Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 (10 page)

"Check."

By the time First Officer Gregory appeared, they had reached the tiny
intercom cubby and poked around it in semidarkness. Peaslake had long
departed in disgust.

"M24. Spare minispeakers, three inch,
type T2, one set of six."

"Check."

Looking in, Gregory popped his eyes and said, "What's going on?"

"Major inspection due soon." McNaught glanced at his watch. "Go see if
stores has delivered a load and if not why not. Then you'd better give me
a hand and let Pike take a few hours off."

"Does this mean land-leave is canceled?"

"You bet it does—until after Hizonner has been and gone." He glanced
at Pike. "When you get into the city, search around and send back any of
the crew you can find. No arguments or excuses. Also no alibis and/or
delays. It's an order."

Pike registered unhappiness. Gregory glowered at him, went away, came back
and said, "Stores will have the stuff here in twenty minutes' time." With
bad grace he watched Pike depart.

"M47. Intercom cable, woven-wire
protected, three drums."

"Check," said Gregory, mentally kicking himself for returning at the wrong
time.

The task continued until late in the evening, was resumed early next
morning. By that time three-quarters of the men were hard at work inside
and outside the vessel, doing their jobs as though sentenced to them for
crimes contemplated but not yet committed.

Moving around the ship's corridors and catwalks had to be done
crab-fashion, with a nervous sidewise edging. Once again it was being
demonstrated that the Terran life-form suffers from ye fear of wette
paynt. The first smearer would have ten years willed off his unfortunate
life.

It was in these conditions, in midafternoon of the second day, that
McNaught's bones proved their feelings had been prophetic. He recited the
ninth page while Jean Blanchard confirmed the presence and actual
existence of all items enumerated. Two-thirds of the way down they hit the
rocks, metaphorically speaking, and commenced to sink fast.

McNaught said boredly, "V1097. Drinking
bowl, enamel, one of."

"Is zis," said Blanchard, tapping it.

"V1098. Offog, one."

"
Quoi?
" asked Blanchard, staring.

"V1098. Offog, one," repeated McNaught.
"Well, why are you looking thunderstruck? This is the ship's galley.
You're the head cook. You know what's supposed to be in the galley, don't
you? Where's this offog?"

"Never hear of heem," stated Blanchard, flatly.

"You must have. It's on this equipment-sheet in plain, clear type. Offog,
one, it says. It was here when we were fitted-out four years ago. We
checked it ourselves and signed for it."

"I signed for nossings called offog," Blanchard denied. "In the cuisine
zere is no such sing."

"Look!" McNaught scowled and showed him the sheet.

Blanchard looked and sniffed disdainfully. "I have here zee electronic
oven, one of. I have jacketed boilers, graduated capacities, one set. I
have bain marie pans, seex of. But no offog. Never heard of heem. I do not
know of heem." He spread his hands and shrugged. "No offog."

"There's got to be," McNaught insisted. "What's more, when Cassidy arrives
there'll be hell to pay if there isn't."

"You find heem," Blanchard suggested.

"You got a certificate from the International Hotels School of Cookery.
You got a certificate from the Cordon Bleu College of Cuisine. You got a
certificate with three credits from the Space-Navy Feeding Center,"
McNaught pointed out. "All that—and you don't know what an offog
is."

"
Nom d'un chien!
" ejaculated Blanchard, waving his arms around. "I
tell you ten t'ousand time zere is no offog. Zere never was an offog.
Escoffier heemself could not find zee offog of vich zere is none. Am I a
magician perhaps?"

"It's part of the culinary equipment," McNaught maintained. "It must be
because it's on page nine. And page nine means its proper home is in the
galley, care of the head cook."

"Like hail it does," Blanchard retorted. He pointed at a metal box on the
wall. "Intercom booster. Is zat mine?"

McNaught thought it over, conceded, "No, it's Burman's. His stuff rambles
all over the ship."

"Zen ask heem for zis bloody offog," said Blanchard, triumphantly.

"I will. If it's not yours, it must be his. Let's finish this checking
first. If I'm not systematic and thorough Cassidy will jerk off my
insignia." His eyes sought the list. "V1099.
Inscribed collar, leather, brass studded, dog, for the use of. No need to
look for that. I saw it myself five minutes ago." He ticked the item,
continued, "V1100. Sleeping basket,
woven reed, one of."

"Is zis," said Blanchard, kicking it into a corner.

"V1101. Cushion, foam rubber, to fit
sleeping basket, one of."

"Half of," Blanchard contradicted. "In four years he has chewed away other
half."

"Maybe Cassidy will let us indent for a new one. It doesn't matter. We're
okay so long as we can produce the half we've got." McNaught stood up,
closed the folder. "That's the lot for here. I'll go see Burman about this
missing item."

The inventory party moved on.

Burman switched off a UHF receiver, removed his earplugs, and raised a
questioning eyebrow.

"In the galley we're short an offog," explained McNaught. "Where is it?"

"Why ask me? The galley is Blanchard's bailiwick."

"Not entirely. A lot of your cables run through it. You've two terminal
boxes in there, also an automatic switch and an intercom booster. Where's
the offog?"

"Never heard of it," said Burman, baffled.

McNaught shouted, "Don't tell me that! I'm already fed up hearing
Blanchard saying it. Four years back we had an offog. It says so here.
This is our copy of what we checked and signed for. It says we signed for
an offog. Therefore we must have one. It's got to be found before Cassidy
gets here."

"Sorry, sir," sympathized Burman. "I can't help you."

"You can think again," advised McNaught. "Up in the bow there's a
direction and distance indicator. What do
you
call it?"

"A didin," said Burman, mystified.

"And," McNaught went on, pointing at the pulse transmitter, "what do you
call
that?
"

"The opper-popper."

"Baby names, see? Didin and opper-popper. Now rack your brains and
remember what you called an offog four years ago."

"Nothing," asserted Burman, "has ever been called an offog to my
knowledge."

"Then," demanded McNaught, "why did we sign for one?"

"I didn't sign for anything. You did all the signing."

"While you and others did the checking. Four years ago, presumably in the
galley, I said, 'Offog, one,' and either you or Blanchard pointed to it
and said, 'Check.' I took somebody's word for it. I have to take other
specialists' words for it. I am an expert navigator, familiar with all the
latest navigational gadgets but not with other stuff. So I'm compelled to
rely on people who know what an offog is—or ought to."

Burman had a bright thought. "All kinds of oddments were dumped in the
main lock, the corridors, and the galley when we were fitted-out. We had
to sort through a deal of stuff and stash it where it properly belonged,
remember? This offog-thing might be anyplace today. It isn't necessarily
my responsibility or Blanchard's."

"I'll see what the other officers say," agreed McNaught, conceding the
point. "Gregory, Worth, Sanderson, or one of the others may be coddling
the item. Wherever it is, it's got to be found. Or accounted for in full
if it's been expended."

He went out. Burman pulled a face, inserted his earplugs, resumed fiddling
with his apparatus. An hour later McNaught came back wearing a scowl.

"Positively," he announced with ire, "there is no such thing on the ship.
Nobody knows of it. Nobody can so much as guess at it."

"Cross it off and report it lost," Burman suggested.

"What, when we're hard aground? You know as well as I do that loss and
damage must be signaled at time of occurrence. If I tell Cassidy the offog
went west in space, he'll want to know when, where, how, and why it wasn't
signaled. There'll be a real ruckus if the contraption happens to be
valued at half a million credits. I can't dismiss it with an airy wave of
the hand."

"What's the answer then?" inquired Burman, innocently ambling straight
into the trap.

"There's one and only one," McNaught announced. "
You
will
manufacture an offog."

"Who? Me?" said Burman, twitching his scalp.

"You and no other. I'm fairly sure the thing is your pigeon, anyway."

"Why?"

"Because it's typical of the baby names used for your kind of stuff. I'll
bet a month's pay that an offog is some sort of scientific allamagoosa.
Something to do with fog, perhaps. Maybe a blind-approach gadget."

"The blind-approach transceiver is called 'the fumbly,' " Burman informed.

"There you are!" said McNaught as if that clinched it. "So you will make
an offog. It will be completed by six tomorrow evening and ready for my
inspection then. It had better be convincing, in fact pleasing. In fact
its function will be convincing."

Burman stood up, let his hands dangle, and said in hoarse tones, "How can
I make an offog when I don't even know what it is?"

"Neither does Cassidy know," McNaught pointed out, leering at him. "He's
more of a quantity surveyor than anything else. As such he counts things,
looks at things, certifies that they exist, accepts advice on whether they
are functionally satisfactory or worn out. All we need do is concoct an
imposing allamagoosa and tell him it's the offog."

"Holy Moses!" said Burman, fervently.

"Let us not rely on the dubious assistance of Biblical characters,"
McNaught reproved. "Let us use the brains that God has given us. Get a
grip on your soldering-iron and make a topnotch offog by six tomorrow
evening. That's an order!"

He departed, satisfied with this solution. Behind him, Burman gloomed at
the wall and licked his lips once, twice.

Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy arrived right on time. He was a short,
paunchy character with a florid complexion and eyes like those of a
long-dead fish. His gait was an important strut.

"Ah, Captain, I trust that you have everything shipshape."

"Everything usually is," assured McNaught, glibly. "I see to that." He
spoke with conviction.

"Good!" approved Cassidy. "I like a commander who takes his
responsibilities seriously. Much as I regret saying so, there are a few
who do not." He marched through the main lock, his cod-eyes taking note of
the fresh white enamel. "Where do you prefer to start, bow or tail?"

"My equipment-sheets run from bow backward. We may as well deal with them
the way they're set."

"Very well." He trotted officiously toward the nose, paused on the way to
pat Peaslake and examine his collar. "Well cared-for, I see. Has the
animal proved useful?"

"He saved five lives on Mardia by barking a warning."

"The details have been entered in your log, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir. The log is in the chart room awaiting your inspection."

"We'll get to it in due time." Reaching the bow-cabin, Cassidy took a
seat, accepted the folder from McNaught, started off at businesslike pace.
"K1. Beam compass, type D, one of."

"This is it, sir," said McNaught, showing him.

"Still working properly?"

"Yes, sir."

They carried on, reached the intercom-cubby, the computer room, a
succession of other places back to the galley. Here, Blanchard posed in
freshly laundered white clothes and eyed the newcomer warily.

"V147. Electronic oven, one of."

"Is zis," said Blanchard, pointing with disdain.

"Satisfactory?" inquired Cassidy, giving him the fishy-eye.

"Not beeg enough," declared Blanchard. He encompassed the entire galley
with an expressive gesture. "Nossings beeg enough. Place too small.
Eversings too small. I am chef de cuisine an' she is a cuisine like an
attic."

"This is a warship, not a luxury liner," Cassidy snapped. He frowned at
the equipment-sheet. "V148. Timing
device, electronic oven, attachment thereto, one of."

"Is zis," spat Blanchard, ready to sling it through the nearest port if
Cassidy would first donate the two pins.

Working his way down the sheet, Cassidy got nearer and nearer while
nervous tension built up. Then he reached the critical point and said,
"V1098. Offog, one."

"
Morbleu!
" said Blanchard, shooting sparks from his eyes, "I have
say before an' I say again, zere never was—"

"The offog is in the radio room, sir," McNaught chipped in hurriedly.

"Indeed?" Cassidy took another look at the sheet. "Then why is it recorded
along with galley equipment?"

"It was placed in the galley at time of fitting-out, sir. It's one of
those portable instruments left to us to fix up where most suitable."

"Hm-m-m! Then it should have been transferred to the radio room list. Why
didn't you transfer it?"

"I thought it better to wait for your authority to do so, sir."

The fish-eyes registered gratification. "Yes, that is quite proper of you,
Captain. I will transfer it now." He crossed the item from sheet nine,
initialed it, entered it on sheet sixteen, initialed that.
"V1099. Inscribed collar, leather … oh,
yes, I've seen that. The dog was wearing it."

He ticked it. An hour later he strutted into the radio room. Burman stood
up, squared his shoulders but could not keep his feet or hands from
fidgeting. His eyes protruded slightly and kept straying toward McNaught
in silent appeal. He was like a man wearing a porcupine in his britches.

"V1098. Offog, one," said Cassidy in
his usual tone of brooking no nonsense.