The Makeshift Rocket

by Poul Anderson

  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.

  ‘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 tiptentacle 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 diem.’

  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 … oh … would go to the cinema 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.