THE MAKESHIFT ROCKET
Poul Anderson
CHAPTER ONE
"Mercury Girl, Black Sphere Line of Anguklukkakok City, Venusian Imperium, requesting permission to land and discharge cargo."
"Ah. Yes," said the large red haired man in the visiscreen. "Venusian ownership, eh? An' what might your registry be?"
Captain Dhan Gopal Radhakrishnan blinked mild brown eyes in some astonishment and said: "Panamanian, of course."
"Was that your last port of call?"
"No, we came via Venus. But I say, what has this to do with—"
"Let me see, let me see." The man in the screen rubbed a gigantic paw across a freckled snub nose. He was young and cheerful of appearance; but since when had the portmaster of Grendel—of any asteroid in the Anglian Cluster—worn a uniform of such blazing green?
"An' might I hear what cargo ye have consigned locally?" he asked. It was definitely not a Grendelian accent he had. York? Scotia? No. Possibly New Belfast. Having maintained his Earthside home for years in Victoria, B.C., Captain Radhakrishnan fancied himself a student of English dialects. However—
"A thousand cases of Nashornbrau Beer and six ten-ton barrels of same, miscellaneous boxes of pretzels and popcorn, all for the Alt Heidelberg Rathskeller," he answered. "Plus goods for other ports, of course, notably a shipment of exo-genetic cattle embryos for Alamo. Those have all been cleared for passage through intermediate territories."
"Indeed. Indeed." The young man nodded with a sharpness that bespoke decision. "Tis all right, then. Give us a location signal an' folly the GCA beam in to Berth Ten."
Captain Radhakrishnan acknowledged and signed off, adjusting his monocle nervously the while. Something was not all right. Definitely not. He turned the console over to the mate and switched the ship's intercom to Engine Room. "Bridge speaking," he intoned. "I say, Mr. Syrup, have you any notion what's going on here?"
Knud Axel Syrup, chief and only engineer of the Mercury Girl, started and looked over his shoulder. He had been cheating at solitaire. "Not'ing, skipper, yust not'ing," he mumbled, tucking a beer bottle under a heap of cotton waste. His pet crow Claus leered cynically from a perch on a fuel line, but for a wonder remained silent.
"You weren't tuned in to my talk with the portmaster chap?"
Herr Syrup rose indignantly to his feet. He even sucked in his paunch. "I ban tending to my own yob," he said. "Ban busier dan a Martian in rutting season. Ven are de owners going to install a new Number Four spinor? Every vatch I got to repair ours vit' chewing gum and baling vire."
"When this old bucket of rust earns enough to justify it," sighed Radhakrishnan's voice. "You know as well as I do, she's barely paying her own way. But what I meant to say is, this portmaster chap. Got a brogue you could put soles on, y'know, and wearing some kind of uniform I never saw before."
"Hm." Herr Syrup rubbed his shining bald pate and scratched the fringe of brownish hair beneath it. He blew out his blond walrus mustache, blinked watery blue eyes, and ventured: "Maybe he is from de Erse Cluster. I don't t'ink you ever ban dere; I vas vunce. It's approaching con-yunction vit' Anglia now.
Maybe he come here and got a yob." "But his uniform—"
"So dey changed de uniform again. Who can keep track of all dese little nations in de Belt, ha?"
"Mmmm—well, perhaps. Perhaps. Though I wonder—something dashed odd, don't y'know—Well, no matter, as you say, no matter, no matter. Got to carry on. Stand by for approach and landing, maneuver to commence in ten minutes."
"Ja, ja, ja," grumbled Herr Syrup. He fetched out his bottle, finished it, and tossed it into the waste chute which sponged it into space. Before he rang for his deckhand assistant, Mr Shubbish, he put a blue jacket over his tee shirt and an officer's cap on his head. The uniform was as faded and weary as the ship; more so, perhaps, for he made an effort to keep the vessel patched, painted, and scrubbed.
A long blunt-nosed cylinder, meteor-pocked, patch-plated and rust-streaked from many atmospheres, the Mercury Girl departed freefall orbit and spiraled toward the asteroid. The first thing she lost was an impressive collection of beer bottle satellites. Next she lost her crew's temper, for the aged compensator developed a sudden flutter under deceleration and the men and Martians found their internal gyrogravitic field varying sinusoidally between 0.5 and 1.7 Earth gees.
That was uncomfortable enough to make them forget the actual hazard it added. Landing on a terraformed worldlet is tricky enough under the best conditions. The gyrogravitic generators at its center of mass are not able to increase the potential energy of the entire universe, but must content themselves with holding a reasonable atmospheric envelope. Accordingly, their field is so heterodyned that the force is an almost level one gee for some 2000 kilometers up from the surface; then, within the space of a single kilometer, the artificial attraction drops to zero and the acceleration experienced is merely that due to the asteroid's mass. Crossing such a boundary is no simple task. It is made worse by the further heterodyning as the spaceship's negative force interacts with the terraformer's positive pull. When the crew are, in addition, plagued with unexpected rhythmic variations in their weight, a smooth transition becomes downright impossible.
Thus the Mercury Girl soared to boundary altitude, yawed, spun clear around, bounced a few times, and bucketed her way groundward, shuddering. She scraped steel as she entered berth, with a screech that set teeth on edge at GrendeFs antipodes, rocked, came to a halt, and slowly stopped, groaning.
"Fanden i Aeltsede!" roared Herr Syrup at the intercom. "Vat kind of a landing do you call dat? I svear de beer is so shook up it explodes! By yumping Yudas—"
"Sucre bleu!" added Claus, fluttering about on ragged black wings. "Teufelschtvantzen und Schwejel! Damn, blast, fap!"
"Now, now, Mr. Syrup," said Captain Radharkrishnan soothingly. "Now, now, now. After all, my dear fellow, I don't wish to make, ah, invidious comparisons, but the behavior of the internal field was scarcely what—what I could expect? Yes. What I would expect. In fact, the cook has just reported himself ill with, ah, what I believe is the first case of seasickness recorded in astronautical history."
Herr Syrup, who had dropped and broken a favorite pipe, was in no mood to accept criticism. He barked an order to Mr. Shubbish, to rip the guts out of the compensator in lieu of its manufacturer, and stormed up the companionway and along clangorous passages to the bridge, where he pushed open the door so it crashed and blew in like a profane whirlwind.
"My dear old chap!" exclaimed the captain. "I say I Please! What will they think?" "Vat vill obscenity who blankety-blank t'ink?"
"The portmaster and, ah, the other gentleman—there." Radhakrishnan pointed at the main viewport and made agitated adjustments to his turban and jacket. "Most irregular. I don't understand it. But he insisted we remain inboard until—Dear, dear, do you think you could get some of the tarnish off this braid of mine before—"
Knud Axel Syrup stared at the outside view. Beyond the little spacefield was a charming vista of green meadows, orderly hedgerows, cottages and bowers, a white gravel road. Just below the near, sharply curving horizon stood Grendel's only town; from this height could be seen a few roofs and the twin spires of St. George's. The flag of the Kingdom, a Union Jack on a Royal Stuart field, fluttered there under a sky of darker blue than Earth's, a small remote sun and a few of the brightest stars. Grendel was a typical right little, tight little Anglian asteroid, peacefully readying for the vacation-season influx of tourists from Briarton, York, Scotia, Holm, New Winchester, and the other shires.