Bubba frowned. “Mike isn't for rent, Herb. However, he might do a few favors for a friend. At a salary of, say, a dollar a year."
“We'll talk about it later,” Lawler said, then looked thoughtful. “How do you plan to get the Rover to the Right Coast from the Wrong Coast?"
“I'll lease a flatbed tow truck in Landers, California. Friend of mine, name of Kermit—electronics whiz and a charter member of SauNA—will fly there and drive it to Giant Rock. We'll take turns driving it back."
“What is this sauna of which you speak? Surely not a steam bath."
“'Saucer Nuts of America,’ Herb,” Bubba replied. “A little organization I started and of which I am President For Life."
“Oh. Um, how does one..."
“No problem, m'boy, I have came pre-pared.” Bubba reached into his bag and produced a bundle wrapped in brightly colored paper. “T-shirt, membership card, and decoder ring. You are SauNA member number, uh ... let's see, number 3.14159. How's that suit you?"
“Right down to the ground. Thank you, I'm honored. And now,” he said, tucking the bundle under his arm, “it's time we got back to the shark pit.” As they stood to leave, Lawler offered his hand, and Bubba shook it warmly.
“Let's go poke some lawyers with a stick,” he said.
“I think I'd enjoy that,” Lawler said with a smile.
When they reentered the room, the discussion had advanced to whether or not an artificial intelligence could legally be included as one of the Party of the First Part, or if it should be listed separately. The sticking point seemed to be whether or not Mike could even be considered a person under the law.
“Gentlemen?” Lawler said just loudly enough to be heard over the ongoing discussion. “Gentlemen, attention, please.” Gradually the room quieted, and all eyes turned to him. He held up a stack of napkins. “Mr. Pritchert and I have worked out the give-and-take. We are agreed. Your job,” he said, looking at each of his legal team in turn, “is to implement this in detail."
“But...” one of the lawyers protested. “We don't even know what you've agreed to."
“Herb,” said the head of the legal department, “do you really expect us to create a new contract out of cocktail napkins and ... is that a paper towel?"
“Yes, it is,” Lawler said. “And yes, I do."
The lawyers muttered amongst themselves. Kirby nudged Bubba and said, “Erm ... what might you have gotten us into? Is this even going to be valid?"
Bubba shrugged. “You'll have to make sure. Lawler and I are good to go, I can tell you that."
“Okay,” Kirby said with a sigh. “I'll do my best."
“You always do."
Lawler rapped on the table with his knuckles. “Gentlemen, I don't think you fully understand. What I've handed you is exactly what Mr. Pritchert and I have come to an agreement on. I want it written up, with no additions or changes, and on my desk by the end of business Wednesday. That's two days from now.” He dropped the napkins on the table. “The basic terms will be as follows: first, we will guarantee Mr. Pritchert payment in the amount of fifteen thousand dollars."
“Standard mileage charge for a cross-country tow, gentlemen,” Bubba said.
One of the junior lawyers interrupted. “But the FAA..."
Lawler raised a hand. “The FAA restriction only applies to Mr. Pritchert's unique, er, conveyance. The payment will be for a land tow from California to Maryland.” There was an instant murmur of voices around the room. The head of the legal department looked interested. “Due to circumstances beyond his control,” Lawler went on over the muttering, “Mr. Pritchert cannot fly the Rover directly to the Garber Center in Suitland. He says he can guarantee the Rover's safety, as well as quarantine requirements, to my satisfaction as well as NASA's.
“Second, in cooperation with NASA, who clearly has a vested interest in the success of this project, we will supply the hardware and manpower necessary to equip Mr. Pritchert's, er, assistant with mobility and manipulatory apparatus so that he can actively aid in the recovery of the Rover, specifically a Segway® device, two stock robotic arms, and a pair of digital cameras.” There was more muttering. “Third, I think we can see our way clear to allowing Mr. Pritchert to bring home one or two moon rocks, as long as he doesn't auction them off online."
“Oh, this is just ridiculous,” one of the junior lawyers snorted. “Mr. Pratchett..."
“Pritchert,” Lawler corrected sharply.
“Sorry, Mr. Pritchert. Why on earth should we agree to any of this? What makes you so special that you deserve these absurd considerations?"
Bubba grinned slowly and leaned toward the man. “Because, sir, as I have been reminded a number of times in the past few days, I have a functional flying saucer.” He sat back and folded his hands over his chest. “What have you got, boy, a Big Wheel?"
Lawler cleared his throat. “Right, that about does it. Wednesday afternoon at the latest, please,” he said, and drawing himself up to his full height, bald head raised high, and Roman nose thrust forward proudly, he pointed at his chief lawyer and said, “Make it so, Number One."
There were groans from the back of the room. “God, I hate it when he does that,” one of the lawyers said under his breath. The legal head suppressed a smile. “I'll see to it right away, Captain,” and left the room, trailing the other lawyers behind him.
* * * *
The next few weeks were as busy as a Frenchman's sombrero. To protect themselves from possible liability, the lawyers insisted that their civilian contractor be given a complete medical checkup. He was subjected to the usual battery of tests, poked, prodded, questioned on matters he would ordinarily have felt embarrassed to discuss with strangers, and otherwise handled like one of Clint Miller's beef cows on auction day. Bubba passed with flying, as it were, colors.
His next ordeal was much more pleasant. He was flown to Johnson Space Center where he was thoroughly measured, and the determination made that he was close enough in size to ex-mission specialist “Ox” van Hoften to be able to use his Hard Upper Torso, despite its having been out of service for a decade or so. “Don't worry about the gasketing,” a technician told him. “It's been refurbed. Doc Ox passes his good wishes along, too.” The leg and arm sections could be taken off the rack.
The suit was extremely heavy under full gravity, so there were several technicians there to help him into it in the Neutral Buoyancy Laboratory. “Whoo, boy,” Bubba said as he sat while a NASA fitter helped him pull on the LTA. “I feel like I'm on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. These come with pleats?"
Without looking up, the technician said, “Don't worry, we'll do Carson proud. Just don't try and ‘jeuge’ the sleeves."
Then it was into the huge pool. As a rule, for each hour of planned EVA, an astronaut spends eight in the water; in Bubba's case, since he'd never gone through the astronauts’ “boot camp,” they gave him more time. Within several days, he was almost as comfortable working in the suit under a simulated one-sixth gravity as he was in coveralls in his own garage. It left him feeling tired, but elated.
The next step was less pleasant, ultimately. On his next to the last day at Johnson, they took him up in the C9 Skytrain II aircraft, known by all who've ridden in it as the Vomit Comet. A medic gave him Dramamine by way of preparation. “Am I really gonna need this?” Bubba asked.
“Pretty much everybody does. There are those, in fact, who blow chunks on the first dive.” He grinned savagely. “No backsies. They have to stick it out for the whole ride."
“Oh. Okay.” He swallowed the pills. “I brought these, too,” and he reached into his pocket and pulled out an Altoids tin. He opened it and showed the tech the small brown pills it contained. “Ginger. Worked for the Mythbusters."
“Hey, knock yourself out,” the technician said. “Not literally, of course."
The big C9 took off and climbed, seemingly endlessly, until it reached thirty thousand feet. Then it dropped. For the next half minute or so, Bubba Pritche
rt of Central Garage, Virginia, floated about the cabin whooping like a ten-year-old and bouncing off the padded walls, somersaulting, spinning, and flapping his arms like a madman, while the technicians tried desperately to keep out of his way.
The first ten parabolas were exhilarating. The second ten were exciting. The third ten could be described as “interesting,” if only from the standpoint of making a carefully detailed list of everything he'd had to eat in the past week. Before the fourth double-quint, he swallowed two of the ginger pills, which he managed to keep down in spite of himself. The fifth decade—which certainly seemed to last that long—made him regret having swallowed anything at all since he had been nine years old, but he managed to keep everything pretty much in place, although he made a mental note to cancel his dinner plans. For the next five years, if necessary.
In the meantime, the techs on loan from NASA took Mike in hand and created his robotic body. As Lawler surmised, the Segway company was more than happy to donate one of their RMP models for the purpose in exchange for promotional rights. The unit was delivered as stock, with the exception of a set of the cross terrain tires they used for their X2 model, and the techs went to work adding not only the assembly that held the arms, but a case into which Mike would fit securely, with all connections necessary to control the stabilizers. To this end, Mike himself was able to coach them as necessary.
The RMP, specifically designed as a two-wheeled robotic platform, was chosen for its sturdiness and range. It was doubtful that Mike would need the maximum speed of 12.5 mph, but the battery life would be more than adequate for their purposes. As the RMP didn't have the central pillar found on the other Segway vehicles, a hydraulic system—a robotic “spine"—was installed, which could raise and lower the arms by eighteen inches. Mike's optics were upgraded as well, to twin full-spectrum digital cameras. Added to the top of the column, they not only swiveled, but could be extended both vertically and laterally, and focused as a unit or independently.
It took a number of hours for the AI to learn to handle the five gyroscopes that enabled the unit to remain stable, and to coordinate the arms and eyes, but once he had it, he'd never lose it. However, while rooting through the programming, Mike found an anomaly; in various places throughout the code, he kept running into the same hex string over and over again: 0xEB90.
When he brought this to the attention of the Segway tech, the man said sheepishly, “Yeah, we do that a lot. It's an inside joke, the least-likely sequence of bits used in data communication. It can't really be used, no matter what algorithm you design, so we kind of sprinkle it around like salt.” He laughed. “NASA uses it as a synchronization header when they program the shuttle. For us, it's a little like ‘Kiljoy was here.’”
“Kilroy."
“Him, too."
After a day of resting and watching old Universal horror movies on cable in his hotel room, Bubba and Mike flew back home to prepare for the trip.
* * * *
Of course there was a crowd. A significant fraction of the population of Central Garage, in fact, along with a contingent of state and county police, representatives of NASM and the FAA, Miss King William County, the Frog Level Rescue Squad (on loan from Caroline County just in case), the Hamilton-Holmes Middle School marching band (performing a stirring rendition of “Louie Louie"), and a reporter/photographer team from the Richmond Progress-Dispatch who looked only mildly interested.
The scout ship sat flat on the ground, draped with red, white and blue bunting. Mike was already installed aboard, his new body stowed safely until they reached their destination. There were a few folding chairs on both sides of the ship, and a set of bleachers facing it; more than a few spectators were already seated, munching peanuts and corn dogs, waiting for the main event.
The reporter showed his credentials to the police, and walked over to the beauty queen.
“So, why are you here, miss?"
She waved her Pepsi bottle at the ship. “Bubba's gonna go to the Moon,” she said. “Dunno why, he hasn't said, but I like watchin’ him fly around in the Fireball."
“And you really think he's going to go into space in that ... thing?"
“Oh, sure! He flies it up to Richmond all the time, why not there? I heard he's even been to Newport News in it,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but I'm not sure."
The reporter shook his head and moved through the small crowd, his photographer following along behind. “I don't know what we've got here, Danny,” he said to the cameraman. “It's got to be a hoax of some kind, but there are real cops over there, and unless I'm mistaken, there are two guys over there with ‘Fed’ written all over them.” He frowned. “What do you know about this? I mean, I'm new, they parachuted me into this cold, but you've been around for years. Don't we already have a file on whatever this guy is supposed to have been flying around Richmond? And maybe Newport News?"
“Nothing I know of, Scoop,” the photographer answered. “Maybe the Government hushed it up."
“Yeah, right, ‘Flash.'” He turned as someone tugged on his sleeve.
“Hey, mister, you a reporter?” The speaker was a small, wiry man in his sixties, face grim and eyes flashing. “You want the straight dope on that Pritchert guy?"
The reporter took out his notebook. “Sure, old-timer. What's your name?"
“They call me Big Lester, Lester Beason. That's B-e-a..."
“Right, I've got it. What can you tell me about Mr. Pritchert?"
“Oh, I can tell you plenty,” the old man said. “I know all about Mister Smarty-Pants Bubba Pritchert."
“Please, by all means, tell me,” the reporter urged, motioning the photog to be ready to get a picture of the man. There might be some kind of story here after all—a con game, or some crazy New Age religion, maybe.
“Well, first of all, that ain't even his real name. He's got four names, not like other folk."
“Are you telling me that Pritchert has four aliases?"
“I don't know about no ‘aliases,'” snapped the old man. “He's got four first names and a last one.” He shook his head. “That ain't normal."
The reporter sighed inwardly. Sometimes, getting to a story was about as easy as regrouting a bathroom. “What about that thing over there? What do you know about it?"
“Huh. I know he oughtn't to be flyin’ the damn thing all around like he does, is all. Disturbin’ honest folks that's just trying to put meat on the table."
The reporter stared. “I'm sorry?"
“Well, he just oughtn't to go buzzin’ me and my buddies, that's all. Comes from right outta nowhere, he does, flyin’ around, scarin’ the deer..."
“You mean,” the reporter said, pointing at the Fireball, “that thing actually flies?"
“I'll tell the world. Up and down, back and forth, messin’ around and spoilin’ any chance we got of bringin’ down a buck.” The old man spat on the ground. “So what if we use a few lights? Don't I got a right to feed my family?"
The reporter flipped his notebook shut and looked at the old man. “So go to Food Lion.” He walked away. “Jesus, Danny,” he said just loud enough for his companion to hear. “Everybody's in on this. I can't believe it, they're all in on this ... joke, or hoax, or whatever."
“Looks like it, Scoop."
“Danny,” the reporter said, more than a little exasperated. “Stop calling me that. We're not in a remake of His Gal Friday, okay?” He began walking towards Bubba, who stood near the ship wearing his Liquid Cooling and Ventilation Garment. “Mr. Pritchert, can I ask you a couple of questions?"
“Sure, son,” the mechanic replied. “Knock yourself out. Not literally, of course."
“What exactly are you doing here today?"
Bubba grinned. “Goin’ to the Moon, boy. Why do you think I'm wearin’ this funny suit?"
“You're going in ... that?” The reporter waved his notebook at the ship.
“Can't get there in a Hummer."
“Okay, fine. Can you tell me wh
y you're going to the Moon?"
Bubba said, “Just be patient, and all will be explained. Give me a minute to do this with the right amount of drama,” and turned away, pulling on a tight-fitting full-head cap from which wires dangled.
The reporter shook his head. “I still don't know what we've got, Danny. But have your camera ready just in case, okay?"
“Always, Scoo ... uh, Ted."
Bubba stepped up on top of the ship, fists on his hips, legs akimbo, and his helmet under his left arm. He looked out at the gathered multitudes. “Y'know, Mike, I really should be wearing gray leather coveralls with a big, shiny wristwatch."
“Um, why?"
Bubba shook his head. “Doc Smith. Lensmen. Never mind, Frank R. Paul would know.” He continued in a louder voice, “Good people of Central Garage, King William County, and Points West! I, your wizard par ardua ad alta, am about to embark upon a hazardous and technically unexplainable journey into the outer stratosphere to confer, converse, and otherwise hobnob with my fellow, er, gearheads.” There was general laughter.
“But serially, folks, this shouldn't take too long. All I gotta do is fly to the Moon and tow back a car. Hell, that ain't hard, it's just right up there.” He pointed skyward, then squinted. “Somewhere. Mike, we got an auto-club map for this trip?"
“We do not. The very nice lady at AAA was just as sorry as she could be, but those particular roads apparently haven't yet been built, and Google Maps doesn't show enough detail."
“Boy, you got an answer for everything, don't you? Anyway,” he said, turning back to the crowd, “we'll be takin’ off directly. Don't cancel my paper or anything before I get back, and make sure you feed my cat."
A voice in the crowd called out, “You don't got a cat!"
“So feed somebody else's. They ain't got opposable thumbs, and can't work the can opener by themselves.” There was more laughter. He keyed the door open and went in.
“You know, Mike,” he said, as he settled into the pilot's seat, “I've never really been able to open ‘er all the way up before. Hell, I don't even know how to tell how fast we're going, I just watch stuff go past outside. Now if I push this joystick all the way forward, that's floorin’ it, right?"
Analog SFF, July-August 2007 Page 35
