“What’s he been fiddling with?”
“Well, there was the Uncertainty Drive, which was an attempt to utilize Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.”
“It didn’t work?”
“That’s just the trouble, sir. No one’s sure whether it did or not.”
“I see.”
“Then there was the FTH Drive.”
Wanker looked suspicious. “What’s ‘FTH’ stand for?”
“Faster Than Hell.’ Dr. Strangefinger has a sense of humor, sir.”
“He ought to do stand-up.”
“I’m afraid he has a penchant for clever names and whimsical coinages, continuing an old tradition among physicists. ‘Charmed quark’ and that sort of thing.”
“Charming custom. Okay, so this Faster-Than-Hell gizmo didn’t work either?”
“It was a qualified failure, but it led to the development of the FTLCA Drive.”
“I hesitate to ask…”
“ ‘Faster Than a Lawyer Chasing an Ambulance.’”
“Glad I didn’t ask.”
“Which in turn led to the FTCWFUA Drive.”
“I couldn’t guess.”
“ ‘Faster Than a Cat With a Firecracker Up its Ass.’ But that showed mixed results.”
Wanker looked depressed again. “Can’t imagine why.”
“There were other projects that were very short-lived.”
“Is there anything I can do to prevent you from telling me about them?”
Rhodes was a bit miffed. “I won’t if you don’t want me to, sir.”
Wanker gave in. “Go ahead.”
“Well, there was the Used Metal Drive. It was scrapped.”
“Oh, no.”
“And the Coitus Drive.”
“You’re not going to tell me—?”
“Research was interrupted.”
“He told me.”
“And of course the infamous Penis Drive.”
Wanker ventured slyly, “Let me guess. It didn’t stand up in tests?”
“It could only be operated manually, sir.”
“I believe I’m getting the hang of this,” Wanker said with satisfaction.
“But his best invention to date was the Rufus Drive. And the one that, up till now, showed the most promise.”
“Rufus Drive. That one worked, did it?”
“Well, sir, the Rufus went up, but the overhead was too high.”
With a groan Wanker said, “Why did I think I was getting the hang of it?”
“And then there was the Subscription Drive. That one—”
“Enough! Please, enough. Thank you, Mr. Rhodes. That was vastly more than I wanted to know about the illustrious Dr. Strangefinger.”
At that moment the drop tube whooshed.
“Did somebody call my name?”
CHAPTER 8
Standing on the bounce pad beneath the blow tube was a strange man dressed in formal attire of two centuries ago: dark trousers and tailed coat, white starched shirt and white tie, a white carnation gracing the lapel of the jacket. For all the finery and formality, though, there was a seedy look about him.
He was not a small man, but he stood with his torso slightly forward and his legs bent, and as he moved it was apparent that he maintained this curious posture while walking. His face was comic in itself: a largish beaked nose jutted out between small round spectacles, presiding over a bushy mustache (though there was something odd about it). His hair parted in the middle and flared out into winglike tufts. He brandished a huge cigar that did not appear to be lit. His eyebrows were as thick as hedgerows.
Wanker stood, took one look at this apparition, and groaned again. Thinking that if he ignored the thing it would go away, he barked, “Navigator! Plot a course for the Kruton Interface!”
Warner-Hillary asked, “Where is it?”
Wanker was on the verge of deigning to speak to the intruder, but was brought up short. “What’d you say?”
“I mean, sir, like… where’s the Kruton Interface?”
“In Sector Four.”
“Uh, that’s a big area of the galaxy, sir. Uh, any idea, you know, exactly where?”
“Haven’t a clue, honey. What the devil do I know about navigation?”
“Didn’t you learn a little bit in the Academy?”
“Huh? Well, I guess I did. But it wasn’t… matter of fact… you know, I think I actually flunked that course.” The captain thought it over. “No, I dropped it and got an Incomplete, then I retook it and squeaked by with a…” The penny finally dropped. “Wait a minute, what the hell am I saying? Lieutenant, you are the navigator of this ship. You mean to say you don’t know how to plot and lay in a course?”
“Well, yes, sir, but I’ll have to look at a map.”
Wanker whacked the heel of his hand against his temple. “A map! What were the chances? Unbelievable. Is that really how it’s done?”
“Oh, you’re teasing me, sir. No, sir, you see, it’s just that—”
“Lieutenant, this is the twenty-second century. We have amazing devices now called computers. They’re vastly more intelligent than we are. If you want to plot a course to a certain destination, all you have to do is tell the computer, and it’ll do it for you. Does any of this ring a bell?”
“Sir, if you’ll let me explain. It’s like this — most of the automatic mapping functions in the navigational software have been glitching like crazy, sir. The one that does the plotting and stuff is, like, totally grunged.”
“‘Grunged.’ Is that standard Space Forces terminology?”
“Means it’s messed up, sir. I’ll have to locate the coordinates manually, and that means I’ll have to search the maps myself and find out where the Interface is.”
“Sorry to put you to so much trouble.”
“Oh, that’s okay, Captain. It’s my job, after all.”
“I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”
The strange visitor, who had been standing off to one side listening to all this, nicked nonexistent ash off the end of his cigar. “I don’t know about a navigator, but if anyone needs a doctor, I’m here. Meanwhile, is there a Wanker in the house?”
Wanker took a dim view of this sentiment. “That’s VAHN-ker.”
“That’s ridiculous. Anyway, are you the skipper of this tugboat?”
Wanker’s shoulders fell. “Unfortunately, that burden is in my hands.”
“Well, a burdened hand is worth two in the bush. Speaking of which, I’m pretty bushed myself. I’ve traveled the length and breadth of this galaxy. The length was fine, but I’m here to tell you that the breadth was pretty bad,”
Wanker looked about the bridge. “Did I walk into a night club?”
“You look like you walked into a lamppost.”
“Look, Dr. Strangefinger… I presume you are the famed Dr. Rufus T. Strangefinger?”
“Famed? That’s a laugh. I’ve worked and I’ve slaved and look where it’s got me. I can’t get arrested. Except for last night. They nabbed me for frequenting a house of ill repute. I got off, though. Turned out I was on the wrong frequency.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Wanker demanded.
“It will all be made clear in the fullness of time. You say you’re the captain of this garbage scow?”
Wanker folded his arms imperiously. “I did.”
“Well, you ought to be arrested,” Dr. Strangefinger said, jabbing the cigar at the captain. “On second thought, you ought to walk the plank. Or walk the dog.”
“We don’t have a mascot,” Rhodes said.
The cigar jabbed at the captain again. “You have him, don’t you? Somebody should take better care of him. You know how much a veterinarian charges these days? More than a lawyer. There ought to be a law about that. Have my lawyers call your lawyers. Then they can all call my stockbroker and well take a meeting and do lunch.”