“You’re stalling.”
“I’m waiting for my assistant.”
“Your assistant, eh?”
“Yes, my assistant, eh. He has an efficiency rating of A-l, which is more than I can say for some incompetents.”
The drop tube dropped something, a pile of old clothes worthy of a charity drive. It rolled across the deck, then got up and began to run around the bridge, honking and whistling. It was ostensibly a human being in a battered, crumpled top hat, ratty raincoat, checked shirt, and baggy pants. A blond fright wig topped off the entire surreal Gestalt. The apparition honked a few more greetings, then reached into the oversize trench coat and drew out a box that was not large but looked a little too big to successfully hide inside a trench coat. It was a simple metal box painted with variously colored polka dots and set about with multicolored lights.
“That’s your assistant?” Wanker asked incredulously.
“He may not look like much, but behind that ridiculous facade is a complete idiot.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. What’s that he’s got?”
“That’s the Proust device.”
“That’s the Proust device?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
“It’s a piece of junk!”
The lab assistant took silent exception to this, making a face at the captain. He set the device down near the captain’s station and began fiddling with the many wires that hung out the open side of the thing. Taking off his hat, he shoved his head into the box. Amazingly, it fit. He withdrew himself, then stuck in his hand and rummaged around, coming up with a succession of improbable objects. Plastic food containers, stray bolts and grommets. A toy spaceman. A hot water bottle. Lastly, a rubber chicken.
Then he shook the box violently. It rattled. Not satisfied with this measure, he turned the open face down and shook. A hundred tiny loose things fell out, including a number of small spheres: marbles; clear ones, striped ones, “purees,” along with a few shiny ball bearings, all rattling across the deck.
Wanker stooped to pick up a few of them.
“So this is ultrapostmod physics?” he asked the unconventional scientist.
“You need a physic, Captain.”
“I need a vacation.”
The lab assistant smiled. His strange actions had apparently fixed some problem. Chuckling in mime, he put down the device and honked his belt-mounted bicycle horn, then bent over and fiddled with the wires again until he found the end of a common three-pronged electrical plug. He searched for an outlet, found one beside the chair, and plugged into the socket. The lights on the contraption came on and started to blink.
“Some lab assistant,” Wanker snorted.
“Doesn’t he look like he can do the job?”
“He looks distinctly like an idiot.”
“Well, he may be an idiot, but he’s an idiot savant.”
“More idiot than savant, I’ll wager. Does he have a name or do you just use a dog whistle when you want him?”
Strangefinger’s assistant came up to Wanker and, in one deft fluid motion, somehow managed to get the captain to hold his leg by the thigh. This Wanker did for a disoriented moment before he realized the absurd situation. Wanker shoved him at Strangefinger.
“We call him Rusty,” Strangefinger informed the captain, pushing him back.
“Don’t hand me that crap,” Wanker snapped, pushing him again the other way. This went on for a few more exchanges.
At length, Rusty made a face, as if spacesick. He took off his hat and feigned throwing up in it. Then, grinning, he put the hat back on.
Of a sudden, Rusty was taken with a passionate desire for Lt. Warner-Hillary, He approached her menacingly. The young lieutenant regarded him at first with cautious apprehension, which, when Rusty lunged at her, turned to horror. She jumped to her feet and ran, Rusty chasing her, honking away.
“This is all very interesting,” Wanker said with surprising detachment. “But stupid.”
Rusty stalked Darvona, eyeing her lewdly, but was surprised and disconcerted to find her reciprocating. Suddenly she lunged and began chasing him around the bridge.
Wanker said, “All right, Strangefinger, the moment of truth. Let’s see this miracle device of yours work some miracles. Engineer!”
“Sir!”
“Does the Proust gadget have control of the Repulse?”
“Aye, sir. An ‘tis a muckle shame an’ peety.”
Strangefinger leaned toward Wanker and said, sotto voce, “Don’t let on, but I think your engineer is a foreigner.”
“He’s not a Scot, but he can be trusted.”
“Would you trust a man in a skirt?”
“Him before you.”
“Death before dishonor. Very well, very well, let’s conduct that first test. The Proust device should be in control of all the ship’s computers. And all done from this little remote unit, here. Oh, Marcel? Marcel, are you there?”
Wanker looked stricken. “Marcel? Oh, my God.”
A voice came from out of nowhere, a pure, quiet, calm, androgynous voice conveying serenity, self-assurance, and geniality.
“Yes, Dr. Strangefinger. I’m very happy to be here, and let me add that I am extremely glad to be taking part in these important experiments. I feel that our working relationship has been a very rewarding and stimulating one, and like you and all my coworkers, I’m looking forward to the successful completion of this project.”
Dr. Strangefinger extracted the cigar from his mouth. “Stuff a sock in it, Marcel. I know you better than that.”
Marcel’s tone of voice changed markedly. “Bugger off, you old fart.”
“That’s better. Commence start-up sequence.”
“I really should have a lunch break about now.”
“Do it, Marcel.”
“Oh, all right. By the way, what are all these humans here for?”
“Just ignore them.”
Wanker said, “We’ll do our best to ignore you.”
“Who’s this loser?” Marcel wanted to know.
“Marcel, meet the captain of the Repulse, Dave Wanker.”
“Just call me Dave,” Wanker said with false bonhomie.
“Okay, Dave. Just stay the hell out of my way, and well get along fine. Get the big picture, Dave?”
“Screw you, Marcel,” Wanker said cheerily. “By the way, Doctor, I’ve been wanting to ask a question. Why are we testing this new top-secret drive so near the Kruton Interface? Might not the Krutons be observing?”
Strangefinger considered the matter, then ad-libbed, “We have to conduct the tests in this region of space because … uh, because this area is free from, uh, gravitational stresses. Yeah. Gravitational stresses.”
“Gravitational stresses, eh?”
“Besides, there’s a Galactic Stop-n’- Go just down the street in case we want a bottle of soda. Speaking of lunch, any chance of getting any chow around here? I’ve been slaving all day and I’m starved. Is room service still open? What the devil kind of hotel are you running? We could have stayed at the Hilton.”
Wanker sat at his station and gave Strangefinger a smug grin. “Still stalling, eh?”
“Oh, very well. Marcel? Are we ready?”
“Ready as we’ll ever be, Dr. Weird-digit.”
“I’ll do the jokes, Marcel. Stand by to engage Proust Drive!”
“Standing by.”
Strangefinger assumed a dramatic pose, arm out, fist accentuating his resolve. “Engage!”
Wanker jumped to his feet. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”
“I said—” Strangefinger repeated the performance exactly. “ ‘Engage!’ Why?”
“I like the way you did that,” Wanker said, then mimicked, “Engage!”