The Makeshift Rocket Read Online Free PDF Page B

front-wheel lamp. But beyond lay open fields where a smoky blue dusk lingered, enough light to show him farmers’ cottages and hayricks and – and – He put on a burst of speed.
    The
Girl’s
crew were on the road, brandishing as wild an assortment of wrenches, mauls, and crowbars as Herr Syrup had ever seen. Half a dozen young Grendelian rustics milled about among them, armed with scythes and pitchforks. The whole band had stopped while Captain Radhakrishnan exhorted a pair of yeoman who had been hoeing a wayside cabbage patch and now leaned stolidly on their tools. As he panted closer, Herr Syrup heard one of them:
    ‘Nay, lad, tha’ll no get me to coom.’
    ‘But, that is to say, but!’ squeaked Captain Radhakrishnan. He jumped up and down, windmilling his arms. The last dayglow flashed off his monocle; it fell from his eye and he popped it back and cried: ‘Well, but haven’t you any courage? All we need to do, don’t y’ know, is destroy their geegee and they’ll jolly well have to go home. I mean to say, we can do it ten minutes, once we’ve overcome whatever guards they have posted.’
    ‘Posted wi’ machine guns,’ said the farmer.
    ‘Aye,’ nodded his mate. ‘An’ brass knuckles, Ah’ll be bound.’
    ‘But where’s your patriotism?’ shouted Captain Radhakrishnan. ‘Imitate the action of the tiger! Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage, and all that sort of thing.’
    At this point Herr Syrup joined them. ‘You ban crazy?’ he demanded.
    ‘Ah.’ Captain Radhakrishnan turned to him and beamed. ‘The very man. Come, let’s leave these bally caitiffs and proceed.’
    ‘But!’ wailed Herr Syrup.
    His assistant, Mr. Shubbish, nudged him with a tentacle and leered: ‘I fixed up a Molotov cocktail, chief. Don’t worry. We got it made.’
    There was something in the air, a smell which – Herr Syrup’s bulbous nose drank deep. Yes. Irish whisky. The crew must have spent a convivial afternoon with the spaceport sentries. So that explained why they were so eager!
    ‘Miss Croft is right,’ he muttered. ‘About whisky, anyhow. It calcifies the liver.’
    He pushed his bicycle along the road, beside Radhakrishnan’s babbling commando, and tried to think of something which would turn them back. Eloquence was never his strong point. Could he borrow some telling phrase from the great poets of the past, to recall them to reason? But all that rose into his churning brain was the Death Song of Ragnar Lodhbrok, which consists of phrases like ‘
Where the swords were whining while they sundered helmets’
– and did not seem to fit his present needs.
    Vaguely through dusk and a grove of trees, he saw the terraforming plant. And then the air whirred and a small flyer slipped above him. It hung for an instant, then pouncedlow and fired a machine-gun burst. The racket was unholily loud, and the tracer stream burned like meteorites.
    ‘Oh, my goodness!’ exclaimed Captain Radhakrishnan.
    ‘Wait there!’ bawled an amplified voice. ‘Wait there an’ we’ll see what tricks ye’re up to, ye Sassenach
omadhauns
!’
    ‘Eek,’ said Mr. Shubbish.
    Herr Syrup ascertained that no one had been hit. As the flyer landed and disgorged more large Celts than he had thought even a spaceship could hold, he switched off his bicycle lamp and wheeled softly back out of the suddenly quiet and huddled rebel band. Crouched beneath a hedgerow, he heard a lusty bellow:
    ‘An’ what wad ye be a-doin’ here, where ’tis forbidden to venture by order of the General?’
    ‘We were just out for a walk,’ said Captain Radhakrishnan, much subdued.
    ‘Sure, sure. With weapons to catch the fresh air, no doubt.’
    Herr Syrup stole from the shadows and began to pedal back the way he came. Words drifted after him. ‘We’ll jist see what himself has to say about this donnybrookin’, me lads. Throw down your gear! ‘Bout face! March!’
    Herr Syrup pedaled a little