"Aw, I'll bet you set the whole thing up. Anyway, I've got to be honest about it. I didn't do it for you. I didn't do it for me, either. I--I did it‑" And here he stood very tall, straight, and patriotic. "‑for the telephone company!" It was all he could do not to salute.
"Bravo! I wish there was something we could give you. A little token, a remembrance. I don't suppose you could use a nice scepter."
"I'm afraid not. No coronations for a month at least. I'm going on the wagon."
"Too bad. Well, here. Take this, anyway."
"Sure," said Charlie agreeably. The gnome thrust something into his raincoat pocket. "So long, Veen Grat! It was nice knowing you. Stop up at my place sometime. Play a couple games o' gi . . . o' gin!"
"I may do that," replied Van Groot. "Some night. I'll bring my own djinn."
Charlie was halfway up the tunnel when he whirled at a sudden thought and shouted back. "Hey, Van Greet!"
"Yes?" The voice floated down faintly from the distant blackness.
"What did you give me?"
"Why, a Flagan‑flange, of course."
Charlie giggled as he thought about it. He couldn't stop giggling. However, it wasn't so funny. This made him nervous, and he stopped. He was just about to enter into a symbiotic relationship with his mattress when there was a knock at his door. It repeated insistently. It refused to go away.
Grumbling, he stumbled blindly to the door and peered through the peephole‑no one just opens his door at two in the morning in New York. Suddenly he was sure he'd actually gone to sleep four hours ago and was now dreaming. But he opened the door.
It was Miss High‑Pressure Area.
She had a robe draped loosely over a nightgown no self‑respecting spider would hake owned up to. Cumulus formations were disturbingly apparent.
"Can I come in, Mister . . . uh . . ."
"Dimsdale," mumbled Charlie. "Charlie Dimsdale." He took two steps backward. Since he was still holding on to the knob, the door came with him.
She stepped inside, closed it behind her. The robe opened even more. So did Charlie's pupils. Proportionately.
"You're going to think I'm just terrible (this was a blatant falsehood), but . . ." She was staring at him in the strangest way. "I really can't . . . explain it. But, well, if you could just . . ."
She took a quick step forward and threw her arms around him. For someone out of practice, Charlie reacted well. She whispered something in his ear. It wasn't a weather report. What she said, softly, was, "It'll be okay. He thinks I'm in Geneva."
Charlie hung on and directed her into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind them. He listened gravely.
Now he knew what a Flagan‑flange attracted.
THRUST
Artists naturally inspire other artists. Contrary to certain theories, creativity does not take place in a vacuum. One could write an extensive book on the history of western art utilizing only paintings ‑of the temptation of Saint Anthony as illustrations. Science fiction writers can find the inspiration for whole novels in a throwaway line in a colleague's book.
Sometimes the inspiration takes the form of a challenge to do something different with a similar idea or approach. The result often surprises the writer, who may have started out intending to do something utterly different.
Many years ago Poul Anderson wrote a short novel about a beer powered spaceship. Poul knows his science, and the darned thing worked. I've never asked him where the idea came from, but one can imagine him sitting deep in conversation with physicists and chemists, working out the precise details of requisite orbital mechanics and thrust necessary for the story. Alternatively, one can imagine the likely reality.
Perhaps the concept came in the form of a challenge from a fan or colleague. Or maybe it arose out of a bud attack of what‑the‑hell. Regardless, the story that resulted was amusing and entertaining. Poul's stories always work.
Now me, my background in the hard sciences is the product of much head scratching and difficult research, not formal academia. But a challenge is a challenge. If a spaceship powered by beer, why not one propelled by something more unlikely still?
DAY 001‑22:32
Boyd Cottle, Commander, still sounds funny. Everyone on board is at least as nervous as I am, which is plenty. That is only to be expected. As everyone is also far too busy to allow nerves to affect their performance, I am not worried.
Dr. Sese Oyo has refused to administer tranquilizers to those in need of a relaxant. I concurred with her decision. This point in our journey is no time for anyone to be functioning at less than maximum efficiency. I have assigned additional work instead, believing that to be more effective in calming post-ignition jitters than a casual dose of coraphine.
All ship's functions are operating within 99.8 percent of prescribed parameters. Of course, the Secondjump pretty much runs herself. I can't escape the feeling that we're more passengers than crew.
By the way, Eva Ostersund and I traced the two‑tenths error to a minor malfunction. possibly/probably located within solid waste recycling. Though far from posing an immediate problem, its existence offended Moutiers's professional pride. He's hard at work correcting the problem. Dr. Oyo is helping him as best she can without neglecting her own job, which is primarily to keep a wary eye on us first deep‑space travelers.
We're all disgustingly healthy, she insists. Hardly surprising, since physical fitness was as important a criterion in our selection as any mental abilities.
Only sixteen years, four months, two days to Barnard's Star. That's barring the successful utilization of the Molenon Multiplier. None of us expects anything to come of that. We don't see how the installation of an alien device, however efficiently modified for human use, can help us. Especially when the experts don't profess to understand fully how it functions:
I realize that the Multiplier is somehow supposed to react to mental output and translate that into space‑time distortion leaps along our line of flight. I'll stick with the photon engines, thank you. Slow but steady wins the race.
On Day Twelve out Sese Oyo is supposed to lead us in our first "session." No one here is looking forward to what all consider essentially a waste of time, but orders are orders. The thought of six highly trained scientists squatting around muttering "om" while thinking positive thoughts about Barnard's Star strikes most of us as more than marginally ludicrous. I am willing to concede that such meditative sessions might have beneficial relaxing effects, however. That's the only reason I finally agreed to go along with this.
As nominal commander and chief programmer of mankind's first attempt to reach the stars, I'd like to register another formal objection, though.
DAY 003‑14:32
Smooth as vacuum so far. Moutiers found and corrected the problem with the solid waste recycler. Presently he's fiddling happily with his hydroponics. He figures he has thirty‑two years in which to create a better cantaloupe.
Kim Rahman purrs over her precious engines, which purr back at her. Our resident stargazer, Paul Usakos, can't wait until we leave the solar system. We all feel the same way. Morale is good. Astrogator Ostersund found a minute deviation in our course, which is not unexpected this early in the flight. She and Rahman will‑collaborate on correction.
Thank the city of Barsoom for the city lights' message. Yes, we are "Go," assure them, with all our thanks.
DAY 007‑11:43
Accomplished Uranus pass-by and beamed them records and messages. Our last close contact with civilization. Now we're truly outward bound. The rings have an ethereal beauty no photo can properly convey. Ostersund and I have seen them before, but it was a new sight for the rest of the crew. They spent hours at the ports, ooing and aping. They had time for sight‑seeing. We all have time.
The Secondjump is performing above all expectations.
DAY 012‑21:58
We just concluded our initial session under Dr. Oyo's guidance. Feeling no less idio
tic than I expected to, I returned to work while trying to avoid the immediate gazes of my fellow crew members. The overall reaction seemed to be one of embarrassment. Dr. Oyo says that repetition will cure this, but I'm not so sure. Only she and Jean‑Jacques Moutiers appeared to enter into the spirit of the thing. Moutiers is a bit of a flake, anyway. A wizard with life‑support systemology, but at heart he's a clown. It should be interesting to see what kind of better melon he can come up with.
Oh, by the way, the Molenon Multiplier works. I can hear the screams of pleasure at Tycho from out here. Go ahead and enjoy yourselves for a minute, folks.
Ostersund informs me, and I've separately confirmed, that our speed has increased by a factor of . . . well, check the readouts we're beaming back to you. What it means is that this wonderfully complex, altered alien gizmo you've had us truck all the way past Pluto will get us to Barnard's Star exactly two hours, four minutes earlier than predicted.
So much for the much ballyhooed "gift of the aliens," as the news media have been calling it. All that research and money and time to gain two lousy hours over sixteen years! I've half a mind to cut the monstrosity loose and chuck it out the rear lock. Might do it, too, if it wasn't so closely interstructured with the rest of the ship's systems.
Dr. Oyo insists we can do much better at our sessions. Sure we can.
Belated birthday greetings from Kim Rahman to her father down in Kuala Lumpur. By the time this message reaches him he'll be . . .older. Received birthday wishes from Mr. and Mrs. Usakos for Paul. He returns the greetings and says for his dad to tell everyone on his old rugby team that he won't be back in time for the playoffs but that he'll be back to coach their kids.
DAY 019‑08:27
Dr. Oyo says that our growing boredom is to be expected. She maintains that it's a stage that will pass as we settle more fully into in‑flight routine and grow completely accustomed to the fact that we're utterly cut off from additional human contact for thirty‑two years. I wish I was as certain. Actually, I have to confess that I'm a bit worried. All the work and games that are available, in addition to whatever we can invent, seem inadequate to relieve the present disenchantment. I am hoping this will pass, as Dr. Oyo claims.
Oh, there've been no outward signs of discontent. We're all too mentally stable for that, too well balanced. But I can tell when someone is enjoying themselves and when they're just going through the motions.
Even Kim Rahman's jewelry and sculpture are suffering. Paul is trying to help inspire her. His first flush of excitement at being able to observe the entire solar system has already faded.
Another session today. Dr. Oyo sounded pleased. Ostersund discovered another slight jump in our position. We'll now arrive at our destination three days, six hours ahead of schedule. I'm not impressed, although Sese (pardon me, Dr. Oyo) is excited.
I personally think we're doing the best we can. If the Multiplier can't do better than shave three days off a sixteen‑year trip, I personally don't hold much hope for its future benefits re interstellar travel.
DAY 033‑06:44
It appears we have to devote more and more time to simply staying sane. As ever, the Secondjump runs like a fine timepiece. All systems are performing flawlessly. Mankind can be proud of this ship.
Whether they'll be able to be as proud of us is presently open to question. I'm still not seriously concerned, but I am troubled by unpleasant prospects. Dr. Oyo and I had a private session yesterday. She ascribes my worry to my position as commander. My concerns, she explained, were typical of someone carrying my burden of responsibility.
When we finished our chat, she offered me a mild soporific. I refused it. I wasn't selected over three thousand other applicants for this position so that I could resort to artificial aids to retain control of myself.
DAY 045‑22:35
Moutiers took me aside yesterday. It seems that while running a routine check of recycling he discovered minute traces of a complex protein chain that shouldn't be in our food. He's personally unfamiliar with the chain and has no record of it in the chemical log supplied to him.
It's this lack of a record that troubles him. He's assured me that the proteins are harmless and may even be a benign additive that someone neglected to list in the log or computer. This omission is what offends him. As I believe I've mentioned before, Jean‑Jacques is a perfectionist.
I told him that if he was positive the proteins weren't harmful, he shouldn't let it worry him so much. As long as it did not interfere with his normal assignments I suggested he try and identify the stuff in his spare time. It will give him something else to do, which, God knows, we could all use.
DAY 055‑18:49
I went to ask Moutiers whether or not he'd isolated or identified the mysterious protein he discovered ten days ago. Moutiers was not at his station. I expected to find him in the hydroponics chambers, which I did. I did not expect to find him rolling around on unrecycled vegetable detritus with Kim Rahman.
Upon exiting without disturbing them and reviewing the matter dispassionately, I've decided not to say anything about it to anyone. Naturally I had no objection to Moutiers and Rahman enjoying themselves. No one expected that this crew of barely thirtyish healthy geniuses would remain celibate for thirty‑two years.
My concern was because Moutiers was apparently sacrificing bio‑efficiency for aesthetics, in the form of the mattress of unrecycled vegetation. That material should properly have been undergoing reworking in the ship's processors. However, it was good to see both crew members enjoying themselves so thoroughly. I feel that under the circumstances the temporary loss of maximal recycling efficiency can be overlooked.
DAY 062‑12:43
Prof. Rahman and Moutiers are neglecting their assignments regularly now. They're spending almost all their nonessential time in one or the other's cabin. Rahman has been using her personal sculpturing and jewelry-making equipment to fashion objects of a nature I prefer not to discuss at this time. I finally spoke to her about it. Her response was indifferent, to say the least.
Deeply troubled at this first actual break in discipline but realizing that a confrontation would probably do more harm than good, I had another private session with Dr. Oyo.
She reassured and relaxed me, as she always does. Why worry, she asked me, so long as the ship is operating efficiently? If ship performance actually began to suffer, then that would be the proper time to reinforce written rules. At least the depressing boredom of two members of the crew has been alleviated.
I have to admit she made sense. So I have left Moutiers and Rahman to their amusements.
It is clear that Moutiers's interest in melons has shifted from hydroponics to propulsion.
DAY 064‑03:08
Paul Usakos, our astronomer, is discussing astrogation with Eva Ostersund. Has been for some time, it now seems. Whatever courses they are negotiating involve a good deal of loud comment, audible even through their cabin doors.
While the Secondjump shows no ill effects from their neglect, the absence of constant monitoring of course and speed concerns me. I have been trying to compensate quietly by taking over some of Ostersund's and Usakos's functions. The overwork has Dr. Oyo worrying about me.
Another session with her yesterday. She is a consummate professional, and we are fortunate to have her on board.
It is becoming increasingly difficult for me to ignore the fact that for someone with three advanced degrees, including an M.D., Dr. Oyo is really built.
DAY 068‑12:53
There is something wrong with the ship, but no one seems to care. Ostersund was with both Usakos and Moutiers when I went to query her about if. She mumbled something about unexpected visual distortion of the stellar matrix, but she wasn't particularly coherent. Under the circumstances I thought it best not to insist on further conversation.
I attempted to discover the nature of the distortion, to learn whether it was external or shipboard in
source. Before I could hardly begin, I was interrupted by Dr. Oyo.
I am disturbed at the apparent complete collapse of ship routine, but the Secondjump ignores us. It continues placidly on its assigned course, oblivious to the adolescent tumblings of its organic components.
I confess Dr. Oyo's interruption and expressed concern for my health was not wholly unwelcome. Sese always knows how to make me feel better.
DAY 073‑02:21
For the first time in a long while we had another group session the other day. Only this time it did not involve meditation. I feel myself slipping further and further from reality, into an unreality of indescribable delight. The ship itself seems warmer, its colors softened even beyond their natural pastels.
It is now evident that as a child, part of my education was neglected severely. The others derive considerable pleasure, in a good‑natured way, from my awkwardness and bemusement. My willingness to learn and to experiment, however, mitigates any personal discomfort. All signs of moroseness and boredom have vanished. They still tend to tease me, though.
For example, the computer contains no reference for explaining to me the term "daisy chain." I have inferred, however, that it has nothing to do with formal botanical terminology.
DAY 080‑00:16
Jean‑Jacques returns to his beloved hydroponics just long enough to ensure that everything is functioning properly. He discovered a host of new proteins not listed in his catalog but is now convinced they are either harmless by‑products of our recycling machinery or beneficial additives.
Short Stories - Metrognome and other Stories Page 5