by Walt Staples
Dr. Nordheimer Pomphee slammed his fist on his desk, producing an almost musical note. “I will not have it. Not in my team.”
The little man on the other side of the desk raised one bushy eyebrow. “Oh? And you plan to do what exactly?”
The head of the Avenir's astrophysics team purpled as he gripped the arms of his executive swivel chair. Through gritted teeth, he answered, “The name stays 'Sheba.' I am the team lead...ergo, I am the team.”
The other preened the huge mustache that hid most of his lower face, a green glimmer playing in the shadows beneath his luxuriant eyebrows. His reply was quiet, “Then you are a team very close to fragmenting and flying off in unfortunate directions. Look, it was bad enough that you personally jumped the gun and announced that 94 Ceti A's second planet has a satellite before we're close enough to nail down why that planet has a fast wiggle of its axis. What's the rush? I mean, how long has Avenir been outward bound from Earth? A week or two more's going to make a difference? Then you had to go and name that satellite, 'Sheba,' without input from the rest of the team. Why 'Sheba?' Where did that come from? What has it to do with 'Eclectia?'”
“Rank hath its privileges.” The tall man brought his hands together on the desk in front of him and looked down a beaky nose at the astrochemist before him. “Now, get out.”
Tony Brazzi was waiting in the companionway outside. “Well, that went well,” he said brightly. “A rather rank situation I should think.”
The little man squinted one eye at the astronomer, then smiled ruefully as he tapped the bulkhead. “Does seem the shipwrights skimped a bit on sound-proofing.”
“So, what do we do, Dr. Niemand?”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Dr. Niemand set off toward the lift. “So, you go back and try to find out why both Eclectia and Sheba have the shimmies. And I go and try to find out where 'Sheba' comes from.”
Tony hooked a thumb back toward the door. “What about him?”
The astrochemist cocked his head. “I've always been of the opinion that once someone flatly rejects reason, the only course open is to find a comfortable place to sit and watch them make a fool of themselves. After all, one should not stand in the way of high art.”
#
During the dog watch, the little astrochemist stopped before the door of an auxiliary to the main data office. After bypassing the door sensors and those of the office, he settled himself at the subsupervisor's console. He punched in “Personal: Nordheimer Quintilius Pomphee” and a long string of alpha-numerics. He leaned back watching the blur of information flow across the screen. At the point of Pomphee's sixth birthday, he slowed the flow and turned up the volume. He replayed the sequence three times, watching the young Pomphee joyfully accept his wiggling birthday gift. Dr. Niemand sat lost in thought for some time, then coming to a decision, made a modification to the record so that it could only be opened with Pomphee's biosignature.
#
Tony rubbed tired, aching eyes, then looked at the numbers on the screen once more. There was something there, but he just couldn't put his hand on it. He turned to where Dr. Niemand lounged, feet up, reading a hardcopy from Tony's collection. The astronomer sighed, linked his hands behind his head, and tensed his muscles. He relaxed and asked, “Which one are you reading?”
The astrochemist smiled and answered without looking up, “King Solomon's Mines.”
Tony grinned. “Printed that out yesterday. Stayed up most of the night reading it. Alan's quite something.”
The little man turned a page fondly, “We're old friends, the hunter and I.” He looked up. “Problem?”
Tony gestured toward the numbers. “There's something hiding in there, but every time I get close, it skitters away.”
Dr. Niemand gazed at the screen thoughtfully as he ran a finger over his mustache. “Ne, as someone said once, 'when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'”
Tony turned back to the screen with a frown. After a moment or two, his eyebrows went up. He stared at the screen unseeing for a moment longer, then said quietly, “Oh, my.”
#
“They are Sheba I and Sheba II,” Pomphee blazed. He and the astrophysics team had been deadlocked for the past four days. One by one, those who normally backed his decisions had fallen by the wayside; either convinced by argument or through exhaustion. He looked from grim face to grim face like a boar brought to bay. His glare settled on one who entertained a half-smile. “You find this funny, Niemand?”
“Sorry, gas.” The astrochemist replied blandly. He nodded slightly to Elizabeth Rona, the tall, shapely planetologist.
Taking her cue, she spoke, “I can make it worth your while, Nord.”
He stared at her, thunderstruck. Coming to himself, he stormed, “First argument, then threats, now you offer yourself?”
Her laugh was musical. “No Nord, I have much too much respect for both of us. No, what I offer is something unique on the Avenir. If you will yield and accept Tony's name for the second moon, I will supply you with one chocolate covered fresh strawberry per day until we reach orbit around Eclectia. Think how long it's been since you tasted one, Nord. Each from my personal plant in hydroponics.”
The team leader's face lost its anger as he looked back over the decades to a very special birthday. He licked his lips and swallowed. He nodded curtly. “All right. The second moon is Quat—what was it again?”
“Quatermain,” Tony supplied.
“Fool name.” Pomphee lowered his head as if in remembrance of something and walked out.
“Not perhaps as good as the name of a beloved pet from when one was a boy, but a good name on the whole,” Dr. Niemand observed to himself just loud enough for Tony to overhear.
The astronomer asked from the side of his mouth, “How did you know he would go for it?”
“Ah, t'would be telling.” He tilted his head and grinned.
Tony shook his head. “You are a scary man, sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” the little man agreed.
Showing posts with label Quatermain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Quatermain. Show all posts
Friday, February 17, 2012
Friday, October 14, 2011
Rockstars: All That Glitters
by Walt Staples
Someone once said you can tell a field geologist’s environment suit from a miner’s by the smell. While in both, sweat overpowers the other normal suit stinks—halitosis, machine oil, and urine—there’s also the whiff of erudition. Whoever said it must have been a field geologist, because it’s a cinch nobody else would.
Oolite-Head Marx and I were working the north slope of Quatermain’s core caldera. Head got his nickname from two things; his head is shaped just like an egg and his was the biggest discovery of oolitic hematite on the south caldera slope.
What’s oolitic hematite?
Look it up, Ace. That’s why you lug that computer around on your wrist, ain’t it? Can’t watch porn all the time.
Anyway, as I was saying, the two of us had been dirtside for about a five-day when we’d made camp the night before. Next morning I’m dragging my butt out of the bubble--we were carrying one-mans because we’d had to leave the hopper eight klicks back down slope while we yomped all the field equipment up to the bluffs—and there’s Head staring through the theodolite at the bluffs. Head is not a morning person so naturally I had to say, “My, getting dedicated in our old age aren’t we.”
Without turning around, he stepped to the side, gestured at the theodolite and said, “Shadup and take a look, funny man.”
I stooped down—Head’s shorter than me—and looked through the eyepiece. About 200 meters down from the edge, something gleamed in Eclectia’s bounce light. “Interesting.” I straightened up and looked at Head. “Do we set up the laser?”
The Whale was below the horizon so we didn’t have our filters down. I could see him chewing the end of that mustache of his. “We could…but if it’s noble, we just gonna put a hole in it.”
“Could be pyrite.”
He nodded. “Could be but…” He let it hang for a minute. He cocked his head and squinted one eye. “Just don’t feel right for fool’s gold.”
Head’s famous for his “feelings.” But, considering he’s right about 80 percent of the time, you listen to him.
With a bit of dread, I asked, “So we go down and drag the laser back up here?”
Head put his fists on his hips and looked at the ground for a moment. Then he looked back up at me. “I’m agin it for the same reason you are, Roy. I’m just as lazy as you are an’ it’ll blow the whole day. Though there is another way…” He leered at me through his visor.
With a prophetic sinking feeling, I knew just what he meant. I shook my head in defeat. “Yep, you did it last time. My turn again.”
#
I checked that the spider silk cable would run free and that the hoist was properly anchored. The old rock hound joke runs that if it’s not, you’re the first to know, the recovery party is the second, and the coroner is the third. I don’t buy it. The insurance types seem to show up pretty fast.
I looked over the edge. In geology, you get used to looking off heights or you go into some other line of work, like pastry chef. Head was small as he looked back up at me from the theodolite about 100 meters from the cliff base. “Okay, Roy, I’ll tell you when you’re in the crosshairs.” The Whale was up and drowning out the bounce light from Eclectia, so we left the theodolite pointed at the location of the glimmer. Head would coach me to the spot.
I pointed the laser rangefinder at the foot of the bluff. The reading came back 643.81 meters. I did a little math in my head. If the hoist has 800 meters of line and something goes wrong, that means I can still dig a 156.19 meter hole in the ground. I hate those Jernigan hoists, they kill too many people. But, when you’re just starting out…
I checked my rig and turned my back to Head. “Okay, starting down.” I swallowed and stepped off. The overhang at the top meant I was dangling about a meter and a half from the buff face on the way down. All I had to do was stop lowering when Head sang out that I was even with the spot and shoot a sample. The sampler bit is rocket powered so there’s no kick to screw up your equilibrium and set you swinging. You might get the feeling that there’re a bunch of us idiots doing this sort of thing.
I tapped the “slow release” button and fell like a stone. Like I say, I hate Jernigans. I managed to say something pithy like, “Holy--!” before the reel seized up. I hung there for Lord only knows how long, trying to talk myself into opening my eyes. Instead, I decided to try to think up some better last words. I’d gotten to “Cry not for me, beautiful maidens of…” when something slapped me on the lower leg. Head’s voice was gentle between gasps and pants in my earphones, “Roy, open your eyes. It’s okay.”
I peeked out of one, then opened the other. I was hanging maybe two meters off the ground. “How do you know my eyes were closed?” My voice sounded shaky in my ears.
I couldn’t see Head’s grin through his filter, but I could hear him still panting from the run. “Because mine would be, son.”
I climbed the rest of the way down. “Now what? That motor’s got to be burnt out.”
Head plucked a pair of ascenders from his belt. “Can’t go down, so you go up. My turn--you go watch through the theodolite.”
Anyway, that’s how Head and I made the “Crappy Jernigan Strike.” He was right, it wasn’t pyrite. The gold assayed out at 18 grams per ton. Ever since, we’ve used a Haman Hoist. Like Head says, “Hey, use the best you can afford.”
Someone once said you can tell a field geologist’s environment suit from a miner’s by the smell. While in both, sweat overpowers the other normal suit stinks—halitosis, machine oil, and urine—there’s also the whiff of erudition. Whoever said it must have been a field geologist, because it’s a cinch nobody else would.
Oolite-Head Marx and I were working the north slope of Quatermain’s core caldera. Head got his nickname from two things; his head is shaped just like an egg and his was the biggest discovery of oolitic hematite on the south caldera slope.
What’s oolitic hematite?
Look it up, Ace. That’s why you lug that computer around on your wrist, ain’t it? Can’t watch porn all the time.
Anyway, as I was saying, the two of us had been dirtside for about a five-day when we’d made camp the night before. Next morning I’m dragging my butt out of the bubble--we were carrying one-mans because we’d had to leave the hopper eight klicks back down slope while we yomped all the field equipment up to the bluffs—and there’s Head staring through the theodolite at the bluffs. Head is not a morning person so naturally I had to say, “My, getting dedicated in our old age aren’t we.”
Without turning around, he stepped to the side, gestured at the theodolite and said, “Shadup and take a look, funny man.”
I stooped down—Head’s shorter than me—and looked through the eyepiece. About 200 meters down from the edge, something gleamed in Eclectia’s bounce light. “Interesting.” I straightened up and looked at Head. “Do we set up the laser?”
The Whale was below the horizon so we didn’t have our filters down. I could see him chewing the end of that mustache of his. “We could…but if it’s noble, we just gonna put a hole in it.”
“Could be pyrite.”
He nodded. “Could be but…” He let it hang for a minute. He cocked his head and squinted one eye. “Just don’t feel right for fool’s gold.”
Head’s famous for his “feelings.” But, considering he’s right about 80 percent of the time, you listen to him.
With a bit of dread, I asked, “So we go down and drag the laser back up here?”
Head put his fists on his hips and looked at the ground for a moment. Then he looked back up at me. “I’m agin it for the same reason you are, Roy. I’m just as lazy as you are an’ it’ll blow the whole day. Though there is another way…” He leered at me through his visor.
With a prophetic sinking feeling, I knew just what he meant. I shook my head in defeat. “Yep, you did it last time. My turn again.”
#
I checked that the spider silk cable would run free and that the hoist was properly anchored. The old rock hound joke runs that if it’s not, you’re the first to know, the recovery party is the second, and the coroner is the third. I don’t buy it. The insurance types seem to show up pretty fast.
I looked over the edge. In geology, you get used to looking off heights or you go into some other line of work, like pastry chef. Head was small as he looked back up at me from the theodolite about 100 meters from the cliff base. “Okay, Roy, I’ll tell you when you’re in the crosshairs.” The Whale was up and drowning out the bounce light from Eclectia, so we left the theodolite pointed at the location of the glimmer. Head would coach me to the spot.
I pointed the laser rangefinder at the foot of the bluff. The reading came back 643.81 meters. I did a little math in my head. If the hoist has 800 meters of line and something goes wrong, that means I can still dig a 156.19 meter hole in the ground. I hate those Jernigan hoists, they kill too many people. But, when you’re just starting out…
I checked my rig and turned my back to Head. “Okay, starting down.” I swallowed and stepped off. The overhang at the top meant I was dangling about a meter and a half from the buff face on the way down. All I had to do was stop lowering when Head sang out that I was even with the spot and shoot a sample. The sampler bit is rocket powered so there’s no kick to screw up your equilibrium and set you swinging. You might get the feeling that there’re a bunch of us idiots doing this sort of thing.
I tapped the “slow release” button and fell like a stone. Like I say, I hate Jernigans. I managed to say something pithy like, “Holy--!” before the reel seized up. I hung there for Lord only knows how long, trying to talk myself into opening my eyes. Instead, I decided to try to think up some better last words. I’d gotten to “Cry not for me, beautiful maidens of…” when something slapped me on the lower leg. Head’s voice was gentle between gasps and pants in my earphones, “Roy, open your eyes. It’s okay.”
I peeked out of one, then opened the other. I was hanging maybe two meters off the ground. “How do you know my eyes were closed?” My voice sounded shaky in my ears.
I couldn’t see Head’s grin through his filter, but I could hear him still panting from the run. “Because mine would be, son.”
I climbed the rest of the way down. “Now what? That motor’s got to be burnt out.”
Head plucked a pair of ascenders from his belt. “Can’t go down, so you go up. My turn--you go watch through the theodolite.”
Anyway, that’s how Head and I made the “Crappy Jernigan Strike.” He was right, it wasn’t pyrite. The gold assayed out at 18 grams per ton. Ever since, we’ve used a Haman Hoist. Like Head says, “Hey, use the best you can afford.”
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