The Makeshift Rocket
Poul Anderson
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
‘Mercury Girl, Black Sphere Line of Anguklukkakok City, Venusian Imperium, requesting permission to land and discharge cargo.’
‘Ah. Yes,’ said the large red haired man in the visiscreen. ‘Venusian ownership, eh? An’ what might your registry be?’ Captain Dhan Gopal Radhakrishnan blinked mild brown eyes in some astonishment and said: ‘Panamanian, of course.’
‘Was that your last port of call?’
‘No, we came via Venus. But I say, what has this to do with—’
‘Let me see, let me see.’ The man in the screen rubbed a gigantic paw across a freckled snub nose. He was young and cheerful of appearance; but since when had the portmaster of Grendel – of any asteroid in the Anglian Cluster – worn a uniform of such blazing green?
‘An’ might I hear what cargo ye have consigned locally?’ he asked. It was definitely not a Grendelian accent he had. York? Scotia? No. Possibly New Belfast. Having maintained his Earthside home for years in Victoria, B.C., Captain Radhakrishnan fancied himself a student of English dialects. However—
‘A thousand cases of Nashornbräu Beer and six ten-ton barrels of same, miscellaneous boxes of pretzels and popcorn, all for the Alt Heidelberg Rathskeller,’ he answered. ‘Plus goods for other ports, of course, notably a shipment of exogenetic cattle embryos for Alamo. Those have all been cleared for passage through intermediate territories.’
‘Indeed. Indeed.’ The young man nodded with a sharpness that bespoke decision. ‘’Tis all right, then. Give us a location signal an’ folly the GCA beam in to Berth Ten.’
Captain Radhakrishnan acknowledged and signed off, adjusting his monocle nervously the while. Something was not all right. Definitely not. He turned the console over to the mate and switched the ship’s intercom to Engine Room.‘Bridge speaking,’ he intoned. ‘I say, Mr. Syrup, have you any notion what’s going on here?’
Knud Axel Syrup, chief and only engineer of the Mercury Girl, started and looked over his shoulder. He had been cheating at solitaire. ‘Not’ing, skipper, yust not’ing,’ he mumbled, tucking a beer bottle under a heap of cotton waste. His pet crow Claus leered cynically from a perch on a fuel line, but for a wonder remained silent.
‘You weren’t tuned in to my talk with the portmaster chap?’
Herr Syrup rose indignantly to his feet. He even sucked in his paunch. ‘I ban tending to my own yob,’ he said. ‘Ban busier dan a Martian in rutting season. Ven are de owners going to install a new Number Four spinor? Every vatch I got to repair ours vit’ chewing gum and baling vire.’
‘When this old bucket of rust earns enough to justify it,’ sighed Radhakrishnan’s voice. ‘You know as well as I do, she’s barely paying her own way. But what I meant to say is, this portmaster chap. Got a brogue you could put soles on, y’know, and wearing some kind of uniform I never saw before.’
‘Hm.’ Herr Syrup rubbed his shining bald pate and scratched the fringe of brownish hair beneath it. He blew out his blond walrus mustache, blinked watery blue eyes, and ventured:’ Maybe he is from de Erse Cluster. I don’t t’ink you ever ban dere; I vas vunce. It’s approaching conyunction vit’ Anglia now. Maybe he come here and got a yob.’
‘But his uniform—’
‘So dey changed de uniform again. Who can keep track of all dese little nations in de Belt, ha?’
‘Mmmm – well, perhaps. Perhaps. Though I wonder – something dashed odd, don’t y’ know—Well, no matter, as you say, no matter, no matter. Got to carry on. Stand by for approach and landing, maneuver to commence in ten minutes.’
‘Ja, ja, ja,’ grumbled Herr Syrup. He fetched out his bottle, finished it, and tossed it into the waste chute which sponged it into space. Before he rang for his deckhand assistant, Mr Shubbish, he put a blue jacket over his tee shirt and an officer’s cap on his head. The uniform was as faded and weary as the ship; more so, perhaps, for he made an effort to keep the vessel patched, painted, and scrubbed.
A long blunt-nosed cylinder, meteor-pocked, patchplated and rust-streaked from many atmospheres, the Mercury Girl departed freefall orbit and spiraled toward the asteroid. The first thing she lost was an impressive collection of beer bottle satellites. Next she lost her crew’s temper, for the aged compensator developed a sudden flutter under deceleration and the men and Martians found their internal gyrogravitic field varying sinusoidally between 0.5 and 1.7 Earth gees.
That was uncomfortable enough to make them forget the actual hazard it added. Landing on a terraformed worldlet is tricky enough under the best conditions. The gyrogravitic generators at its center of mass are not able to increase the potential energy of the entire universe, but must content themselves with holding a reasonable atmospheric envelope. Accordingly, their field is so heterodyned that the force is an almost level one gee for some 2000 kilometers up from the surface; then, within the space of a single kilometer, the artificial attraction drops to zero and the acceleration experienced is merely that due to the asteroid’s mass. Crossing such a boundary is no simple task. It is made worse by the further heterodyning as the spaceship’s negative force interacts with the terraformer’s positive pull. When the crew are, in addition, plagued with unexpected rhythmic variations in their weight, a smooth transition becomes downright impossible.
Thus the Mercury Girl soared to boundary altitude, yawed, spun clear around, bounced a few times, and bucketed her way groundward, shuddering. She scraped steel as she entered berth, with a screech that set teeth on edge at Grendel’s antipodes, rocked, came to a halt, and slowly stopped, groaning.
‘Fanden i helvede!’ roared Herr Syrup at the intercom. ‘Vat kind of a landing do you call dat? I svear de beer is so shook up it explodes! By yumping Yudas—’
‘Sacre bleu!’ added Claus, fluttering about on ragged black wings. ‘Teufelschwantzen und Schwefel! Damn, blast, fap!’
‘Now, now, Mr. Syrup,’ said Captain Radharkrishnan soothingly. ‘Now, now, now. After all, my dear fellow, I don’t wish to make, ah, invidious comparisons, but the behavior of the internal field was scarcely what – what I could expect? Yes. What I would expect. In fact, the cook has just reported himself ill with, ah, what I believe is the first case of seasickness recorded in astronautical history.’
Herr Syrup, who had dropped and broken a favorite pipe, was in no mood to accept criticism. He barked an order to Mr. Shubbish, to rip the guts out of the compensator in lieu of its manufacturer, and stormed up the companionway and along clangorous passages to the bridge, where he pushed open the door so it crashed and blew in like a profane whirlwind.
‘My dear old chap!’ exclaimed the captain. ‘I say! Please! What will they think?’
‘Vat vill obscenity who blankety-blank t’ink?’
‘The portmaster and, ah, the other gentleman – there.’ Radhakrishnan pointed at the main viewport and made agitated adjustments to his turban and jacket. ‘Most irregular. I don’t understand it. But he insisted we remain inboard until—Dear, dear, do you think you could get some of the tarnish off this braid of mine before—’
Knud Axel Syrup stared at the outside view. Beyond the little spacefield was a charming vista of green meadows, orderly hedgerows, cottages and bowers, a white gravel road. Just below the near, sharp
ly curving horizon stood Grendel’s only town; from this height could be seen a few roofs and the twin spires of St. George’s. The flag of the Kingdom, a Union Jack on a Royal Stuart field, fluttered there under a sky of darker blue than Earth’s, a small remote sun and a few of the brightest stars. Grendel was a typical right little, tight little Anglian asteroid, peacefully readying for the vacation-season influx of tourists from Briarton, York, Scotia, Holm, New Winchester, and the other shires.
Or was it? For the flagstaff over the spaceport carried an alien banner, white, with a shamrock and harp in green. The two men striding over the concrete toward the ship wore clover-colored tunics and trousers, military boots and side-arms. Similarly uniformed men paced along the wire fence or waited by machine gun nests. Not far away was berthed a space freighter, almost as old and battered as the Girl but considerably larger. And – and—
‘Pest og forbandelse!’ exclaimed Herr Syrup.
‘What?’ Captain Radhakrishnan swiveled worried eyes toward him.
‘Plague and damnation,’ translated the engineer courteously.
‘Eh? Where?’
‘Over dere.’ Herr Syrup pointed. ‘Dat odder ship. Don’t you see? Dere is a gun turret coupled onto her!’
‘Well – I’ll be – goodness gracious,’ murmured the captain.
Steps clanging on metal and a hearty roar drifted up to the bridge, together with a whiff of cool country air. In a few moments the large redhead entered the bridge. Behind him trailed a very tall, very thin, and very grim-looking middle-aged man.
‘The top of the mornin’ to yez,’ boomed the young one. He attempted a salute. ‘Major Rory McConnell of the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force, at your ser-r-r-vice!’
‘What?’ exclaimed Radharkrishnan. He gaped and lifted his hands. ‘I mean – I mean to say, don’t y’ know, what? Has a war broken out? Or has it? Mean to say, y’ know,’ he babbled, ‘we’ve had no such information, but then we’ve been en route for some weeks and—’
‘Well, no.’ Major Rory McConnell shoved back his disreputable cap with a faint air of embarrassment. ‘No, your honor, ’tis not exactly a war we’re havin’. More an act of justice.’
The thin, razor-creased man shoved his long nose forward. ‘Perhaps I should explain,’ he clipped, ‘bein’ as I am in command here. ’Tis indeed an act of necessary an’ righteous justice we are performin’, after what the spalpeens did to us forty years agone come St. Matthew’s Day.’ His dark eyes glowed fanatically. ‘The fact is, in order to assert the rightful claims of the Erse nation ag’inst the unprovoked an’ shameless aggression of the – pardon me language – English of the Anglian Kingdom. The fact is, this asteroid is now under military occupation.’ He clicked his heels and bowed. ‘Permit me to introduce meself. General Scourge of the Sassenach O’Toole, of the Shamrock League Irredentist—’
‘Ja, ja,’ said Herr Syrup. He still carried a cargo of anger to unload on someone. ‘I heard all dat. I also heard dat de Shamrock League is only a political party in de Erse Cluster.’
Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O’Toole winced. ‘Please, Saorstat Erseann.’
‘So vat you ban doin’ vit’ a private filibustering expedition, ha? And vat has it got to do vit’ us?’
‘Well,’ said Major Rory McConnell, not quite at ease, ‘the fact is, your honors, I’m sorry to be sayin’ it, but ye can’t leave here just the now.’
‘What?’ cried Captain Radhakrishnan. ‘Can’t leave? What do you mean, sir?’ He drew himself up to his full 1.6 meters. ‘This is a Venusian ship, may I remind you, of Terrestrial registry, and engaged on its – er, ahem – its lawful occasions. Yes, that’s it, its lawful occasions. You can’t detain us!’
McConnell slapped his sidearm with a meaty hand. ‘Can’t we?’ he asked, brightening.
‘But – look here – see here, my dear chap, we’re on schedule. We’re expected at Alamo, don’t y’ know, and if we don’t report in—’
‘Yes. There is that. ’Tis been anticipated.’ General O’Toole squinted at them. Suddenly he pointed a bony finger at the engineer. ‘Yez! What might your name be?’
‘I ban Knud Axel Syrup of Simmerboelle, Langeland,’ said the engineer indignantly, ‘and I am going to get in touch vit’ de Danish consul at—’
‘Mister who?’ interrupted McConnell.
‘Syrup!’ It is a perfectly good Danish name, though like Middlefart it is liable to misinterpretation by foreigners. ‘I vill call my consulate on New Vinshester, ja, by Yudas, I vill even call de vun on Tara in Erse—’
‘Teamhair,’ corrected O’Toole, wincing again.
‘You see,’ said Radhakrishnan, anxiously fingering his monocle, ‘our cargo to Alamo carries a stiff penalty clause, and if we’re held up here any length of time, then—’
‘Quiet!’ barked O’’Toole. His finger stabbed toward the Earthmen. ‘So ‘twas Venus ye were on last, eh? Well, as military commandant of this occupied asteroid, I hereby appoints meself medical officer an’ I suspect ye of carryin’ Polka Dot Plague.’
‘Polka Dot!’ bellowed Herr Syrup. A red flush went up from his hairy chest till his scalp gleamed like a landing light. ‘Vy, you spoutnosed son of a Svedish politician, dere hasn’t been a case of Polka Dot in all de Imperium for tventy-five Eart’ years!’
‘Possibly,’ snapped O’Toole. ‘However, under international law the medical officer of any port has a right an’ duty to hold any vessel in quarantine whin he suspects a dangerous disease aboard. I suspects of Polka Dot Plague, an’ this whole asteroid is hereby officially quarantined.’
‘But!’ wailed Radhakrishnan.
‘I think six weeks will be long enough,’ said O’Toole more gently. ‘Meanwhile ye’ll be free to move about an’—’
‘Six weeks here will ruin us!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ answered McConnell. He beamed. ‘But take heart, ye’re bein’ ruined in a good cause: redressin’ the wrongs of the Gaelic race!’
CHAPTER TWO
Fuming away on a pipe which would have been banned under any smog-control ordinance, Knud Axel Syrup bicycled into Grendel Town. He ignored the charm of thatch and tile roofs, half-timbered Tudor facades, and swinging signboards. Those were for tourists, anyway; Grendel lived mostly off the vacation trade. But it did not escape him how quiet the place was, its usual cheerful pre-season bustle dwindled to a tight-lipped housewife at the greengrocer’s and a bitterly silent dart game in the Crown & Castle.
Occasionally a party of armed Erse, or a truck bearing the shamrock sign, went down the street. The occupying force seemed composed largely of very young men, and it was not professional. The uniforms were homemade, the arms a wild assortment from grouse guns up through stolen rocket launchers, the officers were saluted when a man happened to feel like saluting, and the idea that it might be a nice gesture to march in step had never occurred to anyone.
Nevertheless, there were something like a thousand invaders on Grendel, and their noisy, grinning, well-meaning sloppiness did not hide the fact that they could be tough to fight.
Herr Syrup stopped at the official bulletin board in the market square. Brushing aside ivy leaves, the announcement of a garden party at .the vicarage three months ago, and a yellowing placard wherein the Lord Mayor of Grendel invited bids for the construction of a fen country near the Heorot Hills, he found the notice he was looking for. It was gaudily hand-lettered in blue and green poster paints and said:
Know all men by these presents, that forty Earth-years ago, when the planetoid clusters of Saorstat Erseann and the Anglian Kingdom were last approaching conjunction, the asteroid called Lois by the Anglians but rightfully known to its Erse discoverer Michael Boyne as Laoighise (pronounced Lois) chanced to drift between the two nations on its own skewed orbit. An Anglian prospecting expedition landed, discovered rich beds of praseodymium, and claimed the asteroid in the name of King James IV. The Erse Republic protested this illegal seizure and sent a warship to remove the Anglian squat
ters, only to find that King James IV had caused two warships to be sent; accordingly, despite this severe provocation, the peace-loving Erse Republic withdrew its vessel. The aforesaid squatters installed a powerful gyrogravitic unit on Laoighise and diverted its orbit into union with the other planetoids of the Anglian Cluster. Since then Anglia has remained in occupation and exploitation.
The Erse Republic has formally protested to the World Court, on the clear grounds that Michael Boyne, an Erse citizen, was the first man to land on this body. The feeble Anglian argument that Boyne did not actually claim it for his nation and made no effort to ascertain its possible value, cannot be admissible to any right-thinking man; but for forty Earth-years the World Court, obviously corrupted by Stuart gold, has upheld this specious contention.
Now that the Erse and Anglian nations are again orbiting close toward each other, the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force has set about rectifying the situation. This is a patriotic organization which, though it does not have the backing of its own government at the moment, expects that this approval will be forthcoming and retroactive as soon as our sacred mission has succeeded. Therefore, the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force is not piratical, but operating under international laws of war, and the Geneva Convention applies. As a first step in the recovery of Laoighise, the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force finds it necessary to occupy the asteroid Grendel.
All citizens are therefore enjoined to cooperate with the occupying authorities. The personnel and property rights of civilians will be respected provided they refrain from interference with the lawfully constituted authorities, namely ourselves. All arms and communications equipment must be surrendered for sequestration. Any attempt to leave Grendel or communicate beyond its atmosphere is forbidden and punishable under the rules of war. All citizens are reminded again that the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force is here for a legitimate purpose which is to be respected.
Erin go bragh!
The Makeshift Rocket Page 1
