I suppose I should not have been as surprised as I was. I knew he had been pining and I knew he had the ear of our revered leader. For some reason, I had not made the connection between the two. I had just assumed the idea of anyone making a wormhole trip to a planet that was no longer a colonisation target would be out of the question for all sorts of political, logistical and financial reasons. But, as he had officiated at the marriage between smolin9 and Melinda Hill, I can see why our revered leader might have been sympathetic to my presenter’s cause.
I do not consider myself a callous person. I like to think I had established a good working rapport with both the presenters, smolin9 in particular, but this bombshell put the rest of the series in jeopardy and I was determined to put up a fight. I will not dwell on my initial reaction to his announcement, but suffice to say the camera crew hid in the next pod with all their equipment! To be fair, smolin9 proved amenable to compromise and we all agreed to film the next three episodes back-to-back to create a window for his trip.
The first day went well enough. Our regular scans of earthling media had revealed the irresistible story of an unmanned earthling probe named ‘Curiosity’ despatched to Mars to poke around a crater on the surface of the planet. The presenters and the studio crew loved the story of how the earthlings proposed to deliver the incredibly fragile robotic rover from a hovering spacecraft known as a ‘sky crane’. According to one of the earthling space engineers: “The entry, descent and landing is also known as ‘seven minutes of terror’. We have to get from the top of the atmosphere to the surface of Mars, going from 13,000 miles per hour to zero, in perfect sequence, perfect choreography, and perfect timing. If any one thing does not go right, it is game over.” None of us could believe it when the vehicle actually landed in one piece. It prompted smolin9 to entertain us with stories of other idiosyncratic earthling creations like video games and the satellite navigation devices fitted to their cruisers. “Turn around when possible!”, one of the popular catchphrases on the show, was born during this session. I saw an opportunity to work some of this stuff into the script:
polkingbeal67: “The sky crane thing reminds me of the time the goopmutts used something similar to construct a colossal three-tiered monument on the Pale Blue Dot in honour of their leader.”
smolin9: “Right. Then they made the mistake of placing eggs in it as a ritual offering. And some goopmutts became incensed, got drunk on vitalmados and demolished the structure by launching boulders at it. The ruins are still there. The earthlings call it Stonehenge.”
polkingbeal67: “One of the most disgraceful acts of vandalism in intergalactic history.”
smolin9: “Yes, but earthlings still celebrate it.”
polkingbeal67: “They do?”
smolin9: “Oh yes. They call it Angry Birds.”
‘Angry Birds’ was the name of a popular earthling video game. We were going to enact a parody of it for the show, but polkingbeal67 started throwing rocks around in a random fashion and we had to abandon it. None of us knew it at the time but it was the first in what became a series of on-set misdemeanours. We were about to take a break from shooting and polkingbeal67 was supposed to deliver the line: “Earthlings are going to be sick as parrots when the rover gets clamped. You’re not allowed to park there!” But he suddenly flounced off the set with the cameras still rolling. When he returned, he kept growling and asking everyone if he looked fat.
I was more than a little nervous as we started work on the episode about the Olympic Games, but thankfully my fears were unfounded.
According to our research, the earthling World Badminton Federation had charged eight female players with misconduct after it emerged that they had deliberately lost their matches. As onside91 briefed the lighting operators, polkingbeal67 suddenly asked: “Why do earthlings attach so much importance to strange activities like running round in circles, throwing spears, jumping into sandpits and losing at badminton?” I thought that was wonderful and told him I would add it to the script. This obviously put him in a good mood and we rattled through without a hitch. He was positively buzzing by the time we got to the closing lines:
polkingbeal67: “Do you think young earthlings are inspired by the Olympics?”
smolin9: “Yes, 110 percent. They’re already going for epic feats of endurance, like watching it on their television sets all day long.”
And so we moved on to the next episode which focused on reports of an earthling called Felix Baumgartner who jumped out of a balloon from the edge of space, 42,000 garfs above the land mass known as New Mexico, breaking the sound barrier in the process. I thought it was relevant to show that earthlings certainly have a desire to ‘push the envelope’ and take on progressively tougher challenges, even if the constant power struggle between good and evil, fueled by their egocentric nature, ensures there is limited net gain.
It all started well enough with smolin9 sneaking in an ad-lib football reference: “They really should do something about all this diving!” The scripted dialogue progressed as follows:
smolin9: “One thing I don’t understand. Apparently, this guy said he almost aborted the dive because his helmet visor fogged up. How could he abort the dive? If earthlings have developed a way of switching gravity off, how would they do it without affecting everybody else? So you’re enjoying a nice Sunday afternoon by the river, when the water all turns to globules and floats away, along with your deckchair and your picnic. What do you do – just shrug your shoulders and say ‘Oh dear, never mind, old Felix must be having a bit of trouble with his visor’?”
polkingbeal67: “I think you’re jumping to a few conclusions there.”
smolin9: “Felix Baumgartner would have been jumping to a conclusion if his chute hadn’t opened.”
polkingbeal67: “I’m sure even earthlings are capable of thoroughly testing these things. There’s no way it would have failed.”
smolin9: “Yeh, even if it had, I’m sure they’d have given him a refund or a replacement.”
polkingbeal67: “By the way, did you notice the location of Baumgartner’s jump? It was over Roswell, New Mexico, where a terrible abomination against our race took place a little while ago.”
smolin9: “Oh yeh. Now, right there – that’s an example of a truly awful parachute. When our engineers said it was guaranteed to open on impact, why did no one think…?”
At this point, polkingbeal67 threw down his battle helmet.
“Cut! Cut!” shouted onside91, “What’s going on?”
“Why are we making light of this?” polkingbeal67 demanded, “I am speechless! This isn’t funny. What the hell is wrong with us? You know as well as I do, they did not die on impact! Those detestable earthling screwballs killed them! Innocent, space-faring Mortians like you and me. I tell you what, I’m going back to that ugly, disgusting, watery, god-awful, miserable, bug-infested hell-hole and I’m going to totally let them know what I think about them! Evil, mindless monsters who spend all their lives alternately ignoring everyone and then murdering one another! And then murdering innocent visitors from other worlds! And I’m not talking about wars. At least wars are honourable! I despise these earthlings! Most of them are just dumb automaton slaves who are just smart enough to operate their pathetic technologies but not quite smart enough to realise they’re being exploited by powerful, manipulative leaders who force them to work more and more hours for less and less reward. Then they rise up and fight and the whole cycle starts over again! I’m speechless!”
We stood there open-mouthed for a moment. Polkingbeal67 kicked his helmet, impaling his foot on one of the spines, and howled in distress. “And by the way, it’s my birthday!” he yelled. “Speechless!”
And that is why that particular episode finished rather abruptly.
The following day, smolin9 was on his way to the Pale Blue Dot.
. . .
Two kins later, I was in the cruiser on my way to a meeting with onside91. As I approached the studio pod, a plume of dust
started spinning away behind me and I enjoyed the spectacle of sunlight beams and pod shadows chasing each other over the purple terrain. I did not notice polkingbeal67's bulky form until I was just a couple of garfs away. He did not flinch. "There's no time for cheery banter," he said to me as I stepped out of the cruiser. "Answer this. Why did you let him go?"
Although he had known well enough about smolin9's intention to return to the Pale Blue Dot, polkingbeal67 had been unaccountably upset about it. Now, he was downright distraught. "I'm tormented by the thought that he won't come back," he said. "Don't you see? He's emotionally damaged and cannot function in a rational manner. His cognitive faculties are shot. He's going to come to a gruesome end!"
"That's ridiculous," I told him. "He's just visiting his earthling wife for a while. He'll be back in ten kins. This was agreed by all of us, including you, before he left."
"You don't know him like I do," he said. "You don't know the sort of people he associated with when he was there last time. Look at this." He showed me a microwocky image of random squiggles and splashes of colour on what appeared to be an earthling subway train. "Smolin9 just sent this through the wormhole."
"What does it mean?" I asked. Peering closer, I thought I could make out some earthling lettering. "Wait, does that say 'Mommy's Socks!'?"
"No," said polkingbeal67. "It says 'Morys rocks!' Contact with earthlings has corrupted and compromised his sanity. The crazy prokaryote has jumbled his particles. The bubblehead! Let me play you the message that accompanied this picture."
Smolin9's voice crackled excitedly: "Hey bro! I can't find Melinda. But look at this wholetrain! Badass! Siiiick! See my throw-up? Yeh, some of those pieces are mine. I've totally decided to go for a spider. I'm back with the crew and tonight we're gonna get up with fresh cannons and we're gonna bomb this place! I'll get back to you bro."
I looked at polkingbeal67 in dumb uncomprehending amazement. "What?" I said. "What does all that mean?"
"What don't you understand? It's all there, isn't it? Melinda's gone missing and smolin9's convinced himself a spider is responsible for her disappearance. He's been using earthling public transport to track her down and made himself travel sick. He's lost all sense of perspective and plans to reduce the city to rubble using exploding munitions. Get back in your cruiser. We've got to go straight to our revered leader to alert him."
To be honest, I accepted polkingbeal67's conclusion that smolin9 had gone mad and was threatening to commit terrorist atrocities on the Pale Blue Dot. I readily agreed that we should consult our revered leader. But a little worm of doubt started gnawing away at me. Smolin9's use of earthling English was usually very competent, if a little colloquial. Yet the words he had used in his message struck me as odd. While the cruiser sped across the vast unpopulated flatlands, I sent a wockyspeak note to MMBC's cultural linguistics specialist, attaching a copy of smolin9's transmission.
I had never met our revered leader in person before and I had no idea what to expect. As the palace loomed into view, polkingbeal67, who had calmed down a little by now, pointed out the Voyager 1 dish antenna half-buried amongst the ponds and fountains. "Yes," he said, noticing my astonishment. "It's now home to a shoal of bugtrap pontus fish munching on each other over a bed of permanganate seaweed." I wondered aloud what the earthlings would think if they knew the fate of their precious spacecraft. "Personally, I think we should track down Voyager 2," said polkingbeal67. "It would be nice to have a matching pair either side of the drive. Besides, the earthlings should be pleased the probe got as far as it did. When smolin9 and I first discovered it, we noticed a serious problem with the Photopolarimeter System. There was a message on the console saying 'Press any key to continue'! They really aren't fit to dabble in space exploration."
The palace, cellular in structure, was poetry itself. It was as if a dozen or so pods had been assembled in a pyramid and allowed to melt slightly under intense heat. Undulating, curved walls reflected the statues, fountains and monuments of the lavish gardens. The interior was a labyrinth of beautifully sculpted volcanic magma, decorated with glass, porcelain, the finest silks and precious stones. As we followed the aged guide to our revered leader's chambers, my eyes were drawn to vast images of Mortian heroes staring out at us alongside the glimmering ceramic fixtures and exotic carvings lining the passages.
Frankly, our meeting with our revered leader was not what I expected. I had seen official portraits of him looking regal and resplendent in a crimson mantle, sporting a gold skull pin. In the flesh, he looked fragile and vulnerable. There was no gold pin, just some goopmutt horns attached to his head by means of a leather strap. A pungent-smelling flower was fastened to another strap that he wore diagonally across his body and he had obviously smeared his body with strange oils and ashes. Anyway, he listened attentively while polkingbeal67 regaled him with the reason for our visit. I remember there was an awkward long silence afterwards and then he smiled benignly and said: "Keep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you. Everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened." We bowed and the guide led us back through the interminable passageways.
Back in the cruiser, I turned to polkingbeal67 and said: "What just happened?"
Polkingbeal67 had a smug expression on his face. "He's authorised me to go to the Pale Blue Dot and bring back smolin9 in one piece, if I can."
"He has?" I said, completely baffled. "How did you get that from ... that? And, were those goopmutt horns?"
Polkingbeal67 told me our revered leader was not only happy for him to go but he had also suggested that, if the mission proved successful, smolin9 should give up his job as a presenter on Earthwatch and become his (polkingbeal67's) butler.
My head was reeling as I dropped him off at the wormhole station. There was a wockyspeak message waiting for me. It was a reply from the linguistics specialist advising me that smolin9's transmission was purely composed of earthling graffiti slang. The full ramifications of that did not dawn on me for a while.
. . .
Problems with the wormhole channel meant I had had no contact with smolin9 or polkingbeal67 and we were approaching the deadline for the next episode. Sometimes in life you have to be a phoney. You have to put on an act and fool people into believing you're something you're not. Summoned to a meeting with senior MMBC executives, who were understandably alarmed over the absence of the Earthwatch presenters, I resolved to come over as confident and relaxed and focused. I wasn't! And, unfortunately, they saw through it.
There was another backdrop to all this. The end of the thirteenth baktun was approaching and, although the thinking behind the end-of-the-world predictions had recently been thoroughly discredited and plans for resettlement on another planet were no longer a serious part of anyone's agenda, many Mortians remained adamant that the apocalypse was assured. End-of-the-world sales were going strong, Armageddon parties were being organised and many deluded fools were entombing themselves in survival pods. Not only were the MMBC top brass keen to grab as much airtime as possible to cover the developments, but also they wanted me to write and produce the broadcasts. To my mind, a compromise is an agreement whereby both parties get what neither of them wants and I was determined that they were not going to get me if they pulled the rest of the Earthwatch series. Well, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. In the end, they granted me just one more episode of Earthwatch and secured my name as executive producer of the end-of-the-world programmes. Not so much a compromise as outright capitulation.
Meanwhile, unbeknown to me, polkingbeal67 had managed to get himself an audience with the Queen of England. As I said, communications between Morys and the Pale Blue Dot were down at the time, so this conversation, recorded by polkingbeal67 on his microwocky, did not emerge until he returned:
"Greetings, O holy revered majestical leader of the Pale Blue Dot," said polkingbea
l67, who had bypassed security by means of his Craterkite cloaking device.
"You may call me Ma'am. And please get up now."
"Okay, Ma'am. Sorry, my knowledge of earthling etiquette is rather shaky. We can't go nose to nose, because I don't have one. Should I curtsey or bow or put on a grass skirt and scream things with my tongue poking out?"
"I think one can dispense with that, Mister...?"
"Polkingbeal67, Ma'am".
"That's a bit of a mouthful. May I call you 67?"
"Ma'am, if you did that, we would be obliged to submerge ourselves in a vat of liquid vitalmados and fight a duel to the death. Please accept my deepest respect and this gift of crystallised goopmutt horn shavings."
"Yes, thank you. Now, Mister... Mister... whatever you said, tell me, one assumes this has something to do with the Olympics? Never mind, I assume we have some business to attend to?"
"Ma'am. I've come to warn you of a plot to bomb your lands. One of our people, smolin9, is here on your planet and is threatening to carry out terrorist operations."
"I see. That is certainly regrettable. Does he have a grievance?"
"Yes, Ma'am. He doesn't like spiders."
"How unfortunate. We have many, many spiders. There are probably thousands in this very building."
"Ma'am, your life is in danger. I respectfully suggest you find your earthling comrade, Melinda Hill. She is married to smolin9 and probably holds the key to all of this. Oh, and if I was you I would banish all the spiders. Ma'am."
Polkingbeal67 may be as stable as a one-legged drunken goopmutt on a tightrope, but he can be smarter than you might think. He secretly traced the communication link from the Queen to the palace footman to the Metropolitan Police. Then, using his microwocky, he followed a maze of enquiries of various databases and arrived, well before the police, at a room in Glastonbury rented by Melinda Hill for the purpose of running a business as a life coach. When she had lost contact with smolin9 following their wormhole-enabled wedding, she had decided to leave London and start a new life from scratch. Although they had, of course, met several times in the past, polkingbeal67 figured Melinda would be alarmed to see him, so he appeared in disguise, pretending to seek advice about being more confident and self-assertive (as if he needed to be!):
Through The Wormhole, Literally Page 7
