“Son of a—” Hastily, he switched to Gaelic.

  “What is it, light of both my eyes?” asked Emily.

  McConnell beat his head against the console. “A couple iv hoops an’ some bhroken staves,” he whimpered. “Oh, no, no, no!”

  “But what of it? I mean, after all, when you consider how Mr. Syrup put that boat together, well, actually.”

  “That’s jist it!” howled McConnell. “That’s what’s me near heart failure, plus two priceless hours or more an’— That was our meteor! An impty beer barrel! Oh, the ignominy iv it!”

  Herr Syrup stopped the exhaust of his fourth-stage keg and leaned back into weightlessness with a sigh. “Ve better not accelerate any more,” he said. “Not yust now. Ve vill need a little reserve to maneuver later on.”

  “Vot later on?” asked Herr von Himmelschmidt sourly. “I don’t know vy der ship shot on past us, but soon it comes back und den ve iss maneuvered into chail.”

  “Vell, meanvhile shall ve pass de time?” Herr Syrup took a greasy pack of cards from his jacket and riffled them suggestively.

  “Stop riffling them suggestively!” squealed Sarmishkidu. “This is no time for idle amusements.”

  “Vat else is it a time for?”

  “Well…hm-m-m…no, not that— Perhaps…no— Shilling ante?”

  At the end of some four hours, when he was ahead by several pounds sterling in I.O.U.’s and Sarmishkidu was whistling like an indignant bagpipe, Herr Syrup noticed how dim the light was getting. The gauge showed him that the outside batteries were rather run down also. Everything would have to be charged up again. He explained the situation. “Do you vant first turn on de bicycle or shall I?” he asked.

  “Who, me?” Sarmishkidu wagged a languid ear. “Whatever gave you the idea that evolution has prepared my race for bicycle riding?”

  “Vell…I mean…dat is—”

  “You are letting your Danishness run away with you.”

  “Satan i helvede!” muttered Herr Syrup. He floated himself into the saddle, put feet to pedals, and began working.

  “And de vorst of it is.” he grumbled, “who is ever going to believe I crossed from Grendel to New Vinshester on a bicycle?”

  Slowly, majestically, and off-center, the boat picked up an opposite rotation.

  “There they be!” cried Rory McConnell.

  “Oh, dear,” said Emily Croft.

  The beer boat swelled rapidly in the forward viewport. The weariness of hour upon hour, searching, dropped fom the Erseman. “Here we go!” he cried exultantly. “Tantivy, tantivy, tantivy!”

  Then, lacking radar, he found that the human eye is a poor judge of free-space relationships. He buckled down to the awkward task of matching speeds.

  “Whoops!” he said. “Overshot!” Ten kilometers beyond, he came to a relative halt, twisted the cumbersome mass of the ship around, and approached slowly. He saw a head pop up into the spacesuit helmet, glare at him, and pop back again. Foam spouted; the boat slipped out of his view.

  McConnell readjusted and came alongside, so that he looked directly from the turret at his prey. “He hasn’t the acceleration to iscape us,” he gloated. “Oi’ll folly each twist an’ turn he cares to make, from now intil—” He stopped.

  “Until we get to New Winchester?” asked Emily in a demure tone.

  “But… Oi mane to say…but!” Major McConnell bugged tired eyes at the keg-and-box bobbing across the stars.

  “But Oi’ve overhauled thim!” he shouted, pounding the console. “Oi’ve a riggular ship with hundreds iv tonnes their mass an’…an’…, they’ve got to come aboard! It isn’t fair!”

  “Since we have no wireless, how can you inform them of that?” purred the girl She leaned over close and patted his cheek. Her gaze softened. “There, there. I’m sorry. I do love you and I don’t want to tease you or anything, but honestly, don’t you think you’re becoming a bit of a bore on this subject? I mean, enough’s enough, don’t you know.”

  “Not if ye’re iv Erse blood, it isn’t.” McConnell set his jaw till it ached. “Oi’ll scoop ’em up, that’s fwhat Oi will!”

  There was a master control for the cargo machinery in the engine room, but none on the bridge. McConnell unstrapped himself, shoved grimly “down” to the hold section, pumped out the main hatch chamber and opened the lock. Now he had it gaping wide enough to swallow the boat whole, and—

  Weight came back. He crashed into the deck. “Emily!” he bellowed, picking himself up with a bloody nose. “Emily, git away from them conthrols!”

  Three Terrestrial gravities of acceleration were a monstrous load on any man. He took minutes to regain the bridge, drag himself to the main console, and slap down the main drive switch. Meanwhile Emily, sagging in her chair and gasping for breath, managed a tolerant smile.

  When they again floated free, McConnell bawled at her: “Oi love yez more than Oi do me own soul, an’ ye’re the most beautiful craythur the cosmos will ivver see, an Oi’ve half a moind to turn yez over me knee an’ paddle ye raw!”

  “Watch your language, Rory,” the vicar’s daughter reproved. “Paddle me black and blue, if you please. I mean, I don’t like double entendres.”

  “All, be still, ye blitherin’ angel,” he snarled. He swept the sky with a bloodshot telescope The boat was out of sight again. Of course.

  It took him half an hour to relocate it, still orbiting stubbornly on toward New Winchester. And New Winchester had grown noticeably brighter.

  “Now we’ll see fwhat we’ll see,” grated Major McConnell.

  He accelerated till he was dead ahead of the boat, matched speeds and spun broadside to. As nearly as he could gauge it, the boat was aimed directly into his open cargo hatch.

  Herr Syrup applied a quick side jet, slipped “beneath” the larger hull, and continued on his way.

  “Aaaaargh!” Tiny flecks of foam touched McConnell’s lips. He tried again.

  And again.

  And again.

  “It’s no use,” he choked at last. “He can sloide past me too aisy. The wan thing Oi could do would be to ram him an’ be done—Arragh, hell have him, he knows Oi’m not a murdherer.”

  “Really, dear,” said Emily, “it would all be so simple if you would just give up and admit he’s won.”

  “Small chance iv that!” McConnell brooded for long minutes. And slowly a luster returned to his eyes. “Yiss. Oi have it. The loadin’ crane. Oi’ll have to jury-rig a conthrol to the bridge, as well as a visio screen so Oi can see fwhat Oi’m doin’. But havin’ given meself that much, why, Oi’ll approach ag’in with the crane grapple projcihn’ from the hatch, raych out, an’ grab hold!”

  “Rory,” said Emily, “you’re being tiresome.”

  “Oi’m bein’ Erse, by all the saints!” McConnell rubbed a bristly red jaw. “ ’Tis hours ’twill take me, an’ him fleein’ the whoile. Could ye hold us alongside, me only wan?”

  “Me?” The girl opened wide blue eyes and protested innocently: “But darling, you told me after that last time to leave the controls alone, and I admit I don’t know a thing about it. I mean, it would be unlawful for me to try piloting, wouldn’t it, and positively dangerous. I mean to say, medeu pratto.”

  “Ah, well, Oi moight have known how the good loyal heart iv yez would make ye a bloody nuisance. Bui either give me your word iv honor not to touch the pilot board agin, or Oi must break me own heart by tyin’ yez into that chair.”

  “Oh, I promise, dear. I’ll promise you anything within reason.”

  “An’ fwhatsoivver ye don’t happen to want is unreasonable. Yiss.” Rory McConnell sighed, kissed his lady love, and went off to work. The escape boat blasted feebly but steadily into a new orbit—not very different, but time and the pull of the remote sun on an inert ship would show their work later on.

  General Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O’Toole lifted a gaunt face and glared somberly at the young guardsman who had finally won through to his office. “Well?” he clipped.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sor, but—”

  “Salute me, ye good for nothin’ scut!” growled O’Toole. “Fwhat kind iv an army is it we’ve got here, where a proivate soldier passin’ the captain in the sthreet slaps his back an’ says, ‘Paddy, ye auld pig, the top iv the mornin’ to yez an’ if ye’ve a momint to spare, why, ’tis proud Oi’ll be to stand yez a mug of dark in yon tavern’—eh?”

  “Well, sor,” said the guardsman, his Celtic love of disputation coming to the fore, “Oi’d say ’twas a foine well-run army iv outsthandingly hoigh morale. Though truth to spake, the captain Oi’ve been saddled with is a pickle-faced son iv a landlord who would not lift his hat to St. Bridget herself, did the dear holy colleen come walkin’ in his door.”

  “Morale, ye say?” shouted O’Toole, springing from his chair. “Morale cuts both ways, ye idjit! How much morale de ye think the officer’s corps has got, or Oi meself, whin me own men name me Auld S.O.T.S. to me face, not ayven botherin’ to sound the initials sep’rit, an’ me havin’ not touched a drop in all me loife? Oi’ll have some respect hereabouts, begorra, or know the rayson why!”

  “If ye want to know the rayson, Oi can give it to ye, Jiniral, sor, ye auld maid in britches!” cried the guardsman. His fist smote the desk. “ ’Tis jist the sour face iv yez, that’s the rayson, an’ if ye drink no drop ’tis because wan look at yez would curdle the potheen in the jug! Now if ye want some consthructive suggistions for improvin’ the managemint iv this army—”

  They passed an enjoyable half hour. At last, having grown hoarse, the guardsman bade the general a friendly good day and departed.

  Five minutes later there was a scuffle in the anteroom. A sentry’s voice yelped, “Ye can’t go in there to himself without an appointmint!” and the guardsman answered, “An appointmint Oi’ve had, since the hour before dawn whin Oi first came an’ thried to get by the bureaucratic lot iv yez!” and the scuffle got noisier and at last the office door went off its hinges as the guardsman tossed the sentry through it.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sor,” he panted, dabbing at a bruised cheek and judiciously holding the sentry down with one booted foot, “but Oi jist remembered why Oi had to see yez.”

  “Ye’ll go to the bhrig for this, ye riotous scum!” roared O’Toole. “Corp-ril iv the guard! Arrest this man!”

  “That attitude is precisely fwhat Oi was critisoizin’ earlier,” pointed out the soldier. “ ’Tis officers loike yez fwhat takes all the fun out iv war. Why, ye wall-eyed auld Fomorian, if ye’d been in charge iv the Cattle Raid iv Cooley, the Brown Bull would still be chewin’ cud in his meaddy! Now ye listen to me—”

  As four freshly arrived sentries dragged him off, he shouted back: “All roight, thin! If ye’re goin’ to be that way about it, all roight an’ be damned to yez! Oi won’t tell ye my news! Oi won’t spake a word if fwhat Oi saw through the tellyscope jist before sunrise—or failed to see—ye can sit there in bloithe ignorance iv the Venusian ship havin’ vanished from her orbit, till she calls down the Anglian Navy upon yez! See if Oi care!”

  For a long, long moment, General Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O’Toole gaped out at Grendel’s blue sky.

  Spent, shaking with lack of sleep and sheer muscular weariness, Rory McConnell weaved through free fall toward the bridge. As he passed the galley, Emily stopped him. Having had a night watch of rest, she looked almost irritatingly calm and beautiful. “There, there, love,” she said. “Is it all over with? Come, I’ve fixed a nice cup of tea.”

  “Don’t want inny tea,” he growled.

  “Oh, but darling, you must! Why, you’ll waste away. I swear you’re already just skin and bones…oh, and your poor dear hands, the knuckles are all rubbed raw— Come on, there’s a sweetheart, sit down and have a cup of tea. I mean, actually you’ll have to float, and drink it out of one of those silly suction bottles, but the principle is the same. That old boat will keep.”

  “Not much longer,” said McConnell. “By now, she’s far closer to the king than she is to Grendel.”

  “But you can wait ten minutes, can’t you?” Emily pouted. “You’re not only neglecting your health, but me. You’ve hardly remembered I exist. All those hours, the only thing I heard on the intercom was swearing. I mean, I imagine from the tone it was swearing, though of course I don’t speak Gaelic. You will have to teach me after we’re married. And I’ll teach you Greek. I understand there is a certain affinity between the languages.” She rubbed her cheek against his bare chest. “Just as there is between you and me— Oh, dear!” She retired to try getting some of the engine grease off her face.

  In the end, Rory McConnell did allow himself to be prevailed upon. For ten minutes only— Half an hour later, much refreshed, he mounted to the bridge and resumed acceleration.

  Grendel was little more than a tarnished farthing among the stars. New Winchester had swelled until it was a great green and gold moon. There would be warships in orbit around it, patrolling— McConnell dismissed the thought and gave himself to his search.

  After all this time, it was not easy. Space is big and even the largest beer keg is comparatively small. Since Herr Syrup had shifted the plane of his boat’s orbit by a trifle—an hour’s questing confirmed that this must be the case—the volume in which he might be was fantastically huge. Furthermore, drifting free, his vessel painted black, he would be hard to spot, even when you were almost on top of him.

  Another hour passed.

  “Poor darling,” said Emily, reaching from her chair to rumple the major’s red locks. “You’ve tried so hard.”

  New Winchester continued to grow. Its towns were visible now, as blurred specks on a subtle tapestry of wood and field and ripening grain; the Royal Highroad was a thin streak across a cloud-softened dayface.

  “He’ll have to reveal himself soon,” muttered McConnell from his telescope. “That beer blast is so weak—”

  “Dear me, I understood Mr. Sarmishkidu’s beer was rather strong,” said Emily.

  McConnell chuckled. “Ah, they should have used Irish whisky in their jet. But what Oi mint, me beloved, was that in so cranky a boat, they could not hope to hit their target on the nose, so they must make course corrections as they approach it. And with so low an exhaust velocity, they’ll need a long time iv blasthin’ to— Hoy! Oi’ve got him!”

  The misty trail expanded in the viewfield, far and far away. McConnell’s hands danced on the control board. The spaceship turned about and leaped ahead. The crane, projecting out of the cargo hatch, flexed its talons hungrily.

  Fire burst!

  After a time of strangling on his own breath, McConnell saw the brightness break into rags before his dazzled eyes. He stared into night and constellations. “Fwhat the divvil?” he gasped. “Is there a Sassenach ship nearby? Has the auld squarehead a gun? That was a shot across our bows!”

  He zipped past the boat at a few kilometers’ distance while frantically scouring the sky. A massive shape crossed his telescopic held. It grew before his eyes as he stared—it couldn’t be. “Our own ship!” choked McConnell. “Our own Erse ship.”

  The converted freighter did not shoot again, for fear of attracting Anglian attention. It edged nearer, awkwardly seeking to match velocities and close in on the Mercury Girl. “Git away!” shouted McConnell. “Git out iv the way, ye idjits! ’Tis not meself ye want, ’tis auld Syrup…over there— Git out iv me way!” He avoided imminent collision by a wild backward spurt.

  The realization broke on him. “But how do they know ’tis me on board here?” he asked aloud.

  “Telepathy?” suggested the girl, fluttering her lashes at him.

  “They don’t know. They can’t even have noticed the keg boat, Oi’ll swear. So ’tis us they wish to board an’— Git out iv the way!”

  The Erse ship rushed in, sharklike. Again McConnell had to accelerate backward to avoid being stove. New Winchester dwindled in his viewports.

  He slapped the console with a furious hand. “An’ me lackin’ a radjo to tell ’em the truth,” he groaned. “Oi’ll jist have to orbit free, an’ let ’em lay alongside an’ board, an’ explain the situation.” His teeth grated together. “All of which, if Oi know inny wan thing about the Forces hoigh command, will cost us aisy anither hour.”

  Emily smiled. The Mercury Girl continued to recede from the goal.

  “I t’ink ve is in good broadcast range now,” said Herr Syrup.

  His boat was again inert, having exhausted nearly all its final cask. New Winchester waxed, already spreading across several degrees of arc. If only some circling Navy ship would happen to see the vessel; but no, the odds were all against that— Ah, well. Weary, bleary, but justifiably triumphant, Herr Syrup tapped the oscillator key.

  Nothing happened.

  “Veres de spark?” he complained.

  “I don’t know,” said Sarmishkidu. “I thought you would.”

  “Bloody hell!” screamed Claus.

  Herr Syrup snarled inarticulately and tapped some more. There was still no result. “It vas O.K. ven I tested back at de ship,” he pleaded. “Of course, I did not dare test mush or de Ersers might overhear, but it did vork. Vat’s gone crazy since?”

  “I would suggest that since most of the transmission apparatus is outside by the batteries, something has worked loose,” answered Sarmishkidu. “We could easily have jarred a wire off its terminal or some such thing.”

  Herr Syrup swore and stuffed himself up into the space-suit and tried to see what was wrong. But the oscillator parts were not accessible, or even visible, from this position: another point overlooked in the haste of constructing the boat. So he would have to put on the complete suit and crawl back to attempt repairs; and that would expose the interior of the cabin, including poor old Claus, to raw space— “Oh, Yudas,” he said.

  There was no possibility of landing on New Winchester; there never had been, in fact. Now the barrel didn’t even hold enough reaction mass to establish an orbit. The boat would drift by, the oxygen would be exhausted, unless first the enemy picked him up. Staring aft, Herr Syrup gulped. The enemy was about to do so.