Herr Syrup shrugged. "Veil," he said, "if you vant all de Solar System to know later on how you vas breaking de Lunar Convention and not letting a poor old spaceman fix his ship like de law says he is entitled to—ja, I guess maybe de Erse Republic does not care vat odder countries t'ink about its civilization."
"The devil take ye for a hairsplittin" wretch!" howled O'Toole. "Sit there. Wait right there, me fine lad, an' if 'tis space law ye want, then space law ye'll get!"
His finger stabbed the desk communicator buttons. "I want Captain Flanahan … No, no, no, ye leatherhead, I mean Captain Flanahan, the captain of the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force's ship Dies I.R.A.!"
After an interchange of Gaelic, O'Toole snapped off the communicator and gave Herr Syrup a triumphant look. "I've checked the space law," he growled. "'Tis true ye're entitled to put your vessel in orbit if that's needful for your repairs. But I'm allowed to place a guard aboard her to protect our own legitimate interests; an' the guard is entitled not to hazard his life in an undermanned ship. Especially whin I legally can an' will take the precaution of impoundin' all the lifeboats an' propulsive units an' radios off the spacesuits, as well as the ship's radio an' radar which I have already got. So by the law, I cannot allow ye to lift with me guardsman aboard unliss ye've a crew iv at least three. An' your own crew is all in pokey, where I'm entitled to keep them till the conclusion of hostilities! Ha, ha, Mister Space Lawyer, an' how do ye like that?"
CHAPTER FIVE
Herr Syrup leaned his bicycle against the wall of the Alt Heidelberg and clumped downstairs. Sarmishkidu von Him-melschmidt hitched up his leather shorts and undulated to meet his guest. "Grüss Gott," he piped. "And what will we have to drink today?"
"Potassium-40 cyanide on de rocks," said the engineer moodily, lowering himself to a bench. "Unless you can find me a pair of spacemen."
"What for?" asked the Martian, drawing two mugs and sitting down.
Herr Syrup explained. Since he had to trust somebody somewhere along the line, he assumed Sarmishkidu would not blab what the real plan was, to construct a spark-gap transmitter and signal King Charles.
"Ach!" whistled the innkeeper. "So! So you are actual trying to do somet'ings about this situation what is mine business about to ruin." In a burst of sentiment, he cried out: "I salute you, Herr Syrup! You are such a hero, I do not charge you for dis vun beer!"
"T'anks," snapped the Dane. "And now tell me vere to find two men I can use."
"Hmmm. Now that is somewhat less susceptible to logical analysis." Sarmishkidu rubbed his nose
with an odd tentacle. "It is truistic that we must axiomatize the problem. So, imprimis, there are no qualified Anglian spacemen on Grendel at the moment. The interasteroid lines all maintain their headquarters elsewhere. Secundus, while there are no active collaborationist elements in the population, the nature of its distribution in n-dimensional psychomathematical phase space implies that there would be considerable difficulty in finding suitable units of humanity, dH. The people of Grendel tend to be either stolid farmers, mechanics und so weiter, brave enough but too unimaginative to see the opportunities in your scheme, or else tourist-facility keepers whose lives have hardly qualified them to take risks. Those persons with enough fire and flexibility to be of use to you would probably lack discretion and might blurt out—"
"Ja, ja, ja," said Herr Syrup. "But dere are still several t'ousand people on dis asteroid. Among dem all dere must be some ready and able to, uh, strike a blow for freedom."
"I am!" cried a clear young voice at the door, and Emily Croft tripped down the stairs, trailing vine leaves.
Herr Syrup started. "Vat are you doing here?" he asked.
"I saw your bicycle outside," said the girl, "and, well, you were so sympathetic yesterday that I wanted to—" She hesitated, looking down at her small sandaled feet and biting a piquantly curved lip. "I mean, maybe you were spreading pumpernickel with that awful Limburger cheese instead of achieving glowing health with dried prunes and other natural foods, but you were so nice about encouraging me to show you classical dance that I thought—"
Herr Syrup's pale eyes traveled up and down an assemblage of second through fifth order curves which, while a bit on the slender side of his own preferences, was far and away the most attractive sight he had encountered for a good many millions of kilometers, "fa," he said kindly. "I am interested in such t'ings and I hope you vill show me more—Ahem!" He blushed. Emily blushed. "I mean to say, Miss Croft, have seldom seen so much—Vell, anyhow, later on, sure. But now please to run along. I have got to talk secrets vit' Herr von Himmelschmidt."
Emily quivered. "I heard what you said," she whispered, large-eyed. "You mean about making Grendel free?" asked Herr Syrup hopefully.
His hopes were fulfilled. She quivered again. "Yes! Oh, but do you think, do you really think you can?"
He puffed himself and blew out his mustache. "Ja, I t'ink dere is a chance." He buffed his nails, looked at them critically, and buffed them some more. "I have my met'ods," he said in his most mysterious accent.
"Oh, but that's wonderful!" caroled Emily, dancing over to take his arm. She put her face to his ear. "What can I do?" she breathed.
"Vat? You? Vy, you must vait and—"
"Oh, no! Honestly! I mean to say, Mr. Syrup, I know all about spies and, and revolutions and interplanetary conspiracies and everything. Why, I found a technical error in The Bride of the Spider and wrote to the author about it and he wrote back the nicest letter admitting I was right and he hadn't read the book I cited. There was this old chap, you see, and this young chap, and the old chap had invented a death ray—"
"Look," said Herr Syrup, "ve is not got any deat' rays to vorry about. Ve have yust got somet'ing to do vat should not be known to very many folks before ve do it. Now you run on home and vait till it is all over vit"."
Emily clouded up. She sniffed a tiny sniff. "You don't think I can be trusted," she accused. "Vy, I never said dat, I only said—"
"You're just like all the rest." She bent her golden head and dabbed at her eyes. "All of you. You either call me crazy, and believe those horrible lies about Miss Duncan's private life, and try to force things on me to calcify my liver, or you—you let me go on, I mean making a perfect ass of myself—"
"I never said you vas a perfect ass!" shouted Herr Syrup. He paused and reflected a moment. "Aldough," he murmured, "you do have—"
"—and laugh at me behind my back, and, and, and, uh-h-h-h!" Emily took her face out of her hands, swallowed, sniffled, and turned drooping toward the stairs. "Never mind," she said disconsolately. I'll go. I know I bother you, I mean to say I'm sorry I do."
"But—pokker, Miss Croft, I vas only—"
"One moment," squeaked Sarmishkidu. "Please! Wait a short interval of time dT, please, I have an idea."
"Yes?" Emily pirouetted, smiling like sunshine through rain.
"I think," said Sarmishkidu, "we will do well to take the young lady into our confidence. Her discretion may not be infinite but her patriotism will superimpose caution. And, while she has not unduly encouraged any young men of Grendel during the period of my residence here, I am sure she must be far better acquainted with a far larger circle thereof than foreigners like you and me could ever hope to become.
She can recommend whom you should approach with your plan. Is that not good?"