The Makeshift Rocket Read Free Page A

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 acandle-lit gloom; great beer barrels lined the walls; sabers hung crossed above rows of steins which informed the world that
Gutes Bier und 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? Wilkommen, mein dear friend, sitzen here and—’
    ‘Gud bevare’s
,’ said the engineer, catching his pipe as it fell from his jaws, ‘ vat’s going on here? Vere is old Hans Bachmann?’
    ‘Ach, he has retired,’ said the Martian. ‘I have taken over der business. Pardon me, I mean I have der business overgetaken.’ He stopped in front of his guest, extending three boneless fingers. ‘My name is Sarmishkidu. I mean, Sarmishkidu von Himmelschmidt. Sit down make yourself
gemüttick:
    ‘Veil, I am Knud Axel Syrup of de
Mercury Girl
.’
    ‘Ah, the ship what is bringing me mine beer? Or was? Well, have 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 havebeen diverted into a new orbit off the regular trade lanes – possibly ruined in