Free The Makeshift Rocket by Poul Anderson Page B

agreeably. He decorated his feet with outsize slippers and padded into the corridor.
    Emily Croft jumped. ‘Oh!’ she squeaked, whipping her robe about her. The engineer brightened a little, having glimpsed that her own taste in sleeping apparel ran merely to what nature had provided.
    ‘Vich is sure better dan little green clovers,’ he muttered.
    ‘Oh … you startled me.’ The girl blinked. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘Dat crook in dere.’ Herr Syrup jerked a splay thumb at the engine room door. ‘He goes to bed in shiny payamas vit’ shamrocks measled all over.’
    ‘Oh, dear,’ said Emily. ‘I hope his wife can teach him—’ She skidded to a halt and blushed. ‘I mean, if any woman would be so foolish as to have such a big oaf.’
    ‘I doubt it,’ snarled the Dane. ‘I bet he snores.’
    ‘He does not!’ Emily stamped her foot.
    ‘Oh-ho,’ said Herr Syrup. ‘You ban listening?’
    ‘I was only out for a constitutional in the hope of overcoming an unfortunate insomnia,’ said Miss Croft primly. ‘It was sheer chance which took me past here. I mean, nobody who can lie there like a pig and, and sleep when—’ She clouded up for a rainstorm. ‘I mean, how
could
he?’
    ‘Vell, but you don’t care about him anyvay, do you?’
    ‘Of course not! I hope he rots, I mean decays. No, I don’t actually mean that, you know, because even if he is an awful lout he is still a human being and, well, I would just like to teach him a lesson. I mean, teach him to have more consideration for others and not go right to sleep as if nothing at all had happened, because I could see that he was hurt and if he had only given me a chance to explain, I – Oh, never mind!’ Emily clenched her fists and stamped her foot again. ‘I’d just like to lock him up in there, since he’s sleeping so soundly. That would teach him that other people have feelings even if he doesn’t!’
    Herr Syrup’s jaw dropped with an audible clank.
    Emily’s eyes widened. One small hand stole to her mouth. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘is anything wrong?’
    ‘By yiminy,’ whispered Herr Syrup. ‘By yumping yiminy.’
    ‘Oh, really now, it isn’t that bad. I mean, I know we’re in an awful pickle and all that sort of thing, but really—’
    ‘No. I got it figured. I got a vay to get de Erser off of our necks!’
    ‘What?’
    ‘
Ja, ja, ja
, it is so simple I could beat my old knucklebone brains dat I don’t t’ink of it right avay. Look, so long as ve stay out of de engine room he sleeps yust like de dummy in a bridge game vaiting for de last trump. No? Okay, so I close all de doors to him, dere is only t’ree, dis main vun and vunto my cabin and vun to de vorkshop. I close dem and veld dem shut and dere he is!’
    Emily gasped.
    She leaned forward and kissed him.
    ‘Yudas priest,’ murmured Herr Syrup faintly. His revolving eyeballs slowed and he licked his lips. ‘T’ank you very kind,’ he said.
    ‘You’re wonderful!’ glowed Emily, brushing mustache hairs off her nose.
    And then, suddenly: ‘No. No, we can’t. I mean, he’ll be right in there with the machinery and if he turns it off—’
    ‘Dat’s okay. All de generators and t’ings is locked in deir shieldings, and dose keys I have got.’ Herr Syrup stumped quickly down the hall and into the machine shop. ‘His gun does him no good behind velded alloy plating.’ He selected a torch, plugged it in, and checked the current. ‘So. Please to hand me dat helmet and apron and dose gloves. Don’t look bare-eyed at de flame.’
    Gently, he closed the side door. Momentarily he was terrifield that McConnell would awaken: not that the Erseman would do him any harm, but the scoundrel was so unfairly large. However, even the reek of burning paint, which sent Emily gagging back into the corridor, failed to stir him.
    Herr Syrup plugged his torch to a drum of extension cord and trailed after her. ‘Tum-te-tum-te-tum,’ he warbled, attacking the main door. ‘How does