As they passed the open main lock, Peaslake observed them, bounded eagerly up the gangway and joined behind. A pukka member of the crew, he was a large dog whose ancestors had been more enthusiastic than selective. He wore with pride a big collar inscribed: Peaslake—Property of S.S. Bustler. His chief duties, ably performed, were to keep alien rodents off the ship and, on rare occasions, smell out dangers not visible to human eyes.
The three paraded forward, McNaught and Pike in the manner of men grimly sacrificing pleasure for the sake of duty, Peaslake with the panting willingness of one ready for any new game no matter what.
Reaching the bow-cabin, McNaught dumped himself in the pilot’s seat, took the folder from the other. “You know this stuff better than me—the chart room is where I shine. So I’ll read them out while you look them over.” He opened the folder, started on the first page. “K1. Beam compass, type D, one of.”
“Check,” said Pike.
“K2. Distance and direction indicator, electronic, type JJ, one of.”
“Check.”
“K3. Port and starboard gravitic meters, Casini models, one pair.”
“Check.”
Peaslake planted his head in McNaught’s lap, blinked soulfully and whined. He was beginning to get the others’ viewpoint. This tedious itemizing and checking was a hell of a game. McNaught consolingly lowered a hand and played with Peaslake’s ears while he ploughed his way down the list.
“K187. Foam rubber cushions, pilot and co-pilot, one pair.”
“Check.”
By the time First Officer Gregory appeared, they had reached the tiny intercom cubby and poked around it in semidarkness. Peaslake had long departed in disgust.
“M24. Spare minispeakers, three inch, type T2, one set of six.”
“Check.”
Looking in, Gregory popped his eyes and said, “What’s going on?”
“Major inspection due soon.” McNaught glanced at his watch. “Go see if stores has delivered a load and if not why not. Then you’d better give me a hand and let Pike take a few hours off.”
“Does this mean land-leave is canceled?”
“You bet it does—until after Hizonner has been and gone.” He glanced at Pike. “When you get into the city, search around and send back any of the crew you can find. No arguments or excuses. Also no alibis and/or delays. It’s an order.”
Pike registered unhappiness. Gregory glowered at him, went away, came back and said, “Stores will have the stuff here in twenty minutes’ time.” With bad grace he watched Pike depart.
“M47. Intercom cable, woven-wire protected, three drums.”
“Check,” said Gregory, mentally kicking himself for returning at the wrong time.
The task continued until late in the evening, was resumed early next morning. By that time three-quarters of the men were hard at work inside and outside the vessel, doing their jobs as though sentenced to them for crimes contemplated but not yet committed.
Moving around the ship’s corridors and catwalks had to be done crab-fashion, with a nervous sidewise edging. Once again it was being demonstrated that the Terran life-form suffers from ye fear of wette paynt. The first smearer would have ten years willed off his unfortunate life.
It was in these conditions, in midafternoon of the second day, that McNaught’s bones proved their feelings had been prophetic. He recited the ninth page while Jean Blanchard confirmed the presence and actual existence of all items enumerated. Two-thirds of the way down they hit the rocks, metaphorically speaking, and commenced to sink fast.
McNaught said boredly, “V1097. Drinking bowl, enamel, one of.”
“Is zis,” said Blanchard, tapping it.
“V1098. Offog, one.”
“Quoi?” asked Blanchard, staring.
“V1098. Offog, one,” repeated McNaught. “Well, why are you looking thunderstruck? This is the ship’s galley. You’re the head cook. You know what’s supposed to be in the galley, don’t you? Where’s this offog?”
“Never hear of heem,” stated Blanchard, flatly.
“You must have. It’s on this equipment-sheet in plain, clear type. Offog, one, it says. It was here when we were fitted-out four years ago. We checked it ourselves and signed for it.”
“I signed for nossings called offog,” Blanchard denied. “In the cuisine zere is no such sing.”
“Look!” McNaught scowled and showed him the sheet.
Blanchard looked and sniffed disdainfully. “I have here zee electronic oven, one of. I have jacketed boilers, graduated capacities, one set. I have bain marie pans, seex of. But no offog. Never heard of heem. I do not know of heem.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “No offog.”
“There’s got to be,” McNaught insisted. “What’s more, when Cassidy arrives there’ll be hell to pay if there isn’t.”
“You find heem,” Blanchard suggested.
“You got a certificate from the International Hotels School of Cookery. You got a certificate from the Cordon Bleu College of Cuisine. You got a certificate with three credits from the Space-Navy Feeding Center,” McNaught pointed out. “All that—and you don’t know what an offog is.”
“Nom d’un chien!” ejaculated Blanchard, waving his arms around. “I tell you ten t’ousand time zere is no offog. Zere never was an offog. Escoffier heemself could not find zee offog of vich zere is none. Am…agician perhaps?”
“It’s part of the culinary equipment,” McNaught maintained. “It must be because it’s on page nine. And page nine means its proper home is in the galley, care of the head cook.”
“Like hail it does,” Blanchard retorted. He pointed at a metal box on the wall. “Intercom booster. Is zat mine?”
McNaught thought it over, conceded, “No, it’s Burman’s. His stuff rambles all over the ship.”
“Zen ask heem for zis bloody offog,” said Blanchard, triumphantly.
“I will. If it’s not yours, it must be his. Let’s finish this checking first. If I’m not systematic and thorough Cassidy will jerk off my insignia.” His eyes sought the list. “V1099. Inscribed collar, leather, brass studded, dog, for the use of. No need to look for that. I saw it myself five minutes ago.” He ticked the item, continued, “V1100. Sleeping basket, woven reed, one of.”
“Is zis,” said Blanchard, kicking it into a corner.
“V1101. Cushion, foam rubber, to fit sleeping basket, one of.”
“Half of,” Blanchard contradicted. “In four years he has chewed away other half.”
“Maybe Cassidy will let us indent for a new one. It doesn’t matter. We’re okay so long as we can produce the half we’ve got.” McNaught stood up, closed the folder. “That’s the lot for here. I’ll go see Burman about this missing item.”
The inventory party moved on.
Burman switched off a UHF receiver, removed his earplugs, and raised a questioning eyebrow.
“In the galley we’re short an offog,” explained McNaught. “Where is it?”
“Why ask me? The galley is Blanchard’s bailiwick.”
“Not entirely. A lot of your cables run through it. You’ve two terminal boxes in there, also an automatic switch and an intercom booster. Where’s the offog?”
“Never heard of it,” said Burman, baffled.
McNaught shouted, “Don’t tell me that! I’m already fed up hearing Blanchard saying it. Four years back we had an offog. It says so here. This is our copy of what we checked and signed for. It says we signed for an offog. Therefore we must have one. It’s got to be found before Cassidy gets here.”
“Sorry, sir,” sympathized Burman. “I can’t help you.”
“You can think again,” advised McNaught. “Up in the bow there’s a direction and distance indicator. What do you call it?”