It was a couple of mornings later as measured by our chronometer, and, after a not very good breakfast, I was making rounds. It's odd how that unappetizing meal sticks in my memory. Sandra was acting third mate now, and Ralph had decreed that Martha Wayne take over as catering officer. And Martha, as the old saying goes, couldn't boil water without burning it. Sandra's scrambled eggs had always been a delight—fluffy but not watery, with the merest hint of garlic, prettied up with chopped parsley and paprika, piled high on crisp, lavishly buttered toast. The less said about Martha's scrambled eggs the better.
Anyhow, I was not in a good mood as I made my way aft from the wardroom. Flying Cloud was still accelerating slightly, so "down" was aft. Rather to my disappointment I discovered nothing with which to find fault in the farm, the compartment housing the hydroponic tanks and the yeast and tissue-culture vats. I hurried through the antimatter room—frankly, that huge, spherical casing surrounded by great horseshoe magnets always gave me the shivers. I knew what was inside it, and knew that should it ever make contact with normal matter we should all go up in a flare of uncontrolled and uncontrollable energy. In the auxiliary machinery space I did start finding fault. It was obvious that Peggy had done nothing as yet about removing the splinter-pierced panels of the internal sheathing to inspect the wiring.
But there was no sign of Peggy.
I continued aft, through the reactor room and then into the tunnel that led to the extreme stern. As I clambered down the ladder I heard the clinking of tools and the sound of a voice upraised in song. It was Doc Jenkins' not unpleasant tenor.
"Sally Brown, she's a bright mulatter—
Way, hey, roll and go!
She drinks rum and chews terbaccer—
Spend my money on Sally Brown!
"Sally Brown, she's a proper lady—
Way, hey, roll and go!
Got a house right full o' yaller babies—
Spend my money on Sally Brown!"
I dropped the last few feet into the transom space, landing with a faint thud. Doc Jenkins and Peggy looked up from what they were doing. Doc was wearing only a pair of shorts and his pudgy torso was streaked with grime and perspiration. Peggy was clad in disreputable overalls. She was holding a welding torch.
She said, rather guiltily, "Good morning, Peter."
"Good morning," I replied automatically. Then, "I know that I'm only the mate, but might I inquire what you two are up to?"
"We're going to make this bitch roll and go," replied Peggy happily.
"What do you mean?" I asked coldly.
I looked around the cramped compartment, saw two discarded space-suits that had been flung carelessly on to the deck. And I saw what looked like the breech of a gun protruding from the plating. Around its circumference the welding was still bright. I looked from it back to the spacesuits.
"Have you been outside?" I demanded.
"No," said Peggy.
"Don't worry, Peter," said Jenkins. "We didn't lose any atmosphere. We sealed the transom space off before we went to work, and put the pump on it . . ."
"Remote control," said Peggy, "from inside."
"And you pierced the hull?" I asked with mounting anger.
"Only a small hole," admitted the doctor.
"Damn it!" I flared. "This is too much. Only four days out and you're already space-happy. Burning holes in the shell plating and risking all our lives. And I still don't know what it's all about. When Ralph hears of this . . ."
"He'll be pleased," said Peggy simply.
"He'll be pleased, all right. He'll roll on the deck in uncontrollable ecstasy. He'll have your guts for a necktie, both of you, and then boot you out of the airlock without a spacesuit. He'll . . ."
"Be reasonable, Peter," admonished Jenkins.
"Be reasonable? I am being reasonable. Peggy here has work that she should be doing, instead of which I find her engaged in some fantastic act of sabotage with you, one of the ship's executive officers, aiding and abetting."
"Come off it, Peter," said the Doc. "I'm second mate of this wagon, and I signed the articles as such, and one of the clauses says that deck and engine room departments should cooperate . . ."
"Never mind this second mate business," I told him. "As ship's surgeon, you're still a member of the deck department, ranking with, but below, the mate. And as far as I'm concerned, the prime function of the engine room department is to do as it's bloody well told."
"Then why don't you tell me something?" asked Peggy, sweetly reasonable.
"I will," I promised. "I will. But, to begin with, you will tell me something. You will tell me just what the hell you two are playing at down here."
"Is that a lawful command?" asked Peggy.
"I suppose so," admitted Jenkins grudgingly.
"All right," she said slowly. "I'll tell you. What you see . . ." she kicked the breech of the cannon with a heavy shoe . . . "is the means whereby we shall exceed the speed of light."
"But it's impossible," I said.
"How do you know?" she countered.
"It's common knowledge," I sneered.
"Way back in the Middle Ages," she said, "it was common knowledge that the sun went around Earth . . ."
But I was giving her only half my attention. Out of the corner of my eyes I was watching Doc Jenkins. He was edging gradually towards the switch of the power point into which the welding tool was plugged. I shrugged. I didn't see why he had to be so surreptitious about it. If Peggy wanted to finish whatever welding she had been doing when I had disturbed them, what did it matter?
Or perhaps it did matter.
I said, "I suppose this welded seam is tight?"
"Of course," she said.
"Then we'll get back amidships. You've plenty of work to do in the auxiliary motor room."
"I have," she admitted.
Then my curiosity got the better of me. "But just how," I demanded, "did you ever hope to attain FTL?"
"This," she said, gesturing with the torch towards the breech of the gun, "is an auxiliary rocket. There is already a charge of solid propellant—Doc mixed it for me—in the firing chamber. We were going to connect up the wiring to the detonator when you interrupted us."
"It's just as well that I did interrupt you," I said. "But how was it supposed to work?"
"I thought that it would be obvious. The ship is already proceeding at almost the speed of light. The rocket is just to give her the extra nudge . . ."
I couldn't help laughing. "Peggy, Peggy, how naive can you be? And with homemade solid propellant yet!"
"Solid propellants have their advantages," she said.
"Such as?" I asked scornfully.
"This!" she snapped.
The welding torch flared blindingly. I realized her intention, but too late. As I tried to wrest the tool from her hands the metal casing of the firing chamber was already cherry red.
I felt rather than heard the whoomph of the exploding powder . . .