the things you like even if they aren’t natural, well, then you can wait a little while for me to make myself presentable and—’
‘A man has two choices in this universe,’ said McConnell grimly to himself, ‘he can remain celibate or he can resign himself to spendin’ ten per cent of his life waitin’ for women.’
He glared at the chronometer. ‘We’re late already!’ he snapped. ‘I’ll have to run off a different approach curve to our orbit an’—’
‘Well, you can be doing it, can’t you? I mean, instead of just sitting there grumbling at me, why don’t you do something constructive like punching that old computer or whatever it is?’
McConnell stiffened. ‘Emily,’ he said through thinned lips, ‘are ye by any chance stallin’ me?’
‘Why, Rory, how could you? Merely because a girl has to-’
He calculated the required locus and said, ‘Ye’ve got just sixty seconds to prepare for acceleration.’
‘But Rory!’
‘Fifty seconds.’
‘But I mean to say, actually—’
‘Forty seconds.’
‘Oh, right-o, then. And I’m not angry with you, love, really I’m not. I mean, I want you to know a girl admires a man like you who actually is a man. Why, what would I do with one of those awful “Yes, dear” types, they’re positively Roman! Imperial Roman, I mean. The Republican Romans were at least virile, though of course they were barbarians and rather hairy. But what I meant to say, Rory, is that one reason I love you so much—’
After about five minutes of this, Major McConnell realized what was going on. With an inarticulate snarl he stabbed the computer, corrected his curve for time lost, punched it into the autopilot, and slapped down the main drive switch.
First the ship turned, seeking her direction, and then a Terrestrial gravity of acceleration pushed him back into the chair. No reason to apply more; he felt sure that leprechaun job he was chasing could scarcely pick up one meter per second squared, and matching velocities would be a tricky enough business for one man alone. He saw Grendel swing past the starboard viewport and drop behind. He applied a repulsor field forward to kill some of his present speed, simultaneously giving the ship an impulse toward ten-thirty o’clock, twenty-three degrees ‘high’. In a smooth arc, the
Mercury Girl
picked up the trail of Herr Syrup and began to close the gap.
‘Ah, now we’ll end this tale,’ murmured Rory McConnell, ‘an’ faith, ye’ve been a worthy foeman an ’tis not I that will stint ye when we meet ag’in in some friendly pub after the glorious redemption of Gaelic La – Oops!’
For a horrible moment, he thought that some practical joker had pulled the seat out from under him. He fell toward the floor, tensing his gluteal muscles for the crash … and fell, and fell, and after a few seconds realized he was in free fall.
‘What the jumpin’ blue hell?’ he roared and glared at thecontrol board meters, just as the lights went out
A thousand stars leered through the viewport. McConnell clawed blindly at his harness. He heard the ventilator fans sigh to a halt. The stillness became frightful. ‘Emily!’ he shouted, ‘Emily, where are ye?’ There was no reply. Somehow he found the intercom switch and jiggled it. Only a mechanical clicking answered; that circuit was also dead.
Groping and flailing his way aft, he needed black minutes to reach the engine room. It was like a cave. He entered, blind, drifting free, fanning the air with one invisible hand to keep from smothering in his own unventilated exhalations, his heartbeat thick and horrible in his ears. There should be a flashlight clipped somewhere near the door – but where? ‘Mother of God!’ he groaned. ‘Are we fallen into the devil’s fingers?’
A small sound came from somewhere in the gloom. ‘What’s that?’ he bawled. ‘Who’s there? Where are ye? Speak up before I beat the bejasus out of yez, ye—’ and he went on with a
‘A man has two choices in this universe,’ said McConnell grimly to himself, ‘he can remain celibate or he can resign himself to spendin’ ten per cent of his life waitin’ for women.’
He glared at the chronometer. ‘We’re late already!’ he snapped. ‘I’ll have to run off a different approach curve to our orbit an’—’
‘Well, you can be doing it, can’t you? I mean, instead of just sitting there grumbling at me, why don’t you do something constructive like punching that old computer or whatever it is?’
McConnell stiffened. ‘Emily,’ he said through thinned lips, ‘are ye by any chance stallin’ me?’
‘Why, Rory, how could you? Merely because a girl has to-’
He calculated the required locus and said, ‘Ye’ve got just sixty seconds to prepare for acceleration.’
‘But Rory!’
‘Fifty seconds.’
‘But I mean to say, actually—’
‘Forty seconds.’
‘Oh, right-o, then. And I’m not angry with you, love, really I’m not. I mean, I want you to know a girl admires a man like you who actually is a man. Why, what would I do with one of those awful “Yes, dear” types, they’re positively Roman! Imperial Roman, I mean. The Republican Romans were at least virile, though of course they were barbarians and rather hairy. But what I meant to say, Rory, is that one reason I love you so much—’
After about five minutes of this, Major McConnell realized what was going on. With an inarticulate snarl he stabbed the computer, corrected his curve for time lost, punched it into the autopilot, and slapped down the main drive switch.
First the ship turned, seeking her direction, and then a Terrestrial gravity of acceleration pushed him back into the chair. No reason to apply more; he felt sure that leprechaun job he was chasing could scarcely pick up one meter per second squared, and matching velocities would be a tricky enough business for one man alone. He saw Grendel swing past the starboard viewport and drop behind. He applied a repulsor field forward to kill some of his present speed, simultaneously giving the ship an impulse toward ten-thirty o’clock, twenty-three degrees ‘high’. In a smooth arc, the
Mercury Girl
picked up the trail of Herr Syrup and began to close the gap.
‘Ah, now we’ll end this tale,’ murmured Rory McConnell, ‘an’ faith, ye’ve been a worthy foeman an ’tis not I that will stint ye when we meet ag’in in some friendly pub after the glorious redemption of Gaelic La – Oops!’
For a horrible moment, he thought that some practical joker had pulled the seat out from under him. He fell toward the floor, tensing his gluteal muscles for the crash … and fell, and fell, and after a few seconds realized he was in free fall.
‘What the jumpin’ blue hell?’ he roared and glared at thecontrol board meters, just as the lights went out
A thousand stars leered through the viewport. McConnell clawed blindly at his harness. He heard the ventilator fans sigh to a halt. The stillness became frightful. ‘Emily!’ he shouted, ‘Emily, where are ye?’ There was no reply. Somehow he found the intercom switch and jiggled it. Only a mechanical clicking answered; that circuit was also dead.
Groping and flailing his way aft, he needed black minutes to reach the engine room. It was like a cave. He entered, blind, drifting free, fanning the air with one invisible hand to keep from smothering in his own unventilated exhalations, his heartbeat thick and horrible in his ears. There should be a flashlight clipped somewhere near the door – but where? ‘Mother of God!’ he groaned. ‘Are we fallen into the devil’s fingers?’
A small sound came from somewhere in the gloom. ‘What’s that?’ he bawled. ‘Who’s there? Where are ye? Speak up before I beat the bejasus out of yez, ye—’ and he went on with a
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