General Scourge-of-the-Sassenach O’Toole looked up from a heap of papers on his desk. The long face tightened. Finally he clipped: “So there ye are. An who moight have given ye an appointment?”

  “Ja,” agreed Herr Syrup, sitting down.

  “If ’tis about your spalpeen friends ye’ve come, waste no toime. Ye’ll not see thim released before Laoighise shall be free.”

  “From de Shannon to de sea?”

  “Says the Shan Van Vaught!” roared O’Toole automatically. He caught himself, snapped his mousetrap mouth shut, and glared.

  “Er—” Herr Syrup gathered courage and rushed in. “Ve have trouble on our ship. De internal compensator has developed enough bugs to valk avay vit’ it. As long as ve is stranded here anyhow, you must let us make repairs.”

  “Oh, must Oi?” murmured O’Toole, the glint of power in his eye.

  “Ja, any distressed ship has got to be let fixed, according to de convention of Luna. You vould not vant it said dat you vas a barbarian violating international law, vould you?”

  General O’Toole snarled wordlessly. At last he flung back: “But your crew bhroke the law first, actin’ as belligerents whin they was supposed to be neuthrals. Oi’ve ivry roight to hold thim, accident to their ship or not, whoile the state iv emergency obtains.”

  Herr Syrup sighed. He had expected no more. “At least you have no sharge against me,” he said. “I vas not any place near de trouble last night. So you got to let me repair de damage, no?”

  O’Toole thrust a bony jaw at him. “Oi’ve only your word there’s inny damage at all.”

  “I knew you vould t’ink dat, so before I come here I asked your shief gyronics enshiner vould he please to look at our compensator and sheck it himself.” Herr Syrup unfolded a sheet of S.L.I.E.F. letterhead from his pocket. “He gave me dis.”

  O’Toole squinted at the green paper and read:

  To Whom It May Concern:

  This is to say that I have inspected the internal field compensator of I/S Mercury Girl and made every test known to man. I certify that I have never seen any piece of apparatus so deranged. I further certify as my considered opinion that the devil has got into it and only Father Kelly can make the necessary repairs.

  Shamus O’Banion

  Col., Eng., S.L.I.E.F.

  “Hm-m-m,” said O’Toole. “Well, Yiss.”

  “You realize I must take de ship up and put her in orbit outside Grendel’s geegee field,” said Herr Syrup. “I vill need free-fall conditions to test and calibrate my repairs.”

  “Yiss!” O’Toole’s arm shot out till his accusing finger was almost in the Dane’s mustache. “Let ye take the ship aloft so ye can sail it clear to New Winchester!”

  Herr Syrup suppressed an impulse to bite. “I expect you vill put a guard aboard,” he said. “Yust some dumb soldier vat does not know enough about technics to be of any use to you down here.”

  “Hm-m-m,” said O’Toole. He gave the other man a malevolent glance. “ ’Tis nothin’ but throuble Oi’ve had wi’ the lot iv yez,” he complained, “an’ sure Oi am in me heart ye’re plottin’ to make more. No, I’ll not let ye do it. By the brogans iv Brian Boru, here on the ground ye stay!”

  Herr Syrup shrugged. “Vell,” he said, “if you vant all de Solar System to know later on how you vas breaking de Lunar Convention and not letting a poor old spaceman fix his ship like de law says he is entitled to…ja, I guess maybe de Erse Republic does not care vat odder countries t’ink about its civilization.”

  “The divvil take ye for a hairsplittin’ wretch!” howled O’Toole. “Sit there. Wait roight here, me foine lad, an’ if ’tis space law ye want, thin space law ye’ll git!”

  His finger stabbed the desk communicator buttons. “I want Captain Flanahan… No, no, no, ye leatherhead, I mean Captain Flanahan, the captain iv the Shamrock League Irredentist Expeditionary Force’s ship Dies I.R.A.!”

  After an interchange of Gaelic, O’Toole snapped off the communicator and gave Herr Syrup a triumphant look. “Oi’ve checked the space law,” he growled. “ ’Tis true ye’re intitled to put your vessel in orbit if that’s needful for your repairs. But Oi’m allowed to place a guard aboard her to protect our own legitimate intherests; an’ the guard is intitled not to hazard his life in an undermanned ship. Espicially whin Oi legally can an’ will take the precaution iv impoundin’ all the lifeboats an’ propulsive units an’ radjos off the space-suits, as well as the ship’s radjo an’ radar which Oi have already got. So by the law, Oi cannot allow ye to lift with me guardsman aboard unliss ye’ve a crew iv at least three. An’ your own crew is all in pokey, where Oi’m intitled to kape thim till the conclusion iv hostilities! Ha, ha, Mr. Space Lawyer, an’ how do ye loike that?”

  Herr Syrup leaned his bicycle against the wall of the Alt Heidelbeig and clumped downstairs. Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt hitched up his leather shorts and undulated to meet the guest. “Grüss Gott,” he piped. “Und vat vill ve haff to trink today?”

  “Potassium-40 cyanide on de rocks,” said the engineer moodily, lowering himself to a bench. “Unless you can find me a pair of spacemen.”

  “Vot for?” asked the Martian, drawing two mugs and sitting down.

  Herr Syrup explained. Since he had to trust somebody somewhere along the line, he assumed Sarmishkidu would not blab what the real plan was, to construct a spark-gap transmitter and signal King Charles.

  “Ach!” whistled the innkeeper. “So! So you iss actually trying to do somet’ings about dis zituation vat iss mine pizznizz about to ruin.” In a burst of sentiment, he cried out: “I zalute you, Herr Syrup; You iss such a hero, I do not charge you for dis vun beer!”

  “T’anks,” snapped the Dane. “And now tell me vere to find two men I can use.”

  “Hm-m-m. Now that is somewhat less susceptible to logical analysis.” Sarmishkidu rubbed his nose with an odd tentacle. “It is truistic that we must axiomatize the problem. So, imprimis, there are no qualified Anglian spacemen on Grendel at the moment. The interasteroid lines all maintain their headquarters elsewhere. Secundus, while there are no active collaborationist elements in the population, the nature of its distribution in n-dimensional psychomathematical phase space implies that there would be considerable difficulty in finding suitable units of humanity, dH. The people of Grendel tend to be either stolid farmers, mechanics, und so weiter, brave enough but too unimaginative to see the opportunities in your scheme, or else tourist-facility keepers whose lives have hardly qualified them to take risks. Those persons with enough fire and flexibility to be of use to you would probably lack discretion and might blurt out—”

  “Ja, ja, ja,” said Herr Syrup. “But dere are still several t’ousand people on dis asteroid. Among dem all dere must be some ready and able to, uh, strike a blow for freedom.”

  “I am!” cried a clear young voice at the door, and Emily Croft tripped down the stairs trailing vine leaves.

  Herr Syrup started. “Vat are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I saw your bicycle outside,” said the girl, “and, well, you were so sympathetic yesterday that I wanted to—” She hesitated, looking down at her small sandaled feet and biting a piquantly curved lip. “I mean, maybe you were spreading pumpernickel with that awful Limburger cheese instead of achieving glowing health with dried prunes and other natural foods, but you were so nice about encouraging me to show you classical dance that I thought—”

  Herr Syrup’s pale eyes traveled up and down an assemblage of second through fifth order curves which, while a bit on the slender side of his own preferences, was far and away the most attractive sight he had encountered for a good many millions of kilometers. “Ja,” he said kindly, “I am interested in such t’ings and I hope you vill show me more— Ahem!” He blushed. Emily blushed. “I mean to say, Miss Croft, I have seldom seen so much— Vell, anyhow, later on, sure. But now please to run along. I have got to talk secrets vit’ Herr von Himmelschmidt.”

  Emily quivered. “I heard what you said,” she whispered, large-eyed.

  “You mean about making Grendel free?” asked Herr Syrup hopefully.

  His hopes were fulfilled. She quivered again. “Yes! Oh, but do you think, do you really think you can?”

  He puffed himself and blew out his mustache. “Ja, I t’ink dere is a shanse.” He buffed his nails, looked at them critically, and buffed them some more. “I have my met’ods,” he said in his most mysterious accent.

  “Oh, but that’s wonderful!” caroled Emily, dancing over to take his arm. She put her face to his ear. “What can I do?” she breathed.

  “Vat? You? Vy, you yust vait and—”

  “Oh, no! Honestly! I mean to say, Mr. Syrup, I know all about spies and, and revolutions and interplanetary conspiracies and everything. Why, I found a technical error in ‘The Bride of the Spider’ and wrote to the author about it and he wrote back the nicest letter admitting I was right and he hadn’t read the book I cited. There was this old chap, you see, and this young chap, and the old chap had invented a death ray—”

  “Look,” said Herr Syrup, “ve is not got any deat’ rays to vorry about. Ve have yust got somet’ing to do vat should not be known to very many folk before ve do it. Now you run on home and vait till it is all over vit’.”

  Emily clouded up. She sniffed a tiny sniff. “You don’t think I can be trusted,” she accused.

  “Vy, I never said dat, I only said—”

  “You’re just like all the rest.” She bent her golden head and dabbed at her eyes. “All of you. You either call me crazy, and try to force things on me to calcify my liver, or you…you let me go on, I mean making a perfect ass of myself—”

  “I never said you vas a perfect ass!” shouted Herr Syrup. He paused and reflected a moment “Aldough,” he murmured, “you do…”

  “…And laugh at me behind my back, and, and, and uh-h-h-h!” Emily look her face out of her hands, swallowed, sniffled, and turned drooping toward the stairs. “Never mind,” she said disconsolately. “I’ll go, I know I bother you, I mean to say I’m sorry I do.”

  “But…pokker, Miss Croft, I vas only—”

  “One moment,” squeaked Sarmishkidu. “Please! Wait a short interval of time dT, please, I have an idea.”

  “Yes?” Emily pirouetted, smiling like sunshine through rain.

  “I think,” said Sarmishkidu, “we will do well to take the young lady into our confidence. Her discretion may not be infinite but her patriotism will superimpose caution. And, while she has not unduly encouraged any young men of Grendel during the period of my residence here. I am sure she must be far better acquainted with a far larger circle thereof than foreigners like you and me could ever hope to become. She can recommend whom you should approach with your plan. Iss dot not goot?”

  “By Yudas, ja!” exclaimed Herr Syrup. “I am sorry, Miss Croft. You really can help us. Sit down and have a glass of pure spring vater on me.”

  Emily listened raptly as he unfolded his scheme. At the end, she sprang to her feet, threw herself onto Herr Syrup’s lap, and embraced him heartily.

  “Hoy!” he said, grabbing his pipe as it fell and brushing hot coals off his jacket. “Hey, dis is lots of fun, but—”

  “You have your crew right here already, you old silly,” the girl told him. “Me.”

  “You?”

  “And Herr von Himmelschmidt, of course.” Emily beamed at the Martian.

  “Eep!” said Sarmishkidu in horror.

  Emily bounced back to her feet.

  “But of course!” she warbled. “Of course! Don’t you see it! You can’t get really-truly spacemen anyway, I mean a garageman or a chef couldn’t help you in your real work, so why let the secret go further than it has already? I mean, dear old Sarmishkidu and I could hand you your spanner and your ape wrench and your abacus or whatever that long thin calculating thing is called, just as well as Mr. Groggins down at the sweet shop, and if there are any secret messages, why, we can talk to each other in Attic Greek. And I do make tea competently, Mum admits it, even though I never drink tea myself because it tans the kidneys or something, and I can take along some dried apricots and bananas and apples for myself and won’t that terrible Major McConnell be just furious when he sees how we outsmarted him! Maybe then he will understand what all that whisky and bacon is doing to his brain, and will stop doing it and exercise himself in classical dance, because he really is quite graceful, don’t you know—”

  “Ooooh!” said Sarmishkidu. “No, wait, wait, wait, ach, vait chust ein moment! Ve iss not qvalified spacemens anyhow so der O’Toole does not accept us for a crew.”

  “I t’ought dat over,” said Herr Syrup, “and shecked in de law books to make sure. In an emergency like dis, de highest ranking officer available, me, can deputize noncertified personnel, and dey vill have regular spacemen’s standing vile de situation lasts. O’Toole vill eider have to let me raise ship vit’ you two or else release two of my shipmates.”

  “Then you will take us along?” pounced Emily.

  Herr Syrup shrugged. He might as well have a crew worth looking at. “Sure,” he said. “You is velcome.”

  Sarmishkidu rolled his eyes uneasily. “Better I stay on de ground. I got mine pizznizz to look after.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” said Emily. “If I go, we just about have to have a Martian for a chaperone, not that I don’t trust Mr. Syrup because he really is a sweet old gentleman…oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Syrup, I didn’t mean to make you wince…well, I mean to say, of course I’ll have to go aboard without letting Father know or he would forbid me, but why distress the old dear afterward with the thought that even if I liberated Grendel I compromised my reputation? I mean, he is the vicar, you know, and it’s been hard enough for him, my bringing home Duncanite teachings from Miss Carruthers’ Select School for Young Ladies on Wilberforce. Though I didn’t learn about it in class but from a lecture in the town hall which I happened to attend, and— And your tavern business, Mr. Sarmishkidu, isn’t worth tuppence if we don’t get rid of the Erse before vacation season begins, so won’t you please come, there’s a dear, or else I’ll ask all my young men friends never to come in here again.”

  Sarmishkidu groaned.

  Herr Syrup halted his bicycle and Herr von Himmelschmidt untied his tentacles from around the baggage rack. A small bright sun shone through small bright clouds on Grendel’s spaceport, the air blew soft and sweet, and even the old Mercury Girl looked a trifle less discouraged than usual. Not far away a truckload of Erse soldiers was bowling toward the geegee site to work, and however much one desired to throw them off this planetoid, one had to admit their young voices soared miraculously sweet.

  “…Ochone! Ochone! the men of Ulster cry.

  Ochone! Ochone! The lords an’ ladies weepin’!

  Dear, dear the man that nivver, nivver more shall be.

  Hoy, there, Paddy, see the colleen,

  ah, the brave broight soight iv her, whee-ee-whee-ew!”

  The sentry at the ship berth slanted his rifle across Herr Syrup’s path. “Halt,” he said.

  “Vat?” asked the engineer.

  “Or Oi shoot,” explained the guard earnestly.

  “Vat is dis?” protested Herr Syrup. “I got a right on my own ship. I got de Sheneral’s written permission, by yiminy, to take her up.”

  “That’s as may be,” said the guard, hefting his weapon, “but Oi’ve me ordhers too, which is that ye’re not trusted an’ ye don’t go aboard till your full crew an’ the riprysintative iv the Shamrock League is here.”

  “Oh, vell, if dat is all,” said Herr Syrup, relieved, “den dere comes Miss Croft now, and I see a Erser beside her, too.”

  Still trailed by a receding tide of whistles, Emily came with long indignant strides across the concrete. She bore an outsize picnic basket which her green-clad escort kept trying to take from her. She would snatch it from him, stamp her foot, and try to leave him behind. Unfortunately, he was so big that her half-running pace was an easy amble for him.

  Sarmishkidu squinted. “By all warped Riemannian space,” he said at last, “is that not Major McConnell?”

  Herr Syrup’s heart hit the ground with a dull thud.

  “Ah, there, greetin’s an’ salutations!” boomed the large young man. “An’ accipt me congratulations, sor, on choosin’ the loveliest crew which ivver put to sky! Though truth ’tis, she moight be jist a thrifle friendlier. Ah, but wanse up among the stars, who knows fwhat may develop?”

  “You don’t mean you ban our guard?” choked Herr Syrup.

  “Yiss. An’ ’tis guardsmanlike Oi look, eh, fwhat?” beamed Rory McConnell, slapping the machine pistol and trench knife holstered at his belt, the tommy gun at his shoulder, and the rifle across his fifty-kilo field pack.

  “But you ban needed down here!”

  “Not so much, now that we’re organized an’ work is proceedin’ on schedule.” McConnell winked. “An faith, whin Oi heard fwhat crew yez would have, sor, why, Oi knew at wanse where me real obligations lay. For ’tis foive years an’ more that me aged mither on Caer Dubh has plagued me to marry, that she may have grandchilder to bhrighten her auld age; so Oi am but doin’ iv me filial djuty.” He nudged Herr Syrup with a confidential thumb.

  When the engineer had been picked up, dusted off, and apologized to, he objected: “But does your shief, O’Toole, know you ban doing dis? I t’ought he vould not like you associating vit’ us.”

  “O’Toole is somewhat iv a fanatic,” admitted McConnell, “but he gave me this assoignment whin Oi asked for it. For ye understhand, sor, he is not aisy in the heart iv him, as long as ye are in orbit with inny chance whatsoivver to quare his plans. So ’tis happiest he’ll be, the soonest ye’ve finished your repairs an’ returned here. Now Oi am certificated more as a pilot an’ navigator than an injineer, but ye well know each department must be able to handle the work iv t’other in emergency, so Oi will be able to give yez skilled assistance in your task. Oi’ve enough experience in geegees to know exactly fwhat ye’re doin’.”