The Makeshift Rocket Read online

  Well – there was a more urgent question. How to get a message to New Winchester? The Girl’s radio was carefully gutted. How about making a substitute on the sly, out of spare parts? No, O’Toole was not that kind of a dolt, he would have confiscated the spare parts as well, including even the radar.

  But let’s see. New Winchester was only some thousands of kilometers off. A spark-gap oscillator, powered by the ship’s plant, could send an S.O.S. that far, even allowing for the inverse-square enfeeblement of an unbeamed broadcast. It would not be too hard to construct such an oscillator out of ordinary electrical stuff lying around the engine room. But it would take a while. Would O’Toole let Knud Axel Syrup tinker freely, day after day, in the captive ship? He would not.

  Unless, of course, there was a legitimate reason to tinker. If there was some other job to be done, which Knud Axel Syrup could pretend to be doing while actually making a Marconi broadcaster. Only, there were competent engineers among the Erse. It would be strange if one of them, at least, did not inspect the work aboard the Girl from time to time. And such a man could not be told that an oscillator was a dreelsprail for the hypewangle camit.

  So. Herr Syrup opened another bottle and recharged his pipe. One thing you must say for the Erse, given a trail of logic to follow, they follow it till the sun freezes over. Having mulled the question in his mind for an hour or two, Herr Syrup concluded that he could only get away with building an oscillator if he was in some place where no Erse engineer would come poking an unwelcome nose. So what was needed was an excuse to—

  Along about midnight, Herr Syrup left his cabin and went into the engine room. Happily humming, he opened up the internal-field compensator which had so badly misbehaved on the trip down. Hm, hm, hm, let us see … yes, the trouble was there, a burned-out field coil, easily replaced … tum-te-tum-te-tum. Herr Syrup installed a coil of impedance calculated to unbalance the circuits. He shorted out two more coils, sprayed a variable condenser lightly with clear plastic, removed a handful of wiring and flushed it down the toilet, and spent an hour opening two big gas-filled rectifier tubes, injecting them with tobacco-juice vapor and resealing them. Having done which, he returned to his bunk, changed into night clothes, and took a copy of Kant’s Critique off the shelf to read himself to sleep.

  ‘Kraa, kraa, kraa,’ grumbled Claus. ‘Bloody foolishness, damme. Pokker! Ungah, ungah!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Inquiry in the morning established that the office of the Erse military commander had been set up in a requisitioned loft room downtown, above Miss Thirkell’s Olde Giftie Shoppe. Shuddering his way past a shelf of particularly malignant-looking china dogs, Herr Syrup climbed a circular stair so quaint that he could barely squeeze his way along it. Halfway up, a small round man coming hastily down caromed off his paunch.

  ‘I say!’ exclaimed the small man, adjusting his pince-nez indignantly. He picked up his briefcase. ‘Would you mind backing down again and letting me past?’

  ‘Vy don’t you back up?’ asked Herr Syrup in a harsh mood.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said the small man, ‘the right-of-way in a situation like this has been clearly established by Gooch vs. Torpenhow, Holm Assizes 2098, not to mention—’

  Herr Syrup gave up and retreated. ‘You is a lawyer?’ he asked.

  ‘A solicitor? Yes, I have the honor to be Thwickhammer of Stonefriend, Stonefriend, Thwickhammer, Thwickhammer, Thwickhammer, Thwickhammer, and Stonefriend, of Lincoln’s Inn. My card, sir.’ The little man cocked his head. ‘I say, aren’t you one of the spacemen who arrived yesterday?’

  ‘Ja. I vas yust going to see about—’

  ‘Don’t bother, sir, don’t bother. Beasts, that’s all these invaders are, beasts with green tunics. When I heard of your crew’s arrest, I resolved at once that they should not lack for legal representation, and went to see this O’Toole person. “Release them, sir,” I demanded, “release them this instant on reasonable bail or I shall be forced to obtain a writ of habeas corpus”.’ Mr. Thwickhammer turned purple. ‘Do you know what O’Toole told me I could do with such a writ? No, you cannot imagine what he said. He said—’

  ‘I can imagine, 70,’ interrupted Herr Syrup. Since they were now back in earshot of Miss Thirkell and the china dogs, he was spared explicit details.

  ‘I am afraid your friends will be held in gaol until the end of the occupation,’ said Mr. Thwickhammer. ‘Beastly, sir. I have assured myself that the conditions of detention are not unduly uncomfortable, but really – I must say—!’ He bowed. ‘Good day, sir.’

  Miss Thirkell looked wistfully at Herr Syrup, across the length of her deserted shoppe, and said: ‘If you don’t care for one of the little dogs, sir, I have some nice lampshades with “Souvenir of Grendel” and a copy of Trees printed on them.’

  ‘No, t’ank you yust the same,’ said Herr Syrup, and went quickly back upstairs. The thought of what an ax could do among all those Dresden shepherdesses and clock-bellied Venuses made him sympathize with his remote ancestors’ practice of going berserk.

  A sentry outside the office was leaning out the window, admiring Grendel’s young ladies as they tripped by in their brief light dresses under a fresh morning breeze. Herr Syrup did not wish to interrupt him, but went quickly through the anteroom and the door beyond.

  General Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O’Toole looked up from a heap of papers on his desk. The long face tightened. Finally he clipped: ‘So there ye are. An’ who might have given ye an appointment?’

  ‘Ja,’ agreed Herr Syrup, sitting down.

  ‘If ’tis about your spalpeen friends ye’ve come, waste no time. Ye’ll not see thim released before Laoighise shall be free.’

  ‘From de Shannon to de sea?’

  ‘Says the Shan Van Vaught!’ roared O’Toole automatically. He caught himself, snapped his mousetrap mouth shut, and glared.

  ‘Er—’ Herr Syrup gathered courage and rushed in. ‘Ve have trouble on our ship. De internal compensator has developed enough bugs to valk avay vit’ it. As long as ve is stranded here anyhow, you must let us make repairs.’

  ‘Oh, must I?’ murmured O’Toole, the glint of power in his eye.

  ‘ja, any distressed ship has got to be let fixed, according to de Convention of Luna. You vould not vant it said dat you vas a barbarian violating international law, vould you?’

  General O’Toole snarled wordlessly. At last he flung back: ‘But your crew broke the law first, actin’ as belligerents when they was supposed to be neutrals. I’ve every right to hold them, accident to their ship or not, while the state of emergency obtains.’

  Herr Syrup sighed. He had expected no more. ‘At least you have no charge against me,’ he said. ‘I vas not any place near de trouble last night. So you got to let me repair de damage, no?’

  O’Toole thrust a bony jaw at him. ‘I’ve only your word there’s any damage at all.’

  ‘I knew you vould t’ink dat, so before I come here I asked you shief gyronics enshineer vould he please to look at our compensator and check it himself.’ Herr Syrup unfolded a sheet of S.L.LE.F. letterhead from his pocket. ‘He gave me dis.’

  O’Toole squinted at the green paper and read:

  TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

  This is to say that I have personal inspected the internal field compensator of I/S Mercury Girl and made every test known to man. I certify that I have never seen any piece of apparatus so deranged. I further certify as my considered opinion that the devil has got into it and only Father Kelly can make the necessary repairs.

  Shamus O’Banion

  Col., Eng., S.L.LE.F.

  ‘Hm,’ said O’Toole. ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘You realize I must take de ship up and put her in orbit outside Grendel’s geegee field,’ said Herr Syrup. ‘I vill need freefall conditions to test and calibrate my repairs.’

  ‘Yes!’ O’Toole’s arm shot out till his accusing finger was almost in the Dane’s mustache. ‘Let ye take the ship aloft so ye can sail it
clear to New Winchester!’

  Herr Syrup suppressed an impulse to bite. ‘I expect you vill put a guard aboard,’ he said. ‘Yust some dumb soldier vat does not know enough about technics to be of any use to you down here.’

  ‘Hm,’ said O’Toole. ‘Hm, hm, hm.’ He gave the other man a malevolent glance. ‘’Tis nothin’ but trouble I’ve had wi’ the lot of yez,’ he complained, ‘an’ sure I am in me heart ye’re plottin’ to make more. No, I’ll not let ye do it. By the brogans of Brian Boru, here on the ground ye stay!’

  Herr Syrup shrugged. ‘Vell,’ he said, ‘if you vant all de Solar System to know later on how you vas breaking de Lunar Convention and not letting a poor old spaceman fix his ship like de law says he is entitled to – ja, I guess maybe de Erse Republic does not care vat odder countries t’ink about its civilization.’

  ‘The devil take ye for a hairsplittin’ wretch!’ howled O’Toole. ‘Sit there. Wait right there, me fine lad, an’ if ’tis space law ye want, then space law ye’ll get!’

  His finger stabbed the desk communicator buttons. ‘I want Captain Flanahan … No, no, no, ye leatherhead, I mean Captain Flanahan, the captain of the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force’s ship Dies l.R.A.!’

  After an interchange of Gaelic, O’Toole snapped off the communicator and gave Herr Syrup a triumphant look. ‘I’ve checked the space law,’ he growled. ‘’Tis true ye’re entitled to put your vessel in orbit if that’s needful for your repairs. But I’m allowed to place a guard aboard her to protect our own legitimate interests; an’ the guard is entitled not to hazard his life in an undermanned ship. Especially whin I legally can an’ will take the precaution of impoundin’ all the lifeboats an’ propulsive units an’ radios off the spacesuits, as well as the ship’s radio an’ radar which I have already got. So by the law, I cannot allow ye to lift with me guardsman aboard unliss ye’ve a crew iv at least three. An’ your own crew is all in pokey, where I’m entitled to keep them till the conclusion of hostilities! Ha, ha, Mister Space Lawyer, an’ how do ye like that?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Herr Syrup leaned his bicycle against the wall of the Alt Heidelberg and clumped downstairs. Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt hitched up his leather shorts and undulated to meet his guest. ‘Grüss Gott,’ he piped. ‘And what will we have to drink today?’

  ‘Potassium-40 cyanide on de rocks,’ said the engineer moodily, lowering himself to a bench. ‘Unless you can find me a pair of spacemen.’

  ‘What for?’ asked the Martian, drawing two mugs and sitting down.

  Herr Syrup explained. Since he had to trust somebody somewhere along the line, he assumed Sarmishkidu would not blab what the real plan was, to construct a spark-gap transmitter and signal King Charles.

  ‘Ach!’ whistled the innkeeper. ‘So! So you are actual trying to do somet’ings about this situation what is mine business about to ruin.’ In a burst of sentiment, he cried out: ‘I salute you, Herr Syrup! You are such a hero, I do not charge you for dis vun beer!’

  T’anks,’ snapped the Dane. ‘And now tell me vere to find two men I can use.’

  ‘Hmmm. Now that is somewhat less susceptible to logical analysis.’ Sarmishkidu rubbed his nose with an odd tentacle. ‘It is truistic that we must axiomatize the problem. So, imprimis, there are no qualified Anglian spacemen on Grendel at the moment. The interasteroid lines all maintain their headquarters elsewhere. Secundus, while there are no active collaborationist elements in the population, the nature of its distribution in n-dimensional psychomathematical phase space implies that there would be considerable difficulty in finding suitable units of humanity, dH. The people of Grendel tend to be either stolid farmers, mechanics und so weiter, brave enough but too unimaginative to see the opportunities in your scheme, or else tourist-facility keepers whose lives have hardly qualified them to take risks. Those persons with enough fire and flexibility to be of use to you would probably lack discretion and might blurt out—’

  ‘Ja, ja, ja,’ said Herr Syrup. ‘But dere are still several t’ousand people on dis asteroid. Among dem all dere must be some ready and able to, uh, strike a blow for freedom.’

  ‘I am!’ cried a clear young voice at the door, and Emily Croft tripped down the stairs, trailing vine leaves.

  Herr Syrup started. ‘Vat are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘I saw your bicycle outside,’ said the girl, ‘and, well, you were so sympathetic yesterday that I wanted to—’ She hesitated, looking down at her small sandaled feet and biting a piquantly curved lip. ‘I mean, maybe you were spreading pumpernickel with that awful Limburger cheese instead of achieving glowing health with dried prunes and other natural foods, but you were so nice about encouraging me to show you classical dance that I thought—’

  Herr Syrup’s pale eyes traveled up and down an assemblage of second through fifth order curves which, while a bit on the slender side of his own preferences, was far and away the most attractive sight he had encountered for a good many millions of kilometers. ‘Ja,’ he said kindly. ‘I am interested in such t’ings and I hope you vill show me more – Ahem!’ He blushed. Emily blushed. ‘I mean to say, Miss Croft, I have seldom seen so much – Vell, anyhow, later on, sure. But now please to run along. I have got to talk secrets vit’ Herr von Himmelschmidt.’

  Emily quivered. ‘I heard what you said,’ she whispered, large-eyed.

  ‘You mean about making Grendel free?’ asked Herr Syrup hopefully.

  His hopes were fulfilled. She quivered again. ‘Yes! Oh, but do you think, do you really think you can?’

  He puffed himself and blew out his mustache. ‘Ja, I t’ink dere is a chance.’ He buffed his nails, looked at them critically, and buffed them some more. ‘I have my met’ods,’ he said in his most mysterious accent.

  ‘Oh, but that’s wonderful!’ caroled Emily, dancing over to take his arm. She put her face to his ear. ‘What can I do?’ she breathed.

  ‘Vat? You? Vy, you must vait and—’

  ‘Oh, no! Honestly! I mean to say, Mr. Syrup, I know all about spies and, and revolutions and interplanetary conspiracies and everything. Why, I found a technical error in The Bride of the Spider and wrote to the author about it and he wrote back the nicest letter admitting I was right and he hadn’t read the book I cited. There was this old chap, you see, and this young chap, and the old chap had invented a death ray—’

  ‘Look,’ said Herr Syrup, ‘ve is not got any deat’ rays to vorry about. Ve have yust got somet’ing to do vat should not be known to very many folks before ve do it. Now you run on home and vait till it is all over vit’.’

  Emily clouded up. She sniffed a tiny sniff. ‘You don’t think I can be trusted,’ she accused.

  ‘Vy, I never said dat, I only said—’

  ‘You’re just like all the rest.’ She bent her golden head and dabbed at her eyes. ‘All of you. You either call me crazy, and believe those horrible lies about Miss Duncan’s private life, and try to force things on me to calcify my liver, or you – you let me go on, I mean making a perfect ass of myself—’

  ‘I never said you vas a perfect ass!’ shouted Herr Syrup. He paused and reflected a moment. ‘Aldough,’ he murmured, ‘you do have—’

  ‘—and laugh at me behind my back, and, and, and, uh-h-h-h!’ Emily took her face out of her hands, swallowed, sniffled, and turned drooping toward the stairs. ‘Never mind,’ she said disconsolately. ‘I’ll go. I know I bother you, I mean to say I’m sorry I do.’

  ‘But – pokker, Miss Croft, I vas only—’

  ‘One moment,’squeaked Sarmishkidu. ‘Please! Wait a short interval of time dT, please, I have an idea.’

  ‘Yes?’ Emily pirouetted, smiling like sunshine through rain.

  ‘I think,’ said Sarmishkidu, ‘we will do well to take the young lady into our confidence. Her discretion may not be infinite but her patriotism will superimpose caution. And, while she has not unduly encouraged any young men of Grendel during the period of my residence here, I am sure
she must be far better acquainted with a far larger circle thereof than foreigners like you and me could ever hope to become. She can recommend whom you should approach with your plan. Is that not good?’

  ‘By Yudas, Ja!’ exclaimed Herr Syrup. ‘I am sorry, Miss Croft. You really can help us. Sit down and have a glass of pure spring vater on me.’

  Emily listened raptly as he unfolded his scheme. At the end, she sprang to her feet, threw herself onto Herr Syrup’s lap, and embraced him heartily.

  ‘Hoy!’ he said, grabbing his pipe as it fell and brushing hot coals off his jacket. ‘Hoy, dis is lots of fun, but—’

  ‘You have your crew right here already, you old silly,’ the girl told him. ‘Me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘And Herr von Himmelschmidt, of course.’ Emily beamed at the Martian.

  ‘Eep!’ said Sarmishkidu in horror.

  Emily bounced back to her feet. ‘But of course!’ she warbled. ‘Of course! Don’t you see it? You can’t get reallytruly spacemen anyway, I mean a garageman or a chef couldn’t help you in your real work, so why let the secret go further than it has already? I mean, dear old Sarmishkidu and I could hand you your spanner and your ape wrench and your abacus or whatever that long thin calculating thing is called, just as well as Mr. Groggins down at the sweet shop, and if there are any secret messages, why, we can talk to each other in Attic Greek. And I do make tea competently, Mum admits it, even though I never drink tea myself because it tans the kidneys or something, and I can take along some dried apricots and bananas and apples for myself and won’t that terrible Major McConnell be just furious when he sees how we outsmarted him! Maybe then he will understand what all that whisky and bacon is doing to his brain, and will stop doing it and exercise himself in classical dance, because he really is quite graceful, don’t you know—’