“Guk,” said Sarmishkidu.

  “Fwhat?” asked McConnell.

  “I said, ‘Guk,’ ” answered Sarmishkidu in a chill voice, “which was precisely my meaning.”

  “All aboard!” bawled the Erseman, and went up the berth ladder two rungs at a time.

  Emily hung back. “I couldn’t do anything about it,” she whispered, white-faced. “He just insisted. I mean, I even hit him on the chest as hard as I could, and he grinned, you have to admit he’s as strong as Herakles and if he would only study classical dance to improve his gait he would be nearly perfect—” She flushed. “Physically, I mean, of course! But what I wanted to say is, shall we give up our plan?”

  “No,” said Herr Syrup, glumly, “ve ban committed now. And maybe a shance comes to carry it out. Let’s go.” He took his bicycle by the seat bar and dragged it up into the ship. No Dane is ever quite himself without a bicycle, though it is not true that all of them sleep with their machines. Fewer than ten per cent do this.

  He had been prepared to pilot the Girl into orbit himself, which was not beyond his training; but McConnell did it with so expert a touch that even the transition from geegee field to free fall was smooth. Once established in path, Herr Syrup jury-rigged a polarity reverser in the ship’s propulsive circuits, to furnish weight again inside the hull. It was against regulations, since it immobilized the drive; and, of course, it lacked the self-adjustment of a true compensator. But this was a meteor-swept region, so there was no danger in floating inert; and, though neither spacemen nor asterites mind weightlessness per se, an attractive field always simplifies work. No one who has not toiled in free fall, swatting gobs of molten solder from his face while a mislaid screwdriver bobs off on its own merry way, has experienced the full perversity of matter.

  “Ve can turn off de pull ven ve vish to test repairs,” said Herr Syrup.

  Rory McConnell looked around the crowded engine room and the adjacent workshop. “Oi invy yez this,” he said, with a bare touch of wistfulness. “ ’Tis spaceships are me proper place, an’ not all this hellin about wi’ guns an’ drums.”

  “Er…ja.” Herr Syrup hesitated. “Vell, you know, dere is really no reason to bodder you vit’ de yob in here. Yust leave me do it alone and…hm-m-m—ja,” he finished in a blaze of genius, “go talk at Miss Croft.”

  “Oh, Oi’ll be doin’ that, all roight,” grinned McConnell, “but Oi’d not be dallyin’ about all the toime whin anither man was laborin’. No, Oi’ll sweat ower that slut iv a machine roight along wi’ yez, Pop.” He raised one ruddy eyebrow above a wickedly blue sidelong glance. “Also, Oi’ll not be makin’ iv unsubstantiated accusations, but ’tis conceivable ye moight not work on it yourself at all, at all, if left alone. Some mought even imagine ye…oh…makin’ a radjo to call his bloody majesty. So, jist to kape evil tongues from waggin’, we’ll retain all electhrical equipment in here, an’ here Oi meself will woik an’ slape. Eh?” He gave Herr Syrup a comradely slap on the back.

  “Guot in Himmel!” yelped Sarmishkidu from the passageway outside. “Vot hass exploded in dere?”

  An arbitrary pattern of watches had been established to give the Mercury Girl some equivalent of night and day. After supper, which she had cooked, Emily Croft wandered up to the bridge while Sarmishkidu was simultaneously washing the dishes and mopping the galley floor. She stood gazing out the viewports for a long time.

  Only feebly accelerated by Grendel’s weak natural gravity, the ship would take more than a hundred hours to complete one orbit. At this distance, the asteroid filled seven degrees of sky, a clear and lovely half-moon, though only approximately spherical. On the dark part lay tiny twinkles of light, scattered farms and hamlets, the starlit sheen of Lake Alfred the Great. The town, its church on the doll-like edge of naked-eye visibility, its roofs making a ruddy blur, lay serene a bit west of the sunset line: tea time, she thought sentimentally, scones and marmalade before a crackling fire, and Dad and Mum trying not to show their worry about her. Then, dayward, marched the wide sweep of fields and woods under shifting cloud bands, the intense green of the fens, the Cotswolds and rustling Sherwood beyond— Grendel turned slowly against a crystal blackness set with stars, so many and so icily beautiful that she wanted to cry.

  When she actually felt tears and saw the vision blur, she bit her lip. Crying wouldn’t be British. It wouldn’t even be Duncanite. Then she realized that the tears were due to a whiff from Herr Syrup’s pipe.

  The engineer slipped through the door and closed it behind him. “Hist!” he warned hoarsely.

  “Oh, go hist yourself!” snapped the girl. And then, in contrition: “No, I’m sorry. A bad mood. I just don’t know what to think.”

  “Ja. I feel I am up in an alley myselfs.”

  “Maybe it’s the water aboard ship. It’s tanked, isn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t come bubbling up from some mossy spring, does it?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. I guess that’s it. I mean, why I feel so mixed up inside, all sad and yet not really sad. Do you know what I mean? I’m afraid I don’t myself.”

  “Miss Croft,” said Herr Syrup, “ve is in trouble.”

  “Oh. You mean about Ro…about Major McConnell?”

  “Ja. He has taken inventory of everyt’ing aboard. He has stowed all de electric stuffs in a cabinet vich he has locked, and he has de key himself. How are ve going to make a broadcaster now?”

  “Oh, that Major McConnell!” cried Emily.

  “Dere is a hope I can see,” said Herr Syrup. “It vill depend on you.”

  “Oh!” Emily brightened. “Why, how wonderful! I mean, I was afraid it would be so dull, just waiting for you to— And I’m sorry to say it, but the ship is not very æsthetic, I mean there’s just white paint and all those clocks and dials and thingummies and really, I haven’t found any books except things like The Jovian Inter-satellite Pilot With Ephemerides or something else called Pictures For Men, where the women aren’t in classical poses at all, I mean it’s—” She broke off, confused. “Where was I? Oh, yes, you wanted me to— But that’s terrif! I mean, whee!” She jumped up and down, twirled till her tunic stood out horizontally and her wreath tilted askew, and grabbed Herr Syrup’s hands. “What can I do? Do you want any secret message translated into Greek?”

  “No,” said the engineer. “Not yust now. Uh…er—” He stared down, blushing, and dug at the carpet with one square-toed boot. “Vell, you see, Miss Croft, if McConnell got distracted from vorking on de compensator…if he vas not in de machine shop vit’ me very often, and den had his mind on somet’ing else…I could pick de lock on de electrics box and sneak out de parts I need and carry on vit’ our plan. But, vell, first he must be given some odder interest dat will hold all his attention for several days.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Emily. She laid a finger to her cheek. “Let me think. What is he interested in? Well, he talks a lot about spaceships, he wants to be an interplanetary explorer when this trouble is over, and, you know, he really is enthusiastic about that, why, he’s so much like a little boy I want to rumple his hair—” She stopped, gulping. “No. That won’t do. I mean, the only person here who can talk to him about spaceships is yourself.”

  “I am afraid I am not yust exactly his type,” said Herr Syrup in an elaborate tone.

  “I mean, you can’t keep him distracted, because you’re the one we want to have working behind his back,” said Emily. “Let me see, what else? Yes, I believe Major McConnell mentioned being fond of poker. It’s a card game, you know. And Mr. Sarmishkidu is very interested in uh, permutations. So maybe they could—”

  “I am afraid Sarmishkidu is not yust exactly his type eider.” Herr Syrup frowned. “For a young lady vat is so mad vit’ dat crazy Erser, you ban spending a lot of time vit’ him to know his tastes so vell.”

  Emily’s face heated up. “Don’t you call me a collaborationist!” she shouted. “Why, when the invaders first landed I put on a Phrygian liberty cap and went around with a flag calling on all our men to follow me and drive them off. And nobody did. They said they had nothing more powerful than a few shotguns. As if that made any difference!”

  “It does make some difference,” said Herr Syrup placatingly.

  “But as for seeing Major McConnell since, why, how could I help it? I mean, O’Toole made him the liaison officer for us Grendelians, because even O’Toole must admit that Rory has more charm. And naturally he had to discuss many things with my father, who’s one of Grendel’s leading citizens, the vicar, you know. And while he was in our house, well, he’s a guest even if he is an enemy, and no Croft has been impolite to a guest since Sir Hardman Croft showed a Puritan constable the door in 1657. I mean, it just isn’t done. Of course I had to be nice to him. And he does have a lovely soft voice, and any Duncanite appreciates musical qualities, and that doesn’t make me a collaborator, because I’d lead an attack on their spaceship this very day if somebody would help me. And if I don’t want any of them to get hurt, why, I’m only thinking about their innocent parents and and sweethearts, and so there!”

  “Oh,” said Herr Syrup.

  His pipe had gone out. He became very busy rekindling it. “Vell, Miss,” he said, “in dat case you vill help us out and try to distract de mayor’s mind oft his work, will you not? It ban your patriotic duty. Yust-encourashe-him-in-a-nice-vay-because-he-is-really-in-love-vit’-you-okay?-goodnight.” And hiding his beet-colored face in a cloud of smoke, Herr Syrup bolted.

  Emily stared after him. “Why, good heavens,” she whispered. “I mean, actually!”

  Her eyes traveled back to Grendel and the stars. “But that isn’t so,” she protested. “It’s just what they call blarney. Makros logos, to be exact.”

  No one answered her for a moment, then feet resounded in the companionway and a hearty voice boomed: “Emily, are ye up there?”

  “Oh, dear!” exclaimed the girl. She looked around for a mirror, made do with a polished chrome surface, and adjusted her wreath and the yellow hair below it. She must not let a foreigner see an Anglian lady disarrayed, and really, she regretted not having any lipstick and felt sure that abstention from such materials didn’t represent the true Duncanism.

  Rory McConnell clumped in, his shoulders brushing the door jambs and his head stooped under the lintel. “Ah, macushla, Oi found ye,” he said. “Will ye not spake for a bit to a weary man, so he can slape contint? For even the hour or two iv testin’ Oi’ve been able to do today on that divvil’s machine has revealed nothin’ to me but me own bafflement, an’ ’tis consolation Oi need.”

  Emily found herself breathing as hard as if she had run a long distance. Oh. stop it! she scolded. Hyperventilating! No wonder you feel so weak and dizzy.

  The Erseman leaned close. For once he did not grin, he smiled, and it was not fair that a barbarian could have so tender a smile. “Sure an’ Oi nivver knew a pulse in inny throat could be that adorable,” he murmured.

  “Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?” said Emily, since nothing else came to mind.

  “The wither in space is always noice, though perhaps jist a thrifle monotonous,” quirked McConnell. He came around the pilot chair and stood beside her. The red hairs on the back of one hand brushed her bare thigh; she gulped and clung to the chair for support.

  After all, her duty was to distract him. She was certain that even Isadora Duncan, the pure and serene, would have approved.

  McConnell reached out a long arm, and switched off the bridge lights, so that they stood in the soft, drenching radiance of Grendel, among a million stars. “ ’Tis enough to make a man belave in destiny,” he said.

  “It is?” asked Emily. Her voice wobbled, and she berated herself. “I mean, what is?”

  “Crossin’ space on this mission an’ foindin’ ye waitin’ at the yonder end. For Oi’ll admit to yez fwhat Oi’ve dared say to no wan else, ’tis not importhant to me who owns that silly payce iv ore Laoighise. Oi wint with O’Toole because a McConnell has nivver hung back from inny brave vinture—arragh, how ye wring truth from me which Oi had not ayven admitted to meself!—oh, to be sure, Oi’m proud to do me counthry a service, but Oi cannot think ’tis so great an’ holy a dayd as O’Toole prates iv. So Oi came more on impulse than plan, me darlin’, an’ yit Oi found me destiny. The which is your own swate self.”

  Emily’s heart thumped with unreasonable violence. She clasped her hands lightly to her breast, because one of them had been sneaking toward McConnell’s broad paw. “Oh?” she said out of dry lips. “I mean, really?”

  “Yiss. An’ sorry Oi am that our work disthresses yez. Oi can only hope to make amends later. But Oi trust we’ll have fifty or sixty years for that!”

  “Er…yes,” said Emily.

  “Fwhat?” roared McConnell. He spun on his heel, laid his hands about her waist, and stared wildly down into her eyes. “Did Oi hear ye say yiss?”

  “I…I…I— No, please listen to me!” wailed Emily, pushing against his chest. “Let go! I mean, all I wanted to say was, if you don’t really care how this business comes out, if you really don’t think Lois is worth risking a war over and—” She drew a deep breath and tacked a smile on her face. Now was the time to distract him, as Mr. Syrup had requested. “And if you really want to please me, R-r-r-ro…Major McConnell, then why don’t you help us right now! Just let us make that sparky osculator or whatever it is to call New Winchester for help, and everything will be so nice…I mean—”

  His hands fell to his sides and his mouth stretched tight. He turned from her, leaned on the instrument board and stared out at the constellations.

  “No,” he said. “Oi’ve given me oath to support the Force to the best’ iv me ability. Did Oi turn on me comrades, there’d be worse than hellfire waitin’ for me, there’d be the knowin’ iv meself for less than a man.”

  Emily moistened her lips. There must be some way to distract him, she thought frantically. That beautiful lady agent in “The Son of the Spider,” the one who lured Sir Frederic Banton up to her apartment while the Octopus stole the secret papers from his office— She stood frozen among thunders, unable to bring herself to it, until another memory came, some pictures of an accidental atomic explosion on Callisto and its aftermath. That sort of thing might be done to little children, deliberately, if there was a war.

  She stole up behind McConnell, laid her cheek against his back and her arms around his waist. “Oh, Rory,” she said.

  “Fwhat?” He spun around again. He was so quick on his feet she didn’t have time to let go and was whipped around with him. “Where are ye?” he called.

  “Here,” she said, picking herself up.

  She leaned on his arm—she had never before known a man who could take her whole weight thus without even stirring—and forced her eyes toward his. “Oh, Rory,” she tried again.

  “What do ye mane?” It was a disquieting surprise that he did not sweep her into his embrace, but stood rigidly and stared.

  “Rory,” she said. Then, feeling that her conversation was too limited, she got out in a rush of words: “Let’s just forget all these awful things. I mean, let’s just stay up here and, and, and I’ll explain about Duncanism to you and, well, I mean don’t go back to the engine room, please!”

  He said in a rasp: “So ’tis me ye’d be kapin’ up here whilst auld Syrup does fwhat he will in the stern? An’ fwhat do ye offer me besides conversation?”

  “Everything!” said Emily, taking an automatic cue from the beautiful lady agent vs. Sir Frederic: because her own mind felt full of glue and hammers.

  “Ivrything, eh?”

  Suddenly his arm jerked from beneath her. She fell in a heap. The green-clad body towered above, up and up and up, and a voice like gunfire crashed:

  “So that’s the game, is it? So ye think Oi’d sell the honor iv the McConnells for…for— Why, had Oi nown yez for fwhat ye are, Oi’d not have given yez a second look the third toime we met. An’ to think Oi wanted yez for the mither iv me sons!”

  “No,” cried Emily. She sat up, hearing herself call like a stranger across light-years. “No, Rory, when I said everything I didn’t mean everything! I just—”

  “Nivver mind,” he snarled, and went from the bridge. The door cracked shut behind him.

  Knud Axel Syrup paused a moment in the after tranverse corridor. The bulkhead which faced him bore a stenciled KEEP OUT and three doors: the middle one directly to the engine-room, the right-hand one to the machine shop and the left to his small private cabin. These two side chambers also had doors opening directly on the engine room. It made for a lack of privacy distressing in the present cloak-and-dagger situation.

  However, the wild Erseman would no doubt be up on the bridge for hours. Herr Syrup sighed, a little enviously, and went through the central door.

  “Awwrk,” said Claus, flapping in from the cabin. “Nom d’un nom d’une vache! Schweinhund!”

  “Exactly,” said Herr Syrup. He entered the little bathroom behind the main energy converter and extracted a bottle of beer from a cooler which he had installed himself. Claus paced impatiently along a rheostat. Herr Syrup crumbled a pretzel for him and poured a little beer into a saucer. The crow jabbed his beak into the liquid, tilted back his black head, shook out his feathers, and croaked: “Gaudeamus igitur!”

  “You’re velcome,” said Herr Syrup. He inspected the locked electrical cabinet. Duplicating a Yale key would call for delicate instruments and skilled labor. After latching all doors to the outside, he went into the machine shop, selected various items, and returned. First, perhaps, a wire into the slot…

  The main door shivered under a mule kick. Faintly through its insulated metal thickness came a harsh roar: “Open up, ye auld scut, or Oi’ll crack the outer hatches an’ let ye choke!”

  “Yumping Yupiter,” said Herr Syrup.

  He pattered across the room and admitted Rory McConnell, who glared down upon him and snarled: “So ’tis up to your sneakin’ thricks ye are again, eh? Throw a pretty face an’ long legs at me an’— Aaargh! Be off wi’ yez!”