"They are not aware of it," said Sarmishkidu, burying his flat face in the tankard. "Excuse me, I mean they do not know what fumbly-diddles is here going on. Before vacation time, we never get many ships here. Der Erses landed just four days ago. They took ofer der Rundfunk, the radio, and handled routine messages as if nothing had happened. Your ship was the first since der invasion."
"And may be de last," groaned Herr Syrup. "Dey made some qvack-qvack about plague and qvarantined us."
"Ach, so!" Sarmishkidu passed a dramatic hand over his eyeballs. "Den ve iss ruined for certain. Dot iss just the excuse the Erses have been wanting. Now they can call New Winchester, making like they was der real medical officer, and say the whole place is quarantined on suspicion of plague. So natural,
no one else vill land for six weeks, so they not be quarantined too and maybe even get sick. Your owners is also notified and does not try to investigate what has happened. So for six weeks the Erses has a free hand here to do what they want. Und what they want to do means the ruin of all Grendel!"
"My captain is still arguing vit' de Erse general," said Herr Syrup. "I am yust de engineer. But I come down to see if I could save us anyt'ing. Even if ve lose money because of not delivering our cargo to Alamo, maybe at least ve get paid for de beer ve bring you. No?"
"Gott in Himmel! Without vacation season business like I was counting on, where vould I find the moneys to pay you?"
"I vas afraid of dat," said Herr Syrup.
He sat drinking and smoking and trying to persuade himself that an Earthside job as assistant in a yeast factory wasn't really so bad. Himself told him what a liar he was.
The door opened, letting in a shaft of sun, and light quick steps were heard. A feminine voice cried: "Rejoice!"
Herr Syrup rose clumsily. The girl coming down the stairs was worth rising for, being young and slim, with a shining helmet of golden hair, large blue eyes, pert nose, long legs, and other well-formed accessories. Her looks were done no harm by the fact that—while she avoided cosmetics—she wore a short white tunic, sandals, a laurel wreath on her head, and nothing else.
"Rejoice!" she cried again, and burst into tears.
"Now, now," said Herr Syrup anxiously. "Now, now, Froeken … er, Miss—now, now, now, yust a minute."
The Martian had already gone over to her. "That is nicht so bad, Emily," he whistled, standing on tip-tentacle to pat her shoulder. "There, there. Remember Epicurus."
"I don't care about Epicurus!" sobbed the girl, burying her face in her hands.
"Outis epoisei soi bareias cheiras," said Sarmishkidu bravely.
"Well," wept the girl, "w-well, of course. At least, I hope so." She dabbed at her eyes with a laurel leaf. "I'm sorry. It's just that—that—oh, everything."
"Yes," said the Martian, "the situation indubitably falls within the Aristotelian definition of tragedy. I have calculated my losses so far at a net fifty pounds sterling, four shillings and thruppence ha'penny per them."
Wet, but beautiful, the girl blinked at Herr Syrup. "Pardon me, sir," she said tremulously. "This situation on Grendel, you know. It's so overwreaking." She put her finger to her lips and frowned. "Is that the word? These barbarian languages! I mean, the situation has us all overwrought."
"Ahem!" said Sarmishkidu. "Miss Emily Croft, may I present Mister, er—" "Syrup," said Herr Syrup, and extended a somewhat engine-grimy hand. "Rejoice," said the girl politely. "Hellenicheis?"
"Gesundheit," said Herr Syrup.
Miss Emily Croft stared, then sighed. "I asked if you spoke Attic Greek," she said. "No, I'm sorry, I do not even speak basement Greek," floundered Herr Syrup.
"You see," said Miss Croft, "I am a Duncanite—even if it does make Father furious. He's the vicar, you know—and I'm the only Duncanite on Grendel. Mr. Sarmishkidu—I'm sorry, I mean Herr von Himmelschmidt—speaks Greek with me, which does help, even though I cannot always approve his choice of passages for quotation." She blushed.
"Since ven has a Martian been talking Greek?" asked the engineer, trying to get some toehold on reality.
"I found a knowledge of the Greek alphabet essential to my study of Terrestrial mathematical treatises," explained Sarmishkidu, "and having gone so far, I proceeded to learn the vocabulary and grammar as well. After all, time is money, I estimate my time as being conservatively worth five pounds an hour, and so by using knowledge already acquired for one purpose as the first step in gaining knowledge of another field, I saved study time worth almost—"
"But I'm afraid Herr von Himmelschmidt is not a follower of the doctrines of the Neo-Classical Enlightenment," interrupted Emily Croft. "I mean, as first expounded by Isadora and Raymond Duncan. I regret to say that Herr von Himmelschmidt is only interested in the, er," she blushed again, charmingly, "less laudable passages out of Aristophanes."
"They are filthy," murmured Sarmishkidu with a reminiscent leer.
"And I mean, please don't think I have any race prejudices or anything," went on the girl, "but it's just undeniable that Herr von Himmelschmidt isn't, well, isn't meant for classical dancing."
"No," agreed Herr Syrup after a careful study. "No, he is not."
Emily cocked her head at him. "I don't suppose you would be interested?" Her tone was wistful.
Herr Syrup rubbed his bald pate, blew out his drooping mustache, and looked down past his paunch at his Number Twelve boots. "Is classical dancing done barefoot?" he asked.
"Yes! And vine crowned, in the dew at dawn!"
"I vas afraid of dat," sighed Herr Syrup. "No, t'anks." "Well," said the girl. Her head bent a little.
"But I am not so bad at de hambo," offered Herr Syrup. "No, thank you," said Miss Croft.
"Vill you not sit down and have a beer vit' us?"
"Zeus, no!" She grimaced. "How could you? I mean, that awful stuff just calcifies the liver." "Miss Croft drinken only der pure spring vater und eaten der fruits," said Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt rather grimly.
"Well, but really, Mister Syrup," said the girl, "it's ever so much more natural than, oh, all this raw meat and—well, I mean if we had no other reason to know it, couldn't you just tell the Erse are barbarians from that dreadful stuff they drink, and all the bacon and floury potatoes and—Well, I mean to say, really."
Herr Syrup sat down by his stein, unconvinced. Emily perched herself on the table top and accepted a few grapes from a bowl of same which Sarmishkidu handed her in a gingerly fashion. The Martian then scuttled back to his own beer and pipe and a dish of pretzels.
"Do you know yust vat dese crazy Ersers is intending to do, anyhow?" asked Herr Syrup.
The girl clouded up again. "That's what I came to see you about, Mr. Sarmishkidu," she said. Her pleasant lower lip quivered. "That terrible Major McConnell! The big noisy red one. I mean, he keeps speaking to me!"
"I am afraid," began the Martian, "that it is not in my province to—"
"Oh, but I mean, he stopped me in the street just now! He, he bowed and—and asked me to—Oh, no!" Emily buried her face in her hands trembling.
"To vat?" barked Herr Syrup, full of chivalrous indignation.
"He asked me if … if … I would … ohgo t…o thewcoinueldma with him!" "Vy, vat is playing?" asked Herr Syrup, interested.
"How should I know? It certainly isn't Aeschylus. It isn't even Euripides!" Emily raised a flushed small countenance and shifted gears to wrath. "I thought, Mr Sarmishkidu, I mean, we've been friends for a while now and we Greeks have to stick together and all that sort of thing, couldn't you just refuse to sell him whisky? I mean, it would teach those barbarians a lesson, and it might even make them go home again, if they couldn't buy whisky, and Major McConnell wouldn't get a calcified liver."