and other cold table spread.

“Artimis!” she chuckled. “Earthside guzzle!” She stuck the bottle to her mouth and gurgled.

Happy Harrison’s face expressed pain.

The major gruffed, half humorously, “Easy, Lysippe, you wouldn’t want to get drenched on this nice men’s ship!”

The other two Amazons crowded up to get at the food and drink. “The Goddess forbid!” one roared, rather than spoke. “Lysippe’s a mean drunk if there ever was one.” However, she too took up a full bottle, rather than bothering with the time-consuming amenity of a glass.

Guy Thomas was sitting a bit beyond at a smaller table.

One of the girls, busy building a king-size sandwich, looked over at him and winked. “Hi, Cutey,” she said. “That’s a pretty little suit you’re wearing.”

Guy Thomas blinked.

Rex said, “Dig in, ladies.”

“Ladies!” the one called Lysippe guffawed. “That’s a good one. Hey, Minythyia, did ya hear that?” She took another hefty swig from her bottle.

The major was working a cork from a champagne bottle. She said to Rex, who was standing back a few feet, watching them, a half twist on his mouth, “What’s this about a passenger?”