warning."
"The details have been entered in your log, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir. The log is in the chart room awaiting your inspection."
"We'll get to it in due time." Reaching the bow-cabin, Cassidy took a
seat, accepted the folder from McNaught, started off at businesslike pace.
"K1. Beam compass, type D, one of."
"This is it, sir," said McNaught, showing him.
"Still working properly?"
"Yes, sir."
They carried on, reached the intercom-cubby, the computer room, a
succession of other places back to the galley. Here, Blanchard posed in
freshly laundered white clothes and eyed the newcomer warily.
"V147. Electronic oven, one of."
"Is zis," said Blanchard, pointing with disdain.
"Satisfactory?" inquired Cassidy, giving him the fishy-eye.
"Not beeg enough," declared Blanchard. He encompassed the entire galley
with an expressive gesture. "Nossings beeg enough. Place too small.
Eversings too small. I am chef de cuisine an' she is a cuisine like an
attic."
"This is a warship, not a luxury liner," Cassidy snapped. He frowned at
the equipment-sheet. "V148. Timing
device, electronic oven, attachment thereto, one of."
"Is zis," spat Blanchard, ready to sling it through the nearest port if
Cassidy would first donate the two pins.
Working his way down the sheet, Cassidy got nearer and nearer while
nervous tension built up. Then he reached the critical point and said,
"V1098. Offog, one."
" Morbleu! " said Blanchard, shooting sparks from his eyes, "I have
say before an' I say again, zere never was—"
"The offog is in the radio room, sir," McNaught chipped in hurriedly.
"Indeed?" Cassidy took another look at the sheet. "Then why is it recorded
along with galley equipment?"
"It was placed in the galley at time of fitting-out, sir. It's one of
those portable instruments left to us to fix up where most suitable."
"Hm-m-m! Then it should have been transferred to the radio room list. Why
didn't you transfer it?"
"I thought it better to wait for your authority to do so, sir."
The fish-eyes registered gratification. "Yes, that is quite proper of you,
Captain. I will transfer it now." He crossed the item from sheet nine,
initialed it, entered it on sheet sixteen, initialed that.
"V1099. Inscribed collar, leather … oh,
yes, I've seen that. The dog was wearing it."
He ticked it. An hour later he strutted into the radio room. Burman stood
up, squared his shoulders but could not keep his feet or hands from
fidgeting. His eyes protruded slightly and kept straying toward McNaught
in silent appeal. He was like a man wearing a porcupine in his britches.
"V1098. Offog, one," said Cassidy in
his usual tone of brooking no nonsense.
Moving with the jerkiness of a slightly uncoordinated robot, Burman pawed
a small box fronted with dials, switches, and colored lights. It looked
like a radio ham's idea of a fruit machine. He knocked down a couple of
switches. The lights came on, played around in intriguing combinations.
"This is it, sir," he informed with difficulty.
"Ah!" Cassidy left his chair and moved across for a closer look. "I don't
recall having seen this item before. But there are so many different
models of the same things. Is it still operating efficiently?"
"Yes, sir."
"It's one of the most useful things in the ship," contributed McNaught,
for good measure.
"What does it do? " inquired Cassidy, inviting Burman to cast a
pearl of wisdom before him.
Burman paled.
Hastily, McNaught said, "A full explanation would be rather involved and
technical but, to put it as simply as possible, it enables us to strike a
balance between opposing gravitational fields. Variations in lights
indicate the extent and degree of unbalance at any given time."
"It's a clever idea," added Burman, made suddenly reckless by this news,
"based on Finagle's Constant."
"I see," said Cassidy, not seeing at all. He resumed his seat, ticked the
offog and carried on. "Z44.
"The details have been entered in your log, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir. The log is in the chart room awaiting your inspection."
"We'll get to it in due time." Reaching the bow-cabin, Cassidy took a
seat, accepted the folder from McNaught, started off at businesslike pace.
"K1. Beam compass, type D, one of."
"This is it, sir," said McNaught, showing him.
"Still working properly?"
"Yes, sir."
They carried on, reached the intercom-cubby, the computer room, a
succession of other places back to the galley. Here, Blanchard posed in
freshly laundered white clothes and eyed the newcomer warily.
"V147. Electronic oven, one of."
"Is zis," said Blanchard, pointing with disdain.
"Satisfactory?" inquired Cassidy, giving him the fishy-eye.
"Not beeg enough," declared Blanchard. He encompassed the entire galley
with an expressive gesture. "Nossings beeg enough. Place too small.
Eversings too small. I am chef de cuisine an' she is a cuisine like an
attic."
"This is a warship, not a luxury liner," Cassidy snapped. He frowned at
the equipment-sheet. "V148. Timing
device, electronic oven, attachment thereto, one of."
"Is zis," spat Blanchard, ready to sling it through the nearest port if
Cassidy would first donate the two pins.
Working his way down the sheet, Cassidy got nearer and nearer while
nervous tension built up. Then he reached the critical point and said,
"V1098. Offog, one."
" Morbleu! " said Blanchard, shooting sparks from his eyes, "I have
say before an' I say again, zere never was—"
"The offog is in the radio room, sir," McNaught chipped in hurriedly.
"Indeed?" Cassidy took another look at the sheet. "Then why is it recorded
along with galley equipment?"
"It was placed in the galley at time of fitting-out, sir. It's one of
those portable instruments left to us to fix up where most suitable."
"Hm-m-m! Then it should have been transferred to the radio room list. Why
didn't you transfer it?"
"I thought it better to wait for your authority to do so, sir."
The fish-eyes registered gratification. "Yes, that is quite proper of you,
Captain. I will transfer it now." He crossed the item from sheet nine,
initialed it, entered it on sheet sixteen, initialed that.
"V1099. Inscribed collar, leather … oh,
yes, I've seen that. The dog was wearing it."
He ticked it. An hour later he strutted into the radio room. Burman stood
up, squared his shoulders but could not keep his feet or hands from
fidgeting. His eyes protruded slightly and kept straying toward McNaught
in silent appeal. He was like a man wearing a porcupine in his britches.
"V1098. Offog, one," said Cassidy in
his usual tone of brooking no nonsense.
Moving with the jerkiness of a slightly uncoordinated robot, Burman pawed
a small box fronted with dials, switches, and colored lights. It looked
like a radio ham's idea of a fruit machine. He knocked down a couple of
switches. The lights came on, played around in intriguing combinations.
"This is it, sir," he informed with difficulty.
"Ah!" Cassidy left his chair and moved across for a closer look. "I don't
recall having seen this item before. But there are so many different
models of the same things. Is it still operating efficiently?"
"Yes, sir."
"It's one of the most useful things in the ship," contributed McNaught,
for good measure.
"What does it do? " inquired Cassidy, inviting Burman to cast a
pearl of wisdom before him.
Burman paled.
Hastily, McNaught said, "A full explanation would be rather involved and
technical but, to put it as simply as possible, it enables us to strike a
balance between opposing gravitational fields. Variations in lights
indicate the extent and degree of unbalance at any given time."
"It's a clever idea," added Burman, made suddenly reckless by this news,
"based on Finagle's Constant."
"I see," said Cassidy, not seeing at all. He resumed his seat, ticked the
offog and carried on. "Z44.
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