The Makeshift Rocket

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sarmishkidu slithered into the Number Three hold and found Herr Syrup huddled gloomily beneath one of the enormous beer casks. He had a mug in one hand and the tap of the keg in the other. Claus perched on a rack muttering: "Damn Rory McConnell. Damn anybody who von't damn Rory McConnell. Damn anybody who von't sit up all night damning Rory McConnell."

"Oh, there you are," said the Martian. "Your breakfast has gotten cold."

"I don't vant no breakfast," said Herr Syrup. He tossed off his mug and tapped it full again. "Not even after your triumph last watch?"

"Vat good is a triumph ven I ain't triumphant? I have sealed him into de engine room, ja, vich is to say ve can't move de ship from dis orbit. You see, de polarity reverser vich I installed on de geegee lines, to give us veight, is in dere vit' him, and ve can't travel till it has been taken out again. So ve can't go direct to New Vinshester ourselves. And he has also de electrical parts locked up vit' him."

"I have never sullied my mathematics with any attempt at a merely practical application," said Sarmishkidu piously, "but I have studied electromagnetic theory and it would appear upon integration of the Maxwell equations that you could rip out wires here and there, machine the bar and plate metal stored for repair work in the shop, and thus improvise an oscillator."

"Sure," said Herr Syrup. "Dat is easy. But remember, New Vinshester is about ten t'ousand kilometers avay. Any little laboratory model powered yust off a 220-volt line to some cabin, is not going to carry a broadcast dat far. At least, not vun vich has a reasonable shance of being noticed dere in all de cosmic noise. I do have access to some powerful batteries. By discharging dem very quick, ve can send a strong signal: but short-lived, so it is not likely in so little a time dat anyvun on de capital asteroid is listening in on dat particular vave-length. For you see, vit'out de calibrated standards and meters vich McConnell has, I cannot control de frequency vich no vun of New Vinshester's small population uses or is tuned in on."

He sighed. "No, I have spent de night trying to figure out somet'ing, and all I get is de answer I had before. To make an S.O.S. dat vill have any measurable shance of being heard, ve shall have to have good cable, good impedances, meters and so on—vich McConnell is now sitting on. Or else ve shall have to run for a long time t'rough many unknown fre-quencies, to be sure of getting at least vun vich will be heard; and for dat ve shall have to use de enshine room g'enerator, vich McConnell is also sitting on."

"He is?" Sarmishkidu brightened. "But it puts out a good many thousands of volts, doesn't it?"

"I vas speaking figurative, damn de luck." Herr Syrup put the beer mug to his lips, lifted his mustache out of the way with a practiced forefinger, and bobbed his Adam's apple for a while.

Sarmishkidu folded his walking tentacles and let down his bulbous body. He waggled his ears, rolled his eyeballs, and protested: "But we can't give up yet! We just can't. Here iss all dis beautiful beer that I could sell at fifty percent profit, even if I have the pretzels und popcorn free. And what good is it doing? None!"

"Oh, I vouldn't say dat," answered Herr Syrup, a trifle blearily, and drew another mugful.

"Dis lot has too much carbonation for my taste," he complained. "You t'ink I ban an American? It makes too much head."

"That's on special order from me," confided the Martian. "In the head is the profit, if one is not too generous in scraping it off."

"You is got too many arms and not enough soul," said Hen-Syrup. "I t'ink for dat I let you clean out my cabin. It is got full vit' congealed plastifoam. And to make a new fire extingvisher for it, vy, I take a botde of your too carbonated beer and if dere is a fire I shake it and take my t'umb off de mout' and—Of course," mused Herr Syrup, "could be you got so much CO coming out, I get t'rown backwards."

"If you don't like my beer," said Sarmishkidu, half closing his eyes, "you can just let me have the stein you got."

"Action and reaction," said Herr Syrup. "Hm?"

"Newton's t'ird law."

"Yes, yes, yes, but what relevance does that have to—"

"Beer. I shoot beer out de front end of de bottle, I get tossed on my can." "But you said it was a bottle."

"Ja, ja, ja, ja—"

"Weiss' nicht wie gut ich dir bin?" sang the Martian.

"I mean," said Herr Syrup, wagging a solemn ringer, "de bottle is a kind of rocket. Vy, it could even—it could even—"

His voice ground to a halt. The mug dropped from his hand and splashed on the floor. "Beerslayer!" screamed Claus.

"But darlin'," said Rory McConnell into the intercom, "I don't like dried apricots."

"Oh, hush," said Emily Croft from the galley. "You've never been healthier in your life."

"I feel like I'm rottin' away. Not through the monotony so much, me sweet, whilst I can be hearin' the soft voice of yez, but the only exercise I can get is calisthinics, which has always bored me grievous."

"True," said Emily, "all those fuel pipes and things don't leave much room for classical dancing, do they? Poor dear!"

"I'd trade me mother's brown pig for a walk in the rain wi' yez, macushla."

"Well, if you'd only give us your parole not to make trouble, dear, we could let you out this minute." "No, ye well know the Force has me prior oath an' the Force I'll fight for till "tis disbanded either through victory or defeat. An' how long will it take the auld omadhaun Syrup to realize 'tis him has been defayted? I've lain in here almost a week be the clock. I hear noises day an' night from the machine room, an' devil a word I can get of what's goin' on. Let me out, swateheart! I bear no ill will. I'll kiss the pretty lips of ye an' we'll all go down to Grendel an' say nothin" about what's happened. Save of course that I've won the loveliest girl in the galaxy for me own."

"I wish I could," sighed Emily. "How I wish it! 'O Dion who sent my heart mad with love!'"

"Who's this Dion?" bristled Major McConnell.

"Nobody you need worry about, dear. It's only a quotation. Translated, naturally. But what I mean to say is, Mr. Syrup and Mr. Sarmishkidu have so much to take care of and it won't be long now, I swear it won't, just another day or two, they say, and then their project will be over and they can—Oh! I promised not to tell! But what I mean, dear, is that I'll stay behind and I'm not supposed to let you out immediately, maybe not for still another day, but I'll look after you and make you nice lunches and—Yes," said Emily with a slight shudder, "there won't even be any more dried fruit in your meals, because I've run out of what there was; in fact, for days now I've been giving it all to you and eating corned beef and drinking beer myself, and I must admit it tastes better than I remembered, so if you insist on calcifying your liver after we're married, why, I suppose I'll have to also, and actually, darling, I don't know anyone who I'd rather calcify my liver with. Really."

"What is all this?" Rory McConnell stepped back, his big frame tensing. "Ye mean they've not just been putterin" about, but have some plan?"

"I mustn't tell! Please, beloved, honestly, I've been sworn to absolute secrecy, and now I must go. They need me to help too. I have been installing pipe lines and things and actually, dear, it's very exciting. I mean, when I use a welding torch I have to wear a helmet very much like a classical dramatic mask, so I stand there reciting from the Agamemnon as if I were on a real Athenian stage, and do you know, I diink when this is all over and we're married and have our own Greek theater in the garden I'll organize a

presentation of the whole Orestes trilogy—in the original, of course—with welding outfits. "Bye now!" Emily blew a kiss down the intercom and pattered off.

Rory McConnell sat down on a generator shield and began most furiously to think.