Eric Russell: Allamagoosa

“There’s one and only one,” McNaught announced. “ You will manufacture an offog.”

“Who? Me?” said Burman, twitching his scalp.

“You and no other. I’m fairly sure the thing is your pigeon, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s typical of the baby names used for your kind of stuff. I’ll bet a month’s pay that an offog is some sort of scientific allamagoosa. Something to do with fog, perhaps. Maybe a blind-approach gadget.”

“The blind-approach transceiver is called ‘the fumbly,’ ” Burman informed.

“There you are!” said McNaught as if that clinched it. “So you will make an offog. It will be completed by six tomorrow evening and ready for my inspection then. It had better be convincing, in fact pleasing. In fact its function will be convincing.”

Burman stood up, let his hands dangle, and said in hoarse tones, “How can I make an offog when I don’t even know what it is?”

“Neither does Cassidy know,” McNaught pointed out, leering at him. “He’s more of a quantity surveyor than anything else. As such he counts things, looks at things, certifies that they exist, accepts advice on whether they are functionally satisfactory or worn out. All we need do is concoct an imposing allamagoosa and tell him it’s the offog.”

“Holy Moses!” said Burman, fervently.

“Let us not rely on the dubious assistance of Biblical characters,” McNaught reproved. “Let us use the brains that God has given us. Get a grip on your soldering-iron and make a topnotch offog by six tomorrow evening. That’s an order!”

He departed, satisfied with this solution. Behind him, Burman gloomed at the wall and licked his lips once, twice.

Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy arrived right on time. He was a short, paunchy character with a florid complexion and eyes like those of a long-dead fish. His gait was an important strut. “Ah, Captain, I trust that you have everything shipshape.”

“Everything usually is,” assured McNaught, glibly. “I see to that.” He spoke with conviction.

“Good!” approved Cassidy. “I like a commander who takes his responsibilities seriously. Much as I regret saying so, there are a few who do not.” He marched through the main lock, his cod-eyes taking note of the fresh white enamel. “Where do you prefer to start, bow or tail?”

“My equipment-sheets run from bow backward. We may as well deal with them the way they’re set.”

“Very well.” He trotted officiously toward the nose, paused on the way to pat Peaslake and examine his collar. “Well cared-for, I see. Has the animal proved useful?”

“He saved five lives on Mardia by barking a 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. Switchboard, automatic, forty-line intercom, one of.”

“Here it is, sir.”

Cassidy glanced at it, returned his gaze to the sheet. The others used his momentary distraction to mop perspiration from their foreheads.

Victory had been gained.

All was well.

For the third time, hah!

Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy departed pleased and complimentary. Within one hour the crew bolted to town. McNaught took turns with Gregory at enjoying the gay lights. For the next five days all was peace and pleasure. On the sixth day, Burman brought in a signal, dumped it upon McNaught’s desk, and waited for the reaction. He had an air of gratification, the pleasure of one whose virtue is about to be rewarded.

Terran Headquarters to Bustler. Return here immediately for overhaul and refitting. Improved power plant to be installed. Feldman. Navy Op. Command. Sirisec.