Analog SFF, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The trip from Central Garage to Richmond is roughly thirty miles as the crow flies, which is pretty much the way that Bubba Pritchert and his passenger made the journey. The trip was eventful. Along the way, Bubba performed a series of loops, inside rolls, outside rolls, dives, Immelmanns, right-angle turns, spins, tumbles, and abrupt stops. He stayed well out of commercial air space and, as best he could, explained to an increasingly white-knuckled Breen what he was doing and how the alien craft prevented them from experiencing the sometimes-violent effects of acceleration and deceleration. At one point he ran the saucer straight at a tall oak to demonstrate how the automatic systems would prevent collisions.

  By the time they landed next to the flagpole on the specially reinforced roof of Yesterday's Restaurant (Bubba ate there frequently), Breen was red in the face and had gripped the hand-rest of his seat almost hard enough to leave fingerprints in the metal. His hair also looked three shades lighter, but that may have been a trick of the light.

  “Well,” Bubba said as he helped Breen stumble down the ramp to the roof, “what d'you think?"

  Breen clutched desperately at the flagpole with one hand, breathing hard and shaking. “I have never been so ... there's no ... Do you have any idea...?” He ran a trembling hand through his hair, pounded his fist against the flagpole, and then gathered himself with a deep, shuddering breath. “Mr. Pritchert. That was ... God, that was great!" He laughed shakily. “I can't believe you did those things! You stopped dead at the top of a loop, you drove us through a river...."

  “That was the Mattaponi. Pretty, ain't it?"

  “...and that tree! It was just all so ... so cool! Mr. Pritchert..."

  “Bubba, please."

  “Yes, of course, Bubba. And you call me Marty, okay? Bubba, I've flown in just about every form of aircraft known to man. I've piloted airliners, biplanes, stealth fighters, even an old Mustang my dad restored. When I was in the Air Force, I even flew an SR-71. I've flown a gyrocopter, for crying out loud. But I've never experienced anything remotely like what you did this afternoon. Wow!” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  Bubba smiled and nodded. “Worked up an appetite, huh? Let's eat. After you.” He raised the trapdoor and they walked down the stairs into the restaurant.

  It was comfortable and well lit, and the waitresses all knew Bubba by name. The two men were seated next to a window. There was a blue, late model Monte Carlo parked just outside with the number “16” painted on the driver's door. The walls of the dining room were covered with “Flying A” signs and racing memorabilia as well as old magazine ads. Just above them was a two-page spread showing a cat in an Army uniform advertising the C&O Railroad. In one corner stood an ancient Flying A gas pump.

  “Interesting decor,” Breen said, looking around.

  “Yeah, the owner's dad used to run a Flying A station in Wisconsin. I worked for him for a while back when I was a kid."

  Breen cocked his head. “I thought you were born and raised in Virginia."

  “I was. Long story."

  Their waitress brought Bubba a bottle of Carver's ginger ale without being asked and took their orders.

  “Save room for dessert,” Bubba said with a wink. “Rob's mom makes ‘em herself."

  The meatloaf was hot, juicy, and covered in gravy, with just enough tomato sauce to make it interesting. Bubba kept up a constant banter with the staff, and introduced Breen to the owner.

  “Rob, this is Marty Breen from the FAA."

  “Ah, they finally caught up to you, huh? Nice to meet you, Mr. Breen. Bubba take you for a ride in his flying machine?"

  “I'll say he did. My hair is probably several shades lighter, but I wouldn't trade the experience for a gallon of Grecian Formula.” The three men laughed.

  “Rob races stock down at the Speedway, that's his Monte Carlo out front. You runnin’ this weekend, Rob?"

  Rob shook his head. “Nope, I'll be too busy here. We got a wedding party to cater.” He smiled. “You doing anything this September?"

  “Nothing planned, why?” Bubba asked.

  Rob shrugged. “Chevy Rock'n'Roll 400 coming up. How'd you like for the XL-5 to be the pace car?"

  Bubba was speechless for a moment. “You can do that?"

  “I got some pull at the track. As long as you can do seventy miles per hour for a lap, and wear our colors, you got it made in the shade."

  “Oh, man, that'd just be neater'n a ‘skeeter's peter, Rob! I'm your boy. Just tell me where and when."

  “I'll be in touch. You still out in the ass end of nowhere?"

  “If by that you mean the fine municipality of Central Garage, yes, I am."

  The waitress came back to ask for their dessert orders; Breen ordered the key lime pie at Bubba's suggestion, while Bubba himself asked for the strawberry cake. They finished, and both sat back completely satisfied. Their waitress cleared their table and brought coffee.

  “So, Marty. What has the FAA decided?"

  Breen sipped his coffee. “Well, we knew right away what it wasn't. It wasn't an airplane, seaplane, glider, rotorcraft, airship or balloon. We understood that even before I had the chance to inspect it."

  “Okay, that's what it ain't. That's a lot of stuff it ain't. So, what does that leave?"

  “I'm not quite done yet. It certainly fits Federal Aviation Regulation 1.1, a device that is used or intended to be used for flight in the air, but it's not an airplane since it doesn't depend on airfoils. And it's none of the other things that define more-or-less standard aircraft, and it certainly isn't a rocket.” He took another sip of coffee. “We wrangled long and hard just to get that far, Bubba. There was a lot of debate, a lot of arguing, and at least one commissioner resigned over the whole idea of a flying saucer being licensed at all."

  “All this just so I can tow an old car.” Bubba shook his head ruefully. “If I'da knowed it would be this much hassle, I'da took up needlepoint."

  Breen smiled. “Well, there is a classification we can use. It's temporary until a permanent certification is determined, but it'll allow you to fulfill your contract. But,” he raised a finger, “there's a catch."

  “Okay, I'll bite. What is it?"

  “FAR Sec. 91.319, the experimental certificate. It's a limited operations certificate, and we would have to work out the details very carefully, but it can be done."

  “And the catch?"

  Breen drained his cup. “Well, mostly, you won't get paid."

  Bubba stared. “What do you mean, I won't get paid? Hell, even Sherpas get paid!"

  “I knew this would be a problem,” Breen sighed. “You can't fly an experimental aircraft and carry persons or property for hire. Sec. 91.319(a)(2)."

  “The hell with your Sec. 91.319(a)(2)! I got a contract with the National Air and Space Museum. With the Smithsonian!"

  “Immaterial, really. Your contract will simply have to be renegotiated. Unless you agree to abide by the terms and conditions of the certificate, we can't allow you to fly over a densely populated area or in a congested airway.” He placed the cup carefully back on its saucer. “I really am sorry, Bubba. It's the only way you can fly, and the only way we can grant you the certificate."

  Bubba sat, fuming, tapping his finger against his coffee cup. “Shit on a stick. There's got to be some way.... Look, Marty, I'm a professional. That means I get paid, somehow or another. Now, the terms of the contract are such that I can't profit directly from anything I bring back. That only left the fee for the actual towing, and now you're telling me that I won't even get that?"

  “I'm sorry."

  “Damn! Hell! Sonofabitch! Well,” he said resignedly, “it ain't your fault, and I got no right to get angry with you. I don't have to like the situation, but it looks like I'm gonna have to deal with it whether I like it or not.” He stood and grabbed the check off the table. “Come on, I'll get us back to the garage. Maybe I can figure something out."

  The “something” was an emergency renegotiation of the
original contract, called by Bubba and Kirby a few days later. The two men had frantically gone over every line of the contract looking for a loophole, but it was as airtight as a shuttle cabin. Nevertheless, they headed for the Smithsonian offices.

  Kirby had been silent most of the way into DC, and as they mounted the steps of the Smithsonian Castle he hung back.

  “Bubba,” he said quietly. “You might want to get somebody else to handle this one. I'm, um, pretty outclassed here."

  “You'll do fine as frog hair, boy. You double on sax."

  “No, I'm not so sure I will. These guys are high-dollar attorneys with years of experience under their belts. I'm just a half-assed country lawyer."

  Bubba stared at him. “Last I checked you had the full complement of ass,” he said, “and you got a degree in international law from the goddam Sorbonne!"

  “Yeah, well,” Kirby muttered as he opened the door, “France is a country, isn't it?"

  The mechanic laughed as they entered the building. “C'mon, Kirbs. Let's go do some bidness."

  They made their way to a conference room on an upper floor. There was the usual furniture—a long table, expensively comfortable chairs, and lawyers. Before anyone else could say anything, Kirby cleared his throat and said in an authoritative voice, “Good morning, gentlemen. As I'm sure you already know, we're here to renegotiate the terms of the contract previously submitted by you to my client. As you know by now, the situation has changed, so the terms of the contract must be changed to reflect that. One aspect must not be changed, though; my client will be accompanied by his companion, the artificial intelligence referred to therein as ‘Mike.’ This is non-negotiable. With all that in mind, and with the understanding that we may very well be here for a while, can we please get some coffee?” With that, he sat in the chair at the end of the table and snapped his briefcase open.

  There was a silence in the room as the other lawyers glanced at each other. One of them coughed. Down at the other end of the table, a tall, dignified man with an almost totally bald head and aquiline features touched a button on the phone beside him and said, “Mark? Could you send in some coffee and pastries, please? Thank you.” While they were waiting, introductions were made and hands were shaken. The tall man was the representative of the Smithsonian/National Air and Space Museum, Herbert Lawler. He and Bubba smiled at each other, but said little.

  Several hours went by before the new situation could even be stipulated by all, hours of wrangling and hammering on minute points of law and statements of intent. At one point, Kirby and the other attorneys were almost toe-to-toe over something vital but microscopic, and Bubba decided that enough was too much. Lawler was looking similarly trapped. He caught Bubba's eye and motioned to the door with his head. Bubba glanced at the lawyers, then nodded and stood up as if to stretch. Ambling to the door, he was through it and into the hallway in the blink of an eye. After a few seconds, Lawler joined him.

  “You guys got a jakes on this floor?” Bubba asked.

  Lawler shrugged. “It wouldn't be very Smithsonian of us if we didn't, would it?” he said.

  “C'mon, then. I got to wash my hands like a race horse.” The two men walked down the hall in silence until they came to a door marked “Lounge.” Lawler keyed the door open and held it for Bubba.

  Once inside, Bubba looked around. There was a small refrigerator, several tables with sturdy chairs, a couch, several armchairs, and a microwave oven. It was well lit without being garish, and obviously designed for comfort.

  “Not bad,” Bubba said. “I was expecting ... well, something a lot less elaborate."

  “If you want, we can go across to Natural History and I'll show you our colony of Madagascar roaches. You can even pet one, if you like."

  “Thanks, pass. A bug is a bug to me."

  Lawler waved his guest to a chair. “How about a root beer?"

  “What kind you got?"

  The tall man rummaged in the fridge, rattling bottles and moving things around. “Looks like we've got Route 66, A&W, and a couple of bottles of Rat Bastard.” Seeing the surprised look on Bubba's face, he added, “A couple of us really like it, so we try and keep all the lounges stocked."

  “Rat Bastard Root Beer? Oh, I gotta try that.” He took the bottle he was handed and opened it with a twist. Lawler opened a can of A&W. They nodded to each other and raised their respective beverages in salute.

  “So,” Lawler said, settling into his chair and taking a drink. “What exactly do you want?"

  Bubba cocked his head and eyed the man. “I figure you know that already, or we'd still be back in that little room with the raptors.” He knocked back a slug of root beer, icy cold and as pungent as a stolen kiss.

  “Okay, so I've got a pretty good idea what you want. You already know what we want. How do we get to where we both get it?"

  “Well, we could always just write something that said ‘We the undersigned hereby agree,’ and then sign it."

  Lawler nodded thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “Yes ... yes, we could do that.” He shook his head. “It would never hold up, of course."

  “Naw, I s'pose not. Hmph. Okay, let's look at the whole thing. You want the Rover back so you can get the people excited again, and they'll annoy the hell out of their congress peeps, and NASA can nail down a tasty appropriation. Right so far?"

  “Perfectly,” Lawler replied, taking another drink.

  “I don't know, Mr. Lawler. I'm not sure it's right to bring it back. I think it ought to stay up there, where it belongs."

  “Why?"

  “Because that's where it was meant to be, in that big crater with the flag. We went to a lot of trouble to put it there, and it just doesn't seem right to haul it back. What if,” he leaned forward as he spoke, “I brought one of the others back? They're pretty much alike, aren't they? Wouldn't that be just as good?"

  “Would it have been ‘just as good’ if we exhibited the second plane to fly the Atlantic? Or a bomber ‘pretty much’ like the Enola Gay?"

  Bubba frowned. “Granted, but who would know? Would it really matter to someone looking at it in a museum?"

  Lawler sighed. “I would know. You would know. And yes, it would matter; anyone who would go to a museum or come to a traveling exhibition cares enough about it that it would matter."

  “But if it matters ... if it matters that much ... won't people be willing to bust their asses to go up there to see it? Wouldn't that, in fact, be better all around?"

  Lawler sighed again. “Realistically, that's not going to happen. Not in our lifetimes, not, perhaps, in this century. No, the place for it is here where there's a chance it will inspire people to be enthusiastic about going into space again. We can mount a permanent exhibit around it as the centerpiece, or create a mobile exhibit that would take it to science museums and schools all over the country.” He spread his hands. “I think you already know this, Mr. Pritchert. Why are you so reluctant, I wonder?"

  Bubba was silent. “It's ... hard to explain, Mr. Lawler."

  “Herb, please."

  “Okay, Herb. And you call me Bubba.” He closed his eyes. “You're asking me to manhandle something that is more important to me than anything except maybe the Bill of Rights. Or the Eagle, for that matter. The others, well, they're just cars. But this ... this is the first issue of Amazing Stories. This is the Gutenberg Bible, the Mona Lisa. It's one thing to tow somebody else's Mercedes or Bust-My-Windows, I'm insured for that. What happens if I drop this?"

  Lawler smiled slowly. “Mr. Pritchert—Bubba. You're a professional. We checked you out. You've never dropped a vehicle in your career. You've hauled old junkers with the same degree of care with which you towed your late aunt's Rolls.” He reached out and placed his hand on Bubba's arm. “We trust you, or you and I wouldn't be having this conversation."

  Bubba sat and thought. “Okay. Okay. I'm still not sure, but that's the job you're hiring me to do, so that's the job I'll do. Okay."

  “Glad that's settled. No
w we know what my side wants. How about you?"

  “I want...” Bubba paused. “Hell, I never put it into words before.” He sat forward, holding Lawler's gaze. “I want the whole thing, start to finish. I want the wonder, the excitement, the whole twenty-seven feet. I want the Last Frontier, Herb.” He sat back.

  Lawler placed his can on the table in front of him and pushed it forward with one finger. “What you want is about forty years out of stock,” he said quietly.

  Bubba shrugged. “As close as you can come, then.” He emptied his bottle and placed it close to the A&W can on the table. “I also want something for a special friend of mine, something that will be of enormous help in this little project of ours. I wouldn't mind being able to bring back a couple of rocks, too. And I want to get paid."

  “The FAA says that can't happen."

  Bubba grinned slowly. “I think I know a way it can.” The two men put their heads together. Presently, they both sat back and laughed.

  “I think this is all workable, Bubba,” Lawler said. “I don't think we'll have a problem with the wheels. We'll base it around a two-wheel robot base, I think, unless you have any objections. I know a company that will sell us one cheaply enough, or perhaps even donate it for promotional considerations. Let's see, their RMP is a two-wheeler based on the same principles as their upright models, without the handlebars, but with a platform...” he began sketching rapidly on a paper towel, then continued, “...to which we can add a superstructure that will take both the arms and the cameras. Easy enough. The robotics will be even simpler, they'll come pretty much right off the shelf. It helps that your friend...?"

  “Mike."

  “...that Mike is capable of controlling and coordinating the gyrostabilizer systems. Which reminds me, the platform has a narrow operating range that doesn't include moon temperatures. Can Mike handle that?"

  Bubba nodded. “Yeah, he worked that out after I let him know I was gonna get him wheels. He'll vent excess heat through the stasis field as needed. Walk in the park for him."

  Lawler shook his head in wonder. “A real artificial intelligence. Boy, what I wouldn't give to lease him for a year."