Strangefinger bristled. “Sir, you’re making my machine out to be a conservative! I know for a fact that it votes the straight Whig ticket.”
Sadowski dropped to the deck and went to his station.
“Very well,” Captain Wanker said. “Engineer, turn all control circuits over to Dr. Strangefinger’s wonderful invention. I can see this is going to be more of the same monkey business. I’m going back to my cabin and rest.”
Strangefinger said with feigned sincerity, “Rest easy, Captain … and take my hand in congratulations for a job well done.” The scientist extended his hand.
Wanker took it and was nonplused when the hand detached from Strangefinger’s arm. It was a cheap prosthesis.
“You idiot.” Wanker handed him his hand back.
“You’ve got to hand it to me, Captain.”
“Oh, stuff it. Maybe I won’t go to my cabin. I think I’ll stay here and see what this business is all about.”
“Just stay out of the way,” Strangefinger said, screwing his hand back on. “You’re redundant now. Superfluous. You’re about to be laid off. Besides, you’re behind in your union dues.”
“I don’t belong to a union.”
“Oh, a company stooge, eh? Well, take Moe and Larry and get out there on that picket line.”
“I’m waiting, Strangefinger.”
“Well, you’re waiting at the wrong stop. The Crosstown-B comes down Lexington and turns east on Forty-ninth. On second thought, you’d better take the subway.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m waiting for my assistant.”
“Your assistant, eh?”
“Yes, my assistant, eh. He has an efficiency rating of A-l, which is more than I can say for some incompetents.”
The drop tube dropped something, a pile of old clothes worthy of a charity drive. It rolled across the deck, then got up and began to run around the bridge, honking and whistling. It was ostensibly a human being in a battered, crumpled top hat, ratty raincoat, checked shirt, and baggy pants. A blond fright wig topped off the entire surreal Gestalt. The apparition honked a few more greetings, then reached into the oversize trench coat and drew out a box that was not large but looked a little too big to successfully hide inside a trench coat. It was a simple metal box painted with variously colored polka dots and set about with multicolored lights.
“That’s your assistant?” Wanker asked incredulously.
“He may not look like much, but behind that ridiculous facade is a complete idiot.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. What’s that he’s got?”
“That’s the Proust device.”
“That’s the Proust device?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
“It’s a piece of junk!”
The lab assistant took silent exception to this, making a face at the captain. He set the device down near the captain’s station and began fiddling with the many wires that hung out the open side of the thing. Taking off his hat, he shoved his head into the box. Amazingly, it fit. He withdrew himself, then stuck in his hand and rummaged around, coming up with a succession of improbable objects. Plastic food containers, stray bolts and grommets. A toy spaceman. A hot water bottle. Lastly, a rubber chicken.
Then he shook the box violently. It rattled. Not satisfied with this measure, he turned the open face down and shook. A hundred tiny loose things fell out, including a number of small spheres: marbles; clear ones, striped ones, “purees,” along with a few shiny ball bearings, all rattling across the deck.
Wanker stooped to pick up a few of them.
“So this is ultrapostmod physics?” he asked the unconventional scientist.
“You need a physic, Captain.”
“I need a vacation.”
The lab assistant smiled. His strange actions had apparently fixed some problem. Chuckling in mime, he put down the device and honked his belt-mounted bicycle horn, then bent over and fiddled with the wires again until he found the end of a common three-pronged electrical plug. He searched for an outlet, found one beside the chair, and plugged into the socket. The lights on the contraption came on and started to blink.
“Some lab assistant,” Wanker snorted.
“Doesn’t he look like he can do the job?”
“He looks distinctly like an idiot.”
“Well, he may be an idiot, but he’s an idiot savant.”
“More idiot than savant, I’ll wager. Does he have a name or do you just use a dog whistle when you want him?”
Strangefinger’s assistant came up to Wanker and, in one deft fluid motion, somehow managed to get the captain to hold his leg by the thigh. This Wanker did for a disoriented moment before he realized the absurd situation. Wanker shoved him at Strangefinger.
“We call him Rusty,” Strangefinger informed the captain, pushing him back.
“Don’t hand me that crap,” Wanker snapped, pushing him again the other way. This went on for a few more exchanges.
At length, Rusty made a face, as if spacesick. He took off his hat and feigned throwing up in it. Then, grinning, he put the hat back on.
Of a sudden, Rusty was taken with a passionate desire for Lt. Warner-Hillary, He approached her menacingly. The young lieutenant regarded him at first with cautious apprehension, which, when Rusty lunged at her, turned to horror. She jumped to her feet and ran, Rusty chasing her, honking away.
“This is all very interesting,” Wanker said with surprising detachment. “But stupid.”
Rusty stalked Darvona, eyeing her lewdly, but was surprised and disconcerted to find her reciprocating. Suddenly she lunged and began chasing him around the bridge.
Wanker said, “All right, Strangefinger, the moment of truth. Let’s see this miracle device of yours work some miracles. Engineer!”
“Sir!”
“Does the Proust gadget have control of the Repulse?”
“Aye, sir. An ‘tis a muckle shame an’ peety.”
Strangefinger leaned toward Wanker and said, sotto voce, “Don’t let on, but I think your engineer is a foreigner.”
“He’s not a Scot, but he can be trusted.”
“Would you trust a man in a skirt?”
“Him before you.”
“Death before dishonor. Very well, very well, let’s conduct that first test. The Proust device should be in control of all the ship’s computers. And all done from this little remote unit, here. Oh, Marcel? Marcel, are you there?”
Wanker looked stricken. “Marcel? Oh, my God.”
A voice came from out of nowhere, a pure, quiet, calm, androgynous voice conveying serenity, self-assurance, and geniality.
“Yes, Dr. Strangefinger. I’m very happy to be here, and let me add that I am extremely glad to be taking part in these important experiments. I feel that our working relationship has been a very rewarding and stimulating one, and like you and all my coworkers, I’m looking forward to the successful completion of this project.”
Dr. Strangefinger extracted the cigar from his mouth. “Stuff a sock in it, Marcel. I know you better than that.”
Marcel’s tone of voice changed markedly. “Bugger off, you old fart.”
“That’s better. Commence start-up sequence.”
“I really should have a lunch break about now.”
“Do it, Marcel.”
“Oh, all right. By the way, what are all these humans here for?”
“Just ignore them.”
Wanker said, “We’ll do our best to ignore you.”
“Who’s this loser?” Marcel wanted to know.
“Marcel, meet the captain of the Repulse, Dave Wanker.”
“Just call me Dave,” Wanker said with false bonhomie.
“Okay, Dave. Just stay the hell out of my way, and well get along fine. Get the big picture, Dave?”
“Screw you, Marcel,” Wanker said cheerily. “By the way, Doctor, I’ve been wanting to ask a question. Why are we testing this new top-secret drive so near the Kruton Interface
? Might not the Krutons be observing?”
Strangefinger considered the matter, then ad-libbed, “We have to conduct the tests in this region of space because … uh, because this area is free from, uh, gravitational stresses. Yeah. Gravitational stresses.”
“Gravitational stresses, eh?”
“Besides, there’s a Galactic Stop-n’- Go just down the street in case we want a bottle of soda. Speaking of lunch, any chance of getting any chow around here? I’ve been slaving all day and I’m starved. Is room service still open? What the devil kind of hotel are you running? We could have stayed at the Hilton.”
Wanker sat at his station and gave Strangefinger a smug grin. “Still stalling, eh?”
“Oh, very well. Marcel? Are we ready?”
“Ready as we’ll ever be, Dr. Weird-digit.”
“I’ll do the jokes, Marcel. Stand by to engage Proust Drive!”
“Standing by.”
Strangefinger assumed a dramatic pose, arm out, fist accentuating his resolve. “Engage!”
Wanker jumped to his feet. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”
“I said—” Strangefinger repeated the performance exactly. “ ‘Engage!’ Why?”
“I like the way you did that,” Wanker said, then mimicked, “Engage!”
“No, no, it’s more like this. Engage!”
“Engage!”
“That’s it, you got it.”
“I’d like to use it sometime.”
“Feel free. In fact, do it right and it’s good for a free feel.” Strangefinger’s brows undulated. “Women go for the well-spoken, macho type. Ever think of shaving your head?”
Marcel asked, “Hey, am I supposed to be engaging, or what?”
Strangefinger waved his cigar. “Go ahead, already!”
“I will begin reading from Remembrance of Things Past, by Marcel Proust. Part One, Swann’s Way. Chapter One is titled ‘Overture.’ ‘For a long time it was my habit to go to bed early. I would put out my candle and sometimes my eyes would close so quickly that there was no time to say to myself, “I’m falling asleep,” and half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would wake me up; I would begin to put away the book I thought was still in my hands, and to blow out the light. While asleep I had kept thinking about what I had just read, but these thoughts had taken a somewhat peculiar turn ...’”
Marcel continued to read from text of Swann’s Way.
“What is this nonsense?” Wanker demanded.
“It’s the Proust Drive. Or it’s a course in early-twentieth-century French literature. I can’t decide which.”
“But all that’s happening is that your silly computer is reading from a French novel.”
Svensen said, “This work is really a series of novels, Captain. The entire body of work has the overarching title A la recherche du temps perdu, usually translated into English as “Remembrance of—”
“Ensign Svensen, be quiet!”
“War and Peace is longer,” Sven muttered under his breath.
“Listen, Strangefinger, I smell a rat. You may have hoodwinked the pols and flummoxed the brass into falling for this little hoax of yours, but don’t expect to pull the wool over MY eyes!”
“I wouldn’t pull the wool over your eyes. And I wouldn’t wink your hood either, you big flummox.”
“Then how is this silly invention of yours supposed to work?”
“It’s very simple. I tested thousands of works of literature, but I found Remembrance of Things Past to be the most boring of all.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve read this novel—sorry, series of novels, thank you, Mr. Svensen. It’s full of good stuff!”
“Certainly, it’s very literary,” Strangefinger admitted. “That’s why it’s boring as hell. When the computer reads it, it sets up a quantum boredom field.”
“Quantum boredom field?”
“Well, I’m not quite certain of the field aspect, but what the heck. Anyway, the ship gets so bored by the whole thing it tries to get away as fast as possible.”
“That’s absurd! It’s crazy! It’s laughable!”
“They laughed at Fulton. They laughed at Einstein. They laughed at Oprah Winfrey, until she dieted.”
Lt. Warner-Hillary, fresh from being chased by Rusty, exclaimed, “Sir! The ship is moving!”
Wanker said, “What?”
“Oh, so it’s laughable, is it! Well, you’ll be laughing out of the other side of your rocket tube, space jockey!”
Mr. Rhodes turned in his seat, his face set grimly. “He’s right, Captain. The ship is moving. But we’re out of control. We’re heading straight for the Kruton Interface!”
CHAPTER 14
“Engineer? What’s happening?”
“Aye, th’ ship’s begun ta start awa wi’ bickering brattle, sir!”
Strangefinger asked everybody, “What did he say?”
And everyone, including Wanker, gave a hopeless shrug.
Dr. O’Gandhi began to pace about the bridge, fretting, “Jesus, Mary, and Krishna, we are all to be dying! Oh, my gosh.”
“Mr. Sadowski, disengage the Proust Drive!”
At his console, Sadowski frantically hit buttons and switches. “It can nae be done, sir! The wee Proustie dinna wan t’lave go!”
“Strangefinger! Call off your machine!”
Strangefinger stood over the blinking device, a pensive hand to his chin. “Something seems to be wrong here. I wonder if there was a recall on this model.”
Wanker screamed, “Look, we’re out of control and heading for the Interface. If we cross it and intrude on Kruton space, we’ll be fair game. The Krutons will jump us and tear us apart! And I’ll NEVER make admiral!”
“An admirable ambition.”
“Pull the plug on that thing!”
Rhodes had already anticipated. He jumped out of his seat and dove for the electrical outlet. He yanked on the cord, and the plug flew put of the socket. It hit him in the eye.
“Ow! Dang it, anyway.”
The lights on the Proust device did not go out. They kept up their steady blinking.
Strangefinger said calmly, “That plug is just a gag. It’s tapped into the ship’s power and has the ability to draw any amount of power it needs.”
Wanker was rooting around in the debris near his station. “I’ll take care of old Marcel, if I can find...” He straightened up, brandishing a length of titanium strut. “This ought to do it.”
He approached the machine menacingly.
“I’m warning you,” Strangefinger said, “stay away. It probably rigged up some kind of force field to protect itself.”
Wanker froze. Then he scoffed, “That little junction box? I think you’re bluffing, Strangefinger.” He took a cautious step forward.
A bolt of blue lightning jumped out from the machine and struck the titanium strut, sending it across the room.
Wanker picked himself up off the deck, wincing and shaking his singed hand. “You rotten, miserable—”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Strangefinger said. “Wanker, you’re living proof of reincarnation.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“No one could get that dumb in one lifetime.”
“Strangefinger, tell your machine to turn this ship around!”
“If you insist.”
“I insist!”
“I like to think of myself as a reasonable fellow. Marcel! Do a U-y and let’s scram out of here. D’you hear me? Marcel? Hey.” Strangefinger bent over and knocked on the top of the metal case. “Are you home or did you just leave your porch lights on?”
Wanker was indignant. “Hey, how come it lets you touch it?”
“I’m its old man. Hey, Marcel, come on, now. Listen up, or you don’t get the car on Saturday night.”
Marcel droned on, still reading.
Strangefinger stood erect. “Well, the thing works. I just haven’t figured out how to control the direction of thrust y
et.”
“You’d better figure it out pronto, or we’re going to be in deep do-do!”
“Not yet. Right now we’re merely between the do-do and the deep blue sea. Assistant! Where’s my assistant?”
Rusty was at that moment being vamped by Darvona, and liking it. They were talking quietly.
Wanker said, “Hey, I thought he never talked!”
Strangefinger said, “He doesn’t speak much. But when he does, people leave the room. Hey, blondie, come here!”
Darvona said, “Me?”
“No, the other blondie.”
Rusty was back in character. Tapping his chest he mimed, Who, me?
“Yes, you. Come here and wrestle with this thing.”
Rusty immediately leapt out of his chair, raced to the Proust device, dove, and put a head-lock on the thing.
“What an impetuous boy. No, no, fix the gizmo.”
Rusty pulled out of his raincoat a succession of odd tools and anachronous implements: a hair dryer, a corkscrew, an eggbeater… and on and on, everything but something useful.
Wanker shouted, “Number one! How far away are we from the Interface?”
Rhodes looked at the instruments. “We’ve got a couple of more billion kilometers, Captain.”
“Good! Strangefinger, disengage your machine or I’ll take matters into my own hands!”
“Easy for a Wanker like you to say. I don’t have much hands-on experience.”
“I do, and when I get my hands on you, I’m gonna strangle the life outta ya.”
“Whoa, you wouldn’t attack an unarmed defense worker, would you?”
“I would, with pleasure.”
“Wait a minute,” Strangefinger said, “I think he’s found the problem.”
Rusty pulled something out of the back of the machine and held it up. It was a rubber chicken.
To no avail; Marcel droned on.
Wanker steadied his nerves and drew himself up to full military bearing. “Force field or no, I’m going to take another crack at that thing.”
“Well, by cracky, go ahead.”
The Kruton Interface Page 10
