“A didin,” said Burman, mystified.
“And,” McNaught went on, pointing at the pulse transmitter, “what do you call that?”
“The opper-popper.”
“Baby names, see? Didin and opper-popper. Now rack your brains and remember what you called an offog four years ago.”
“Nothing,” asserted Burman, “has ever been called an offog to my knowledge.”
“Then,” demanded McNaught, “why did we sign for one?”
“I didn’t sign for anything. You did all the signing.”
“While you and others did the checking. Four years ago, presumably in the galley, I said, ‘Offog, one,’ and either you or Blanchard pointed to it and said, ‘Check.’ I took somebody’s word for it. I have to take other specialists’ words for it. I am an expert navigator, familiar with all the latest navigational gadgets but not with other stuff. So I’m compelled to rely on people who know what an offog is—or ought to.”
Burman had a bright thought. “All kinds of oddments were dumped in the main lock, the corridors, and the galley when we were fitted-out. We had to sort through a deal of stuff and stash it where it properly belonged, remember? This offog-thing might be anyplace today. It isn’t necessarily my responsibility or Blanchard’s.”
“I’ll see what the other officers say,” agreed McNaught, conceding the point. “Gregory, Worth, Sanderson, or one of the others may be coddling the item. Wherever it is, it’s got to be found. Or accounted for in full if it’s been expended.”
He went out. Burman pulled a face, inserted his earplugs, resumed fiddling with his apparatus. An hour later McNaught came back wearing a scowl.
“Positively,” he announced with ire, “there is no such thing on the ship. Nobody knows of it. Nobody can so much as guess at it.”
“Cross it off and report it lost,” Burman suggested.
“What, when we’re hard aground? You know as well as I do that loss and damage must be signaled at time of occurrence. If I tell Cassidy the offog went west in space, he’ll want to know when, where, how, and why it wasn’t signaled. There’ll be a real ruckus if the contraption happens to be valued at half a million credits. I can’t dismiss it with an airy wave of the hand.”
“What’s the answer then?” inquired Burman, innocently ambling straight into the trap.
“There’s one and only one,” McNaught announced. “You will manufacture an offog.”
“Who? Me?” said Burman, twitching his scalp.
“You and no other. I’m fairly sure the thing is your pigeon, anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s typical of the baby names used for your kind of stuff. I’ll bet a month’s pay that an offog is some sort of scientific allamagoosa. Something to do with fog, perhaps. Maybe a blind-approach gadget.”
“The blind-approach transceiver is called ‘the fumbly,’ ” Burman informed.
“There you are!” said McNaught as if that clinched it. “So you will make an offog. It will be completed by six tomorrow evening and ready for my inspection then. It had better be convincing, in fact pleasing. In fact its function will be convincing.”
Burman stood up, let his hands dangle, and said in hoarse tones, “How can I make an offog when I don’t even know what it is?”
“Neither does Cassidy know,” McNaught pointed out, leering at him. “He’s more of a quantity surveyor than anything else. As such he counts things, looks at things, certifies that they exist, accepts advice on whether they are functionally satisfactory or worn out. All we need do is concoct an imposing allamagoosa and tell him it’s the offog.”
“Holy Moses!” said Burman, fervently.
“Let us not rely on the dubious assistance of Biblical characters,” McNaught reproved. “Let us use the brains that God has given us. Get a grip on your soldering-iron and make a topnotch offog by six tomorrow evening. That’s an order!”
He departed, satisfied with this solution. Behind him, Burman gloomed at the wall and licked his lips once, twice.
Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy arrived right on time. He was a short, paunchy character with a florid complexion and eyes like those of a long-dead fish. His gait was an important strut.
“Ah, Captain, I trust that you have everything shipshape.”
“Everything usually is,” assured McNaught, glibly. “I see to that.” He spoke with conviction.
“Good!” approved Cassidy. “I like a commander who takes his responsibilities seriously. Much as I regret saying so, there are a few who do not.” He marched through the main lock, his cod-eyes taking note of the fresh white enamel. “Where do you prefer to start, bow or tail?”
“My equipment-sheets run from bow backward. We may as well deal with them the way they’re set.”
“Very well.” He trotted officiously toward the nose, paused on the way to pat Peaslake and examine his collar. “Well cared-for, I see. Has the animal proved useful?”
“He saved five lives on Mardia by barking a warning.”
“The details have been entered in your log, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir. The log is in the chart room awaiting your inspection.”
“We’ll get to it in due time.” Reaching the bow-cabin, Cassidy took a seat, accepted the folder from McNaught, started off at businesslike pace. “K1. Beam compass, type D, one of.”
“This is it, sir,” said McNaught, showing him.
“Still working properly?”
“Yes, sir.”
They carried on, reached the intercom-cubby, the computer room, a succession of other places back to the galley. Here, Blanchard posed in freshly laundered white clothes and eyed the newcomer warily.
“V147. Electronic oven, one of.”
“Is zis,” said Blanchard, pointing with disdain.
“Satisfactory?” inquired Cassidy, giving him the fishy-eye.
“Not beeg enough,” declared Blanchard. He encompassed the entire galley with an expressive gesture. “Nossings beeg enough. Place too small. Eversings too small. I am chef de cuisine an’ she is a cuisine like an attic.”
“This is a warship, not a luxury liner,” Cassidy snapped. He frowned at the equipment-sheet. “V148. Timing device, electronic oven, attachment thereto, one of.”
“Is zis,” spat Blanchard, ready to sling it through the nearest port if Cassidy would first donate the two pins.
Working his way down the sheet, Cassidy got nearer and nearer while nervous tension built up. Then he reached the critical point and said, “V1098. Offog, one.”
“Morbleu!” said Blanchard, shooting sparks from his eyes, “I have say before an’ I say again, zere never was—”
“The offog is in the radio room, sir,” McNaught chipped in hurriedly.
“Indeed?” Cassidy took another look at the sheet. “Then why is it recorded along with galley equipment?”
“It was placed in the galley at time of fitting-out, sir. It’s one of those portable instruments left to us to fix up where most suitable.”
“Hm-m-m! Then it should have been transferred to the radio room list. Why didn’t you transfer it?”
“I thought it better to wait for your authority to do so, sir.”
The fish-eyes registered gratification. “Yes, that is quite proper of you, Captain. I will transfer it now.” He crossed the item from sheet nine, initialed it, entered it on sheet sixteen, initialed that. “V1099. Inscribed collar, leather … oh, yes, I’ve seen that. The dog was wearing it.”
He ticked it. An hour later he strutted into the radio room. Burman stood up, squared his shoulders but could not keep his feet or hands from fidgeting. His eyes protruded slightly and kept straying toward McNaught in silent appeal. He was like a man wearing a porcupine in his britches.