by Randy Moffat
“Bear! Is that . . . ?”
Bear nodded.
“Mars! Yes!” Bear answered his gut tight with success. “Give me just under half a million more miles this time, will you Antonin? I want to get closer but don’t forget our reserve.”
Petrovski was slow to respond, fixated on the view like the rest of the mob, but he eventually called out ‘Ready!’ from the back.
Bear worked his squirt bottles until he was satisfied his aim was true.
“Do it!
There was the distant click of a key from the back.
Space time flickered and the top of the windscreen was now filled with red glow of sunlight reflected from the planet Mars into the cockpit, highlighting it like a sunset. This time the cockpit was totally silent for a few minutes while they took in the enormity of an alien world close by. Bear used his squirt bottles until the screen was completely filled with the Earth’s sister world. He left just enough motion on to let it creep slowly across their vision. Q-Kink Kommand and teammates hovered there in awe and contemplation and not much was said. Some funny quip or small talk seemed out of place in the face of the first interplanetary flight.
“Holy f . . . fantasy island!” He finally heard Wong breath. I was as good a statement as any.
“Well . . . it isn’t ‘One small step for mankind . . . but I think it captures the essence.” Bear agreed.
Bear stared at it just as awestruck as the others even though he and Antonin had both known where they were going. The spectacle so far exceeded the imagining that it lost none of its charm. Eventually he remembered his responsibilities though, mainly because his nose was cold.
“Power now?”
Wong answered very slowly as if Mars orbit had slowed their minds.
“57%!”
Bear winched. It would be close getting back. They had a 7% error room for the return and had better not miss. It was getting really cold in the cabin again. In an odd twist of interplanetary space flight, the temperature of their toes was actually the measure of their crew’s endurance.
Wong spoke up from the back even as Bear realized his feet felt like two blocks of wood and his breath was a continuous cloud that mingled with that of everyone else.
“I have two heating blankets out now on the starboard side. Same ones as before—damn it! I thought I fixed the darn things.”
“Where away?” Bear asked.
“Both are on the fuel system—right wing and the same fuel tank. Piece of shit!” Wong slapped a bulkhead with an almost open palm. It broke the mood and they all looked to their jobs again.
Bear looked at Jeeter meaningfully.
“We better get back. When we reenter the Earth’s atmosphere be ready for the starboard engine pods not to work. The fuel will be nearly frozen by this point.”
They were learning, and no one could call them slow to absorb experiences—especially bad ones. Bear noticed a bit of tear in Jeeter’s eye and ignored it politely. The old man reached over and patted his knee, snuffling quietly. Bear had just given him immortality.
Bear cleared his own throat manfully then worked his squirt bottles, spun the plane and centered a bluish star in the center of the windscreen.
“Take us a longer distance this time! Add about a quarter million miles to distance you used the first leg to come here. That should put us right about where we are in relation to Earth that we are now to Mars, but if we are off we can close up on Earth in short bursts. Tell me when you are ready.”
He squirted with infinite attention to line the bluish star up on an X he had made on the wind shield with a grease pencil, his space navigation equipment was improvised but adequate for thirty five cents at the dollar store.
“Ready!” Antonin said and the world flickered.
They had celebrated man’s first clandestine trip to Mars in the traditional manner though much magnified by their joy. Q-Kink locked up their space craft—now affectionately nicknamed “The Ice Queen” in her hanger. Then they reassembled at Anglewood, happy to be alive, with one another and wrapped up in the cocoon of a culmination in great victory for their work. The night passed though with loud exclamations, uncoordinated contortions of their limbs and a rapidly growing haze in their vision.
It was morning now—barely—and Bear swayed like his namesake standing on its hind quarters, looking around blearily and even waving his arms about half raised in front of him to keep his balance. Parties come and go, but this one had been a benchmark of the party ideal. It was a party against which all future parties should now be judged though it existed primarily as a series of disconnected sensory impressions rather than a cohesive thing in his mind.
He was standing on the deck the team called the Aloha Lanai that surrounded the big Jacuzzi on the roof of the Anglewood. His head ached hideously. A blow up kiddy pool had materialized early the previous night next to the rollicking spa’s water’s edge and had literally been filled to the brim with a variety of alcoholic substances that eventually looked something like the world’s biggest cosmopolitan with whole limes floating in it along with about forty embalmed moths. A mouthful had numbed his tongue within five minutes of drinking it. He had stopped swallowing after two small glasses. It was a wise decision, not shared by his teammates. Pinta was passed out lying on his side on the deck beside the small plastic pool. His arm dangled in it pickling slowly. His face was mashed against the green lumber hard, smashing one side of his face upwards so he looked like a bulldog with a stroke. He was better off than Maxmillian and his big dark ebony girlfriend whose name Bear could not remember. They both were stark naked and lying face down side by side at the edge of the Jacuzzi with their now pruney lower halves still in the bubbling water. Their legs floated up and down and their unmentionables wiggled in a hip hop driven by the force of the bubbles shooting up from below. Maxmillian’s especially was clearly visible dancing between his comatose legs. A bright yellow banana of a kayak also bobbed lazily on the champagne surf occasionally goosing the pair like an eager lover. He looked more closely at the water. His eyes were working. The water had a yellow tinge. He shuddered to think how it got there, praying for it to be something benign. He looked around trying to think and pretty much failing. He reviewed the distorted flashes of memory. He had a clear vision of Baxter wearing a gray Kepi hat like an advertisement for the Dukes of Hazard and standing splay legged on the buffet table that was now lay collapsed in a corner in a heap of condiments, salami and cheese. Bear remembered Baxter’s foot squarely on a hamburger bleeding ketchup from under his boot and accompanied badly by a harmonica, kalimba, and bongo drums. He had been passionately singing Emmett’s “. . . look away, look away, look away, Disneyland . . . Oh I wish I was in Disney . . .” For some reason the dying refrain “. . . In Disneyland I’ll make my stand to live and die in Disney . . .” stuck with Bear perhaps because of his surprisingly tuneful soprano. He remembered Maureen shrieking in helpless laugher and writhed on the deck crushing handfuls of Barbecue potato chips experimentally in her fists until she moved on to potato salad. Maureen was nowhere to be seen now, even though the haze of booze he remembered that she had been pretty wasted even by this party’s standards. As with many women, the drink had lowered her inhibitions which were already cocked back and passing under the limbo pole as far as he was concerned. He did remember that they had almost certainly gone off somewhere dark in the caves and definitely recalled that she had used him unmercifully for an hour until after a trio of pleasant looking orgasms she had leaned down onto his chest and not re-awoken no matter how much he shook her. He passed out himself then and remembered waking later and feeling her inert weight pressing on his bladder. He had shoved her aside limped off on one still sleeping leg looking for porcelain—shaking the tingling leg to wake it up while he shook the another. After that there was only a dark gap in his mind until Bear had woken to find himself in a lawn chai
r up here a half hour before. It had taken him that long to stand up. Gravity had become an enemy to outsmart and he broke the arm off the cheap Martha Stewart furniture levering himself up bodily. He was still holding one arm of the chaise in his hand. He flung it aside and it bounced off Pinta’s head. Bear looked uncomfortably at the pool water again not quite daring to shove his head in it. It was a head that had developed an alarming tendency to wander off on its own volition and he disconcertingly ended up looking down hill at some fascinating rhododendrons whether he wanted to or not. There he saw some kind of color and the slightest of movements at the edge of the plants. Curiosity somehow penetrated the heat haze of pain and alcohol fumes. He walked that way. At least it could loosely be called walking. It was sort of a more-or-less kind of walking, indifferent to the common application of the term that involved moving in a straight line. Eventually, through a variety of curves and corrections to curves the walk brought him still triumphantly standing to bring Wong into full view. His deputy was wearing a pink bra and panties and lying on a surf board. Dragon Lily was hugging him hard against the morning’s cool dew and wearing the shorts and t-shirt Wong had been sporting the night before. Bear found himself hoping they had traded clothes.
“Wong . . .” Bear grunted a whisper. It hurt to talk.
To avoid more pain he tapped Wong with the toe of his shoe. The singular was correct, he realized suddenly that he was only wearing a shoe on one foot and had not the vaguest notion where the other was. Worse, his gentle nudge was magnified by every single sip of the pool brew he had taken the night before so that the gentle nudge he intended was more like a vicious kick to Wong’s ribs.
Wong’s arm half raised and then as quickly flopped motionless to his side again. No other result.
Bear focused hard and raising his voice said his name.
“Wnnnnnnnnggggggg!” He breathed. His head pounded in pain that chimed with every consonant.
Nothing.
He aimed again and kicked at Wong’s ribs, missed and hit Dragon Lily in the thigh instead. She moaned and rolled away from Bear’s offending toes, but it meant she left the surf board and warmth of Wong’s side and as her hip felt the edge of the board it penetrated some dim instinctual corner of her brain and she reacted like a little girl rolling out of bed. She convulsively grabbed Wong and held onto him to keep from falling. It was a bad move. Her weight continued to roll down hill and took Wong with her, clinging like a limpet to Bear’s XO. They tumbled in a curious coitus down-slope rolling over and over one another in a flail of Yellow T-Shirt and pink panties, squawking and squealing until they fetched up short against a tree ten meters away at the bottom. There Wong half sat up, rubbed his back and instantly subsided supine again. Dragon Lily moaned and cuddled closer into Wong, burrowing her face into his chest and armpit returning to dreamland with him. Bear walked circuitously to them and saw that Wong’s eyes were intermittently opening slightly and then closing without actually focusing. It would have to pass as consciousness.
“Hello.” He tried to say. It came out “Heeeeeee”
Wong’s arm jerked. It was a response. It appeared to be all he was capable of. His mouth worked a little, but no sound. He peered up at Bear his eyes a mass of wrinkles.
Bear focused hard and spoke.
“Gotta go Redstone . . . . See Admiral.” He mumbled. It sounded great to him; an example of pure oratory worthy of Lincoln or Pliney.
Wong jerked his arm bonelessly again. His mouth appeared to want to open and could not any more. His eyes got a little wider though, not squinting quite as hard at least. Apparently he was alarmed that his vocal chords were not working.
Bear peered at the two of him his eyes could focus on and took it as a sign of comprehension.
“OK.” Bear said and jerked his arm slightly upslope.
Wong mouthed something and winched as if Bear had shouted. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep clutching Dragon Lily close.
Bear nodded, nodded again, nodded yet again and turned to climb the hill still nodding the whole way up uncontrollably. It was a long limping climb in one shoe.
At that particular moment he never wanted to go to Mars again.
Bear stood in front of Admiral Dryer’s desk generally in an ‘at ease’ position again. He felt more human and less like something on the bottom of a shoe after getting some sleep during his day of plane travel. ‘Better’ was cold comfort. He searched his vocabulary. Crapulous was the perfect word for how he still felt. For all that he held the position of attention from ancient practice and hardly swayed.
“Admiral . . . I have a confession to make.”
Dyer looked annoyed. He had heard this before.
“I have exceeded your orders.”
“I’m . . . annoyed—you better be taking good care of the taxpayer’s money, son.”
“Oh . . . that! I have. In fact I got a big bang for the buck for John Q. Public on this one for sure.”
“So what is it this time?”
“It would be better if I show you.”
“Uh-oh.” Dyer said and stood up without being asked. He knew the routine. Bear slid into his warm seat and shoved a disc into the machine. It began to play and Bear stood by Dyer’s shoulder as he reseated himself and began to narrate. The video began with shots of the boys working on the plane.
“I used a bit of the money to buy an old B-52. But don’t worry, I have had it upgraded.”
Dyer glanced up at him to see if he were daft.
Bear had edited several weeks’ key action into a four minute show the night before, before he got too far gone. He explained about mounting the paperclip accelerators into the plane showing the process and then let him see their takeoff and the action around the first test flight inside the atmosphere.
“I thought that the first test went well enough to risk more. We took her up and into . . .” The screen broke out in stars. “. . . space.” He said dramatically. The next shot was through the windscreen and showed the curve of the earth and then the crew staring down at Morocco. In profile, Dyer’s mouth was hanging open—stunned.
“The accelerators worked as designed. Total flight time to orbit was less than a second.” Dryer’s mouth opened even more in shock.
The admiral hit a key on the keyboard that halted the presentation and looked up at Bear only half calmly. It was the first time Bear had seen him surprised or nervous and it pleased him perversely.
“Do you seriously mean to tell me you built a space ship drive as a byproduct of your research?”
Bear pursed his lips, smiled tentatively and then nodded.
“Precisely, Admiral.”
Dyer sat back dumbfounded. It was like you gave a child a ten dollar bill and told them to go out and buy a bag of groceries at the local store and he returned with a dozen eighteen wheelers loaded to the gunnels with everything the merchant had and gave you change back. It was simply too much to absorb too quickly.
He shook his head.
“So let me get this straight. It took you about one second to get a B-52 into orbit?”
Bear nodded, and grinned shyly.
“I did tell you we were fooling around on the edge of known science, sir. Surprises are kind of inevitable.”
“Yeah! But a spaceship? Last thing I knew you were working on a death ray and communicator! I distinctly remember that is what we talked about.”
Bear looked contrite—scratching his head.
“Well . . . I might have left it out of my report, but I’ve been a bit busy to worry about making my reports too . . . well . . . detailed.”
Dyer sighed.
“There’s more . . .” Bear reached over and hit a key and the screen changed to show a red star in the windscreen of the plane. Bear narrated.
“I thought at this point that I needed to demons
trate just how successful we have been with the technological development of the Petrovski effect. It seemed to me that you might want something even more ‘dramatic’ than a picture of stars or the earth from orbit. Something even more tangible you could take to . . . our financial backers—you know; the taxpayers.”
The windscreen filled to one quarter with the planet Mars and then abruptly to the curve of Mars filling the window in a bath of ruddy light.
“So I took it to Mars.” Bear finished quietly but distinctly.
Dyer’s mouth had unashamedly fallen open again.
After a couple minutes of just staring he looked up at Bear.
“I’ll say one thing, son. You suck at sticking to a plan, but you do not disappoint! You . . . this . . . I . . .”He gestured at the screen.” . . . takes my breath away!”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Bear answered bashfully, an unnatural condition.
An hour later Dyer had seen the film a half dozen times and was back in his chair looking at Bear slumped in a comfy armchair opposite his desk playing with a pencil he had swiped from the Admiral’s desk and feeling sorry for himself. The headache lingered from the Q-Kink carnival just behind his eyes.
“So what exactly am I supposed to do with this thing?” Dyer asked almost rhetorically.
Bear pursed his lips. He had been waiting for this question. He sat up.
“Give it to the world.”
Dyer started slightly.
“What?”
Bear scratched his nose.
Once again he wanted to get it exactly right.
He sighed.
“Look . . . Admiral. I need to put something into your head now . . . . before we get any further down the road. This thing is big! There have not been too many inventions that can even be anywhere in the same league with this. I knew it before we even built it. The only thing I can think of that was even in the ball park was the atom bomb. The bomb was built in secret by a select group of scientists and used for a military purpose. Admiral, the damn thing ended up proliferating war and upping the ante around violence to levels they had never seen before. Most of the scientists who built it ended up trying to limit it and found out you can’t get the genie back in the bottle—Pandora ‘s Amphora was open and had loosed her horrors into the world. This thing is like that too. This has tremendous potential for good things just like nuclear forces did if not focused on weapons. The problem is that it got into the hands of a government that tried to keep it their secret, which did not work since the only thing leakier than secrecy is government secrecy—or a sieve, take your pick. I strongly urge you to consider that keeping it secret for one single government will not last long . . . every single other governments is going to be jealous and suspicious and will focus instantly on finding out what makes it tick. Because they will also eventually get it . . . then it is by definition a product that will ultimately belong to the entire human race, not to the US. So why wait? I say cut through all that. The key will be how it is sold. We don’t need a security plan so much as we need a sales plan.”
