The Makeshift Rocket

CHAPTER TWO

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. 1/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 Heliport 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 the besten Zeitver-treiber. But it was empty. Even for mid-afternoon, 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 over-getaken." He stopped in front of his guest, extending three boneless fingers. "My name is Sarmishkidu. I mean, Sarmish-kidu von Himmelschmidt. Sit down make yourself gemut-lich."

"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'ou-sand 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 fumbly-diddles 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.

"Now, now," said Herr Syrup anxiously. "Now, now, Froeken … er, Miss—now, now, now, yust a minute."

The Martian had already gone over to her. "That is nicht so bad, Emily," he whistled, standing on tip-tentacle to pat her shoulder. "There, there. Remember Epicurus."

"I don't care about Epicurus!" sobbed the girl, burying her face in her hands.

"Outis epoisei soi bareias cheiras," said Sarmishkidu bravely.

"Well," wept the girl, "w-well, of course. At least, I hope so." She dabbed at her eyes with a laurel leaf. "I'm sorry. It's just that—that—oh, everything."

"Yes," said the Martian, "the situation indubitably falls within the Aristotelian definition of tragedy. I have calculated my losses so far at a net fifty pounds sterling, four shillings and thruppence ha'penny per them."

Wet, but beautiful, the girl blinked at Herr Syrup. "Pardon me, sir," she said tremulously. "This situation on Grendel, you know. It's so overwreaking." She put her finger to her lips and frowned. "Is that the word? These barbarian languages! I mean, the situation has us all overwrought."

"Ahem!" said Sarmishkidu. "Miss Emily Croft, may I present Mister, er—" "Syrup," said Herr Syrup, and extended a somewhat engine-grimy hand. "Rejoice," said the girl politely. "Hellenicheis?"

"Gesundheit," said Herr Syrup.

Miss Emily Croft stared, then sighed. "I asked if you spoke Attic Greek," she said. "No, I'm sorry, I do not even speak basement Greek," floundered Herr Syrup.

"You see," said Miss Croft, "I am a Duncanite—even if it does make Father furious. He's the vicar, you know—and I'm the only Duncanite on Grendel. Mr. Sarmishkidu—I'm sorry, I mean Herr von Himmelschmidt—speaks Greek with me, which does help, even though I cannot always approve his choice of passages for quotation." She blushed.

"Since ven has a Martian been talking Greek?" asked the engineer, trying to get some toehold on reality.

"I found a knowledge of the Greek alphabet essential to my study of Terrestrial mathematical treatises," explained Sarmishkidu, "and having gone so far, I proceeded to learn the vocabulary and grammar as well. After all, time is money, I estimate my time as being conservatively worth five pounds an hour, and so by using knowledge already acquired for one purpose as the first step in gaining knowledge of another field, I saved study time worth almost—"

"But I'm afraid Herr von Himmelschmidt is not a follower of the doctrines of the Neo-Classical Enlightenment," interrupted Emily Croft. "I mean, as first expounded by Isadora and Raymond Duncan. I regret to say that Herr von Himmelschmidt is only interested in the, er," she blushed again, charmingly, "less laudable passages out of Aristophanes."

"They are filthy," murmured Sarmishkidu with a reminiscent leer.

"And I mean, please don't think I have any race prejudices or anything," went on the girl, "but it's just undeniable that Herr von Himmelschmidt isn't, well, isn't meant for classical dancing."

"No," agreed Herr Syrup after a careful study. "No, he is not."

Emily cocked her head at him. "I don't suppose you would be interested?" Her tone was wistful.

Herr Syrup rubbed his bald pate, blew out his drooping mustache, and looked down past his paunch at his Number Twelve boots. "Is classical dancing done barefoot?" he asked.

"Yes! And vine crowned, in the dew at dawn!"

"I vas afraid of dat," sighed Herr Syrup. "No, t'anks." "Well," said the girl. Her head bent a little.

"But I am not so bad at de hambo," offered Herr Syrup. "No, thank you," said Miss Croft.

"Vill you not sit down and have a beer vit' us?"

"Zeus, no!" She grimaced. "How could you? I mean, that awful stuff just calcifies the liver." "Miss Croft drinken only der pure spring vater und eaten der fruits," said Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt rather grimly.

"Well, but really, Mister Syrup," said the girl, "it's ever so much more natural than, oh, all this raw meat and—well, I mean if we had no other reason to know it, couldn't you just tell the Erse are barbarians from that dreadful stuff they drink, and all the bacon and floury potatoes and—Well, I mean to say, really."

Herr Syrup sat down by his stein, unconvinced. Emily perched herself on the table top and accepted a few grapes from a bowl of same which Sarmishkidu handed her in a gingerly fashion. The Martian then scuttled back to his own beer and pipe and a dish of pretzels.

"Do you know yust vat dese crazy Ersers is intending to do, anyhow?" asked Herr Syrup.

The girl clouded up again. "That's what I came to see you about, Mr. Sarmishkidu," she said. Her pleasant lower lip quivered. "That terrible Major McConnell! The big noisy red one. I mean, he keeps speaking to me!"

"I am afraid," began the Martian, "that it is not in my province to—"

"Oh, but I mean, he stopped me in the street just now! He, he bowed and—and asked me to—Oh, no!" Emily buried her face in her hands trembling.

"To vat?" barked Herr Syrup, full of chivalrous indignation.

"He asked me if … if … I would … ohgo t…o thewcoinueldma with him!" "Vy, vat is playing?" asked Herr Syrup, interested.

"How should I know? It certainly isn't Aeschylus. It isn't even Euripides!" Emily raised a flushed small countenance and shifted gears to wrath. "I thought, Mr Sarmishkidu, I mean, we've been friends for a while now and we Greeks have to stick together and all that sort of thing, couldn't you just refuse to sell him whisky? I mean, it would teach those barbarians a lesson, and it might even make them go home again, if they couldn't buy whisky, and Major McConnell wouldn't get a calcified liver."

"Speak of the divvil!" bawled a hearty voice. Huge, military boots crashed on the stairs and Major Rory McConnell, all 200 redhaired centimeters of him, stalked down into the rathskeller. "Pour me a drop of cheer, boy. No, set out the bottle an' we'll figure the score whin I'm done. For 'tis happy this day has become!"

"Don't!" blazed Emily, leaping to her feet.

"Aber, aber that whisky I sell at four bob the shot," said Sarmishkidu, slithering hastily off his bench. Major McConnell made a gallant flourish toward the girl. "To be sure," he roared, "there's no such thing as an unhappy day wi' this colleen about. Surely the good God was in a rare mood whin she was borned, perhaps His favorite littlest angel had just won the spellin' prize, for faith an' I nivver seen a sweeter bundle of charms, not even on the Auld Sod herself whin I made me pilgrimage."

"Do you see what happens to people who, who eat meat and drink distilled beverages?" said Emily to Herr Syrup. "They just turn into absolute oafs. I mean to say, you can hear their great feet stamping two kilometers off."

McConnell sprawled onto a bench, leaning against the table and resting his great feet on the floor at the end of prodigious legs. He winked at the Earthman. "She's the light darlin' on her toes," he agreed, "but then she's not just overburdened wi' clothing. Whin I make her me missus, that'll have to be changed a bit, but for now 'tis pleasant the sight is."

"Your wife?" screamed Emily. "Why—why—" She fought valiantly with herself. At last, in a prim tone: "I won't say anything, Major McConnell, but you will find my reply in Aristophanes, The Frogs, lines—"

"Here the bottle is," said Sarmishkidu, returning with a flask labelled Callahan's Rose of Tralee 125

Proof. "Und mind you," he added, rolling a suspicious doorknob eye at the Erseman, "when it comes to paying the score, we will make with the analytical balances to show how much you have getaken."

"So be it." McConnell yanked out the stopper and raised the bottle. "To the Glory of God an' the Honor of Ireland!" He caught Herr Syrup's eye and added politely: "Skaal."

The Dane lifted a grudging stein to him.

"'Tis the find day for celebratin'," burbled McConnell. "I've had the word from the engineering corps;

our new droive unit tests out one hundred percent. They'll have it ready to go in three weeks."

"Oh!" gasped Emily. She retreated into a dark corner behind a beer keg. Even Sarmishkidu began to look seriously worried.

"Vat ban all dis monkeyshining anyvay?" demanded Herr Syrup.

"Why, 'tis simple enough, 'tis," said the major. "Ye're well aware the rare earth praseodymium has high value, since 'tis of critical importance to a geegee engine. Now the asteroid—"

"Ja, I have read de proclamation. But vy did you have to land here at all? If Erse vants Lois, vy not attack Lois like honest men and not bodder my poor spaceship?"

McConnell frowned. "'Tis that would be the manly deed," he admitted. "Yit the opposition party, the Gaelic Socialists, may their cowardly souls fry in hell, happen to be in power at home, an' they won't sind the fleet ag'inst Laoighise; for the Anglians have placed heavy guard on it, in case of just such a frontal assault, an' that base ace of aggression holds our Republic in check, for it shall never be said we were the first to start a war."

He tilted the flask to his lips again and embarked on a lengthy harangue. Herr Syrup extracted from this that the Shamrock League, the other important political party in the Erse Cluster, favored a more vigorous foreign policy: though its chiefs would not also have agreed to an open battle with the Anglian Navy. However, Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O'Toole was an extremist politician even for the League. He gathered men, weapons, and equipment, and set out unbeknownst to all on his own venture. His idea was first to occupy Grendel. This has been done without opposition; armed authority here consisted of one elderly constable with a truncheon. Of course, it was vital to keep the occupation unknown to the rest of the universe, since the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force could not hope to fight off even a single gunboat sent from any regular fleet. The arrival of the Mercury Girl and the chance thus presented to announce a quarantine, was being celebrated up and down the inns of Grendel as unquestionably due to the personal intervention of good St. Patrick.

As for the longer-range scheme—oh, yes, the plan. Well, like most terraformed asteroids, Grendel had only a minimal gyrogravitic unit, powerful enough to give it a 24-hour rotational period (originally the little world had spun around once in three hours, which played the very devil with tea time) and an atmosphere retaining surface field of 980 cm/sec2. Maintaining that much attraction, warming up the iron mass enough to compensate for the sun's remoteness, and supplying electricity to the colonists, was as much as the Grendelian atomic-energy plant could do.

O'Toole's boys had brought along a geegee of awesome dimensions. Installed at the center of mass and set to repulsor-beam, this one would be able to move the entire planetoid from its orbit.

"Move it ag'inst Laoighise!" cried McConnell. "An' we've heavy artillery mounted, too. Ah, what think ye of that, me boy? How long do ye think the Anglian Navy will stand up ag'inst a warcraft of this size? Eh? Ha, ha! Drink to the successful defense of Gaelic rights ag'inst wanton an' unprovoked aggression!"

"I t'ink maybe de Anglian Navy vait yust long enough to shoot two, t'ree atomic shells at you and den land de marines," said Herr Syrup dubiously.

"Shell their own people livin' here?" answered McConnell. "No, even the Sassenach are not that grisly. There'll not be a thing they can do but retire from the scene in all their ignominy. An' faith, whin we return home wi' poor auld lost Laoighise an' put her into her rightful orbit with the ither Erse Cluster worlds—"

"I t'ought her orbit vas orig'inally not de same as eider vun of your nations."

"Exactly, sir. For the first time since the Creation, Laoighise will be sailin' where the Creator intended. Well, then, all Erse will rise to support us, the craven Gaelic Socialist cabinet will fall an' the tide of victory sweep the Shamrock League to its proper place of government an' your humble servant to the Ministry of Astronautics, which same portfolio Premier-to-be O'Toole has promised me for me help. An' then ye'll see Erse argosies plyin' the deeps of space as never before in history—an' me the skipper of the half of 'em!"

"Gud bevare's," said Herr Syrup.

McConnell rose with a bearlike bow at Emily, who had recovered enough composure to return into sight. "Of course, Grendel will thin be returned to Anglia," he said. "But her one finest treasure she'll not bring home, a Stuart rose plucked to brighten a field of shamrocks."

The girl lifted a brow and said coldly: "Do I understand, Major, that you wish to keep me forever as a shield against the Anglian Navy?"

McConnell flushed. "'Tis the necessity of so usin' your people that hurts every true Erse soul," he said, "an' be sure if it were not certain that no harm could come to the civilians here, we'd never have embarked on the adventure." He brightened. "An' faith, is it not well we did, since it has given me the sight of your sweet face?"

Emily turned her back and stamped one little foot.

"Also your sweet legs," continued McConnell blandly, "an' your sweet—er—Drink, Mister Syrup, drink'up wi' me to the rightin' of wrongs an' the succorin' of the distressed!"

"Like me," mumbled the engineer.

The girl whirled about. "But people will be hurt!" she cried. "Don't you understand? I've tried and tried to explain to you, my father's tried, everyone on Grendel has and none of you will listen! It's been forty years since our nations were last close enough together to have much contact. I mean, you just don't know how the situation has changed in Anglia. You think you can steal Lois, and our government will swallow a fait accompli rather than start a war—the way yours did when we first took it. But ours won't. Old King James died ten years ago. King Charles is a young man—a fire-eater—and the P.M. claims descent from Sir Winston Churchill—they won't accept it! I mean to say, your government will either have to repudiate you and give Lois back, or there'll be interplanetary war!"

"I think not, acushla, I think not," said McConnell. "Ye mustn't trouble your pretty head about these things."

"I t'ink maybe she ban right," said Herr Syrup. "I ban in Anglia often times."

"Well, if the Sassenach want a fight," said McConnell merrily, "a fight we'll give them!"

"But you'll kill so many innocent people," protested Emily. "Why, a bomb could destroy the Greek theatre on Scotia! And all for what? A little money and a mountain of pride!"

"Ja, you ruin my business," croaked Sarmishkidu.

"And mine. My whole ship, said Herr Syrup, almost tearfully.

"Oh, now, now, now, man, ye at least should not be tryin" to blarney me," said McConnell. "What harm can a six or seven weeks" holiday here do to yez?"

"Ve ban carrying a load of Brahma bull embryos in ex-ogenetic tanks," said Herr Syrup. "All de time, dose embryos is growing." He banged his mug on the table. "Dey is soon fetuses, by Yudas! Ve have only so much room aboard ship; and it takes time to reash Alamo from here. If ve are held up more dan two, t'ree veeks—"

"Oh, no!" whispered McConnell.

"Ja," said Herr Syrup. "Brahma bull calves all over de place. Ve cannot possibly carry dem, and dere is a stiff penalty in our contract."

"Well, now." McConnell looked uneasy. "Sure, an' 'tis sorry I am, an' after this affair has all been settled, if yez wish to file a claim for damages at Teamhair I am sure the O'Toole government will—Oh, oh." He stopped. "Where did ye say your owners are?"

"Anguklukkakok City, Venus."

"Well—" Major McConnell stared at his toes, rather like a schoolboy caught in the cookie jar. "Well, now, I meself think 'twas a good thing the Anguklukkakok Venusians were all converted last century, but truth 'tis, Jiniral O'Toole is pretty strict an'—"

"I say," broke in Emily, "what's the matter? I mean, if your owners are—" "Baptists," said Rory McConnell.

"Oh," said Emily in a small voice.

McConnell leaped to his feet. One huge fist crashed on the table so the beer steins leaped. "Well, 'tis sorry I am!" he shouted. Sarmishkidu flinched from the noise and folded up his ears. "I've no ill will to anyone, meself, tis a dayd done for me country, an'—an'—an' why must all of yez be turnin' a skylarkin' merry-go into hurt an' harm an' sorrow?"

He stormed toward the exit.

"The score!" thundered Sarmishkidu in his thin, reedy voice. "The score, you unevaluated partial derivative!"

McConnell ripped out his wallet, flung a five-pound note blindly on the floor, and went up the stairs three at a time. The door banged in his wake.