by M. R. Holman
had no idea that one of them shared the same name that she had given the wallaby she was about to discuss with them. She decided not to bring up its name if possible.
"Alright then... Well, you see, I was outside watching a wallaby eat a sandwich, and - "
"Where did the aforementioned wallaby get a sandwich? Over," Ranger Sal said, cutting across Rooney.
"Hmmm it's hard to say..." she lied. "Anyways, it was eating the sandwich, and I sat down behind it and said hello. The strange thing was..." She paused and gulped hard, her hands shaking again. "It said hello back to me."
Her statement was met with a cold, stony silence that lasted the better part of a minute.
"Is that the end of your transmission? You didn't say over. Over," Ranger Wallace said after some time.
Rooney rolled her eyes. That was hardly the most pressing issue at hand, she thought. "Sorry I'm not in the habit of making radio transmissions. I'm also not in the habit of being spoken to by wallabies, so I think you can understand why I had a momentary lapse in radio etiquette. Over."
"I'm not sure that I understand the situation. Over," Ranger Wallace said in a confused tone.
Rooney was taken aback. What was so hard to understand about the situation? She talked to a wallaby and it talked back to her. Why were they not shocked, or at least intrigued at this information?
"The situation," Rooney said, taking a deep breath and trying her best to be patient and civil. "Is that the wallabies can speak! They can converse! They are sentient and have the capability of speech! Am I going crazy? This seems like big news.... Over."
"Ohhh. Over," several of the rangers said in unison, as though they had collectively understood what Rooney was saying at once.
"No, I think you're mistaken, Junior Ranger," Ranger Sal concluded.
"I'm quite sure that the wallaby spoke to me. I'm absolutely certain of it. Over," Rooney said in a panicked rush. She was beginning to doubt herself. Had it really spoken? Was she cracking up?
"I don't doubt that it spoke to you," Ranger Sal said patiently. "What you're mistaken about is their conversational abilities. Over."
"But - ," Rooney began before being abruptly interrupted.
“The wallabies can talk, but they can't hold a conversation. They can only speak in polite pleasantries. Over," Ranger Sal said with finality.
Rooney sat in bewildered silence as she revisited her conversation with Wallace the wallaby.
"What exactly did the wallaby say to you? Over," Ranger Wallace said after a few silent moments.
"It... it said 'hello', 'greetings', 'good afternoon', 'thank you', and 'good day'.... Over."
"See... only polite pleasantries. That's all they can say. Well, technically that's not all they can say. They can also say, 'how do you do?', 'good evening', 'have a lovely day', and 'salutations'. Over," Ranger Wallace said, as though he was conducting an educational seminar.
"The wallabies in the southern hemisphere can say 'howdy'! Over," one of the rangers that had not identified themselves chimed in excitedly. There was a rush of excited sounds followed by the word 'over' as the rangers received this new piece of wallaby information.
"But... but everything the wallaby said seemed to fit into our conversation... Over."
"That's the thing about pleasantries. It seems like something is being said while nothing is really being said at all. Over," said Ranger Sal.
"And it wasn't a conversation. It was you talking at a wallaby. Over," Ranger Sal added. Rooney thought this addition was quite unnecessary.
"Alright... thanks guys. Over."
"Over and out," the rangers that had responded said at once. The radio remained quiet after that, aside from a few buzzes and the occasional pop of static.
Rooney put down the radio handset and picked up her drawing of Wallace the wallaby. What a strange creature... She drew a speech bubble coming from his mouth that said 'Good day!' and pinned the drawing up on a cork board beside her desk.
How had everyone neglected to tell her that the wallabies could talk? It seemed to her like that would be a talking point... She wondered what else there was to discover on this planet… For the first time since she had arrived, she was excited about the prospect of becoming a full Planetary Park Ranger at the end of her time as Junior Ranger.
Rooney stood up. The generic jazz music continued to play softly throughout the building, combining with the echoes of her boots as she walked toward the front door of the visitor center once more. She walked onto the concrete steps, her nostrils greeted by the fresh scent of the surrounding forest.
"Hello!" she shouted toward the surrounding trees.
"Greetings!"
"Hello!"
"How do you do?"
"Good afternoon!"
A chorus of wallaby pleasantries issued from beyond the clearing surrounding the visitor center. She thought she even heard a distant ‘Howdy!’. Smiling and taking solace in the fact that she could do that whenever she wanted to now, Rooney returned to the receptionist desk in the visitor center and daydreamed of the day she would become a Planetary Park Ranger.
A Can of Anana
The halls of the Iron Island were alive with sound and activity. The Iron Island was a strange little space port and freighter dock located near the center of the Milky Way galaxy. Uniformed workers bustled to and fro, and ship captains and various travelers, traders, and vacationers from all over the galaxy wandered the halls as they waited to re-board their ships that were tethered to the space port. There was one employee of the Iron Island, however, who sat idly at a small table beneath a porthole facing a rather desolate portion of space. His name was Clark and today was his day off of work.
Clark scrolled mindlessly through page after page of nonsense and drivel on the display of the electronic tablet that was inlaid into the tabletop. He hated the mandatory days he had to take off from work. He never knew what to do with his free time.
Clark was a re-fueler on the Iron Island. His job basically consisted of recharging enormous batteries or replenishing anti-matter stores on the spaceships and freighters that docked at the Iron Island. He was essentially a stellar gas station attendant, but the job kept him busy and that's what he wanted.
He sighed and put down his tablet. He raised out of his seat so that he could look out of the porthole. He saw a group of his colleagues slowly pulling an enormously thick cord toward a small space-ship.
"Clark..."
Clark looked away from the window. A man wearing a spacesuit, minus the helmet which he held in his hand, stood surveying him from a few feet away. It was his supervisor, Corporal Anderson. He was tall, muscular, and had black hair peppered with grey. If he was not so incredibly dumb he would have been an impressive and intimidating man.
"Yes sir?" Clark said timidly.
"It's your day off," Corporal Anderson said with finality, looking past Clark at his own reflection in the porthole window and adjusting his necktie which was barely visible beneath his spacesuit.
"I know, sir..."
"We've talked about this, Craig," Corporal Anderson said, glancing at Clark between adjusting his necktie and adjusting his hair.
"It's Clark, sir." Clark was unphased by his supervisor's lapse in memory. Corporal Anderson had an extremely short attention span, and if the matter did not directly involve him, he was unlikely to remember anything.
"Right. Well, you shouldn't be hanging around the freight dock on your day off. You have the whole space port to do... whatever it is you like to do..." Corporal Anderson finished with a sigh. He had finally finished adjusting himself.
"Yes, sir. I'll go sit somewhere else," Clark said, rising from his seat.
"That's a good lad," Corporal Anderson said at once, turning away from Clark and marching down the hall, pausing at another porthole to check his reflection before disappearing from sight.
Clark began to walk with no real destination in mind. He blended in with the travelers as he walked the halls of the I
ron Island, content to be in motion once more. A great number of the crowd he had joined were filing into one of the many bars aboard the ship. Clark paused in front of the bar for a moment and considered getting irresponsibly drunk to pass the time. He ultimately decided against it. The space sailors were generally far too annoying once they had a few drinks.
Now that he thought about it, he was actually quite thirsty. Beer and booze would not satisfy this particular thirst, however. He needed something sweeter. It always seemed that he was surrounded by vending machines on this ship until he needed one. This was one of those moments. He knew for certain that there was one two floors above him though.
Clark set off at once for the stairs. He deftly moved through the crowd of travelers milling through the halls. He was well versed in navigating through the throngs of strangers that plagued his home every time he had a day off. He was not afforded a passing glance from any of his fellow employees as he walked since he was out of uniform. That was fine with him. He preferred to keep to himself.
As he walked, he began to wonder why the Iron Island did not have any elevators. It would have certainly made sense for the structure to have them. The section he was currently inside had ten stories with only stairs connecting them.
Clark knew that the Iron Island was the final space-bound structure designed by celebrated Astro-Architect Hans McSchtruckt. How could such a notable astro-architect forget something as rudimentary and utilitarian as an elevator on a space port? It was rumored among the
