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 swear 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 Radhakrishnan 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 would 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, sharply 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 sidearms. 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 cobbled 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 iv the mornin’ to yez,” boomed the young one. He attempted a salute. “Major Rory McConnell iv the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force, at your ser-r-r-vice!”

  “What?” exclaimed Radhakrishnan. 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 iv justice.”

  The thin, razor-creased man shoved his long nose forward. “Perhaps Oi should explain,” he clipped, “bein’ as Oi am in command here. ’Tis indayd an act iv necessary an’ righteous justice we are performin’, afther fwhat 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 roightful claims iv the Erse nation ag’inst the unprovoked an’ shameless aggression iv the…pardon me language…English iv the Anglian Kingdom—the fact is, this astheroid is now undher military occupation.” He clicked his heels and bowed. “Permit me to inthrojuice meself. Jiniral Scourge-iv-the-Sassenach O’Toole, iv 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 doing 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, Oi’m sorry to be sayin’ it, but ye can’t layve here jist 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—”

  “Yiss. There is that. ’Tis been anticipated.” General O’Toole squinted at them. Suddenly he pointed a bony finger at the engineer. “Yez! Fwhat moight your name be?”

  “I ban Knud Axel Syrup of Simmerblle, Langeland,” said the engineer indignantly, “and I am going to get in touch vit’ de Danish consul at—”

  “Misther who?” interrupted McConnell.

  “Syrup!” It is a perfectly good Danish name, though like Middelfart 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 iv this occupied astheroid, Oi hereby appoints meself medical officer an’ Oi suspect ye iv 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. “Howivver, undher international law the medical officer iv inny port has a roight an’ djuty to hold inny vessel in quarantine whin he suspects a dangerous disayse aboard. Oi suspects Polka Dot Plague, an’ this whole astheroid is hereby officially quarantined.”

  “But!” wailed Radhakrishnan.

  “Oi think six wayks will be long enough,” said O’Toole more gently. “Maynwhoile ye’ll be free to move about an’—”

  “Six weeks here will ruin us!”

  “Sorry, sor,” answered McConnell. He beamed. “But take heart, ye’re bein’ ruined in a good cause: redressin’ the wrongs iv the Gaelic race!”

  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 façades, 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 preseason 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 was 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

  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 squatters, 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 co-operate with the occupying authorities. The personal 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!

  General Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O’Toole

  Commanding Officer, S.L.I.E.F.

  per: Sgt. 1/cl Daniel O’Flaherty

  (New Connaught O’Flahertys)

  “Ah,” said Herr Syrup. “So.”

  He pedaled glumly on his way. These people seemed to mean business.

  Though he sometimes lost his temper, Knud Axel Syrup was not a violent man. He had seen his share of broken knuckles, from St. Pauli to Hellport to Jove Dock; he much preferred a mug of beer and a friendly round of pinochle. The harbor girls could expect no more from him than a fatherly smile and a not quite fatherly pat; he had his Inga back in Simmerblle. She was a good wife, aside from her curious idea that he would instantly fall a prey to pneumonia without an itchy scarf around his neck. Her disapproval of the myriad little nations which had sprung up throughout the Solar System since gyrogravitics made terraforming possible was more vocal than his; but, in a mild and tolerant way, he shared it. Home’s best.

  Nevertheless, a man had some right to be angry! For instance, when a peso-pinching flock of Venusian owners, undoubtedly with more scales on their hearts than even their backs, made him struggle along with a spinor that should have been scrapped five years ago… But what, he asked himself, is a man to do? There were few berths available for the aging crew of an aging ship, without experience in the latest and sleekest apparatus. If the Mercury Girl went on the beach, so, most likely, did Knud Axel Syrup. Of course, there would be a nice social worker knocking at his home to offer a nice Earth-side job…say, the one who had already mentioned a third assistantship in a food-yeast factory…and Inga would make sure he wore his nice scarf every day— Herr Syrup shuddered and pushed his bicycle harder.

  At the end of Flodden Field Street he found the tavern he was looking for. Grendel did not try exclusively for an Old Tea Shoppe atmosphere. The Alt Heidelberg Rathskeller stood between the Osmanli Pilaff and Pizen Pete’s Last Chance Saloon. Herr Syrup leaned his bicycle against the wall and pushed through an oak door carved with the image of legendary Gambrinus.

  The room downstairs was appropriately long, low, and smoky-raftered. Rough-hewn tables and benches filled a candle-lit gloom; great beer barrels lined the walls; sabers hung crossed above rows of steins which informed the world that Gutes Bier and junge Weiber sind die besten Zeitvertreiber. But it was empty. Even for midafternoon, there was something ominous about the silence. The Stuart legitimists who settled the Anglian Cluster had never adopted the closing laws of the mother country—

  Herr Syrup planted his stocky legs and stared around. “Hallo!” he called. “Hallo, dere! Is you home, Herr Bachmann?”

  It slithered in the darkness behind the counter. A Martian came out. He stood fairly tall for a Martian, his hairless gray cupola of a head-cum-torso reaching past the Earthman’s waist, and his four thick walking tentacles carried him across the floor with a speed unusual for his race in Terrestrial gravity. His two arm-tentacles writhed incoherently, his flat nose twitched under the immense brow, his wide lipless mouth made bubbling sounds, his bulging eyes rolled in distress of soul. As he came near, Herr Syrup saw that he had somehow poured himself into an embroidered blouse and Lederhosen. A Tyrolean hat perched precariously on top of him.

  “Ach!” he piped. “Wer da? Willkommen, mein lieber Freund, sitzen Sie sich und—”

  “Gud bevare’s,” asked the engineer, catching his pipe as it fell from his jaws, “vat’s going on here? Vere is old Hans Bachmann?”

  “Ach, he hass retired,” said the Martian. “I haff taken ofer der pizznizz…bardon me, I mean I haff der pizznizz ofergetaken.” He stopped in front of his guest, extending three boneless fingers. “My name iss Sarmishkidu. I mean, Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt. Sit down und machen derself gemütlich.”

  “Vell, I am Knud Axel Syrup of de Mercury Girl.”

  “Ah, die ship vot iss bringing me mine beer? Or vas? Vell, haff a drink.” The Martian scuttled off, drew two steinsful, came back and writhed himself onto the bench across the table at which the Earthman had sat down. “Prosit.”

  A Martian standing anyone a beer was about the most astonishing event of this day. But it was plain to see that Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt was not himself. His skin twitched as he filled a Tyrolean pipe, and he fanned himself with his elephantine ears.

  “How did you happen to enter dis business?” asked Herr Syrup, trying to put him more at ease.

  “Ach! I came here last Uttu-year—Mars-year—on sabbatical. I am a professor of mathematics at Enliluraluma University.” Since every citizen of Enliluraluma has some kind of position at the University, usually in the math department, Herr Syrup was not much impressed. “At that time this enterprise was most lucrative. Extrapolating probabilistically, I induced myself to accept Herr Bachmann’s offer of a transfer of title. I invested all my own savings and obtained a mortgage on Uttu for the balance—”

  “Oh, oh,” said Herr Syrup, sympathetically, for not even the owners of the Black Sphere Line could be as ruthless as any and all Martian bankers. They positively enjoyed foreclosing. They made a ceremony of it, at which dancing clerks strewed cancelled checks while a chorus of vice presidents sang a litany. “And now business is not so good, vat?”

  “Business is virtually at asymptotic zero,” mourned Sarmishkidu. “The occupation, you know. We are cut off from the rest of the universe. And vacation season coming in two weeks! The Erse do not plan to leave for six weeks yet, at a minimum…and meanwhile this entire planetoid will have been diverted into a new orbit off the regular trade lanes…possibly ruined in the fighting around Lois…and in view of all this uncertainty, even local trade has slacked off to negligibility— Ach, es ist ganz schrecklich! I iss ruined!”