The Makeshift Rocket (12 page)

When they again floated free, McConnell bawled at her: ‘I love yez more than I do me own soul, an’ ye’re the most beautiful creature the cosmos will ever see, an’ I’ve half a mind to turn yez over me knee an’ paddle ye raw!’

‘Watch your language, Rory,’ the vicar’s daughter reproved. ‘Paddle me black and blue, you please. I mean, I don’t like
double-entendres
.’

‘Ah, be still, ye blitherin’ angel,’ he snarled. He swept the sky with a bloodshot telescope. The boat was out of sight again. Of course.

It took him half an hour to relocate it, still orbiting stub
bornly on toward New Winchester. And New Winchester had grown noticeably more bright.

‘Now we’ll see what we’ll see,’ grated Major McConnell.

He accelerated till he was dead ahead of the boat, matched speeds – except for a few K.P.H. net toward him which he left for his quarry – and spun broadside to. As nearly as he could gauge it, the boat was aimed directly into his open cargo hatch.

Herr Syrup applied a quick side jet, slipped ‘beneath’ the larger hull, and continued on his way.

‘
Aaaargh
!’ Tiny flecks of foam touched McConnell’s lips. He tried again.

And again.

And again.

‘It’s no use,’ he choked at last. ‘He can slide past me too easy. The wan thing I could do would be to ram him an’ be done – Arragh, hell have him, he knows I’m not a murderer.’

‘Really, dear,’ said Emily, ‘it would all be so simple if you would just give up and admit he’s won.’

‘Small chance of that!’ McConnell brooded for a long minute. And slowly a luster returned to his eyes. ‘Yes. I have it. The loadin’ crane. I’ll have to jury-rig a control to the bridge, as well as a visio screen so I can see what I’m doin’. But havin’ given meself that much, why, I’ll approach ag’in with the crane grapple projectin’ from the hatch, reach out, an’ grab hold!’

‘Rory,’ said Emily, ‘you’re being tiresome.’

‘I’m bein’ Erse, by all the saints!’ McConnell rubbed a bristly red jaw. ‘’Tis hours ’twill take me, an’ him fleein’ the while. Could ye hold us alongside, me only one?’

‘Me?’ The girl opened wide blue eyes and protested innocently. ‘But darling, you told me after that last time to leave the controls alone, and I admit I don’t know a thing about it.
I mean, it would be unlawful for me to try piloting, wouldn’t it, and positively dangerous. I mean to say,
medén pratto!

‘Ah, well, I might have known how the good loyal heart of yez would make ye a bloody nuisance. But either give me your word of honor not to touch the pilot board ag’in, or I must break me own heart by tyin’ yez into that chair.’

‘Oh, I promise, dear. I’ll promise you anything within reason.’

‘An’ whatsoever ye don’t happen to want is unreasonable. Yes.’ Rory McConnell sighed, kissed his lady love, and went off to work. The escape boat blasted feebly but steadily into a new orbit – not very different, but time and the pull of the remote sun on an inert ship would show their work later on.

General Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O’Toole lifted a gaunt face and glared somberly at the young guardsman who had finally won through to his office. ‘Well?’ he clipped.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but—’

‘Salute me, ye good-for-nothin’ scut!’ growled O’Toole. ‘What kind of an army is it we’ve got here, where a private soldier passin’ the captain in the street slaps his back an’ says, “Paddy, ye auld pig, the top of the mornin’ to yez an’ if ye’ve a moment to spare, why, ’tis proud I’ll be to stand yez a mug of dark in yon tavern” – eh?’

‘Well, sir,’ said the guardsman, his Celtic love of disputation coming to the fore, ‘I say ‘twas a fine well-run army of outstandingly high morale. Though truth to speak, the captain I’ve been saddled with is a pickle-faced son of a landlord who would not lift his hat to St. Bridget herself, did the dear holy colleen come walkin’ in his door.’

‘Morale, ye say?’ shouted O’Toole, springing from his chair. ‘Morale cuts both ways, ye idiot! How much morale do ye think the officer’s corps has got, or I meself, when me
own men name me Auld S.O.T.S. to me face, not even botherin’ to sound the initials sep’rit, an’ me havin’ not touched a drop in all me life? I’ll have some respect hereabouts, begorra, or know the reason why!’

‘If ye want to know the reason I can give it to ye, General, sir, ye auld maid in britches!’ cried the guardsman. His fist smote the desk. ‘’Tis just the sour face of yez, that’s the rayson, an’ if ye drink no drop ’tis because wan look at yez would curdle the poteen in the jug! Now if ye want some constructive suggistions for improvin’ the management of this army—’

They passed an enjoyable half hour. At last, having grown hoarse, the guardsman bade the general a friendly good day and departed.

Five minutes later there was a scuffle in the anteroom. A sentry’s voice yelped, ‘Ye can’t go in there to himself without an appointment!’ and the guardsman answered, ‘An appointment I’ve had, since the hour before dawn whin I first came an’ tried to get by the bureaucratic lot of yez!’ and the scuffle got noisier and at last the office door went off its hinges as the guardsman tossed the sentry through it.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir,’ he panted, dabbing at a bruised cheek and judiciously holding the sentry down with one booted foot, ‘but I just remembered why I had to see yez.’

‘Ye’ll go to the brig for this, ye riotous scum!’ roared O’Toole. ‘Corp’ril of the guard! Arrest this man!’

‘That attitude is precisely what I was criticizin’ earlier,’ pointed out the soldier. ‘’Tis officers like yez what takes all the fun out of war. Why, ye wall-eyed auld Fomorian, if ye’d been in charge of the Cattle Raid of Cooley, the Brown Bull would still be chewin’ cud in his meaddy! Now ye listen to me—’

As four freshly arrived sentries dragged him off, he shouted
back: ‘All right, then! If ye’re goin’ to be that way about it, all right an’ be damned to yez! I won’t tell ye my news! I won’t speak a word of what I saw through the tellyscope just before sunrise – or failed to see – ye can sit there in blithe ignorance of the Venusian ship havin’ vanished from her orbit, till she calls down the Anglian Navy upon yez! See if I care!’

For a long, long moment, General Scourge-of-the-Sassen-ach O’Toole gaped out at Grendel’s blue sky.

Spent, shaking with lack of sleep and sheer muscular weariness, Rory McConnell weaved through free fall toward the bridge. As he passed the galley, Emily stopped him. Having had a night watch of rest, she looked almost irritatingly calm and beautiful. ‘There, there, love,’ she said. ‘Is it all over with? Come, I’ve fixed a nice cup of tea.’

‘Don’t want any tea,’ he growled.

‘Oh, but darling, you must! Why, you’ll waste away. I swear you’re already just skin and bones … oh, and your poor dear hands, the knuckles are all rubbed raw. Come on, there’s a sweetheart, sit down and have a cup of tea. I mean, actually you’ll have to float, and drink it out of one of those silly suction bottles, but the principle is the same. That old boat will keep.’

‘Not much longer,’ said McConnell. ‘By now, she’s far closer to the King than she is to Grendel.’

‘But you can wait ten minutes, can’t you?’ Emily pouted. ‘You’re not only neglecting your health, but me. You’ve hardly remembered I exist. All those hours, the only thing I heard on the intercom was swearing. I mean, I imagine from the tone it was swearing, though of course I don’t speak Gaelic. You will have to teach me after we’re married. And I’ll teach you Greek. I understand there is a certain affinity between the languages.’ She rubbed her cheek against his bare chest. ‘Just as there is between you and me … Oh,
dear!’ She retired to try getting some of the engine grease off her face.

In the end, Rory McConnell did allow himself to be prevailed upon. For ten minutes only. Half an hour later, much refreshed, he mounted to the bridge and resumed acceleration.

Grendel was little more than a tarnished farthing among the stars. New Winchester had swelled until it was a great green and gold moon. There would be warships in orbit around it, patrolling – McConnell dismissed the thought and gave himself to his search.

After all this time, it was not easy. Space is big and even the largest beer keg is comparatively small. Since Herr Syrup had shifted the plane of his boat’s orbit by a trifle – an hour’s questing confirmed that this must be the case – the volume in which he might be was fantastically huge. Furthermore, drifting free, his vessel painted black, he would be hard to spot, even when you were almost on top of him.

Another hour passed.

‘Poor darling,’ said Emily, reaching from her chair to rumple the major’s red locks. ‘You’ve tried so hard.’

New Winchester continued to grow. Its towns were visible now, as blurred specks on a subtle tapestry of wood and field and ripening grain; the Royal Highroad was a thin streak across a cloud-softened dayface.

‘He’ll have to reveal himself soon,’ muttered McConnell from his telescope. ‘That beer blast is so weak—’

‘Dear me, I understood Mr. Sarmishkidu’s beer was rather strong,’ said Emily.

McConnell chuckled. ‘Ah, they should have used Irish whisky in their jet. But what I meant, me beloved, was that in so cranky a boat, they could not hope to hit their target on the nose, so they must make course corrections as they approach it. And with so low an exhaust velocity, they’ll need
a long time of blastin’ to –
Hoy! I’ve got him
!’

The misty trail expanded in the viewfield, far and far away. McConnell’s hands danced on the control board. The spaceship turned about and leaped ahead. The crane, projecting out of the cargo hatch, flexed its talons hungrily.

Fire burst!

After a time of strangling on his own breath, McConnell saw the brightness break into rags before his dazzled eyes. He stared into night and constellations. ‘What the devil?’ he gasped. ‘Is there a Sassenach ship nearby? Has the auld squarehead a gun? That was a shot across our bows!’

He zipped past the boat at a few kilometers’ distance while frantically scouring the sky. A massive shape crossed his telescopic field. It grew before his eyes as he stared – it couldn’t be—‘Our own ship!’ choked McConnell. ‘Our own Erse ship.’

The converted freighter did not shoot again, for fear of attracting Anglian attention. It edged nearer, awkwardly seeking to match velocities and close in on the
Mercury Girl
. ‘Get away!’ shouted McConnell. ‘Get out of the way, ye idiots! ’Tis not meself ye want, ’tis auld Syrup, over there. Git out of me way!’ He avoided imminent collision by a wild backward spurt.

The realization broke on him. ‘But how do they know ’tis me on board here?’ he asked aloud.

‘Telepathy!’ suggested the girl, fluttering her lashes at him.

‘They don’t know. They can’t even have noticed the keg boat, I’ll swear. So ’tis us they wish to board an’ – Get out of the way, ye son of a Scotchman!’

The Erse ship rushed in, shark-like. Again McConnell had to accelerate backward to avoid being stove. New Winchester dwindled in his viewports.

He slapped the console with a furious hand. ‘An’ me lackin’ a radio to tell ’em the truth,’ he groaned. ‘I’ll jist have to orbit free, an’ let ’em lay alongside an’ board, an’ explain the situation.’ His teeth grated together. ‘All of which, if I know any one thing about the Force’s high command, will cost us easy another hour.’

Emily smiled. The
Mercury Girl
continued to recede from the goal.

‘I t’ink ve is in good broadcast range now,’ said Herr Syrup.

His boat was again inert, having exhausted nearly all its final cask. New Winchester waxed, already spreading across several degrees of arc. If only some circling Navy ship would happen to see the vessel; but no, the odds were all against that. Ah, well. Weary, bleary, but justifiably triumphant, Herr Syrup tapped the oscillator key.

Nothing happened.

‘Vere’s de spark?’ he complained.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sarmishkidu. ‘I thought you would.’

‘Bloody hell!’ screamed Claus.

Herr Syrup snarled inarticulately and tapped some more. There was still no result. ‘It was okay ven I tested back at de ship,’ he pleaded. ‘Of course, I did not dare test much or de Ersers might overhear, but it did vork. Vat’s gone crazy since?’

‘I vould suggest that since most of the transmission apparatus is outside by the batteries, something has worked loose,’ answered Sarmishkidu. ‘We could easily have jarred a wire off its terminal or some such thing.’

Herr Syrup swore and stuffed himself up into the space-suit and tried to see what was wrong. But the oscillator parts were not accessible, or even visible, from this position: an
other point overlooked in the haste of constructing the boat. So he would have to put on the complete suit and crawl back to attempt repairs; and that would expose the interior of the cabin, including poor old Claus, to raw space – ‘Oh, Yudas,’ he said.

There was no possibility of landing on New Winchester; there never had been, in fact. Now the barrel didn’t even hold enough reaction mass to establish an orbit. The boat would drift by, the oxygen would be exhausted, unless first the enemy picked him up. Staring aft, Herr Syrup gulped. The enemy was about to do so.

He had grinned when he saw the Erse-controlled ships nudge each other out of sight. But now one of them, yes, the
Girl
herself, with a grapnel out at the side, came back into view.

His heart sagged. Well, he had striven. He might as well give up. Life in a yeast factory was at least life.

No, by heaven!

Herr Syrup struggled back into the box. ‘Qvick!’ he yelled. ‘Give me de popcorn!’

‘What?’ gaped Sarmishkidu.

‘Hand me up de carton vit’ popcorn t’rough the valve, an’ den give me about a minute of full acceleration forvard.’

Sarmishkidu shrugged with all his tentacles, but obeyed. A quick pair of blasts faced the boat away from the approaching ship. Herr Syrup’s space-gauntleted hand closed on the small box as it was shoved up through the stovepipe diaphragm, and he hurled it from him as his vessel leaped ahead.

The popcorn departed with a speed which, relative to the
Girl
, was not inconsiderable. Exposed to vacuum, it exploded from its pasteboard container as it gained full, puffy dimensions.