“So-so. Blow me again.”
“Aye-aye, sir. Any luck?”
“Not much.”
“Sir, which helps more, sucking or blowing?”
“Well, I like sucking a little better.”
“Sir, it must be the parastatic generators. There’s no parastatic field inside the tube. You’re probably hung up at an elbow.”
“Oh, is that what this is? Try giving me a blow job again.”
“Sir, I think we’re just going to have to wait for Sadowski.”
“To hell with that kilted Polack. Get me out of this tube!”
“Yes, sir. With respect, sir, I should remind you that Forces regulations specifically proscribe ethnic slurs and intimidation.”
“Quit moralizing, you pious idiot. Do something!”
“Yes, sir.”
The rest of the bridge complement had gathered at the mouth of the tube.
“Here, let me try sucking him,” Darvona said, reaching for the control pads.
“Wait,” Rhodes said, fending her off. “Uh, sir, do you want to be sucked or blown?”
“I want out of this plastic intestine! I feel like last night’s dinner.”
“Certainly, sir. Just hold on.”
“Look,” Sven said, “that’s his foot right up there. See?”
“Right, I see it.” Rhodes raised his voice. “Sir, we’re going to try to reach you.”
“Do something, for God’s sake.”
With Sven down on all fours, letting his back serve as a platform, Darvona stepped up on him and slithered up into the tube.
“Can you reach him?” asked Rhodes.
“Uhh… I can’t quite,” Darvona said. “Doctor, give me a boost.”
“I am only too happy to be obliging.”
“Ooo! Doctor, I said a boost, not a goose.”
“What a disgrace I am and asking you to excuse me for a silly bumbler.”
“That’s it, just push up.”
“I am pushing, by gosh.”
“I still can’t… Someone boost the doctor.”
Warner-Hillary put her bony shoulder to the doctor’s posterior and shoved.
“Oh, my, now I am the goosee.”
“Sorry, Doc.”
“Uhh… there! I have his foot!”
The captain said calmly, “Okay, so you have my foot. What now?”
“Uhh … uhhhhhh. Whew! Captain, you’re stuck.”
“Brilliant deduction.”
“You’re caught on something.”
“Yeah, I guess. Wait a minute.”
“What is it, Captain?”
“I think… I think it’s my uniform. Snagged on something. This damned seam is coming loose.”
“On your uniform?”
“No, in the tube, you dummy. The cloth caught in this crack, here, whatever. I can’t see, it’s behind me.”
“He’s caught on something,’’ Darvona yelled. “Try to suck him off.”
They essayed a number of different approaches, but none worked.
“Look, sir, we’re going to try an experiment,” Rhodes yelled up the tube.
“With me as guinea pig, no doubt.”
“Afraid that’s about the size of it, sir. I’ll hit both controls at once. You’ll be blown and sucked, and Darvona will try to pull you off. Does that sound plausible, sir?”
“Sounds delightful. Let’s do it.”
They did it. While they did it, the air now abruptly increased. The tube made a sound like the breaking of wind, and with it came the sound of tearing cloth.
“He’s coming!” Darvona screamed.
Wanker and Darvona gushed out of the tube. The entire ship’s company save for Sadowski ended up in a tangled heap on the deck.
Wanker groaned, “You miserable… ”
It took some doing to sort everyone out, but eventually everyone recovered and stood up.
“No bones broken,” Rhodes said, palpating his ribs.
“My uniform is ripped,” the captain said mildly. “This is my best dress uniform.” He didn’t seem very upset.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to jerk you off like that. The air whooshed, and—”
“Never mind, Lieutenant, you did your best. Thank you, everyone. That was … interesting.”
Sadowski came crawling out of the access bay. He got to his feet and swaggered over to his shipmates, his kilt swishing, a bushy smile on his red-bearded face. He sang:
“Aberdeen shall be a green
An’ Dundee be dung doon;
But Forfar will be forfar still,
An’ Brechin a brow burgh-toon.”
All eyes were on him.
He put his fists to his hips and beamed. “A wee brownie i’ th’ works. I turned ‘im out, the divvil.”
“What’d he say?” Wanker asked.
“He fixed the parastatic generators, sir,” Rhodes supplied.
“Oh. Good job, Sadowski.”
“Thank ye, sir!”
Rhodes asked, “Sir, are you feeling any better?”
“Better than what?”
“Uh, better than the way you felt previously.”
Wanker smiled crookedly. His eyes were a bit glazed. “Oh, sure, I’m feeling better. In fact I’m practically insensible. What the hell were those pills, Doctor?”
“They are being an assortment of goodies.”
Wanker looked the doctor up and down, as if for the first time. “By galaxies, you do look like an Irish Gunga Din.”
“I am taking this as a compliment, dear Captain.”
“Green turban, nice touch.” The captain seemed momentarily confused. “What the hell did I come here for, anyway?”
Rhodes said, “Our new orders, sir.”
“Oh, right.”
The captain took his seat at his console. It was a huge panoramic display, busy with screens and readouts and dials and gauges. It was as confusing as hell. He searched for the input drive, finally found it, and plugged in the microdisk.
“I hope I win the pool,” Darvona said to Sven.
Wanker inclined his head to Rhodes. “What’s this about a pool?”
“Just a little wager among the officers, sir. On what the new mission will be.”
“Oh? Sorry I don’t have a piece of that. I’d bet on galactic garbage detail. What’s the smart money on?”
“Everyone’s hoping for seeking out new worlds, sir, and, in general, boldly going where no man has gone before.”
“That’s long odds. What’s even money?”
“Border patrol, sir.”
Wanker nodded. “So, the nominations are to boldly go where no man has split an infinitive before … border patrol… and toxic waste detail. May I have the envelope, please!” Wanker poked a button on the console.
The crew crowded in to get a view of the screen.
“And the winner is...” Wanker frowned. “‘You will proceed to Sector Four and conduct tests of the top-secret Proust Drive.’ Proust Drive? What the blazes is that?”
“Sounds like a new propulsion system,” Rhodes guessed.
Wanker sneered. “Who the hell is Proust?”
“French novelist, sir, twentieth century,” Svensen said.
“Proust Drive,” Wanker repeated. “Maybe Proust is the scientist who came up with the gadget. Sector Four… hey, isn’t that right on the Kruton Interface?”
“That region is mostly empty space,” Rhodes said. “No oversize stars, very little dust and gas. Not much gravitational interference. Not a bad place to test a new star drive.”
“But would you want to test a new gadget near a hotly-contested bit of territory between the United Systems and the Affiliated Law Firms of Greater Kruton?”
“Well, you have a point, sir.”
“Sure I do. The Krutons are the most litigious race in the known universe. What if there’s an incident? What if—and this is unthinkable—what if we accidentally cross the Interface? Incur into their territory?”
Svensen whistled.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Wanker said. “Those slithering shysters would leap at the chance.”
“How much do you think they’d sue for?” Darvona asked.
“Plenty, but not just cash,” Rhodes said. “Territory, trading rights… ”
“It would be, I am thinking, a big smashing Donnybrook of a lawsuit,” the doctor said.
“Aye,” Sadowski concurred, nodding.
“So why would Command Central take the chance?” the captain asked.
“Must be a radically new drive,” Svensen suggested.
“They must think it worth the risk,” Rhodes said.
“I know why,” the captain said.
“Why?” everyone wanted to know.
“Command Central is populated by pinheads.”
“No comment, sir,” Rhodes said tactfully.
“Hmm. Says here we’re supposed to pick up the inventor of this technological miracle. Matter of fact, he’s aboard the MacDonald. Ms. Roundheels, signal the MacDonald that we are ready to take the civilian party on board.”
“I love a party,” Darvona said as she flipped switches on her console.
Rhodes looked over the captain’s shoulder. “The inventor of the Proust Drive is going to personally conduct the tests?”
“Says so right here.” Wanker squinted at the screen. “Dr. Rufus T. Strangefinger. The captain scowled. “What, the guy’s name isn’t Proust?”
Rhodes nodded. “I’ve heard of him, sir. He’s a brilliant man.”
“He’d better be, to justify a goofy name like that.”
Darvona announced, “Civilian party requesting permission to come aboard, sir.”
Wanker was lost in thought. “Proust Drive! I suppose it’s a faster-than-light drive, but I wonder what kind it could be.”
Rhodes said, “Somebody should be down on the quarterdeck to receive them.”
“I will greet them, by gosh,” the doctor said.
“Make sure they have authorization passes. Uh, Dr. Strangefinger and five assistants, it says here. And lots of equipment. Ms. Roundheels, inform Security.”
“Aye, sir!”
“I will be welcoming them to our ship,” O’Gandhi said as he headed toward the blow tube. “Be it ever so humbling.”
“Tell Dr. Strangesinger to come directly to the bridge.”
Rhodes corrected, “That’s Strangefinger, Captain.” He turned to O’Gandhi. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about the equipment. His people will have to manage.”
“I will be telling the man that,” the doctor said, hitting SUCK. He shot upward through the tube.
“Proust Drive,” the captain was still saying as he shook his head, as if he could not quite manage to get around the peculiarity of it.
Rhodes said, “Dr. Strangefinger’s a genius, sir, but he is a bit eccentric. Some of his inventions have failed to realize their potential.”
Wanker turned his head. “Oh? What inventions were those?”
“Well, this isn’t the first FTL drive he’s come up with, sir. There was of course the Quantum Drive, which was based on his early work, the application of relativistic quantum mechanics to electrostatic field theory.”
“Well, we know that works. It’s what propels this ship. Though that was a hell of a long time ago. What’s he been doing since?”
“But he’s been trying to devise an improved star drive for years, without much success.”
“What’s he been fiddling with?”
“Well, there was the Uncertainty Drive, which was an attempt to utilize Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.”
“It didn’t work?”
“That’s just the trouble, sir. No one’s sure whether it did or not.”
“I see.”
“Then there was the FTH Drive.”
Wanker looked suspicious. “What’s ‘FTH’ stand for?”
“Faster Than Hell.’ Dr. Strangefinger has a sense of humor, sir.”
“He ought to do stand-up.”
“I’m afraid he has a penchant for clever names and whimsical coinages, continuing an old tradition among physicists. ‘Charmed quark’ and that sort of thing.”
“Charming custom. Okay, so this Faster-Than-Hell gizmo didn’t work either?”
“It was a qualified failure, but it led to the development of the FTLCA Drive.”
“I hesitate to ask ...”
“ ‘Faster Than a Lawyer Chasing an Ambulance.’”
“Glad I didn’t ask.”
“Which in turn led to the FTCWFUA Drive.”
“I couldn’t guess.”
“ ‘Faster Than a Cat With a Firecracker Up its Ass.’ But that showed mixed results.”
Wanker looked depressed again. “Can’t imagine why.”
“There were other projects that were very short-lived.”
“Is there anything I can do to prevent you from telling me about them?”
Rhodes was a bit miffed. “I won’t if you don’t want me to, sir.”
Wanker gave in. “Go ahead.”
“Well, there was the Used Metal Drive. It was scrapped.”
“Oh, no.”
“And the Coitus Drive.”
“You’re not going to tell me—?”
“Research was interrupted.”
“He told me.”
“And of course the infamous Penis Drive.”
Wanker ventured slyly, “Let me guess. It didn’t stand up in tests?”
“It could only be operated manually, sir.”
“I believe I’m getting the hang of this,” Wanker said with satisfaction.
“But his best invention to date was the Rufus Drive. And the one that, up till now, showed the most promise.”
“Rufus Drive. That one worked, did it?”
“Well, sir, the Rufus went up, but the overhead was too high.”
With a groan Wanker said, “Why did I think I was getting the hang of it?”
“And then there was the Subscription Drive. That one—”
“Enough! Please, enough. Thank you, Mr. Rhodes. That was vastly more than I wanted to know about the illustrious Dr. Strangefinger.”
At that moment the drop tube whooshed.
“Did somebody call my name?”
CHAPTER 8
Standing on the bounce pad beneath the blow tube was a strange man dressed in formal attire of two centuries ago: dark trousers and tailed coat, white starched shirt and white tie, a white carnation gracing the lapel of the jacket. For all the finery and formality, though, there was a seedy look about him.
He was not a small man, but he stood with his torso slightly forward and his legs bent, and as he moved it was apparent that he maintained this curious posture while walking. His face was comic in itself: a largish beaked nose jutted out between small round spectacles, presiding over a bushy mustache (though there was something odd about it). His hair parted in the middle and flared out into winglike tufts. He brandished a huge cigar that did not appear to be lit. His eyebrows were as thick as hedgerows.
Wanker stood, took one look at this apparition, and groaned again. Thinking that if he ignored the thing it would go away, he barked, “Navigator! Plot a course for the Kruton Interface!”
Warner-Hillary asked, “Where is it?”
Wanker was on the verge of deigning to speak to the intruder, but was brought up short. “What’d you say?”
“I mean, sir, like… where’s the Kruton Interface?”
“In Sector Four.”
“Uh, that’s a big area of the galaxy, sir. Uh, any idea, you know, exactly where?”
“Haven’t a clue, honey. What the devil do I know about navigation?”
“Didn’t you learn a little bit in the Academy?”
“Huh? Well, I guess I did. But it wasn’t… matter of fact… you know, I think I actually flunked that course.” The captain thought it over. “No, I droppe
d it and got an Incomplete, then I retook it and squeaked by with a...” The penny finally dropped. “Wait a minute, what the hell am I saying? Lieutenant, you are the navigator of this ship. You mean to say you don’t know how to plot and lay in a course?”
“Well, yes, sir, but I’ll have to look at a map.”
Wanker whacked the heel of his hand against his temple. “A map! What were the chances? Unbelievable. Is that really how it’s done?”
“Oh, you’re teasing me, sir. No, sir, you see, it’s just that—”
“Lieutenant, this is the twenty-second century. We have amazing devices now called computers. They’re vastly more intelligent than we are. If you want to plot a course to a certain destination, all you have to do is tell the computer, and it’ll do it for you. Does any of this ring a bell?”
“Sir, if you’ll let me explain. It’s like this—most of the automatic mapping functions in the navigational software have been glitching like crazy, sir. The one that does the plotting and stuff is, like, totally grunged.”
“‘Grunged.’ Is that standard Space Forces terminology?”
“Means it’s messed up, sir. I’ll have to locate the coordinates manually, and that means I’ll have to search the maps myself and find out where the Interface is.”
“Sorry to put you to so much trouble.”
“Oh, that’s okay, Captain. It’s my job, after all.”
“I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”
The strange visitor, who had been standing off to one side listening to all this, nicked nonexistent ash off the end of his cigar. “I don’t know about a navigator, but if anyone needs a doctor, I’m here. Meanwhile, is there a Wanker in the house?”
Wanker took a dim view of this sentiment. “That’s VAHN-ker.”
“That’s ridiculous. Anyway, are you the skipper of this tugboat?”
Wanker’s shoulders fell. “Unfortunately, that burden is in my hands.”
“Well, a burdened hand is worth two in the bush. Speaking of which, I’m pretty bushed myself. I’ve traveled the length and breadth of this galaxy. The length was fine, but I’m here to tell you that the breadth was pretty bad,”
Wanker looked about the bridge. “Did I walk into a night club?”
“You look like you walked into a lamppost.”
“Look, Dr. Strangefinger… I presume you are the famed Dr. Rufus T. Strangefinger?”
The Kruton Interface Page 6
