The Erse Republic has formally protested to the World Court, on the clear grounds that Michael Boyne, an Erse citizen, was the first man to land on this body. The feeble Anglian argument that Boyne did not actually claim it for his nation and made no effort to ascertain its possible value, cannot be admissible to any right-thinking man; but for forty Earth-years the World Court, obviously corrupted by Stuart gold, has upheld this specious contention.
Now that the Erse and Anglian nations are again orbiting close toward each other, the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force has set about rectifying the situation. This is a patriotic organization which, though it does not have the backing of its own government at the moment, expects that this approval will be forthcoming and retroactive as soon as our sacred mission has succeeded. Therefore, the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force is not piratical, but operating under international laws of war, and the Geneva Convention applies. As a first step in the recovery of Laoighise, the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force finds it necessary to occupy the asteroid Grendel.
All citizens are therefore enjoined to cooperate with the occupying authorities. The personnel and property rights of civilians will be respected provided they refrain from interference with the lawfully constituted authorities, namely ourselves. All arms and communications equipment must be surrendered for sequestration. Any attempt to leave Grendel or communicate beyond its atmosphere is forbidden and punishable under the rules of war. All citizens are reminded again that the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force is here for a legitimate purpose which is to be respected.
Erin go bragh!
General Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O'Toole Commanding Officer, S.L.I.E.F. per: Sgt. 1/cl Daniel O'Flaherty (New Connaught O'Flahertys)
"Ah," said Herr Syrup. "So."
He pedaled glumly on his way. These people seemed to mean business.
Though he sometimes lost his temper, Knud Axel Syrup was not a violent man. He had seen his share of broken knuckles, from St. Pauli to Heliport to Jove Dock; he much preferred a mug of beer and a friendly round of pinochle. The harbor girls could expect no more from him than a fatherly smile and a not quite fatherly pat; he had his Inga back in Simmerboelle. She was a good wife, aside from her curious idea that he would instantly fall a prey to pneumonia without an itchy scarf around his neck. Her disapproval of the myriad little nations which had sprung up throughout the Solar System since gyrogravitics made terra-forming possible was more vocal than his; but, in a mild and tolerant way, he shared it. Home's best.
Nevertheless, a man had some right to be angry! For instance, when a peso-pinching flock of Venusian owners, undoubtedly with more scales on their hearts than even their backs, made him struggle along with a spinor that should have been scrapped five years ago. But what, he asked himself, is a man to do? There were few berths available for the aging crew of an aging ship, without experience in the latest and sleekest apparatus. If the Mercury Girl went on the beach, so, most likely, did Knud Axel Syrup. Of course, there would be a nice social worker knocking at his home to offer a nice Earthside job—say, the one who had already mentioned a third assistantship in a food-yeast factory—and Inga would make sure he wore his nice scarf every day. Herr Syrup shuddered and pushed his bicycle harder.
At the end of Flodden Field Street he found the tavern he was looking for. Grendel did not try exclusively for an Old Tea Shoppe atmosphere. The Alt Heidelberg Rathskeller stood between the Osmanli Pilaff and Pizen Pete's Last Chance Saloon. Herr Syrup leaned his bicycle against the wall and pushed through an oak door carved with the image of legendary Gambrinus.
The room downstairs was appropriately long, low, and smoky-raftered. Rough-hewn tables and benches filled a candle-lit gloom; great beer barrels lined the walls; sabers hung crossed above rows of steins which informed the world that Gutes Bier und junge Weiber sind the besten Zeitver-treiber. But it was empty. Even for mid-afternoon, there was something ominous about the silence. The Stuart legitimists who settled the Anglian Cluster had never adopted the closing laws of the mother country.
Herr Syrup planted his stocky legs and stared around. "Hallo!" he called. "Hallo, dere! Is you home, Herr Bachmann?"
It slithered in the darkness behind the counter. A Martian came out. He stood fairly tall for a Martian, his hairless gray cupola of a head-cum-torso reaching past the Earthman's waist, and his four thick walking tentacles carried him across the floor with a speed unusual for his race in Terrestrial gravity. His two arm-tentacles writhed incoherently, his flat nose twitched under the immense brow, his wide lipless mouth made bubbling sounds, his bulging eyes rolled in distress of soul. As he came near, Herr Syrup saw that he had somehow poured himself into an embroidered blouse and lederhosen. A Tyrolean hat perched precariously on top of him.
"Ach!" he piped. "Wer da? Wilkommen, mein dear friend, sitzen here and—"
"Gud bevare's," said the engineer, catching his pipe as it fell from his jaws, "vat's going on here? Vere is old Hans Bachmann?"
"Ach, he has retired," said the Martian. "I have taken over der business. Pardon me, I mean I have der business over-getaken." He stopped in front of his guest, extending three boneless fingers. "My name is Sarmishkidu. I mean, Sarmish-kidu von Himmelschmidt. Sit down make yourself gemut-lich."
"Veil, I am Knud Axel Syrup of de Mercury Girl—"
"Ah, the ship what is bringing me mine beer? Or was? Well, have a drink." The Martian scuttled off, drew two steinsful, came back and writhed himself onto the bench across the table at which the Earthman had sat down. "Prosit."
A Martian standing anyone a beer was about the most astonishing event of this day. But it was plain to see that Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt was not himself. His skin twitched as he filled a Tyrolean
pipe, and he fanned himself with his elephantine ears.
"How did you happen to enter dis business?" asked Herr Syrup, trying to put him more at ease. "Ach! I came here last Uttu-year—Mars-year—on sabbatical. I am a professor of mathematics at Enliluraluma University." Since every citizen of Enliluraluma has some kind of position at the University, usually in the math department, Herr Syrup was not much impressed. "At that time this enterprise was most lucrative. Extrapolating probabilistically, I induced myself to accept Herr Bachmann's offer of a transfer of title. I invested all my own savings and obtained a mortgage on Uttu for the balance—"
"Oh, oh," said Herr Syrup, sympathetically, for not even the owners of the Black Sphere Line could be as ruthless as any and all Martian bankers. They positively enjoyed foreclosing. They made a ceremony of it, at which dancing clerks strewed cancelled checks while a chorus of vice presidents sang a litany. "And now business is not so good, vat?"
"Business is virtually at asymptotic zero," mourned Sarmishkidu. "The occupation, you know. We are cut off from the rest of the universe. And vacation season coming in two weeks! The Erse do not plan to leave for six weeks yet, at a minimum—and meanwhile this entire planetoid will have been diverted into a new orbit off the regular trade lanes—possibly ruined in the fighting around Lois. In view of all this uncertainty, even local trade has slacked off to negligibility. Ach, es ist ganz schrecklich! I am ruined!"
"But if I remember right," said Herr Syrup, bewildered, "New Vinshester, de Anglian capital, is only about ten t'ou-sand kilometers from here. Vy do dey not send a varship?"