by M. R. Holman
doorway. Hans turned the wheel and a creaking noise filled the room and echoed off the tiles upon the walls. A gondola began to slowly descend from the ceiling on ropes. Hans grinned at the dumbfounded look upon Clark's face.
Hans extracted a long wooden pole from the gondola and climbed inside. He held it steady against the metal dock as Clark entered the boat and sat down. Hans then lifted the pole and dipped it into the water, pushing it against the bottom of the pool and causing them to glide across the surface of the pool. They reached the opposite side with a jolt that caused Clark to tumble forward. Hans helped him to his feet and they each exited the gondola.
"Why don't you dry off? I'll wait," Hans said, motioning to the Dry-O-Matic.
This time, confident in its functional abilities and provided peace of mind by knowing that someone was aware that he was in the machine, Clark entered the Dry-O-Matic. The rush of air over his body was exhilarating and the roar nearly deafening. He emerged a minute or so later fully dry. The pair of them walked to the end of the locker room and approached the vending machine.
"After you," Hans said, gesturing to the vending machine. Clark dropped the Unit into the slot and pressed the Anana Soda button. He heard the long forgotten sound of an aluminum can dropping through the machine and coming to a rest in an opening near the bottom. He bent down and retrieved the prize of his journey as Hans retrieved an Anana of his own. He turned for the exit of the locker room and Clark followed.
"I thought you were going to tell me why you became the janitor of your own space port?" Clark asked.
"I am, but I'd rather not do so in this musty locker room." Clark had to agree that this was a salient point. He followed the old man to the dock of the pool. He placed his can of Anana on the metallic surface of the dock, took off his shoes, rolled up his pants legs, and dipped his feet in the water while sitting on the edge of the dock. Clark did the same.
He pulled the tab of his can and relished the sound that he had not heard in such a long time as it reverberated off the walls. He took a big gulp of his Anana Soda and closed his eyes in ecstasy. It had definitely been worth the trouble.
"I designed a great number of things, young man. I've walked through my palaces, stood at the top of my buildings, and watched Earth disappear in the distance from the portholes of ships and space ports of my design. I could not enjoy those moments, though. I was far too busy. When I was not busy designing, checking and re-checking designs, and meeting with investors, fans, other designers, and so on, I was too caught up with the inconsequential goings-on of the mile-a-minute lifestyle to enjoy any of it." Hans paused for a moment and drank a long draught of Anana before continuing.
"As I sat in my office one day, barricaded within so that I could try to design the space port we now sit in, I drank a can of Anana and looked out of my window at the nearly innumerable tiny humans far below me as they all rushed to their jobs and tasks. It was then that I decided I wanted to slow down and enjoy. I designed this space port so that others may slow down and enjoy their own being. That is why there are no elevators. It's also why the floor plan is, admittedly, rather insane. I wanted others to realize how inconsequential the vast majority of their rushing was. The seconds they saved through grueling haste were squandered on inconsequential matters they did not even want to do in the first place. I knew that was the case because it was my case as well..."
Clark thought back to before he had started his quest to find the vending machine, how he had sat idly and only wanted to work again, to have his mind occupied for him by repetitive labor. He now thought of his winding adventure through the Iron Island, how through relative frustration and ardor and amusement he had arrived at his goal. He thought of how for the first time in recent memory he felt fulfilled.
He realized as he sat beside Hans McSchtruckt, that the architect had not gone mad in the process of designing the Iron Island. He had been enlightened. He was not robbing people of time, he was affording them an experience of being. He was a genius.
"When I came to survey my work, my masterpiece, I walked the halls and realized that it was all I had hoped it would become. It was scoffed at and scorned by critics and impatient workhorses. They claimed I was mad and that I had lost my touch, and maybe they were right. Maybe I was no longer fit to design for the modern space-goer... It was this realization that caused me to pick up a broom and don a cap and beard. I disappeared in plain sight into my own ship and never left, satisfied with a profession that allowed my mind to wander and the joy of seeing the passengers that understood my vision. I must admit that I gained a fair amount of satisfaction from watching the frustration of some of the passengers too," Hans said with a chuckle.
"Well," Hans said before tipping back his can and draining it. "I need to finish my mopping before the boards warp on the basketball court. I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you as well," he said with a wink.
The pair of them rose to their feet and re-entered the gondola. Hans poled it across the surface of the pool, and when they reached the other side he re-attached its ropes and raised it into the ceiling. They walked side by side in silence, aside from the sound of their footsteps. When they reached Hans McSchtruckt's mop and bucket, Clark spoke.
"I won't tell anyone... Who you are, I mean."
Hans smiled and reached into his pocket. He extricated another Unit coin and flipped it to Clark. "For your next day off," he said, turning away and beginning to hum his shrill and disagreeable tune as he dipped his mop in his bucket.
Clark left the architect turned janitor in the basketball court as he finished his can of Anana. He extricated the map from his pocket, glanced at it for a moment, and then threw it away with his empty can of soda. He walked through the space port, unaware of where he was or where he was going with no particular end goal in mind. For the first time since his employment on the Iron Island, he was glad that he had a day off.
Ping Pong – or – It’s Them That’s Wrong
A gleaming oblong starship reflected the innumerable stars surrounding it as it hung idly against the near-infinite backdrop of space. The ship was named Star Harness 211, but most of the crew was not fond of this name and simply referred to it as the Energy Lasso, or just the Lasso for short.
The Lasso's current mission was almost complete. A massive spherical structure was printing and assembling itself around a dying star - a white dwarf. This structure would gather the energy being emitted by the relatively small star and transmit it to the now uninhabited solar system that surrounded it. Once the structure was complete, the Lasso and its crew would refill their energy supplies from the star and continue to the next white dwarf to start the process all over again, leaving the new power source for a third party mining operation that stripped uninhabitable planets of their ancient resources.
After the processes were set in motion and automated by the crew, they had little to do but wait until the sequences were completed. Some read books or watched television or movies. Some gathered in the pubs or diners that were located here and there throughout the gargantuan ship and conversed or played cards as they drank beer. Some stared into the abyss of space and became so overwhelmed with their minuscule size and insignificance that they were in a delirious stupor known as Starship Delirium for much of the mission. Others, such as sixty year old Corporal Riley St. Riley, played ping pong.
"Nineteen serving zero," Corporal Riley said with a malevolent grin as he smacked the small plastic ball with such speed that he caused the Private he was playing against to dive backwards from the ping pong table in an effort to spare what remained of their dignity. The effort was futile, the game was over and Corporal Riley was, as usual, victorious.
"Just transfer those five Units I won whenever you get the chance," Corporal Riley shouted at the retreating back of the fuming Private. He was now left alone in the recreation room of the ship. He spun the paddle in his right hand as he walked across the room to retrieve the ping pong ball. He bent over and picked it up as it contin
ued to bounce off the grubby metal floor of the recreation room.
Corporal Riley stood up straight, rolling the ping pong ball between his fingers as he looked around the vacant recreation room. It had been empty quite often recently, but that had not always been the case. The decline in attendance had coincided with Corporal Riley's winning streak during this mission, but he had not noticed that this was the case. The problem lied more in Corporal Riley's insufferable attitude rather than the winning streak itself.
He tossed the ball in the air and smacked it against the wall a few times. Even he had trouble defending his serve. After a few minutes he lost interest and placed the ping pong paddle in a drawer in the recreation room. He was about to place the ping pong ball in the drawer as well, but paused and put it in the pocket of his pants instead.
Corporal Riley walked to the exit of the recreation room. The door slid open at his approach and he entered a dimly lit hallway lined with portholes. On one side, the portholes faced out into open space - an ocean of blackness stretching as far as the eye could see. On the other side, they faced the rest of the Lasso. He stopped at one of the portholes and looked at the magnificent ship, trying to imagine where
