"No," said Herr Syrup glumly, "ve ban committed now. And maybe a chance comes to carry it out. Let's go." He took his bicycle by the seat bar and dragged it up into the ship. No Dane is ever quite himself without a bicycle, though it is not true that all of them sleep with their machines. Fewer than ten percent do this.
He had been prepared to pilot the Girl into orbit himself, which was not beyond his training; but McConnell did it with so expert a touch that even the transition from geegee field to free fall was smooth. Once established in path, Herr Syrup jury-rigged a polarity reverser in the ship's propulsive circuits, to furnish weight again inside the hull. It was against regulations, since it immobilized the drive; and, of course, it lacked the self-adjustment of a true compensator. But this was a meteor-swept region, so there was no danger in floating inert; and, though neither spacemen nor asterites mind weightlessness per se, an attractive field always simplifies work. No one who has not toiled in free fall, swatting gobs of molten solder from his face while a mislaid screwdriver bobs off on its own merry way, has experienced the full perversity of matter.
"Ve can turn off de pull ven ve vish to test repairs," said Herr Syrup.
Rory McConnell looked around the crowded engine room and the adjacent workshop. "I envy yez this," he said, with a bare touch of wistfulness. " "\'Tis spaceships are me proper place, an' not all this hellin' about wi' guns an' drums."
"Er—ja." Herr Syrup hesitated. "Vell, you know, dere is really no reason to bodder you vit' de yob in here. Yust leave me to do it alone and—hm—ja," he finished in a blaze of genius, "go talk at Miss Croft."
"Oh, I'll be doin' that, all right," grinned McConnell, "but I'd not be dallyin' about all the time whin another man was laborin'. No, I'll sweat over that slut of a machine right along wi' yez, Pop." He raised one ruddy eyebrow above a wickedly blue sidelong glance. "Also, I'll not be makin' of unsubstantiated accusations, but 'tis conceivable ye might not work on it yourself at all, at all, if left alone. Some might even imagine ye—oh—makin' a radio to call his bloodymajesty. So, just to keep evil tongues from waggin', we'll retain all electrical equipment in here, an' here I meself will work an' sleep. Eh?" He gave Herr Syrup a comradely slap on the back.
"Gott in Himmel!" yelped Sarmishkidu from the passageway outside. "What exploded in there?"
An arbitrary pattern of watches had been established to give the Mercury Girl some equivalent of night and day. After supper, which she had cooked, Emily Croft wandered up to the bridge while Sarmishkidu was simultaneously washing the dishes and mopping the galley floor. She stood gazing out me viewports for a long time.
Only feebly accelerated by Grendel's weak natural gravity, the ship would take more than a hundred hours to complete one orbit. At this distance, the asteroid filled seven degrees of sky, a clear and lovely half-moon, though only approximately spherical. On the dark part lay tiny twinkles of light, scattered farms and hamlets, the starlit sheen of Lake Alfred the Great. The town, its church on the doll-like edge of naked-eye visibility, its roofs making a ruddy blur, lay serene a bit west of the sunset line: tea time, she thought sentimentally, scones and marmalade before a crackling fire, and Dad and Mum trying not to show their worry about her. Then, dayward, marched the wide sweep of fields and woods under shifting cloud bands, the intense green of the fens, the Cotswolds and rustling Sherwood beyond. Grendel turned slowly against a crystal blackness set with stars, so many and so icily beautiful that she wanted to cry.
When she actually felt tears and saw the vision blur, she bit her lip. Crying wouldn't be British. It wouldn't even be Duncanite. Then she realized that the tears were due to a whiff from Herr Syrup's pipe.
The engineer slipped through the door and closed it behind him. "Hist!" he warned hoarsely.
"Oh, go hist yourself!" snapped the girl. And then, in contrition : "No, I'm sorry. A bad mood. I just don't know what to think."
"Ja. I feel I am up in an alley myself."
"Maybe it's the water aboard ship. It's tanked, isn't it? I mean, it doesn't come bubbling up from some mossy spring, does it?"
"No."
"I thought not. I guess that's it. I mean, why I feel so mixed up inside, all sad and yet not really sad. Do you know what I mean? I'm afraid I don't myself."
"Miss Croft," said Herr Syrup, "ve is in trouble."
"Oh. You mean about Ro—about Major McConnell?"
"Ja. He has taken inventory of everyt'ing aboard. He has stowed all de electric stuffs in a cabinet vich he has locked, and he has de key, himself. How are ve going to make a broadcaster now?"
"Oh, damn Major McConnell!" cried Emily. "I mean, damn him, actually!" "Dere is a hope I can see," said Herr Syrup. "It vill depend on you."
"Oh!" Emily brightened. "Why, how wonderful! I mean, I was afraid it would be so dull, just waiting for you to—And I'm sorry to say it, but the ship is not very esthetic, I mean there's just white paint and all those clocks and dials and thingummies and really, I haven't found any books except things like The
Jovian Intersatellite Pilot with Ephemerides or something else called Pictures For Men, where the women aren't in classical poses at all, I mean it's—" She broke off, confused. "Where was I? Oh, yes, you wanted me to—But that's terrif! I mean, whee!" She jumped up and down, twirled till her tunic stood out horizontally and her wreath titled askew, and grabbed Herr Syrup's hands. "What can I do? Do you want any secret messages translated into Greek?"
"No," said the engineer. "Not yust now. Uh … er—" He stared down, blushing, and dug at the carpet with one square-toed boot "Veil, you see, Miss Croft, if McConnell got distracted from vorking on de compensator … if he vas not in de machine shop vit' me very often, and den had his mind on somet'ing else … I could pick de lock on de electrics box and sneak out de parts I need and carry on vit' our plan. But, veil, first he must be given some odder interest dat vill hold all his attention for several days."
"Oh, dear," said Emily. She laid a finger to her cheek. "Let me think. What is he interested in? Well,
he talks a lot about spaceships, he wanted to be an interplanetary explorer when this trouble is over, and, you know, he really is enthusiastic about that, why, he's so much like a little boy I want to rumple his hair—" She stopped, gulping. "No. That won't do. I mean, the only person here who can talk to him about spaceships is yourself."
"I am afraid I am not yust exactly his type," said Herr Syrup in an elaborate tone.
"I mean, you can't keep him distracted, because you're the one we want to have working behind his back," said Emily. "Let me see, what else? Yes, I believe Major McConnell mentioned being fond of poker. It's a card game, you know. And Mr Sarmishkidu is very interested in, uh, permutations. So maybe they could—"
"I am afraid Sarmishkidu is not yust exactly his type eider." Herr Syrup frowned. "For a young lady vat is so mad 'vit dat crazy Erser, you ban spending a lot of time vit' him to know his tastes so vell."
Emily's face heated up. "Don't you call me a collaborationist!" she shouted. "Why, when the invaders first landed I put on a Phrygian liberty cap and went around with a flag calling on all our men to follow me and drive them off. And nobody did. They said they had nothing more powerful than a few shotguns. As if that made any difference!"
"It does make some difference," said Herr Syrup placatingly.
"But as for seeing Major McConnell since, why, how could I help it? I mean, O'Toole made him the liaison officer for us Grendelians, because even O'Toole must admit that Rory has more charm. And naturally he had to discuss many things with my father, who's one of Grendel's leading citizens, the vicar, you know. And while he was in our house, well, he's a guest even if he is an enemy, and no Croft has been impolite to a guest since Sir Hardman Croft showed a Puritan constable the door in 1657. I mean, it just isn't done. Of course I had to be nice to him. And he does have a lovely soft voice, and any Duncanite appreciates musical qualities, and that doesn't make me a collaborator, because I'd lead an attack on their spaceship this very day if somebody would only help me. And if I don't want any of them to get hurt, why, I'm only thinking about their innocent parents and, and sweethearts, and so there!"