Anderson, Poul - The Makeshift Rocket by Anderson Poul

Author:Anderson, Poul
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

CHAPTER SEVEN

Knud Axel Syrup paused a moment in the after transverse corridor. The bulkhead which faced him bore a stencilled KEEP OUT and three doors: the middle one directly to the engine room, the right-hand one to the machine shop, and the left to his small private cabin. These two side chambers also had doors opening directly on the engine room. It made for a lack of privacy distressing in the present cloak-and-dagger situation.

However, the wild Erseman would no doubt be up on the bridge for hours. Herr Syrup sighed, a little enviously, and went through the central door.

"Awwrk," said Claus, flapping in from the cabin. "Nom d'un nom d'une vache! Schweinhund!

Sanamabiche!"

"Exactly," said Herr Syrup. He entered the little bath-room behind the main energy converter and extracted a bottle of beer from a cooler which he had installed himself. Claus paced impatiendy along a rheostat. Herr Syrup crumbled a pretzel for him and poured a little beer into a saucer. The crow jabbed his beak into the liquid, tilted back his black head, shook out his feathers, and croaked: "Gaudeamus igitur!"

"You're velcome," said Herr Syrup. He inspected the locked electrical cabinet. Duplicating a Yale key would call for delicate instruments and skilled labor. After latching all doors to the outside, he went into the machine shop, selected various items, and returned. First, perhaps, a wire into the slot …

The main door shivered under a mule kick. Faintly through its insulated metal thickness came a harsh roar: "Open up, ye auld scut, or I'll crack the outer hatches an' let ye choke!"

"Yumping Yupiter," said Herr Syrup.

He pattered across the room and admitted Rory McCon-nell, who glared down upon him and snarled: "So 'tis up to your sneakin' tricks ye are again, eh? Throw a pretty face an' long legs at me an'—Aaargh! Be off wi' yez!"

"But," bleated Herr Syrup. "But vas you not talkin' vit' Miss Croft?"

"I was," said McConnell. "'Tis not a mistake I'll make ag'in. Go tell her to save her charms for bigger fools than me. I'm goin' to sleep now." He tore off his various weapons, laid them beside his pack, and sat down on the floor. "Git out!" he rapped, fumbling at a boot zipper. His face was like fire. "Tomorry perhaps I can look at ye wi' out bokin'!"

"Oh, dear," said Herr Syrup.

"Oh, shucks," said Claus, though not in just those words.

Herr Syrup picked up his miscellaneous tools and stole back into the workshop. A moment afterward he remembered his bottle of beer and stuck his head back through the communicating door. McConnell threw a boot at him. Herr Syrup closed the door and toddled out to make another requisition on the cargo.

Having done so, he stopped by the saloon. Emily was there, her face in her arms, her body slumped over the table and shuddering with sobs. At the far end sat Sarmishkidu, puffing his Tyrolean pipe and making calculations.

"Oh, dear," said Herr Syrup again, helplessly.

"Can you console her?" asked Sarmishkidu, rolling an eye in his direction.

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