“V1098. Offog, one,” said Cassidy in his usual tone of brooking no nonsense.
Moving with the jerkiness of a slightly uncoordinated robot, Burman pawed a small box fronted with dials, switches, and colored lights. It looked like a radio ham’s idea of a fruit machine. He knocked down a couple of switches. The lights came on, played around in intriguing combinations.
“This is it, sir,” he informed with difficulty.
“Ah!” Cassidy left his chair and moved across for a closer look. “I don’t recall having seen this item before. But there are so many different models of the same things. Is it still operating efficiently?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s one of the most useful things in the ship,” contributed McNaught, for good measure.
“What does it do?” inquired Cassidy, inviting Burman to cast a pearl of wisdom before him.
Burman paled.
Hastily, McNaught said, “A full explanation would be rather involved and technical but, to put it as simply as possible, it enables us to strike a balance between opposing gravitational fields. Variations in lights indicate the extent and degree of unbalance at any given time.”
“It’s a clever idea,” added Burman, made suddenly reckless by this news, “based on Finagle’s Constant.”
“I see,” said Cassidy, not seeing at all. He resumed his seat, ticked the offog and carried on. “Z44. Switchboard, automatic, forty-line intercom, one of.”
“Here it is, sir.”
Cassidy glanced at it, returned his gaze to the sheet. The others used his momentary distraction to mop perspiration from their foreheads.
Victory had been gained.
All was well.
For the third time, hah!
Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy departed pleased and complimentary. Within one hour the crew bolted to town. McNaught took turns with Gregory at enjoying the gay lights. For the next five days all was peace and pleasure.
On the sixth day, Burman brought in a signal, dumped it upon McNaught’s desk, and waited for the reaction. He had an air of gratification, the pleasure of one whose virtue is about to be rewarded.
Terran Headquarters to Bustler. Return here immediately for overhaul and refitting. Improved power plant to be installed. Feldman. Navy Op. Command. Sirisec.
“Back to Terra,” commented McNaught, happily. “And an overhaul will mean at least one month’s leave.” He eyed Burman. “Tell all officers on duty to go to town at once and order the crew aboard. The men will come running when they know why.”
“Yes, sir,” said Burman, grinning.
Everyone was still grinning two weeks later when the Siriport had receded far behind and Sol had grown to a vague speck in the sparkling mist of the bow starfield. Eleven weeks still to go, but it was worth it. Back to Terra. Hurrah!
In the captain’s cabin, the grins abruptly vanished one evening when Burman suddenly developed the willies. He marched in, chewed his bottom lip while waiting for McNaught to finish writing in the log.
Finally, McNaught pushed the book away, glanced up, frowned. “What’s the matter with you? Got a bellyache or something?”
“No, sir. I’ve been thinking.”
“Does it hurt that much?”
“I’ve been thinking,” persisted Burman in funereal tones. “We’re going back for overhaul. You know what that means? We’ll walk off the ship and a horde of experts will walk onto it.” He stared tragically at the other. “Experts, I said.”
“Naturally they’ll be experts,” McNaught agreed. “Equipment cannot be tested and brought up to scratch by a bunch of dopes.”
“It will require more than a mere expert to bring the offog up to scratch,” Burman pointed out. “It’ll need a genius.
McNaught rocked back, swapped expressions like changing masks. “Jumping Judas! I’d forgotten all about that thing. When we get to Terra we won’t blind those boys with science.”
“No, sir, we won’t,” endorsed Burman. He did not add “any more,” but his face shouted aloud, “You got me into this. You get me out of it.” He waited a time while McNaught did some intense thinking, then prompted, “What do you suggest, sir?”
Slowly the satisfied smile returned to McNaught’s features as he answered, “Break up the contraption and feed it into the disintegrator.”
“That doesn’t solve the problem,” said Burman. “We’ll still be short an offog.”
“No, we won’t. Because I’m going to signal its loss owing to the hazards of space-service.” He closed one eye in an emphatic wink. “We’re in free flight right now.” He reached for a message-pad and scribbled on it while Burman stood by vastly relieved.
Bustler to Terran Headquarters. Item V1098, Offog, one, came apart under gravitational stress while passing through twin-sun field Hector Major-Minor. Material used as fuel. McNaught, Commander. Bustler.
Burman took it to the radio room and beamed it Earthward. All was peace and progress for another two days. The next time he went to the captain’s cabin he went running and worried.
“General call, sir,” he announced breathlessly and thrust the message into the other’s hands.
Terran Headquarters for relay all sectors. Urgent and Important. All ships grounded forthwith. Vessels in flight under official orders will make for nearest spaceport pending further instructions. Welling. Alarm and Rescue Command. Terra.
“Something’s gone bust,” commented McNaught, undisturbed. He traipsed to the chart room, Burman following. Consulting the charts, he dialed the intercom phone, got Pike in the bow and ordered, “There’s a panic. All ships grounded. We’ve got to make for Zaxtedport, about three days’ run away. Change course at once. Starboard seventeen degrees, declination ten.” Then he cut off, griped, “Bang goes that sweet month on Terra. I never did like Zaxted, either. It stinks. The crew will feel murderous about this, and I don’t blame them.”
“What d’you think has happened, sir?” asked Burman. He looked both uneasy and annoyed.
“Heaven alone knows. The last general call was seven years ago when the Starider exploded halfway along the Mars run. They grounded every ship in existence while they investigated the cause.” He rubbed his chin, pondered, went on, “And the call before that one was when the entire crew of the Blowgun went nuts. Whatever it is this time, you can bet it’s serious.”
“It wouldn’t be the start of a space war?”
“Against whom?” McNaught made a gesture of contempt. “Nobody has the ships with which to oppose us. No, it’s something technical. We’ll learn of it eventually. They’ll tell us before we reach Zaxted or soon afterward.”
They did tell him. Within six hours. Burman rushed in with face full of horror.
“What’s eating you now?” demanded McNaught, staring at him.
“The offog,” stuttered Burman. He made motions as though brushing off invisible spiders.
“What of it?”
“It’s a typographical error. In your copy it should read off. dog.”
The commander stared owlishly.
“Off. dog?” echoed McNaught, making it sound like foul language.
“See for yourself.” Dumping the signal on the desk, Burman bolted out, left the door swinging. McNaught scowled after him, picked up the message.
Terran Headquarters to Bustler. Your report V1098, ship’s official dog Peaslake. Detail fully circumstances and manner in which animal came apart under gravitational stress. Cross-examine crew and signal all coincidental symptoms experienced by them. Urgent and Important. Welling. Alarm and Rescue Command. Terra.