Mike told him.
When Mike had finished, one drink later, Peter Jeffers filled the
glasses for the third time and leaned back in his chair. "Tell me one
thing, ol' buddy, and think about it before you answer. If you had a
chance to get out of it gracefully, would you take back what you said?"
Mike the Angel thought it over. The sweep hand on the chronometer made
its rounds several times before he answered. Then, at last, he said:
"No. No, I wouldn't."
Jeffers pursed his lips, then said judicially: "In that case, you're not
doing badly at all. There's nothing wrong with you except the fact that
you're in love."
Mike downed the third drink fast and stood up. "Thanks, Pete," he said.
"That's what I was afraid of."
"Wait just one stinkin' minute," said Jeffers firmly. "Sit down."
Mike sat.
"What do you intend to do about it?" Jeffers asked.
Mike the Angel grinned at him. "What the hell else can I do but woo and
win the wench?"
Jeffers grinned back at him. "I reckon you know you got competition,
huh?"
"You mean Jake von Liegnitz?" Mike's face darkened. "I have the feeling
he's looking for something that doesn't include a marriage certificate."
"Love sure makes a man sound noble," said Jeffers philosophically. "If
you mean that all he wants is to get Leda into the sack, you're prob'ly
right. Normal reaction, I'd say. Can't blame Jake for that."
"I don't," said Mike. "But that doesn't mean I can't spike his guns."
"Course not. Again, a normal reaction."
"What about Lew Mellon?" Mike asked.
"Lew?" Jeffers raised his eyebrows. "I dunno. I think he likes to talk
to her, is all. But if he _is_ interested, he's bloody well serious.
He's a strict Anglo-Catholic, like yourself."
_I'm not as strict as I ought to be_, Mike thought. "I thought he had a
rather monkish air about him," he said aloud.
Jeffers chuckled. "Yeah, but I don't think he's so ascetic that he
wouldn't marry." His grin broadened. "Now, if we were still at ol'
Chilblains, you'd _really_ have competition. After all, you can't expect
that a gal who's stacked ... pardon me ... who has the magnificent
physical and physiognomical topography of Leda Crannon to spend her life
bein' ignored, now can you?"
"Nope," said Mike the Angel.
"Now, I figger," Jeffers said, "that you can purty much forget about Lew
Mellon. But Jakob von Liegnitz is a chromatically variant equine,
indeed."
Mike shook his head vigorously, as if to clear away the fog. "_Pfui!_
Let's change the subject. My heretofore nimble mind has been coagulated
by a pair of innocent blue eyes. I need my skull stirred up."
"I have a limerick," said Jeffers lightly. "It's about a young spaceman
named Mike, who said: 'I can do as I like!' And to prove his bright
quip, he took a round trip, clear to Sirius B on a bike. Or, the tale of
the pirate, Black Bart, whose head was as hard as his heart. When he
found--"
"Enough!" Mike the Angel held up a hand. "That distillate of fine old
grape has made us both silly. Good night. I'm going to get some sleep."
He stood up and winked at Jeffers. "And thanks for listening while I
bent your ear."
"Any time at all, ol' amoeba. And if you ever feel you need some advice
from an ol' married man, why you just trot right round, and I'll give
you plenty of bad advice."
"At least you're honest," Mike said. "Night."
Mike the Angel left the bridge as Commander Jeffers was putting the
brandy back in its hiding place.
Mike went to his quarters, hit the sack, and spent less than five
minutes getting to sleep. There was nothing worrying him now.
He didn't know how long he'd been asleep when he heard a noise in the
darkness of his room that made him sit up in bed, instantly awake. The
floater under him churned a little, but there was no noise. The room was
silent.
In the utter blackness of the room, Mike the Angel could see nothing,
and he could hear nothing but the all-pervading hum of the ship's
engines. But he could still feel and smell.
He searched back in his memory, trying to place the sound that had
awakened him. It hadn't been loud, merely unusual. It had been a noise
that shouldn't have been made in the stateroom. It had been a quiet
sound, really, but for the life of him, Mike couldn't remember what it
had sounded like.
But the evidence of his nerves told him there was someone else in the
room besides himself. Somewhere near him, something was radiating heat;
it was definitely perceptible in the air-conditioned coolness of his
room. And, too, there was the definite smell of warm oil--machine oil.
It was faint, but it was unmistakable.
And then he knew what the noise had been.
The soft purr of caterpillar treads against the floor!
Casually, Mike the Angel moved his hand to the wall plaque and touched
it lightly. The lights came on, dim and subdued.
"Hello, Snookums," said Mike the Angel gently. "What are you here for?"
The little robot just stood there for a second or two, unmoving, his
waldo hands clasped firmly in front of his chest. Mike suddenly wished
to Heaven that the metallic face could show something that Mike could
read.
"I came for data," said Snookums at last, in the contralto voice that so
resembled the voice of the woman who had trained him.
Mike started to say, "At this time of night?" Then he glanced at his
wrist. It was after seven-thirty in the morning, Greenwich time--which
was also ship time.
"What is it you want?" Mike asked.
"Can you dance?" asked Snookums.
"Yes," said Mike dazedly, "I can dance." For a moment he had the wild
idea that Snookums was going to ask him to do a few turns about the
floor.
"Thank you," said Snookums. His treads whirred, he turned as though on a
pivot, whizzed to the door, opened it, and was gone.
Mike the Angel stared at the door as though trying to see beyond it,
into the depths of the robot's brain itself.
"Now just what was _that_ all about?" he asked aloud.
In the padded silence of the stateroom, there wasn't even an echo to
answer him.
14
Mike the Angel spent the next three days in a pale blue funk which he
struggled valiantly against, at least to prevent it from becoming a deep
blue.
There was something wrong aboard the _Brainchild_, and Mike simply
couldn't quite figure what it was. He found that he wasn't the only one
who had been asked peculiar questions by Snookums. The little robot
seemed to have developed a sudden penchant for asking seemingly inane
questions.
Lieutenant Keku reported with a grin that Snookums had asked him if he
knew who Commander Gabriel _really_ was.
"What'd you say?" Mike had asked.
Keku had spread his hands and said: "I gave him the usual formula about
not being positive of my data, then I told him that you were known as
Mike the Angel and were well known in the power field."
Multhaus reported that Snookums had wanted to know what their
destination was. The chief's only possible answer, of course, had been:
"I don't have that data, Snookums."
Dr. Morris Fitzhugh had become more worried-looking than usual and had
confided to Mike that he, too, wondered why Snookums was asking such
peculiar questions.
"All he'll tell me," the roboticist had reported, wrinkling up his face,
"was that he was collecting data. But he flatly refused, even when
ordered, to tell me what he needed the data for."
Mike stayed away from Leda Crannon as much as possible; shipboard was no
place to try to conduct a romance. Not that he deliberately avoided her
in such a manner as to give offense, but he tried to appear busy at all
times.
She was busy, too. Keeping herd on Snookums was becoming something of a
problem. She had never attempted to watch him all the time. In the first
place, it was physically impossible; in the second place, she didn't
think Snookums would develop properly if he were to be kept under
constant supervision. But now, for the first time, she didn't have the
foggiest notion of what was going on inside the robot's mind, and she
couldn't find out. It puzzled and worried her, and between herself and
Dr. Fitzhugh there were several long conferences on Snookums' peculiar
behavior.
Mike the Angel found himself waiting for something to happen. He hadn't
the slightest notion what it was that he was waiting for, but he was as
certain of its coming as he was of the fact that the Earth was an oblate
spheroid.
But he certainly didn't expect it to begin the way it did.
A quiet evening bridge game is hardly the place for a riot to start.
Pete Jeffers was pounding the pillow in his stateroom; Captain Quill was
on the bridge, checking through the log.
In the officers' wardroom Mike the Angel was looking down at two hands
of cards, wondering whether he'd make his contract. His own hand held
the ace, nine, seven of spades; the ten, six, two of hearts; the jack,
ten, nine, four, three, and deuce of diamonds; and the eight of clubs.
Vaneski, his partner, had bid a club. Keku had answered with a take-out
double. Mike had looked at his hand, figured that since he and Vaneski
were vulnerable, while Keku and von Liegnitz were not, he bid a weakness
pre-empt of three diamonds. Von Liegnitz passed, and Vaneski had
answered back with five diamonds. Keku and Mike had both passed, and von
Liegnitz had doubled.
Now Mike was looking at Vaneski's dummy hand. No spades; the ace, queen,
five, and four of hearts; the queen, eight, seven, and six of diamonds;
and the ace, king, seven, four, and three of clubs.
And von Liegnitz had led the three of hearts.
It didn't look good. His opponents had the ace and king of trumps, and
with von Liegnitz' heart lead, it looked as though he might have to try
a finesse on the king of hearts. Still, there _might_ be another way
out.
Mike threw in the ace from dummy. Keku tossed in his seven, and Mike
threw in his own deuce. He took the next trick with the ace of clubs
from dummy, and the singleton eight in his own hand. The one after that
came from dummy, too; it was the king of clubs, and Mike threw in the
heart six from his own hand. From dummy, he led the three of clubs. Keku
went over it with a jack, but Mike took it with his deuce of diamonds.
He led the seven of spades to get back in dummy so he could use up those
clubs. Dummy took the trick with the six of diamonds, and led out with
the four of clubs.
Mike figured that Keku must--absolutely _must_--have the king of hearts.
Both his take-out double and von Liegnitz' heart lead pointed toward the
king in his hand. Now if....
Vaneski had moved around behind Mike to watch the play. Not one of them
noticed Lieutenant Lew Mellon, the Medical Officer, come into the room.
That is, they knew he had come in, but they had ignored him thereafter.
He was such a colorless nonentity that he simply seemed to fade into the
background of the walls once he had made his entrance.
Mike had taken seven tricks, and, as he had expected, lost the eighth to
von Liegnitz' five of diamonds. When the German led the nine of hearts,
Mike knew he had the game. He put in the queen from dummy, Keku tossed
in his king triumphantly, and Mike topped it with his lowly four of
diamonds.
If, as he suspected, his opponents' ace and king of diamonds were split,
he would get them both by losing the next trick and then make a clean
sweep of the board.
He threw in his nine of diamonds.
He just happened to glance at von Liegnitz as the navigator dropped his
king.
Then he lashed out with one foot, kicking at the leg of von Liegnitz'
chair. At the same time, he yelled, "Jake! Duck!"
He was almost too late. Mellon, his face contorted with a mixture of
anger and hatred, was standing just behind Jakob von Liegnitz. In one
hand was a heavy spanner, which he was bringing down with deadly force
on the navigator's skull.
Von Liegnitz' chair started to topple, and von Liegnitz himself spun
away from the blow. The spanner caught him on the shoulder, and he
grunted in pain, but he kept on moving away from Mellon.
The medic screamed something and lifted the spanner again.
By this time, Keku, too, was on his feet, moving toward Mellon. Mike the
Angel got behind Mellon, trying to grab at the heavy metal tool in
Mellon's hand.
Mellon seemed to sense him, for he jumped sideways, out of Mike's way,
and kicked backward at the same time, catching Mike on the shin with his
heel.
Von Liegnitz had made it to his feet by this time and was blocking the
downward swing of Mellon's arm with his own forearm. His other fist
pistoned out toward Mellon's face. It connected, sending Mellon
staggering backward into Mike the Angel's arms.
Von Liegnitz grabbed the spanner out of Mellon's hand and swung it
toward the medic's jaw. It was only inches away when Keku's hand grasped
the navigator's wrist.
And when the big Hawaiian's hand clamped on, von Liegnitz' hand stopped
almost dead.
Mellon was screaming. "You ----!" He ran out a string of unprintable and
almost un-understandable words. "I'll kill you! I'll do it yet! _You
stay away from Leda Crannon!_"
"Calm down, Doc!" snapped Mike the Angel. "What the hell's the matter
with you, anyway?"
Von Liegnitz was still straining, trying to get away from Keku to take
another swipe at the medic, but the huge Hawaiian held him easily. The
navigator had lapsed into his native German, and most of it was
unintelligible, except for an occasional reference to various improbable
combinations of animal life.
But Mellon was paying no attention. "You! I'll kill you! Lecher!
Dirty-minded, filthy...."
He went on.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, he smashed his heel down on Mike's toe. At
least, he tried to; he'd have done it if the toe had been there when his
heel came down. But Mike moved it just two inches and avoided the blow.
At the same time, though, Mellon twisted, and Mike's forced shift of
position lessened his leverage on the man's shoulders and arms. Mellon
almost got away. One hand grabbed the wrench from von Liegnitz, whose
grip had been weakened by the paralyzing pressure of Keku's fingers.
Mike had no choice but to slam a hard left into the man's solar plexus.
Mellon collapsed like an unoccupied overcoat.
By this time, von Liegnitz had quieted down. "Let go, Keku," he said.
"I'm all right." He looked down at the motionless figure on the deck.
"What the hell do you suppose was eating him?" he asked quietly.
"How's your shoulder?" Mike asked.
"Hurts like the devil, but I don't think it's busted. But why did he do
it?" he repeated.
"Sounds to me," said Keku dryly, "that he was nutty jealous of you. He
didn't like the times you took Leda Crannon to the base movies while we
were at Chilblains."
Jakob von Liegnitz continued to look down at the smaller man in wonder.
"_Lieber Gott_" he said finally. "I only took her out a couple of times.
I knew he liked her, but--" He stopped. "The guy must be off his
bearings."
"I smelled liquor on his breath," said Mike. "Let's get him down to his
stateroom and lock him in until he sobers up. I'll have to report this
to the captain. Can you carry him, Keku?"
Keku nodded and reached down. He put his hands under Mellon's armpits,
lifted him to his feet, and threw him over his shoulder.
"Good," said Mike the Angel. "I'll walk behind you and clop him one if
he wakes up and gets wise."
Vaneski was standing to one side, his face pale, his expression blank.
Mike said: "Jake, you and Vaneski go up and make the report to the
captain. Tell him we'll be up as soon as we've taken care of Mellon."
"Right," said von Liegnitz, massaging his bruised shoulder.
"Okay, Keku," said Mike, "forward march."
* * * * *
Lieutenant Keku thumbed the opener to Mellon's stateroom, shoved the
door aside, stepped in, and slapped at the switch plaque. The plates
lighted up, bathing the room in sunshiny brightness.
"Dump him on his sack," said Mike.
While Keku put the unconscious Mellon on his bed, Mike let his gaze
wander around the room. It was neat--almost too neat, implying
overfussiness. The medical reference books were on one shelf, all in
alphabetical order. Another shelf contained a copy of the _International
Encyclopedia_, English edition, plus several dictionaries, including one
on medical terms and another on theological ones.
On the desk lay a copy of the Bible, York translation, opened to the
Book of Tobit. Next to it were several sheets of blank paper and a small
traveling clock sat on them as a paperweight.
His clothing was hung neatly, in the approved regulation manner, with
his shoes in their proper places and his caps all lined up in a row.
Mike walked around the room, looking at everything.
"What's the matter? What're you looking for?" asked Keku.
"His liquor," said Mike the Angel.
"In his desk, lower left-hand drawer. You won't find anything but a
bottle of ruby port; Mellon was never a drinker."