The Makeshift Rocket (2 page)
‘Mister
who?’
interrupted McConnell.
‘Syrup!’ It is a perfectly good Danish name, though like Middlefart it is liable to misinterpretation by foreigners. ‘I vill call my consulate on New Vinshester,
ja
, by Yudas, I vill even call de vun on Tara in Erse—’
‘
Teamhair
,’ corrected O’Toole, wincing again.
‘You see,’ said Radhakrishnan, anxiously fingering his monocle, ‘our cargo to Alamo carries a stiff penalty clause, and if we’re held up here any length of time, then—’
‘Quiet!’ barked O’’Toole. His finger stabbed toward the Earthmen. ‘So ‘twas Venus ye were on last, eh? Well, as military commandant of this occupied asteroid, I hereby appoints meself medical officer an’ I suspect ye of carryin’ Polka Dot Plague.’
‘Polka Dot!’ bellowed Herr Syrup. A red flush went up from his hairy chest till his scalp gleamed like a landing light. ‘Vy, you spoutnosed son of a Svedish politician, dere hasn’t been a case of Polka Dot in all de Imperium for tventy-five Eart’ years!’
‘Possibly,’ snapped O’Toole. ‘However, under international law the medical officer of any port has a right an’ duty to hold any vessel in quarantine whin he suspects a dangerous disease aboard. I suspects of Polka Dot Plague, an’ this whole asteroid is hereby officially quarantined.’
‘But!’ wailed Radhakrishnan.
‘I think six weeks will be long enough,’ said O’Toole more gently. ‘Meanwhile ye’ll be free to move about an’—’
‘Six weeks here will ruin us!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ answered McConnell. He beamed. ‘But take heart, ye’re bein’ ruined in a good cause: redressin’ the wrongs of the Gaelic race!’
Fuming away on a pipe which would have been banned under any smog-control ordinance, Knud Axel Syrup bicycled into Grendel Town. He ignored the charm of thatch and tile roofs, half-timbered Tudor facades, and swinging signboards. Those were for tourists, anyway; Grendel lived mostly off the vacation trade. But it did not escape him how quiet the place was, its usual cheerful pre-season bustle dwindled to a tight-lipped housewife at the greengrocer’s and a bitterly silent dart game in the Crown & Castle.
Occasionally a party of armed Erse, or a truck bearing the shamrock sign, went down the street. The occupying force seemed composed largely of very young men, and it was not professional. The uniforms were homemade, the arms a wild assortment from grouse guns up through stolen rocket launchers, the officers were saluted when a man happened to feel like saluting, and the idea that it might be a nice gesture to march in step had never occurred to anyone.
Nevertheless, there were something like a thousand invaders on Grendel, and their noisy, grinning, well-meaning sloppiness did not hide the fact that they could be tough to fight.
Herr Syrup stopped at the official bulletin board in the market square. Brushing aside ivy leaves, the announcement of a garden party at .the vicarage three months ago, and a yellowing placard wherein the Lord Mayor of Grendel invited bids for the construction of a fen country near the
Heorot Hills, he found the notice he was looking for. It was gaudily hand-lettered in blue and green poster paints and said:
Know all men by these presents, that forty Earth-years ago, when the planetoid clusters of Saorstat Erseann and the Anglian Kingdom were last approaching conjunction, the asteroid called Lois by the Anglians but rightfully known to its Erse discoverer Michael Boyne as Laoighise (pronounced Lois) chanced to drift between the two nations on its own skewed orbit. An Anglian prospecting expedition landed, discovered rich beds of praseodymium, and claimed the asteroid in the name of King James IV. The Erse Republic protested this illegal seizure and sent a warship to remove the Anglian squatters, only to find that King James IV had caused two warships to be sent; accordingly, despite this severe provocation, the peace-loving Erse Republic withdrew its vessel. The aforesaid squatters installed a powerful gyrogravitic unit on Laoighise and diverted its orbit into union with the other planetoids of the Anglian Cluster. Since then Anglia has remained in occupation and exploitation.
The Erse Republic has formally protested to the World Court, on the clear grounds that Michael Boyne, an Erse citizen, was the first man to land on this body. The feeble Anglian argument that Boyne did not actually claim it for his nation and made no effort to ascertain its possible value, cannot be admissible to any right-thinking man; but for forty Earth-years the World Court, obviously corrupted by Stuart gold, has upheld this specious contention.
Now that the Erse and Anglian nations are again orbiting close toward each other, the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force has set about rectifying the
situation. This is a patriotic organization which, though it does not have the backing of its own government at the moment, expects that this approval will be forthcoming and retroactive as soon as our sacred mission has succeeded. Therefore, the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force is not piratical, but operating under international laws of war, and the Geneva Convention applies. As a first step in the recovery of Laoighise, the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force finds it necessary to occupy the asteroid Grendel.
All citizens are therefore enjoined to cooperate with the occupying authorities. The personnel and property rights of civilians will be respected provided they refrain from interference with the lawfully constituted authorities, namely ourselves. All arms and communications equipment must be surrendered for sequestration. Any attempt to leave Grendel or communicate beyond its atmosphere is forbidden and punishable under the rules of war. All citizens are reminded again that the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force is here for a legitimate purpose which is to be respected.
Erin go bragh!
General Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O’Toole
Commanding Officer, S.L.I.E.F. per: Sgt. i/cl Daniel O’Flaherty
(New Connaught O’Flahertys)
‘Ah,’ said Herr Syrup. ‘So.’
He pedaled glumly on his way. These people seemed to mean business.
Though he sometimes lost his temper, Knud Axel Syrup was not a violent man. He had seen his share of broken knuckles, from St. Pauli to Hellport to Jove Dock; he much
preferred a mug of beer and a friendly round of pinochle. The harbor girls could expect no more from him than a fatherly smile and a not: quite fatherly pat; he had his Inga back in Simmerboelle. She was a good wife, aside from her curious idea that he would instantly fall a prey to pneumonia without an itchy scarf around his neck. Her disapproval of the myriad little nations which had sprung up throughout the Solar System since gyrogravitics made terra-forming possible was more vocal than his; but, in a mild and tolerant way, he shared it. Home’s best.
Nevertheless, a man had some right to be angry! For instance, when a peso–pinching flock of Venusian owners, undoubtedly with more scales on their hearts than even their backs, made him struggle along with a spinor that should have been scrapped five years ago. But what, he asked himself, is a man to do? There were few berths available for the aging crew of an aging ship, without experience in the latest and sleekest apparatus. If the
Mercury Girl
went on the beach, so, most likely, did Knud Axel Syrup. Of course, there would be a nice social worker knocking at his home to offer a nice Earthside job – say, the one who had already mentioned a third assistantship in a food-yeast factory – and Inga would make sure he wore his nice scarf every day. Herr Syrup shuddered and pushed his bicycle harder.
At the end of Flodden Field Street he found the tavern he was looking for. Grendel did not try exclusively for an Old Tea Shoppe atmosphere. The Alt Heidelberg Rathskeller stood between the Osmanli Pilaff and Pizen Pete’s Last Chance Saloon. Herr Syrup leaned his bicycle against the wall and pushed through an oak door carved with the image of legendary Gambrinus.
The room downstairs was appropriately long, low, and smoky-raftered. Rough-hewn tables and benches filled a
candle-lit gloom; great beer barrels lined the walls; sabers hung crossed above rows of steins which informed the world that
Gutes Bier und junge Weiber sind die besten Zeitvertreiber
. But it was empty. Even for midafternoon, there was something ominous about the silence. The Stuart legitimists who settled the Anglian Cluster had never adopted the closing laws of the mother country.
Herr Syrup planted his stocky legs and stared around. ‘Hallo!’ he called. ‘Hallo, dere! Is you home, Herr Bachmann?’
It slithered in the darkness behind the counter. A Martian came out. He stood fairly tall for a Martian, his hairless gray cupola of a head-cum-torso reaching past the Earthman’s waist, and his four thick walking tentacles carried him across the floor with a speed unusual for his race in Terrestrial gravity. His two arm-tentacles writhed incoherently, his flat nose twitched under the immense brow, his wide lipless mouth made bubbling sounds, his bulging eyes rolled in distress of soul. As he came near, Herr Syrup saw that he had somehow poured himself into an embroidered blouse and
lederhosen
. A Tyrolean hat perched precariously on top of him.
‘Ach
!’ he piped. ‘Wer da? Wilkommen, mein dear friend, sitzen here and—’
‘Gud bevare’s
,’ said the engineer, catching his pipe as it fell from his jaws, ‘ vat’s going on here? Vere is old Hans Bachmann?’
‘Ach, he has retired,’ said the Martian. ‘I have taken over der business. Pardon me, I mean I have der business overgetaken.’ He stopped in front of his guest, extending three boneless fingers. ‘My name is Sarmishkidu. I mean, Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt. Sit down make yourself
gemüttick:
‘Veil, I am Knud Axel Syrup of de
Mercury Girl
.’
‘Ah, the ship what is bringing me mine beer? Or was? Well, have a drink.’ The Martian scuttled off, drew two steinsful, came back and writhed himself onto the bench across the table at which the Earthman had sat down. ‘
Prosit:
A Martian standing anyone a beer was about the most astonishing event of this day. But it was plain to see that Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt was not himself. His skin twitched as he filled a Tyrolean pipe, and he fanned himself with his elephantine ears.
‘How did you happen to enter dis business?’ asked Herr Syrup, trying to put him more at ease.
‘Ach! I came here last Uttu-year – Mars-year – on sabbatical. I am a professor of mathematics at Enliluraluma University.’ Since every citizen of Enliluraluma has some kind of position at the University, usually in the math department, Herr Syrup was not much impressed. ‘At that time this enterprise was most lucrative. Extrapolating probabilistically, I induced myself to accept Herr Bachmann’s offer of a transfer of title. I invested all my own savings and obtained a mortgage on Uttu for the balance—’
‘Oh, oh,’ said Herr Syrup, sympathetically, for not even the owners of the Black Sphere Line could be as ruthless as any and all Martian bankers. They positively enjoyed foreclosing. They made a ceremony of it, at which dancing clerks strewed cancelled checks while a chorus of vice presidents sang a litany. ‘And now business is not so good, vat?’
‘Business is virtually at asymptotic zero,’ mourned Sarmishkidu. ‘The occupation, you know. We are cut off from the rest of the universe. And vacation season coming in two weeks! The Erse do not plan to leave for six weeks yet, at a minimum – and meanwhile this entire planetoid will have
been diverted into a new orbit off the regular trade lanes – possibly ruined in the fighting around Lois. In view of all this uncertainty, even local trade has slacked off to negligibility.
Ach, es ist ganz schrecklich!
I am ruined!’
‘But if I remember right,’ said Herr Syrup, bewildered, ‘New Vinshester, de Anglian capital, is only about ten t’ousand kilometers from here. Vy do dey not send a varship?’
‘They are not aware of it,’ said Sarmishkidu, burying his flat face in the tankard. ‘Excuse me, I mean they do not know what fumblydiddles is here going on. Before vacation time, we never get many ships here. Der Erses landed just four days ago. They took ofer
der Rundfunk
, the radio, and handled routine messages as if nothing had happened. Your ship was the first since der invasion.’
‘And may be de last,’ groaned Herr Syrup. ‘Dey made some qvack-qvack about plague and qvarantined us.’
‘Ach, so!’ Sarmishkidu passed a dramatic hand over his eyeballs. ‘Den ve iss ruined for certain. Dot iss just the excuse the Erses have been wanting. Now they can call New Winchester, making like they was der real medical officer, and say the whole place is quarantined on suspicion of plague. So natural, no one else vill land for six weeks, so they not be quarantined too and maybe even get sick. Your owners is also notified and does not try to investigate what has happened. So for six weeks the Erses has a free hand here to do what they want. Und what they want to do means the ruin of all Grendel!’
‘My captain is still arguing vit’ de Erse general,’ said Herr Syrup. ‘I am yust de engineer. But I come down to see if I could save us anyt’ing. Even if ve lose money because of not delivering our cargo to Alamo, maybe at least ve get paid for de beer ve bring you. No?’
‘
Gott in Himmel!
Without vacation season business like I
was counting on, where vould I find the moneys to pay you?’
‘I vas afraid of dat,’ said Herr Syrup.
He sat drinking and smoking and trying to persuade himself that an Earthside job as assistant in a yeast factory wasn’t really so bad. Himself told him what a liar he was.
The door opened, letting in a shaft of sun, and light quick steps were heard. A feminine voice cried: ‘Rejoice!’
Herr Syrup rose clumsily. The girl coming down the stairs was worth rising for, being young and slim, with a shining helmet of golden hair, large blue eyes, pert nose, long legs, and other well-formed accessories. Her looks were done no harm by the fact that – while she avoided cosmetics – she wore a short white tunic, sandals, a laurel wreath on her head, and nothing else.
‘Rejoice!’ she cried again, and burst into tears.