“No, no, it’s more like this. Engage!”
“Engage!”
“That’s it, you got it.”
“I’d like to use it sometime.”
“Feel free. In fact, do it right and it’s good for a free feel.” Strangefinger’s brows undulated. “Women go for the well-spoken, macho type. Ever think of shaving your head?”
Marcel asked, “Hey, am I supposed to be engaging, or what?”
Strangefinger waved his cigar. “Go ahead, already!”
“I will begin reading from Remembrance of Things Past, by Marcel Proust. Part One, Swann’s Way. Chapter One is titled ‘Overture.’ ‘For a long time it was my habit to go to bed early. I would put out my candle and sometimes my eyes would close so quickly that there was no time to say to myself, “I’m falling asleep,” and half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would wake me up; I would begin to put away the book I thought was still in my hands, and to blow out the light. While asleep I had kept thinking about what I had just read, but these thoughts had taken a somewhat peculiar turn…’”
Marcel continued to read from text of Swann’s Way.
“What is this nonsense?” Wanker demanded.
“It’s the Proust Drive. Or it’s a course in early-twentieth-century French literature. I can’t decide which.”
“But all that’s happening is that your silly computer is reading from a French novel.”
Svensen said, “This work is really a series of novels, Captain. The entire body of work has the overarching title A la recherche du temps perdu, usually translated into English as “Remembrance of—”
“Ensign Svensen, be quiet!”
“War and Peace is longer,” Sven muttered under his breath.
“Listen, Strangefinger, I smell a rat. You may have hoodwinked the pols and flummoxed the brass into falling for this little hoax of yours, but don’t expect to pull the wool over MY eyes!”
“I wouldn’t pull the wool over your eyes. And I wouldn’t wink your hood either, you big flummox.”
“Then how is this silly invention of yours supposed to work?”
“It’s very simple. I tested thousands of works of literature, but I found Remembrance of Things Past to be the most boring of all.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve read this novel — sorry, series of novels, thank you, Mr. Svensen. It’s full of good stuff!”
“Certainly, it’s very literary,” Strangefinger admitted. “That’s why it’s boring as hell. When the computer reads it, it sets up a quantum boredom field.”
“Quantum boredom field?”
“Well, I’m not quite certain of the field aspect, but what the heck. Anyway, the ship gets so bored by the whole thing it tries to get away as fast as possible.”
“That’s absurd! It’s crazy! It’s laughable!”
“They laughed at Fulton. They laughed at Einstein. They laughed at Oprah Winfrey, until she dieted.”
Lt. Warner-Hillary, fresh from being chased by Rusty, exclaimed, “Sir! The ship is moving!”
Wanker said, “What?”
“Oh, so it’s laughable, is it! Well, you’ll be laughing out of the other side of your rocket tube, space jockey!”
Mr. Rhodes turned in his seat, his face set grimly. “He’s right, Captain. The ship is moving. But we’re out of control. We’re heading straight for the Kruton Interface!”
CHAPTER 14
“Engineer? What’s happening?”
“Aye, th’ ship’s begun ta start awa wi’ bickering brattle, sir!”
Strangefinger asked everybody, “What did he say?”
And everyone, including Wanker, gave a hopeless shrug.
Dr. O’Gandhi began to pace about the bridge, fretting, “Jesus, Mary, and Krishna, we are all to be dying! Oh, my gosh.”
“Mr. Sadowski, disengage the Proust Drive!”
At his console, Sadowski frantically hit buttons and switches. “It can nae be done, sir! The wee Proustie dinna wan t’lave go!”
“Strangefinger! Call off your machine!”
Strangefinger stood over the blinking device, a pensive hand to his chin. “Something seems to be wrong here. I wonder if there was a recall on this model.”
Wanker screamed, “Look, we’re out of control and heading for the Interface. If we cross it and intrude on Kruton space, we’ll be fair game. The Krutons will jump us and tear us apart! And I’ll NEVER make admiral!”
“An admirable ambition.”
“Pull the plug on that thing!”
Rhodes had already anticipated. He jumped out of his seat and dove for the electrical outlet. He yanked on the cord, and the plug flew put of the socket. It hit him in the eye.
“Ow! Dang it, anyway.”
The lights on the Proust device did not go out. They kept up their steady blinking.
Strangefinger said calmly, “That plug is just a gag. It’s tapped into the ship’s power and has the ability to draw any amount of power it needs.”
Wanker was rooting around in the debris near his station. “I’ll take care of old Marcel, if I can find…” He straightened up, brandishing a length of titanium strut. “This ought to do it.”
He approached the machine menacingly.
“I’m warning you,” Strangefinger said, “stay away. It probably rigged up some kind of force field to protect itself.”
Wanker froze. Then he scoffed, “That little junction box? I think you’re bluffing, Strangefinger.” He took a cautious step forward.
A bolt of blue lightning jumped out from the machine and struck the titanium strut, sending it across the room.
Wanker picked himself up off the deck, wincing and shaking his singed hand. “You rotten, miserable—”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Strangefinger said. “Wanker, you’re living proof of reincarnation.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“No one could get that dumb in one lifetime.”
“Strangefinger, tell your machine to turn this ship around!”
“If you insist.”
“I insist!”
“I like to think of myself as a reasonable fellow. Marcel! Do a U-y and let’s scram out of here. D’you hear me? Marcel? Hey.” Strangefinger bent over and knocked on the top of the metal case. “Are you home or did you just leave your porch lights on?”
Wanker was indignant. “Hey, how come it lets you touch it?”
“I’m its old man. Hey, Marcel, come on, now. Listen up, or you don’t get the car on Saturday night.”
Marcel droned on, still reading.
Strangefinger stood erect. “Well, the thing works. I just haven’t figured out how to control the direction of thrust yet.”
“You’d better figure it out pronto, or we’re going to be in deep do-do!”
“Not yet. Right now we’re merely between the do-do and the deep blue sea. Assistant! Where’s my assistant?”
Rusty was at that moment being vamped by Darvona, and liking it. They were talking quietly.
Wanker said, “Hey, I thought he never talked!”
Strangefinger said, “He doesn’t speak much. But when he does, people leave the room. Hey, blondie, come here!”
Darvona said, “Me?”
“No, the other blondie.”
Rusty was back in character. Tapping his chest he mimed, Who, me?
“Yes, you. Come here and wrestle with this thing.”
Rusty immediately leapt out of his chair, raced to the Proust device, dove, and put a head-lock on the thing.
“What an impetuous boy. No, no, fix the gizmo.”
Rusty pulled out of his raincoat a succession of odd tools and anachronous implements: a hair dryer, a corkscrew, an eggbeater… and on and on, everything but something useful.