The Makeshift Rocket

CHAPTER TWELVE

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: another 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.

Now one of the oldest space war tactics is to drop a mass of hard objects, such as ball bearings, in the path of a pursuing enemy. And then there are natural meteors. In either case, the speeds involved are often such as to wreak fearful damage on the craft. Rory McConnell saw a sudden ghastly vision of white spheroids hurtling toward him. Instinctively, he stopped forward acceleration and crammed on full thrust sideways.

Almost, he dodged the swarm. A few pieces did strike the viewport. But they did not punch through, they did not even crater the tough plastic. They spattered. It took him several disgusted minutes to realize what they had been. By that time, the Erse ship had come into view with the plain intention of stopping him, laying alongside, and finding out what the devil was wrong now. When everything had been straightened out, a good half hour had passed.

"Dere is for damn sure no time to fix de oscillator," said Herr Syrup. "Ve must do vat ve can." Sarmishkidu worked busily, painting the large pretzel box with air-sealing gunk. "I trust the bird will survive," he said.

"I t'ink so," said Herr Syrup. "I t'row him and de apparatus avay as hard as I can. Ve vill pass qvite close to de fringes of de asteriod's atmosphere. He has not many minutes to fall, and de oxygen keeps him breat'ing all dat vile. Ven de whole t'ing hits de air envelope, dere vill be enough impact to tear open de pretzel box and Claus can fly out"

The boat rumbled softly, blasting as straight toward New Winchester as its crew had been able to aim. It gave a feeble but most useful weight to objects within. Sarmishkidu finished painting the box and attached a tube connecting it with one of the oxygen flasks.

"Now, den, Claus," said Herr Syrup, "I have tied a written message to your leg, but if I know you,

you vill rip it off and eat it as soon as you are free. However, if I also know you, you vill fly straight for de nearest pub and try to bum a beer. So, repeat after me: 'Help! Help!! Invaders on Grendel.' Dat's all.

'Help! Help! Invaders on Grendel.'" "McConnell is a skunk," said Claus. "No, no! 'Help! Invaders on Grendel.'"

"McConnell cheats at cards," said Claus. "McConnell is a teetotaller. McConnell is a barnacle on de nose of society. McConnell—"

"No, no, no!"

"No, no, no!" echoed Claus agreeably.

"Listen," said Herr Syrup after a deep breath. "Listen, Claus. Please say it. Yust say, 'Help! Help! Invaders on Grendel.'"

"Nevermore," said Claus.

"We had best proceed," said Sarmishkidu.

He stuffed the indignant crow into the box and sealed it shut while Herr Syrup got back in the

spacesuit: including, this time, its pants. And then, having aerated himself enough to stand vacuum for a while, Sarmishkidu unfastened the armor from the hatch cover. Herr Syrup popped inboard. Air rushed out. Herr Syrup pushed the oxygen cylinder, with Claus' box, through the hole.

New Winchester was so close it filled nearly half the sky. Herr Syrup made out towns and farms and orchards, through fleecy clouds. He sighed wistfully, shoved the tank from him as hard as he could, and watched it dwindle. A moment afterward, the asteroid itself began to recede; he had passed peri-New Winchester and was outward bound on a long cold orbit.

"So," said Herr Syrup, "let de Erse come pick us up." He realized he was talking to himself: no radio, and anyhow Sarmishkidu had curled into a ball. There was no point in resealing the cabin—the other oxygen bottle was long exhausted.

"I never t'ought de future of two nations could depend on vun old crow," sighed Herr Syrup.