General Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O'Toole lifted a gaunt face and glared somberly at the young guardsman who had finally won through to his office. "Well?" he clipped.
"Beggin" your pardon, sir, but—"
"Salute me, ye good-for-nothin' scut!" growled O'Toole. "What kind of an army is it we've got here, where a private soldier passin' the captain in the street slaps his back an' says, "Paddy, ye auld pig, the top of the mornin' to yez an' if ye've a moment to spare, why, 'tis proud I'll be to stand yez a mug of dark in yon tavern'—eh?"
"Well, sir," said the guardsman, his Celtic love of disputation coming to the fore, "I say 'twas a fine well-run army of outstandingly high morale. Though truth to speak, the captain I've been saddled with is a pickle-faced son of a landlord who would not lift his hat to St. Bridget herself, did the dear holy colleen come walkin' in his door."
"Morale, ye say?" shouted O'Toole, springing from his chair. "Morale cuts both ways, ye idiot! How much morale do ye think the officer's corps has got, or I meself, when me own men name me Auld S.O.T.S. to me face, not even both-erin' to sound the initials sep'rit, an' me havin' not touched a drop in all me life? I'll have some respect hereabouts, be-gorra, or know the reason why!"
"If ye want to know the reason I can give it to ye, General, sir, ye auld maid in britches!" cried the guardsman. His fist smote the desk. "'Tis just the sour face of yez, that's the rayson, an' if ye drink no drop 'tis because wan look at yez would curdle the poteen in the jug! Now if ye want some constructive suggistions for improvin' the management of this army—"
They passed an enjoyable half hour. At last, having grown hoarse, the guardsman bade the general a friendly good day and departed.
Five minutes later there was a scuffle in the anteroom. A sentry's voice yelped, "Ye can't go in there to himself without an appointment!" and the guardsman answered, "An appointment I've had, since the hour before dawn whin I first came an' tried to get by the bureaucratic lot of yez!" and the scuffle got noisier and at last the office door went off its hinges as the guardsman tossed the sentry through it.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir," he panted, dabbing at a bruised cheek and judiciously holding the sentry down with one booted foot, "but I just remembered why I had to see yez."
"Ye'll go to the brig for this, ye riotous scum!" roared O'Toole. "Corp'ril of the guard! Arrest this man!"
"That attitude is precisely what I was criticizin" earlier," pointed out the soldier. "'Tis officers like yez what takes all the fun out of war. Why, ye wall-eyed auld Fomorian, if ye'd been in charge of the Cattle Raid of Cooley, the Brown Bull would still be chewin' cud in his meaddy! Now ye listen to me—"
As four freshly arrived sentries dragged him off, he shouted back: "All right, then! If ye're goin' to be that way about it, all right an' be damned to yez! I won't tell ye my news! I won't speak a word of what I saw through the tellyscope just before sunrise—or failed to see—ye can sit there in blithe ignorance of the Venusian ship havin' vanished from her orbit, till she calls down the Anglian Navy upon yez! See if I care!"
For a long, long moment, General Scourge-of-the-Sassen-ach O'Toole gaped out at Grendel's blue sky.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Spent, shaking with lack of sleep and sheer muscular weariness, Rory McConnell weaved through free fall toward the bridge. As he passed the galley, Emily stopped him. Having had a night watch of rest, she looked almost irritatingly calm and beautiful. "There, there, love," she said. "Is it all over with? Come, I've fixed a nice cup of tea."
"Don't want any tea," he growled.
"Oh, but darling, you must! Why, you'll waste away. I swear you're already just skin and
bones … oh, and your poor dear hands, the knuckles are all rubbed raw. Come on, there's a sweetheart, sit down and have a cup of tea. I mean, actually you'll have to float, and drink it out of one of those silly suction bottles, but the principle is the same. That old boat will keep."
"Not much longer," said McConnell. "By now, she's far closer to the King than she is to Grendel." "But you can wait ten minutes, can't you?" Emily pouted. "You're not only neglecting your health, but me. You've hardly remembered I exist. All those hours, the only thing I heard on the intercom was swearing. I mean, I imagine from the tone it was swearing, though of course I don't speak Gaelic. You will have to teach me after we're married. And I'll teach you Greek. I understand there is a certain affinity between the languages." She rubbed her cheek against his bare chest. "Just as there is between you and me … Oh, dear!" She retired to try getting some of the engine grease off her face.
In the end, Rory McConnell did allow himself to be prevailed upon. For ten minutes only. Half an hour later, much refreshed, he mounted to the bridge and resumed acceleration.
Grendel was little more than a tarnished farthing among the stars. New Winchester had swelled until it was a great green and gold moon. There would be warships in orbit around it, patrolling—McConnell dismissed the thought and gave himself to his search.
After all this time, it was not easy. Space is big and even the largest beer keg is comparatively small. Since Herr Syrup had shifted the plane of his boat's orbit by a trifle—an hour's questing confirmed that this must be the case—the volume in which he might be was fantastically huge. Furthermore, drifting free, his vessel painted black, he would be hard to spot, even when you were almost on top of him.
Another hour passed.
"Poor darling," said Emily, reaching from her chair to rumple the major's red locks. "You've tried so hard."
New Winchester continued to grow. Its towns were visible now, as blurred specks on a subtle tapestry of wood and field and ripening grain; the Royal Highroad was a thin streak across a cloud-softened dayface.
"He'll have to reveal himself soon," muttered McConnell from his telescope. "That beer blast is so weak—"
"Dear me, I understood Mr. Sarmishkidu's beer was rather strong," said Emily.
McConnell chuckled. "Ah, they should have used Irish whisky in their jet. But what I meant, me beloved, was that in so cranky a boat, they could not hope to hit their target on the nose, so they must make course corrections as they approach it. And with so low an exhaust velocity, they'll need a long time of blastin" to—Hoy! I've got him!"
The misty trail expanded in the viewfield, far and far away. McConnell's hands danced on the control board. The spaceship turned about and leaped ahead. The crane, projecting out of the cargo hatch, flexed its talons hungrily.
Fire burst!
After a time of strangling on his own breath, McConnell saw the brightness break into rags before his dazzled eyes. He stared into night and constellations. "What the devil?" he gasped. "Is there a Sassenach ship nearby? Has the auld squarehead a gun? That was a shot across our bows!"
He zipped past the boat at a few kilometers' distance while frantically scouring the sky. A massive shape crossed his telescopic field. It grew before his eyes as he stared—it couldn't be—"Our own ship!" choked McConnell. "Our own Erse ship."
The converted freighter did not shoot again, for fear of attracting Anglian attention. It edged nearer, awkwardly seeking to match velocities and close in on the Mercury Girl. "Get away!" shouted McConnell. "Get out of the way, ye idiots! "Tis not meself ye want, 'tis auld Syrup, over there. Git out of
me way!" He avoided imminent collision by a wild backward spurt.
The realization broke on him. "But how do they know 'tis me on board here?" he asked aloud. "Telepathy!" suggested the girl, fluttering her lashes at him.