The Misplaced Battleship

The Misplaced Battleship, by

Harry Harrison (AKA Henry Maxwell Dempsey) This eBook is for the
use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
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Title: The Misplaced Battleship
Author: Harry Harrison (AKA Henry Maxwell Dempsey)
Illustrator: Schoenherr
Release Date: September 8, 2007 [EBook #22541]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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MISPLACED BATTLESHIP ***

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THE MISPLACED BATTLESHIP
By HARRY HARRISON

It might seem a little careless to lose track of something as big as a
battleship ... but interstellar space is on a different scale of magnitude.
But a misplaced battleship--in the wrong hands!--can be most
dangerous.
Illustrated by Schoenherr
When it comes to picking locks and cracking safes I admit to no master.
The door to Inskipp's private quarters had an old-fashioned tumbler
drum that was easier to pick than my teeth. I must have gone through
that door without breaking step. Quiet as I was though, Inskipp still
heard me. The light came on and there he was sitting up in bed pointing
a .75 caliber recoilless at my sternum.
"You should have more brains than that, diGriz," he snarled. "Creeping
into my room at night! You could have been shot."
"No I couldn't," I told him, as he stowed the cannon back under his
pillow. "A man with a curiosity bump as big as yours will always talk
first and shoot later. And besides--none of this pussyfooting around in
the dark would be necessary if your screen was open and I could have
got a call through."
Inskipp yawned and poured himself a glass of water from the dispenser
unit above the bed. "Just because I head the Special Corps, doesn't
mean that I am the Special Corps," he said moistly while he drained the
glass. "I have to sleep sometime. My screen is open only for emergency
calls, not for every agent who needs his hand held."
"Meaning I am in the hand-holding category?" I asked with as much
sweetness as I could.
"Put yourself in any category you please," he grumbled as he slumped
down in the bed. "And also put yourself out into the hall and see me
tomorrow during working hours."
He was at my mercy, really. He wanted sleep so much. And he was
going to be wide awake so very soon.

"Do you know what this is?" I asked him, poking a large glossy pic
under his long broken nose. One eye opened slowly.
"Big warship of some kind, looks like Empire lines. Now for the last
time--go away!" he said.
"A very good guess for this late at night," I told him cheerily. "It is a
late Empire battleship of the Warlord class. Undoubtedly one of the
most truly efficient engines of destruction ever manufactured. Over a
half mile of defensive screens and armament, that could probably turn
any fleet existent today into fine radioactive ash--"
"Except for the fact that the last one was broken up for scrap over a
thousand years ago," he mumbled.
I leaned over and put my lips close to his ear. So there would be no
chance of misunderstanding. Speaking softly, but clearly.
"True, true," I said. "But wouldn't you be just a little bit interested if I
was to tell you that one is being built today?"
Oh, it was beautiful to watch. The covers went one way and Inskipp
went the other. In a single unfolding, in concerted motion he left the
horizontal and recumbent and stood tensely vertical against the wall.
Examining the pic of the battleship under the light. He apparently did
not believe in pajama bottoms and it hurt me to see the goose-bumps
rising on those thin shanks. But if the legs were thin, the voice was
more than full enough to make up for the difference.
"Talk, blast you diGriz--talk!" he roared. "What is this nonsense about
a battleship? Who's building it?"
I had my nail file out and was touching up a cuticle, holding it out for
inspection before I said anything. From the corner of my eye I could
see him getting purple about the face--but he kept quiet. I savored my
small moment of power.
"Put diGriz in charge of the record room for a while, you said, that way

he can learn the ropes. Burrowing around in century-old, dusty files
will be just the thing for a free spirit like Slippery Jim diGriz. Teach
him discipline. Show him what the Corps stands for. At the same time
it will get