Amazon Planet

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?”

He nodded. “Yes, I have the papers here.” He half lifted a hand which held his heavy envelope. “In fact, there’s two. This is one of them. From Earth. Citizen Guy Thomas.” He motioned toward Guy with the envelope.

“Guy Thomas!” the major blurted. “Guy Thomas! We’ve issued no entry visa for a Guy Thomas.”

Guy came to his feet. “But…but there must be some mistake.”

“Minythyia! Hand me that damned directive! Minythyia, the slightest in build and evidently the youngest of the four, dropped her imbibbing and enthusiastic eating long enough to deliver a paper from the heavy leather wallet she had slung over one shoulder.

The major ripped it from her hand and glared at it. “We have records to show only one passenger, and the entry visa was issued to Gay Thomas, not Guy Thomas.”

III

The Earthling was uncomprehending. He stared at the domineering port official. “But…it’s obviously some minor mistake in transmission. I…I secured my visa from the Amazonian Embassy in Greater Washington. They were most cooperative and…” He let the sentence dribble away.

The Amazon major threw the paper to the table top and slapped it with the back of her hand.

“It says Gay Thomas! What in the name of the Goddess did you say your name was?”

“Guy. G-u-y. Don’t you see? A mistake. Only one letter wrong.” He seemed bewildered.

“One letter wrong! You blithering flat! You’re a man!”

He looked at her. There didn’t seem to be any answer to that.

“Cute, too,” the assistant they called Minythyia said. Of the four port officials, she alone had gone to the nicety of pouring her drink into a glass.

“Quiet!” the major rasped.

Unfazed, Minythyia said easily, “All I meant was, if he lands, I saw him first.” She winked at Guy. He stared at her in dismay. She wasn’t quite so awesome as the others, not so large, but she managed to project the same swagger.

The major spun back to Rex Ravelle. “What’s this curd about another passenger?”

Pat O’Gara came through the entry at that exact moment. For once, the fiery feminist was spellbound. She took in the four Amazonians, her eyes slowly going rounder.

Rex Ravelle chortled. “Major, may I introduce Citizeness Patricia O’Gara, refugee from the planet