"One spot on it was glowing really bright?" Josh asked.
"Uncontrolled reaction," Grobney said, whistling. "Vibration can make the tubes get out of line. You know what a millimeter is?"
"Yes," Josh said, "of course."
"Know what a nanometer is?" Grobney asked, his eyestalks waving. "It's smaller than a bacteria. That's how much tolerance there is in those tubes; it's measured in nanometers. So what happened?"
"There was a Nari—it was a Nari Spacelines ship we were taking from Tooleck to here—there was a Nari that wanted to fix it with tape."
"Space tape," Grobney said, "thousand and one uses. Technically impossible to use it to fix an uncontrolled reaction. Doesn't mean it hasn't been done, I did it once. But not something for the untutored, you know. What happened?"
"Big argument, Nari won," Josh said, swallowing. "He blew up."
"One of several possible outcomes," Grobney said, whistling in humor. "I take it the Toolecks didn't want to do it?"
"Not the way it looked to me," Josh replied. "Why wouldn't the tape work?"
"Oh, I didn't say it won't work," Grobney replied. "Just not a method for the untutored and definitely not one to be applied in a spaceport to a civilian vessel in its regular commerce. Very much an emergency field repair, don't you know? With the emphasis on emergency as in 'our ship broke down and there's a Jootan squadron closing in on us and we have to get out of here now.' The problem is the rate of reaction, you see? Too much reaction and the thoramite detonates, as you saw. Too little and it won't sustain the hyper tunnel. And if you get a hot spot like that, microbubbles appear in the material and degrade the zip effect. And the material that the released particles pass through have an effect. You have to get the reaction back to the normal mode and the only way to do that is either send the core back to the factory or figure out a way to mitigate the hot spot. Space tape actually increases the reaction rate, not decreases it. Slap it right on the hot spot and, well . . . boom."
"Is that what happened to you?" Josh asked.
"Close enough," Grobney said, waving his eyestalks. "Not something I can talk about, youngster. Not even in this day and age. Some secrets have to lie fallow for a long time."
"Like hypermissiles?" Josh asked. "Anoj said you worked on the hypermissile project?"
"A bit," Grobney admitted. "Early in the war I was an officer on a cruiser. That's where I got this," he added, rolling his carapace around and pointing to his back. "See the black spots?"
"Yeah," Josh said curiously. "And something that looks like a crack."
"Crack came later," Grobney admitted. "Cruiser was escorting a merchant convoy and we got jumped by a group of Jootan fast raiders. Came out of hyper right on top of us, must have gotten our course from a stealth ship. Battle alarms had barely sounded when we were hit with their missiles. One of the cores blew up and I caught a bit of shrapnel." He paused and his eyestalks seemed to extend as if looking at something a long way away.
"Mate of mine, Oyeke, we'd both joined the cruiser at the same time as subalterns. Saw him crawling up a tunnel. Power was out, plasma gushing, place was a madhouse, everybody scrambling to get out before the negamissiles went off. Oyeke was moving from hand-hold to hand-hold, working his way towards the lifeboats. Had both his legs gone right at the center joint. Vac-suit had sealed over them, but he was still blasting fluids into the vacuum. Plasma arc between me and him, nothing I could do. Then he let go of the hand-hold, got caught in the air that was being sucked out and drifted into the plasma . . ."
Grobney paused and then his eyestalks started moving again and three of them rotated to face Josh. "Anyway, I made it to the lifeboats and another cruiser picked us up a few days later."
"Gosh," Josh said. "Dad was just an engineer working on a camp."
"Oh, your father did a bit more than that," Grobney said, whistling in humor. "Bit more."
"What happened after that?" Josh asked. "To you, I mean."
"Well, punctured carapace takes a bit to heal," Grobney said, leaning back. "Was in the hospital a fair time. I'd taken my fifth year in physics before the war and my records showed that and that I had a . . . rather high intelligence score. Came a Terry to visit me, old chap, colonel but old even for that rank. Had some tests he wanted me to take. Well, I've always been good at tests and these were for memory, which I'm particularly good at. Took the tests, heard nothing more of it. Did some work running clerks, sort of thing I could do while the old carapace healed. Got asked to lunch by the same old duffer. Asked me a number of questions. I hadn't grown up on Tooleck, I'm from one of the colony worlds. Grew up with a drive rifle in my hand, you know, running around in the jungle and what-not. Seemed he knew all about that. Seemed he knew just about everything worth knowing about me, you know, the time I failed math in primary for example. Had a teacher a bit like your Miss Hissberger that time so I know how you feel. Finally asked me if I'd consider a posting that meant I'd probably get killed, but rarely get bored." Grobney paused and his spinctures whistled until he choked.
"Lord, but I was young. Thought I'd live forever whatever this old duffer had to say. Most of the time I was on the cruiser was nothing but boredom. Go across the Rift escorting a convoy of merchants, hoping to avoid the raiders, go back. Over and over. Very boring except when you're getting blown up. So I said yes. Dumbest one thing I'd ever done. He was right. Damned near killed me more than once, but I was rarely bored. Angry, unhappy, wet, cold, miserable, terrified, but rarely bored. If you're ever in the military, lad, there's a saying: Never volunteer for anything. It's important, remember it and heed it."
"What was it?" Josh asked. "What were you doing?"
"Well, maybe we'll talk about that another time," Grobney said, keying his pad. "We've both got homework to do, what?"
12: If You're Not Going to Like the Answer . . .
Josh stumbled off the bus and turned to face the driver.
The problem was that while the driver didn't speak Galacta, over the years of driving he had learned most of the major curse-words. And you could get in a lot of trouble for cursing at the driver.
The point was, though, that he could easily catch individual curse words. But, after much thought, Josh had come to the conclusion that if you spoke really fast he wouldn't catch it.
So he'd practiced. In available free time. He'd written down every curse word he knew, in three languages at this point, left out the Nari, and recited them. To the point that he could get out a string that was about twenty syllables long in under a second and a half. He'd timed it.
He pulled out a scrap of paper, cleared his throat and spoke.
"#@$(%)@@!&***()))@@!!#@%&((*&%$$@@(((($#!"
When he was done he nodded at the driver, who was waggling his feelers in puzzlement, and turned around to go in the tunnel.
That felt better. It didn't make up for five months' worth of bruises, but it helped.
He decided to keep the scrap of paper. It might come in handy again.
****
As Josh stepped into the surface tunnel his nose was assaulted by a strong stench of sulphur, something like rotten eggs but if so a whole air-truck must have crashed.
"Did the kunerac overflow?" he muttered, whistling the iris for the Parker apartment and holding his nose.
As he stepped in his home tunnel the stench got worse and increased as he descended the ramp.
Coming around the last bend he saw several Nari rubbing their tails on the wall and Dr. Reenig standing by, watching them.
"Hello, Dr. Reenig," Josh said, releasing his nose and trying not to gag. He realized the smell was coming from the wall which looked . . . wet.
"Hello, Josh," their landord said. If he had any problems with the smell it wasn't evident.
"Can I ask what's going on?" Josh said.
"The lining on the tunnel needed touching up," Dr. Reenig replied. "So I called in a crew to work on it."
As he was saying that, one of the Nari stopped smoothing the wall
and leaned back. The esophagal opening under his labial extension opened and he gobbered up a chunk of what looked like purple plaster that hit the wall with a wet "smack." The smell intensified as the Nari flipped a tail up and started smoothing the material into the wall.
"Oh," Josh said, clapping a hand over his mouth and hurrying to the apartment iris. "Gotta go," he added in a muffled tone.
"Have a good day, Josh," Dr. Reenig replied, turning back to watch the workmen.
****
Josh leaned back from the fresher and spit out the mouthful of water, then spit again.
"Joosshh?" his mother called from the foyer. "Are you all right?"
"Fine, mom," Josh replied. "Must have been something I ate." He paused and thought about it for a second. "Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Don't go out of the house for a while. Dr. Reenig is having some work done. It's . . . not safe."
"Okay," Jala answered. "You're sure you're okay?"
"Fine," Josh said. "Just fine. But, I have got to learn to stop asking questions . . ." he added in a whisper. Then he pulled out his scrap of paper again.
****
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Fish Story, Episode 3 by Dave Freer, Eric Flint and Andrew Dennis
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan
The Flashing of the Loch Ness Monster
This episode of the fishy tale borders on the hallucinatory. I'm not too sure if I should be telling you. Assassins from MA-6, the militant arm of the ancient pagan Brotherhood of the Angle, might come and dose my angling permit with a mixture of anthrax and mackerel oil. I've seen them stalking through the rain in their hooded ponchos armed with the folding chair of extreme prejudice. Still, the tale should be told and told to as many people as possible, so if I'm found clubbed to death by folding chair, showing signs of disgorger torture, and suspended from the ceiling by a Boca grip, everyone will know who killed me.
It all happened because, having listened in to the story of the Wandle Pike and the Tinta Catfish, the pub owner had invited a few foolish drinkers to stay on after closing time. That included myself, whom we can keep calling Ishmael for the moment, along with Sheila Rowen—she of the tattoos—MacParrot, Steven Speairs, Kevin Bagust and Dexter Guptill.
A lock-in, where, as guests in theory, we could avoid the evil that is closing time. A scanty half hour before and we'd all been part of that great mass of humanity engaged in the important activity of purifying the water by extracting the alcohol out of beer, using our own livers. It's a public duty, because alcohol can be toxic. It is one of the redeeming features of my fellow men that so many are willing, nay eager, to bravely perform this service to mankind.
The pub was empty now, except for us. I didn't think I'd ever seen the place with quite that few people in it. It echoed oddly, but we did our best to make up for it with vocal volume and the sounds of liquid moving.
"Well, then," said our host, whose name turned out to be James Watters. He was in possession of a very large glass, with a generous amount of golden liquor on the iceblocks in that glass. He subscribed to the glacial theory of inherited racial memory, to wit:
Iceblocks need lubrication, otherwise the sounds of the grinding of ice can cause subharmonics which instantly transport us to an ancient Europe covered in glaciers, and to the hunting of mastodons, and the harpooning of seals and walrus. It is therefore vital to your survival—and for the furniture—to keep the ice lubricated at all times. Being as Watters was of Congolese descent via the West Indies proves either that we know zip about the ice-age or that racial theories are a crock.
Watters must have had iceblocks in his throat too, judging by the way he was putting the scotch back. "I've heard tell of your little Wandle Pike."
Sheila bristled. "'Little!' I'll have you know—"
"But I think it might be that it has grown somewhat since then," he said smoothly. "It must be at least one and a half times that size now. An angler down Merton way hooked it last year."
The pride and, of course, the probity of Sarf Lunnon revivified, Sheila sat down again. "And?"
"Ah, it is a very sad story," said Watters, with a suitable expression of gleeful tragedy. "The angler slipped on the top of the embankment, just as he brought it to bank. Straight down the slope he went. A brave man and a fine angler. He kept the tension on the line somehow as he slid, raising his rod, with his badly mauled Rapala still in the pike's upper lip."
"Good fisherman that," said Steven approvingly. "Nearly as important as not dropping your beer."
"Normally yes," agreed James. "But not when you are falling onto that open mouth."
He paused, to save the iceblocks from friction again with another application of scotch, then tugged at his little goatee, shook his head, and said with an unholy sadness: "And never with your legs apart."
Glasses were arrested halfway to lips, as we all winced in unison.
"Still, it was his own Rapala that did the worst damage. The pike got away in the chaos. And it has a taste for man-flesh now," he said with ghoulish delight.
Steven snorted. "Man-flesh. Bloody hell. All we need is a dildo with hooks and we're in."
That was said with the sort of jeering bravado that I knew could only lead to one thing—us prowling sleazy sex shops at 2:00 AM in search of a large pink appliance, before heading, with a horrible déjàvu for the Wandle in a minicab driven by a khat-chewing illegal immigrant. It was the time of morning when ideas like that take root and flourish like weed at any new-clone Glastonbury concert.
"The vibration would give it a good movement in the water . . ." said Kevin thoughtfully.
"Which end do you attach a treble hook to?" I asked, in spite of myself.
Dexter shook his head. "Trebles are no good. You've got to put on short shank 2/0 for that sort of fish."
"Ach, those circle hooks maybe?" suggested MacParrot. "Ah saw thim on a programme about Ta-teatty."
"Tah-teatty?"
"Aye, named after the wimmen. Topless," he said nostalgically. "Ah think ut's somewhere near Majorca. I went there once. You have to wear dark glasses tae look at the view."
"Ah. Tahiti. Very close to Majorca," I said. MacParrot had an almost American knowledge of geography.
"Tahiti, yeah, they do use circle hooks there," said Kevin, displaying his ichthyological knowledge, "but that's only for deep water, where you get a lot of drag on the line and you can't strike. No, what you need is short-shank hooks. I have to agree with Dexter, even though that goes against my principles. You get better leverage on short-shanks. But I'd use something bigger than a 2/0."
"At least 5/0," said Steven, with all the confidence of the instant expert. "And you attach one fore and aft, I reckon."
"And how are you going to keep the water out, is what I want to know?" I was starting, belatedly, to think of excuses.
That silenced the eager chorus.
"A knotted-off rubber raincoat," suggested Dexter.
"They're built waterproof . . ." said Sheila and dived into her beer.
Alas, for the birth of a lure that could have changed the way the fishing tackle business was perceived forever, to say nothing of what it would have done to the term 'bloodworm' bait. . . .
"You've got it wrong," observed the barmaid, who had now joined the drinking crew and had her feet up on the table. Vicki Keith, her name was. "It was his thigh. I've seen the scars."
"You have?" asked Steven.
"Yes, and trust me, it wasn't worth it. There was someone who would claim a tadpole was the Loch Ness Monster."
MacParrot beamed and stood up, fumbling in his trousers as he swayed. "Ach! The Loch Ness Monster. Ah've got priff."
Dexter looked at the fumbling. "You filthy beggar. A course of antibiotics will sort that out."
MacParrot blinked. "Ma wallet. Ma wallet's missing!" he yelled.
"It's in your other hand, you drunken Scots blart," said Steven.
MacParrot stared at the tatty wallet as if it was a holy apparition. S
hook his head in amazement. "Ach. I ha' sworn ah lost it. That someone ha' stolen the priff that'll mak ma fortune." He sat down again, a process mildly improved by his missing the chair. He retrieved himself from the floor and gained the comparative sanctuary of his seat. He put the wallet down, with exquisite care, into a pool of beer. Opened it, to reveal the usual joys of a bachelor male existence: very little money, a pack of that everlasting chewing gum you buy from coin-operated dispensers in the gents, a large number of receipts . . . and some battered Polaroid photographs.
In this day of digital cameras, you could somehow rely on MacParrot to have the last surviving Polaroid. Most of the pictures were pink and quite ingenious. Even as totally bladdered as he was, MacParrot had the grace to hastily shuffle them.
"Ach. Just some holiday snaps," he said airily.
"Of the spine by the looks of it," I jeered.
Mc Parrot ignored me. "Ut's the Loch Ness Monster ahm looking for. Ah've got priff. Photographic priff." He leafed through more principally pink and ample pictures. "There really is a monster."
"I think she found it," said Sheila.
"How many humps did it have?" asked Kevin.
Steven began to sing in a fine tuneless baritone the nursery rhyme: "Sally the camel's got . . ."
MacParrot looked darkly at him. "How did ye know her naem wus Sally? Eh? She's no' been seein' a great southern Jessie like you. . . ."
It took the combined efforts of more beer, and our magnificent singing in chorus, to convince MacParrot that if Speairs was sleeping with his bit of fluff, we all were. The fact that this seemed, in his mind, to be a distinct possibility complicated matters a bit. It might have been easier just to let them fight it out, but Watters had indicated that he'd take this unkindly and might just respond by kicking us out. That was a mighty big lever. According to Archimedes, with a big enough lever you could move the earth—and with one that size even have a fair chance at budging a Scots drunk, although it is asking a lot of the lever.
Jim Baen's Universe Volume 1 Number 3 October 2006 Page 31
