“This is something which my history-download suggests humans have often done,” Doc said. “I can only put this down to the intrinsic conservatism of the human intellect, which, in turn, judging from Hegel’s remarks on—”
Chip raised his eyes to heaven. “Oh, put a sock in it, Doc.”
Fal nudged Pistol. “Do you think he gets girls to let him work his wicked will on ’em by threatening to go on talking?”
The one-eyed rat chuckled. “Or do you think they think all that hot air makes him rise better?”
“Ha, Ancient Pistol,” said Fal assuming an attitude of profundity. “He’s so windy he probably floats above them.”
“It is a good thing no one’s sticking a prick into him,” cackled Pistol. “He’d whizz around the room.”
Fal and Pistol heckled on cheerfully as they walked across to the workshop. Doc, as usual, paid them no mind.
* * *
“Are you sure this thing will fit in the tunnels?” Eamon peered doubtfully at the little tractor.
Chip nodded. “Yep. And yep again to the trailer.”
Eamon’s interest was definitely pricked. “Well, then. Here is some barbed wire . . . There are many possibilities here.” You could almost see more ways of generating mayhem boiling out of Eamon’s head as he fluttered around the room.
Chip began to rummage among the pieces of angle iron.
“Why are you doing this?” asked Doc curiously, from a perch on the chain bin. “I know you think that this idea is flawed in concept.”
Chip snorted. “I think it is barking insane, never mind flawed. Think about it, Doc. A handful of rat, bat and Vat grunts, and we’re going to go and take on a couple of million Maggots. As if that wasn’t bad enough, we’ve got an alien who claims to be ‘an academic rather than a warrior,’ a useless Shareholder girl, and a little big-eyed half-rat-sized monkey as passengers. We should be running and hiding. Doing our best to get out. We’ve found out all sorts of things about the Maggots that could change the war. We could take flamethrowers to the Maggots . . . we also know now it is no use trying to trick them, because what one Maggot knows all of them do. Kind of explains why all of high command’s ‘big pushes’ have gone spectacularly wrong, doesn’t it? And with Shaw’s daughter someone might even listen to what we’ve found out. Instead we’re going on this suicide plunge. A mission that can’t work.”
The rat looked thoughtful, wrinkling his forehead. “Then why have you not decided to go your own way?”
Chip rolled the front wheel of the little tractor up to the axle hub. “Why are you going along, Doc? You sound half crazy spouting that Hegel stuff, but I’ve noticed there is some good sense underneath it all.”
Doc thought over his reply for some time. “Hegelian philosophy contains the essence of logical thought,” he mused. “But I do this . . . because I feel compelled to do it.”
“If you ask me, that Crotchet-built crap in your head isn’t working properly. Well, if we’re gonna do this, then let’s do this so that the tractor at least works. Pass me that spanner.”
* * *
“Virginia, this is no occupation for a gentlegalago!” Fluff rubbed his pinched fingers and stared balefully at a pair of pliers nearly bigger than himself.
Virginia could sympathize. She’d never worked with wire before. Her hands felt raw. Yet there was no way she was going to stop. Everybody was working. Well, except for the Professor. He couldn’t really manage this sort of thing, and it wasn’t fair to expect him—her—to try, no matter what Chip said.
* * *
The problem wasn’t just the work force, however. It was also a lack of knowledge and dexterity. Chip was the only one who had even been in a workshop before, and that had been simply been basic Vat workshop training. His knowledge of internal combustion engines was limited. When he’d been little more than a pot scrubber at the restaurant, he’d sometimes been chased off to go and help the jack-of-all-trades-mechanic who kept Chez Henri-Pierre and its vehicles running.