31. The Gag Festival

---

When combined with high unemployment among the young, (the young being anyone less than 80-years-old by 2044), a legislature and legal system dominated by the Boomers tended to result in terribly strange outcomes for the culture. 

Boomers could out-vote everyone and usually handpicked all the elected officials.  Once the Boomers no longer had to worry about children, because they didn't have any or had finished with all that, they decided that paying for schools didn't make sense anymore since there was no longer a need. Consequently, by 2044, the teaching profession had disappeared and was replaced with large warehouses of screaming children and under-maintained, out-of-date education-computers. 

All of this happened organically, with no one making any collective decisions; it's just how the culture morphed over time. 

One of the problems was that, even though the Boomers were not prepared to give up any of the privileges and benefits associated with being the largest and richest demographic segment in history, they had expected to be dead before the planet went sour.  But, of course, the little red miracle pill changed all that.

To be fair, Boomers had been really great at one thing: consumption.  Boomers had fed the longest lived upwardly mobile economy in human history, but they really hadn't done much more than improve what had been given to them by their elders -- except for one truly original thing: Woodstock.

Boomers instinctively needed to spawn every twenty years or so and Woodstock 4 was renamed "Gathering A Generation" by the promoters who didn't want to be associated with the new meaning of the word "Woodstock" as it was coined by younger people. 

In 2044, the G.A.G. festival was held in a large farmer's field in Texas in January, because any state south of the Mason/Dixon was empty in the summer as all the southerners flew North for some relief from the heat.  Many had hoped it could be held in New York state again, but that was impossible because weather in the NorthEast was completely unpredictable and summers were made up of intermittent tropical heat waves and monsoons. 

There are many things that a farmer's field is made of.  There is sand, clay and organic material and, even though it's gross and even dangerous to play with the organic material that you can find in a farmer's field, it's not half as bad as what was hidden in the GAG Festival’s farmer's field: trichloroethylene.The only farmer in all of Texas willing to have his farm trampled by a million baby boomers and their friends was a farmer who was also "willing" to allow a "family run" California waste hauling company to plow in hundreds of thousands of pounds of excess hazardous waste onto his land.  The hauling company's client needed to get rid of the trichloroethylene for a local manufacturing client that had used up its pollution credits at all the West Coast SuperFund sites.

Shipping the material from California to Texas or some alternative SuperFund location designated for burying of this material was not the issue; the company was simply out of SuperFund "super-saver points" and being allowed to bury the stuff legally would have cost a fortune and involved a mountain of paperwork.

But -- thanks to the powers of persuasion of the waste hauling company and the clear-headed thinking of a farmer who wanted to live (and let live) and didn't mind the cash either -- this particular set of fields was covered with some extremely nasty additional chemistry that one would not normally expect to find there. 

In all fairness, it was now unlikely that anything would grow in this field, at least it was unlikely that anything would ever grow normally in this field and so human health was not under threat, since people don't eat potatoes with eyes that blink (at least not yet).

The problem started when the promoters, when presenting the idea of the GAG festival to the farmer, neglected to mention the numbers of people who would be staying in the fields but instead focussed on the hotel and casino development.  They did not reveal the thing about the million people until after the farmer had become quite excited about the rather large sum of money (by farmer standards) that would accrue to him if he sold the property -- property, mind you, that he really didn't want anymore.  By the time he learned about the million or so ground level attendees, he was way too hooked to get terribly incensed about a few extra visitors since all they were going to do was tromp about on the ground for a few days -- what could go wrong?  Nevertheless, due to his religious convictions, he told the promoters about the hazardous waste in the field.  He knew he'd be sorry but he wasn't a bad man and he didn't want it on his conscience.  The promoters cut the price they were offering in half but they bought the farm anyway and he cursed his honesty from that day forward.The promoters did what they thought they should do under the circumstances -- they had the entire field covered in beach sand.  And then they prayed it wouldn't rain -- well they didn't pray but they really really hoped.

However, because many of the Boomers had retired and could now, once again, rejoin the counter-culture after being the culture for most of their lives, the media projected that the GAG weekend would be a geriatric mud-fest second to none.  Most of the anticipatory Webivision programs leading up to the festival showed that, since the attendees had money coming out of every orifice, the preparations had been exhaustive. 

The promoters promised no traffic jam this time -- a 10-story parking structure had been constructed beside the site along with a new shopping mall and full service hotel (each room having its own mud-bath).  The bands were to perform from the top of the parking structure so that every one of the million or so $500 a puddle attendees could see and hear all the great music from massive speakers large enough to penetrate the nearly deaf crowd.

Of course, the musical group that everyone wanted to see the most was the remaining members of the band "What?!" who had sung the now legendary lyric "I hope I die before I hit 50."  This turned out to be patently ironic because the members of the band "What?!" had long ago crashed through 50 and were more likely to hit its multiple than remember its passing.

---

Edgley was not that keen on going to the GAG Festival but his wife insisted that they celebrate their newfound wealth with a little R&R and besides, it wasn't as if he didn't have a SPECTACL with which his company could contact him if, by some incredible freak accident, the Waste-REL should come bouncing back from oblivion.  Mrs. Edgley had purchased the tickets more than a year before and she would have divorced Edgley and taken half of his now paltry, stinking $175 million dollars if he hadn't decided to chauffeur her to the thing.

That was what made Edgley so cranky.  Even though the shuttle had blown up and the Waste-REL had disappeared into nothingness, the damn stock was continuing to trade at multiples that made him want to have a full out 2-year-old tantrum, with kicking and screaming and breath holding and everything.  But he couldn't, after all, he was a CEO and CEO's don't writhe on the floor screaming and crying unless it's CEO apology week in Japan.

Of course, there was a traffic jam.  Boomers made traffic jams wherever they went.  In fact, some have wondered why the visitor from the Sagittarian Galaxy didn't just wait for the Woodstock 4 traffic jam and zap the contents of the roadways.  It would have made fascinating "eye-in-the-sky footage" for the 11 o'clock news.  As it is, Edgley and a large proportion of the world's richest old folks were waiting impatiently for the chance to watch their favorite rock bands and then rattle their jewelry.

Mrs. Edgley watched the stock market reports on the car-link as the Edgley's V-12 Jagular sat blowing carbon monoxide all over the I-45.  Edgley didn't care to watch the stream because it was not a normal business program. 

---

By 2044, Zodiac signs had been mostly replaced by brands -- each person was born under a brand - for instance if you, like Mrs. Edgley, were born between January 3^rd to the 13^th, your mood and personality would be affected by the performance of Awakola or AWAKY.2 as it was known on the New York Stock Exchange.  January 13^th was when the Awakola annual report normally came out and those born under the Awakola brand would always read it to see if they were going to have a good year.  Edgley was just glad that his wife wasn't numbered among the people who were the most rabid watchers of their brand-sign: folks born under entertainment industry brands.  These people would get up in the middle of the night to follow overseas box-office receipt tallies from movies and vids in which they had no personal investment because they wanted to know if they would fall in love next week.  People born under the Vereversal Brand (September 7^th to the 14^th) so associated themselves with the company that when the tabloids announced that Brock Harstring, Vereversal's biggest star, had come down with cancer, a large proportion of the world's population reported to their local hospitals for chemotherapy.

---

A similarly large proportion of the Earth's population were very, very slowly inching the last few miles to Yasgar's Hotel and Casino in New Woodstock, Texas.  Billions of miles away, in outer space, on the other side of the galaxy, six astronauts and the world's smartest computer were about to head back, in the same general direction.

Next:  The Label

30. The Boomers Must Die

"Of course," said Lyle.  "It's their insidious plan.  The Boomers run everything, they own everything.  The whole world is run just to fulfill every felt need of the Boomers.  If you destroy the Boomers, you can take over the world."

"My master didn't want to take over your world!  He loved your world," said the computer.  "He studied your world for the InterGalactic Archives."  The satellite computer started to cry: "My master cared more about you than you ever cared for yourselves… ah whahaha."  The satellite's emotional outburst sounded like deeply-felt, grief-stricken sobbing.  It was pitiful.

"Hey, it's okay," said Lyle.  "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Humph," sniffled the satellite.  "You people are so ungrateful.  He even brought you a gift!"

"A gift?" said Portia.

"Yes,"  said the satellite.  " A very special garment made from neural-active netting.  It's a communication device, among other things.  It will allow one of you to be in contact with my master's people.  It was meant for the one named Lyle Green."

"Th.. that's meh," stuttered Lyle.  "How could you know I would be…"

"Here it is," said the satellite computer.

A cloak made of wire mesh that looked like golden chain mail appeared on the floor beside Donny and Ayame who, startled, suddenly found a way to extricate themselves and back away from the garment -- fast.

"Wait," said Donny.  "We don't know what it is."

"That doesn't matter, Don," said Mickey.  "I think we're pretty much at the mercy of this visitor from another galaxy.  If it wants to hurt us, there are easier ways than to add a tacky golden kimono to Lyle's wardrobe."

"Should I put it on?" asked Lyle, looking from Jules to Verna to Mickey.

"Yes, of course," said Mickey.  "What harm can it do?"

Lyle pulled the robe over his head.  It radiated pure golden light from every link.  It was stunning to behold.  Sparkles flitted around the room.

Lyle and the satellite began to speak in unison.  "'You must take this robe and the messenger, Lyle Green, and return to your planet and destroy the Boomers.  They will not change and your planet must begin an immediate ecological turnaround in the next few months or your species is doomed.'"

"But murder is wrong," said Portia to Lyle, as if he was in control of his words.  "We can't kill our grandparents."

"'You must or you and your children will die too.'"  Lyle looked down at the robe, surprised that he had spoken simultaneously with the Alien signal.  "Well, it's pretty good reception from this part of the galaxy."  Then he flinched with surprise and started speaking again, looking to Mickey with confusion in his eyes.  "'We send a message of good will but we must warn you now.  Your glaciers are about to fall.  They have been melting from within for a quarter of a century.  It will be a catastrophic event, but your planet has seen many of those before and will again.  I'm sorry to say that all of your coastal cities will be destroyed.  There is nothing we can do to help you, we are simply too far away.'"

The Aliens continued to talk through Lyle.  "'I want you to know that all the advanced sentient species in your sister galaxies welcome you into the family of intelligent life forms. But we cannot tolerate any further destruction of the planet for which your galaxy was formed.  All humans who have passed the age of 60 will be executed upon your return to Earth.  Do not worry, for many of them this will be a very pleasant outcome.  I'm sorry to say, for others, not so pleasant.'"

Lyle looked distressed but unable to stop talking for the Aliens.  "'If humans do not stop the use of all fossil fuels within one Earth year, we are giving the messenger the power to extinguish the lives of all adult humans.  I'm sorry it has to be this way, but you leave us no choice.   For those of you who now remain, it's time to get to work.  If you live near a coastal area - you have 90 days to move.'"  Lyle and the satellite stopped talking.

"Is that the whole message," asked Portia.

"I'm not getting anything," said Lyle.  "I don't see a button on the suit, so I assume it's only got one channel."

"What are we going to do?" asked Ayame.  "We can't kill our parents.  It is a terrible thing to even contemplate."

"How would we do it anyway?" asked Donny.  "It's not like we have a weapon."

That's when everyone looked at the robe.

"Oh, Lyle," said Mickey.  "You're not just the harbinger of death.  You’re a weapon of mass destruction."

"Get it off me," said Lyle, pulling the robe over his head and throwing it on the floor.

"Chuck it outside," said Verna.  "Get rid of the thing!"

"I wouldn't do that," said the satellite over the speaker system.

"Jules?" scolded Portia.

"I didn't open a comlink," said Jules.  "It's eavesdropping."

"The robe is made of the finest material in creation," said the satellite.  "It's worth a great fortune.  The molecules have properties that can not be synthesized in your galaxy."

"I don't care.  I don't want it," said Lyle.

Nobody wanted it.  They probably wouldn't have wanted it under any circumstances, but it sure didn't hurt that they'd just been through the fuzzynavel and were feeling really well-adjusted and content and the robe was having a terribly harsh effect on their buzz.

Next: The Gag Festival

29. The Alien

When the crew of the Waste-REL came out of the C/T fuzzynavel, they were all pretty confused as to where they were, except Verna who was prostrate on the floor-tiles, knocked out.

Because of this, Lyle was the first to come out of the post transformation daze.  He kneeled down and said something like "Ohmagawvarnburt."  Which was about all he could manage as his mouth-muscles, like the rest of his body, were all freshly reconfigured and needed some recovery time.  "Juwes?!"

Jules had been in one part of the galaxy a moment ago and now emerged into practical existence seven seconds later.  For one thing, his clock was off.  Otherwise, it was just the same old Jules.  Jules had not dreamed in the fuzzynavel, his programming didn't work without electrons and there weren't any in the spotty dimensions, at least not the kind we're used to.

Jules checked his telescopes 16,384 times and then said  "we're not in Kansas anymore."

This is true, however where they were had no name, the reason for this will become evident shortly.

"This is the Sagittarian Satellite.  Can you detect this signal?  This is Sagittarian Satellite.  Can you detect this signal?" said some signal from somewhere.

"Yes," said Jules.  "I can detect your signal."

"Are you able to make this transmission available to a human?" said the signal.

"We can hear you," said Portia, standing up and falling into the communications console, blinking her eyes and shaking her head.

"They're pretty disoriented right now," said Jules.  "Can I help you?"

"Would you please tell your calculator to be quiet," said the signal.

"Calculator, well I…"

"Shhh," said Portia, placing her hand on the computer speaker in the communications console.  "We don't know what we're up against here."  Jules zipped it -- in fact he made a little zipper sound just for fun.

"I can hear you," said Portia, her eyes still half-shut.  "What do you want?"

"I'm afraid my master is dead," said the computer on a nearby alien satellite.  "Your junk destroyed the planet he was on."

"Oh, no," said Portia, devastated.  "We're really sorry."

"That's okay," said the satellite computer.  "Everyone told him not to do it but he wouldn't listen.  It's his own fault.  I think it was just an excuse to go through the fuzzynavel.  He was getting ever so pouty lately."

"I don't understand," said Portia.

"My master," said the Satellite.  "He was a visitor from another galaxy.  Oh, you people don't know anything do you?"

"No, I guess we don't," said Portia.  "Can you fill us in?"

"Well," said the satellite computer impatiently.  "It's not like I have anywhere to go, do I?"

"I have no idea," said Portia.

"Well I DON'T," announced the satellite computer.  "So I guess we can just do the history thing now."

By this time, Mickey joined Portia at the communications console and wrapped his arms around her waist.  She touched his hand lightly to show approval but then returned to the conversation.

Lyle gave Verna a sniff of some smelling salts and she woke up to see his face and smiled.  Her goggles were on the floor so Lyle picked them up and passed them to her.  She stared at them for the longest time.  "My stars," said Verna.  "I can see."

Donny and Ayame were wrapped up in what a wrestler might call a total nelson until they heard Verna say "I can see." Then, as if they only just then realized that they were no longer in the fuzzynavel, they let go of each other.  If they'd been kissing with any more ferocity, they would have been in pain.  As it was, they both just had really funny puffy lips.  Verna looked at them astonished, because 1)- she could see them and B)- she could see them intertwined like a wicker chair.  Donny and Ayame did not get up all embarrassed and start to unwrinkle their clothes and cough and pretend they hadn't been kissing.  Instead, they took one look at each other and started the whole thing over again.

This looked like such a good idea to Verna and Lyle that they fell into each other's arms.

This left Portia and Mickey to deal with the strange alien computer.

"Do you know how many other sentient species there are?" asked the Satellite.

"No idea," said Mickey.

"Oh, another one, good then I won't have to repeat myself.  Okay, well there are 12 spiral galaxies that are close enough for us to share data and we're aware of 12 sentient species.  Does that tell you anything."

"That there's one sentient species per galaxy?" asked Portia.

"Very good," said the satellite, making a hand clapping sound.  "Now, do you know why that is?"

"Not a clue," said Mickey.

"Good," said the Satellite.  "Because, heaven knows I wouldn't want to bore you." The satellite continued.  "My master's theory was that every galaxy just gets the one sentient species.  It's so you won't kill each other, I suppose."

"Do you mean that in our galaxy, a galaxy that's more than 100,000 light years across, the only intelligent life is on one planet on the trailing edge?" asked Verna, standing up and holding Lyle's hand to help him up.

"Yes, that right," said the satellite computer.  "Just you, all alone.  The whole galaxy is meant for you.  You're supposed to get smarter and smarter until you just burst with knowledge and travel about making dead rocky planets into little duplicates of your starter planet.  It's not as if you'll be the first to do it.  My galaxy's just swarming with my master's species.  That's why they let him come here -- one less mouth to feed, I expect.  Aha ha."

"Are we in your galaxy now?" asked Portia.  Verna and Lyle were standing behind them now, listening.  Donny and Ayame were listening from a nice comfy sitting position on the floor tiles, trying to figure out how to untangle so they too could stand up.

"No, you're not in my master's galaxy," said the satellite computer, exasperated.  "This is the other side of your galaxy.  Are you kidding, it nearly killed me to travel this far.  Do you have any idea how far apart the galaxies are?"

"No idea," said Lyle.

"It's like eternity minus 1 light-year and I ought to know because I've had to do it," said the satellite computer.  "My master was from the next galaxy over, the closest one, which you call the Sagittarius Dwarf Galaxy but that's just because you have a bad vantage point.  I can tell you, it's just as good a galaxy as yours is and my master's species is more advanced."

"Excuse me, but are you functioning properly?" asked Jules.

"Hey, tell your abacus to be quiet.  I have to talk to you but nobody said anything about talking to a lower order of A.I."

"Shhh," said Portia to Jules.  "He's got a complex."

"I heard that," said the satellite.

"Sorry," said Portia.  "So why did your master want to see us so much?  I mean, he came all this way and then, I assume he dragged us here to talk to him."

"That's the order of events," said the satellite.  "He wanted to warn you that you don't have much time left."

"Time to do what?" asked Portia.

"Time to kill the … what you people call… the Boomers."

"What?!" exclaimed Portia.

"You're supposed to go back and kill all the humans who have been on the Earth for 60 or more rotations around your sun.  If you don't -- they will lay waste to your planet."

"Your galaxy will destroy our planet if we don't kill the Boomers?!" asked Mickey.

Next: The Boomers Must Die

28. The Fuzzy Navel

As the Waste-REL and its comet's-tail of space junk crossed into the fuzzynavel, it fell off the mission control LASAR scanners.  It disappeared.

-----

This made Edgley very happy.

But he couldn't show it.

"Oh no," he gasped.  "What happened?  Did it blow up?"  He could barely restrain his glee.

"No," said the guy in charge of the LASAR.  "It ceased to read on the LASAR.  It's gone, no debris, nothing."

"Bermuda triangle," croaked someone drinking coffee at the back of the room.  Everyone ignored him.

"Well," said Edgley.  "Keep scanning."

Edgley nearly skipped out of the control room.  He patted the mission manager on the shoulder as he left, making the mission manager feel ever so slimy.

The board of directors was gathered in the boardroom, watching a wall full of data with no data in it.

"Where'd it go?" asked the Senator as Edgley entered.

"They're scanning for it now," said Edgley.  "I sure hope they're okay."  Then he smiled.  "I'm sure everything's okay."

All eyes returned to the display.  Where the Waste-REL had been, space was empty.

-----

The Waste-REL was flying at 21,504 kilometers per second, or 1.2 million kilometers per hour when it went through the fuzzynavel.  There was no gas, or meteor bits or anything in the last few seconds before they went through the fuzzynavel, we know this because the Waste-REL would have been blown to pieces if it had hit a hydrogen atom at this speed.  When they came out on the other side of the fuzzynavel, 8 hours earlier on the other side of the galaxy, they traveled into another particularly clean vacuum of space, which was more by design than merely serendipitous as they were to later learn.

Unfortunately, they were also followed by 170 tons of space junk, also flying at 1.2 million kilometers per hour.  This had not been predicted by the alien being who organized the voyage of the Waste-REL through the fuzzynavel because, though he/she/it could scan across the cosmos, the fuzzynavel was 8 hours behind Earth time in this particular section of the galaxy.  This was normally considered to be a mere technicality, but it did mean that every so often this kind of fuzzynavel could present you with a surprise.  In this case the surprise was that, although they had a very good way to safely slow down the Waste-REL as it entered the region, they had no way to stop 170 tons of space junk from flying into the planet at 1.2 million kilometers per hour.  Mostly because the process was automatic and one minute the planet was there and the next minute it was shattered by 170 tons of Earth space junk.  It is useless to speculate as to whether or not the sole inhabitant of this delicate little planet, the person who attracted the Waste-REL through the fuzzynavel, meant to commit suicide, as so many have suggested in the ensuing years.  His computer told us that he knew the risks and chose to contact Earth anyway, so there's no reason to feel all guilty about the death of "the visitor".  It just happened as these things sometimes do.

It was disappointing, though, since this was "first contact" and we'd managed to kill him/her/it before we ever got a chance to say "hi" or anything.

However, the visitor's computer was still floating about in orbit around the remains of the planet because it was the device that had been waiting to slow down the Waste-REL but neglected to stop the space junk.

However, before discussing what happened when the crew of the Waste-REL met the computer that belonged to the Visitor who was killed by the space junk, we need to review what happened to the crew in the transformation/conversion fuzzynavel.

-----

They experienced what can only be called a high-colonic of their existence.  They went in a bunch of messed up humans and they came out unmessed up.  This is because the spotty dimensions can only be described as mess-free or mess-proof or mess resistant or however you want to interpret it; but the point is, you come out the other end of the fuzzynavel in the form you were meant to be in, based on the blueprint of, for lack of a better word, your soul.  That meant that for Lyle and Donny and Verna-- they lost weight.  This was one of the more immediately detectable differences.  Lyle's skin cleared up too.  Verna's eyes returned to normal but she walked into the wall afterward because she was still wearing the goggles.  There were few detectable differences in Portia, Mickey or Ayame -- it's not like Mickey got a haircut or something.  But there were differences, and those differences were based on their individual experiences inside the spotty dimensions.

Lyle had the most fun.  He was bouncing around in a warm dark place for quite a while before he opened his eyes, or the equivalent of opening your eyes in the spotty dimensions.  Then he realized that he was bouncing in a world full of big, billowy breasts.  It was warm and loving and soft and pleasant and he just bounced around on these two and three-story-high breasts for the longest time.  The universe was breasts no matter where you bounced, and it was just a really nice place to be and Lyle was glad that he was there and he really didn't care if he ever left, but if he did leave, he didn't care about that either.  It was fun to bounce and flip and squoosh into all these lovely warm soft breasts.  And then he was Lyle again, except he was on the other side of the galaxy, and he liked Lyle and he wasn't afraid.

The others had similar experiences, although they were utterly different.  Mickey sat in a room.  The room had only one chair.  On the other side of the room sat an old man, but not a Boomer -- much older than that -- maybe 500 or 2000 years-old.  The man sat naked on a cushion with only his long, white beard covering his private parts.  He said,  "hello, Mickey.  I am your father."

Mickey looked at the man, and he did look a little like his father, but as if his father had aged dramatically --something his father had always tried desperately not to do. 

Mickey's father was an actor; Jason Hummer was his stage name.  His father and his mother had been poor when Mickey was a boy.  There was no work for actors because live actors had all been replaced in movies, television and the Web by 3-dimensional characters, especially in porn.  These were not sophisticated sapients like Jules.  They had no intelligence of their own and only did what their masters programmed them to do, which was to look handsome and fight virtual bad-guys who were programmed to be bad.  The stories were just as shallow and ham-fisted as always, but the audiences loved their favorite characters who never aged.  The most famous of them all was Ray Tracing, the movie star whose programmers made billions from his series of noirish detective thrillers.  

But one day Ray Tracing disappeared, the victim of a stealth computer virus designed by some sick and jealous actor who moonlighted as a computer programmer.  If you've ever met a flesh and blood actor you know that this must have been a very badly deluded computer programmer and not an actual actor as programming activity is inherently time consuming and would have greatly interfered with mirror-time.

Nevertheless, someone made a killer virus that erased all variations of Ray Tracing from existence.  This led to the making of the movie "Who Killed Ray Tracing" which, ironically, starred only real human actors since all the cyber-actors were in hiding.  This meant that Mickey's father finally got work, playing the character of Ray Tracing.  This made him a big star and Mickey's father did what every actor does when he makes it big as a movie or television star -- he left Mickey's mother smothered in debt and moved to Beverly Hills.  It took her six years to get her ex-lover to admit paternity and that was only after her lawyer hired a guy to shoot Mickey's father with a blow-dart attached to a long string, extracting sufficient DNA to prove paternity.  Only then did Mickey's kajillionaire father agree to buy the kid a pair of Keds once a year.

Worst of all, in order to distinguish themselves from artificial actors, human actors had to do the one thing that they could do better -- overact.  Over the top, emotional, beyond-the-valley-of-the-soap-opera acting was the norm for these flesh and blood performers and over time it became impossible for these people to behave normally when the cameras were gone, especially since hidden security cameras were somewhat ubiquitous in this era, especially in public washrooms. 

When Mickey's father finally tried to have a relationship with Mickey, he came into Mickey's life with such a demonstrative excess of passion that he was clearly full of bullfeathers and Mickey was too embarrassed to be seen with the guy.  This was normal teen behavior but that was something Mickey's father didn't know, not really being a father but only playing one on the ‘Net.

This personal history had been fairly damaging to Mickey's psyche and although his mother had worked very hard to take care of him, and had loved him dearly (despite the fact that he was the spitting image of his movie-star father), Mickey had become a pheely geek.  His mother had despaired of ever seeing Mickey make a life for himself.  However, once Mickey turned 18, she felt she'd met her obligation and got hitched to a nice ob/gyn who really didn't want the teenager added to his condo.  Hence, Mickey ended up in Donny's basement.

In order to get Mickey's personality to overcome this personal history of abandonment and reckless disregard for his own health or self-worth, Mickey would have needed a nearly infinite amount of therapy.  But thanks to the marvelous healing power of the fuzzynavel, Mickey was able to experience an infinite amount of therapy in approximately seven seconds.  Later he would swear it was much longer -- like eighteen seconds.

There is no way to explain what transpired between Mickey and the old man without filling up a couple more books and even that would only be an executive-summary.  Suffice it to say that Mickey went from being a nice guy with a lot of problems to being a nice guy.  This made his transformation almost undetectable to everyone else -- except Mickey.  Mickey couldn't rightly remember what exactly transpired in the fuzzynavel himself, except to say that he had a change of heart towards a number of things and most importantly, unlike the rest of his generation, he stopped hating his parents or, for that matter, anyone else.

Verna's time in the fuzzynavel was spent punching people.  She punched every kid she ever went to school with.  She punched her mother, her father, her sister, her dog.  She punched every astronaut she ever flew with. She punched the entire crew of the Waste-REL.  She punched everybody she ever met and then punched them again for good luck.  She got tired after a couple of months of punching and sat down, feeling much better and not a bit better at the same time.  Then, for no reason she could clearly give you, she started kissing everyone she ever met and then, when she got to Lyle, about 20,000 kisses after she started, she stopped and kept on kissing.  Lyle's kisses were very very very good and Verna decided that if she ever got out of the fuzzynavel she'd never ever stop kissing Lyle - and then she got out of the fuzzynavel, went looking for Lyle, walked into the wall and knocked herself out.

Portia, as an individual who had her act together, had always had an inordinate fear of not having her act together.  Some of this was because her father was distanced and indifferent and some of it was because her mother was overbearing and hostile, but that was a perfectly normal upbringing in Portia's generation and she would have been an outcast among her peers if circumstances had been different.

Portia's main problem came not from her reaction to what was outside of her, but in how repulsed she was by what was inside of her.  Portia spent a good deal of her time studying, working and sleeping trying to forget that she was Portia Summers.  Portia Summers was lazy and full of anger and selfish and a spoiled brat and she didn’t want to have anything to do with Portia Summers.  Unfortunately, everywhere Portia went, there she was being Portia.  It could get you down. 

Portia decided early on that if she was going to persist in being Portia Summers despite all attempts to become something else, she was darn sure going to be the absolute best Portia Summers that Portia Summers could be.  She took aptitude tests that told her she'd be a good psychologist and that she'd thrive in a Human Resources Department because she was a people person, despite the fact that Human Resources departments treat people as if they were, you know, resources.  So Portia became what the tests told her she'd be good at and, low and behold, she was good at it and this was the beginning of her adult life, same as the old life but with a paycheck and a condo and a fiancée who turned out to be gay.  It's not like she was prejudiced or anything, it's just that this would be where she'd have drawn the line if she'd known.

Anyway, Portia's skinny, naked, stick body stood in front of a long mirror that expanded and contracted like a slowly beating heart.  There was a low hum accompanying the slow mutation of the mirror as it changed Portia's reflection from skinny to chubby to skinny to pregnant to big-headed to big-feeted to big butted and back again.  As Portia looked at the mirror, she realized that she wasn't really looking at Portia, just a reflection of something that didn't really represent who or what she was.  As her body changed dimensions, it changed attire in the same slow rhythm.  She was in a pants suit from work, blue jeans with no top, a bikini (pathetic, oo not so pathetic, pathetic, yuk, ooo), a prom dress, a bridal gown, another dress suit, cut-off shorts and a T-shirt -- each time she looked like a different person, each time she seemed somehow a different Portia.  After what felt like many years of changes in which she started to morph into different trees and rock formations and planets and pebbles and hamsters, Portia began to feel quite good about Portia Summers and less bad about Portia Summers in the universe.  She had a nice talk with a little elf woman named Heidi who took her to a wishing-well and gave her a bucket of water and they talked about what a nice day it was and how lucky they were to be able to throw snowballs and then "poof", she came out of the fuzzynavel.  Portia felt like she'd been gone a very long time and that she was very very old.  She glanced down to a reflective surface on the computer console and realized that she was Portia again and she was very glad because she had a great deal of nostalgia for being Portia.

Despite the fact that everyone has a different experience each time they go through the fuzzynavel, few if any beings ever undergo notably unique experiences in the fuzzynavel.  Ayame and Donny's experience of the fuzzynavel was so unusual that it became news, or the equivalent of gossip in most of the galaxies that contained advanced sentient species.  Ayame and Donny shared the Conversion/Transformation dream together.  It was not known whether anyone had ever experienced anything of the sort before.  Donny and Ayame could see, reach out and touch each other; experience sensation together.  It's just that Donny couldn't figure out where he started and Ayame ended and neither could Ayame.  For a very long time they didn't care because it felt so very, very good.  Ayame was inside Donny.  Donny was inside Ayame.  Their hearts beat together.  They thought the same thoughts.  They were DonnyAyame or AyameDonny.  They were more than just Donny Plus or Ayame Extra, they were DonnyAyameDonameAyonnyDayOnnAmey.  It was as if they somehow held the key to what was missing in the other.  Ayame had been crazed with ambition as a youth, demanding and unloving, seeking only her one true love: space flight and the adulation that would come from being among the best of the best.  But achieving so much required her to be completely selfish, unaware of the needs of others and proud. Of course, the Japanese didn't have any Boomers, exactly, which made life for Ayame much easier than it was for her crewmates. 

Donny had been loving but sensitive, capable but easily bruised.  Donny was crushed by the exploitive cruelty of his teachers in engineering school, unwilling to make the grade in a competitive environment where the Boomers had all the jobs and even getting the chance to intern was based on violently aggressive kissing up.  Donny wanted only to be left alone in lazy peace.  Where Donny was weak, Ayame had been vital. Where Ayame was negligent, Donny was inspired.  That which ate away at their spirits dissolved in the fuzzynavel and was replaced with that which nourished each other's life force.  In the future, when Donny and Ayame made love, (which was what both of them would live for throughout the rest of their lives), they were transported back to the eternal seven seconds when they were one complete mind and spirit and gave each other the bliss of knowing no pain.

Next: The Alien

27. Pheel Romantic

Donny had just come out of the nuclear engine chamber when he was given the weird news.

"We're what?" asked Donny.

"We're accelerating away from Earth," said Portia, toweling her hair.  "Verna figured it out and mission control has concurred."

"But how?  Why?" asked Donny.

"Don't know," said Verna.  "Can't see any reason for it."  She put her elbows on the navigation console and cradled her chin in her palms and grimaced.  "There is no way the shuttle's explosion caused this."

"I can now estimate we're doubling our speed every 10 minutes," said Jules.  "At this rate we'll reach the speed of light within the hour."

"This ship will disintegrate before that," said Ayame, scanning the inner hull for cracks.

"Disintegrate?!" blurted Lyle.  Up to that moment in time he'd been enjoying a tube of yogurty stuff for lunch.

"Uh, we better stay out of this," said Mickey, gently steering Lyle away from the crowd.  "Come on, let's get a job from Jules."

The two sat down and cabled up their SPECTACLs.  In 4 seconds the Pheely-session was over and they got busy searching through the blue plastic crates for a floor-tile removing suction tool.

"Waste-REL," said mission control over the radio.  "Have you any new information for us?  We're stumped as to what is happening to you."  The mission manager's usually calm voice revealed mounting layers of fear, stress, panic, exhaustion and constipation.  "We're thinking you ought to try and slow the craft down by setting the magnet/graviton drive to maximum and hope you get pulled back toward the space junk."

"It'll smash us to bits," said Donny.  "We can't just collide with the garbage, you know.  We have to approach the junk gradually or it'll blow us up."

"Who is this?" asked Mission Control.

"This is Donny… er… Donald Summers."

They heard the mission manager quietly ask someone Donny's identity.  "Oh, the Fullsenz-junkie," whispered the mission manager.  "Look, could you put someone with authority on the line, please."

"As much as I hate to admit it, STC Mission Control is right," interrupted Jules.  "Unless you're planning to colonize Mars, we better try and stop this thing."

"I agree," said Verna.

"Me too," said Ayame.

"What do you think, Donny?" asked Portia, mostly just to make him feel better about the insult from Mission Control.

"Okay then," said Donny speaking directly to Jules.  "Lyle and Mickey are pretty good at spotting targets.  Do you need help or can you do this?"

"I'll take care of it, but you better all strap in again," said Jules.

"There's no time for that," said Donny.  "Fire up the magnet and scan for big metal masses."

"Yes, sir," smiled Jules.  The whir and buzz of the magnet/graviton drive rose in volume and pitch.  Jules began attracting a wide array of items to the ship.  Each was pulled out of its orbit around the Earth and dragged behind the Waste-REL.

Having overheard what was going on during his search for a floor-sucker, Lyle had taken his place at the scanning station, reviewing the LASAR display.  "It's not working," he sighed.

"We're just picking up a tail for our own artificial comet," said Verna, reviewing the same displays while smoothly sidling up behind Lyle.

"Wait, I see a couple of massive items," said Jules.

"Odds are they won't slow us down," said Verna.

"Don't tell me the odds!" insisted Jules cavalierly and then he giggled a little.  Upon hearing this Lyle looked to Verna for clarification but she just shrugged.

Soon there were 236 objects ranging in size from stove bolts to luxury automobiles dragging along behind the Waste-REL, at more than 10,000 kilometers per second.

"It's not working!" repeated Lyle.

As the others gaped at the displays in horror, Mickey grasped Portia gently by the arm, held his finger to her lips, sat her down in one of the Pheely chairs and she let him insert a Pheely-cable in her SPECTACL.  He then sat down beside her and cabled up himself.

"Hi," he said.

"What?" asked Portia, frantic.  "What are we doing in here?"

"You really can't do anything more out there, Porsh," said Mickey. "It's up to the technical people."  Mickey then turned to the sky and said "Jules, can we have a Florida beach please, normal heat and humidity for the season, lots of beach salad, please."

"Sure," said Jules' voice and the world became as Mickey had requested. 105°F with a humidex factor that felt like a billion and a smelly beach.

"What are you doing?" asked Portia.

Mickey held up his palms of calm. "Don't worry, we're at maximum accelerated time.  A fraction of a second of real-time has passed.  Look, just listen to me for a second."

"For a second," confirmed Portia, with firm conviction.  "No more."

"I want to," started Mickey.  "I think we're going to die in a few minutes and…"  Mickey stopped.

Portia could pick up the personality and the confusion in his facial expression, even though it didn't exactly look like Mickey.  "Go ahead, I'm listening."

"I, uh, I know that I'm just a pheely geek and not worthy of someone as…"  Mickey winced at the sunlight.  "It's so hot here."

"Jules, can you give us Hawaii," asked Portia.  "You know, the "perfect" Hawaii?"

Jules didn't even speak, the world simply became 30 degrees cooler and the beach became pristine.  It was paradise.  Mickey and Portia were in bathing suits and somehow Jules had found a way to make them look like themselves.  At first Mickey was very disconcerted but soon he marveled at the precision of Jules' interpretation of Portia's looks.

"You look so good," said Mickey.  "I love the way you always look so good."

"You've got to be kidding," said Portia.

"No," said Mickey.  "I want you to know that ever since we were kids, I've always thought that you were the only girl in the whole world but…  You're a lot younger than me and I'm such a stupid pheely geek and…"

Portia placed her sandy fingers on his lips.  Then she brushed them away and kissed him.  Mickey wrapped his arms around her in an instant and squeezed her into himself and kissed her as if he'd never kissed anyone else in his life, which was mostly true if you excluded Pheely sessions.

"Why didn't you tell me, Mickey?" said Portia.  "You don't know how much it would have meant…"

"Because you were…  Because if I'd told you how I felt then… I'm older than you, it wouldn't be fair and look what you've done with your life.  I mean, you're a psychologist; you work for a big company.  I'd have ruined all that."

"You don't know," said Portia.  "Maybe we could have worked it out together.  Maybe I'd have had a more positive effect on you."

"Than your brother?" smiled Mickey.

"Well, I don't know," laughed Portia.  "Maybe.  I don't know which of you is the worse influence."

"It's me, of course," He smiled.  "But now that doesn't matter, because, we're going to die -- but in here, in accelerated time, even if we've only got 5 minutes together out there, we've got all day to be together in here. Only one day, but, I'd die twice just to be with you for one day."

"Oh, Mickey," Portia whispered and held him.

"I love you," said Mickey, nuzzling into her neck and kissing her ear.  "I've always loved you."

"I've always loved you too," cried Portia.  "Why couldn't we…"

"We've got now, right now.  Let's go for a walk on the beach and hold hands and then we'll make love in the surf while there's still time for us…"

"But I can't," said Portia.  "As much as I want to.  I have responsibilities out there and so do you.  We can't hide in here, Mickey."

"There's nothing you and I can do to help," said Mickey.

"But if there's a chance," insisted Portia.  "It could be something we can't predict -- I want to be there.  I want to do what I can, but listen, it's not over just because we die.  Maybe, maybe in the afterlife we can be together like this.  You don't know; nobody knows."  She stood up and, holding his hand, pulled Mickey upwards and then wrapped her arms around his waist.  "But knowing you love me.  That means everything to me, Mickey.  No matter what happens, I'd rather have lived with your love for 5 minutes than lived forever without you."

Mickey felt her cheek press into his own and he hugged her gently.  He kissed her neck with every word.  "Okay… captain… What… are… your… orders?"

"Jules," said Portia holding Mickey's hand.  "How much time has passed in real time since we started this session?"

"About 4 seconds," said Jules.  "And by the way, you make a cute couple."

"What are our options at this point?"

"None, I'm afraid," lamented Jules.  "I can't even begin to guess why we're going in the direction we're going in, very well why we're accelerating towards it.  It's like there's a black hole opened up somewhere between here and Mars and the only thing it's attracting is us."

"So would you postulate that what's happening to us is a natural or unnatural phenomenon?" asked Portia, impressing Mickey no end.

"Oh, there isn't anything natural about what's happening to us right now," said Jules.

"So the outcome is completely unpredictable then, isn't it?"

"Yes," agreed Jules, a bit surprised, which is a rare experience for a sapient in a metaquantum computer.  "You're right."

"So we shouldn't panic," said Portia and turned to Mickey. "Come on, let's see if we can help."

Mickey smiled.  He was just happy to have told her.  His mind was blown knowing that she loved him back.  They weren't even going to get to make love, but then, he thought, maybe that was right.

Portia kissed him and then said: "End session."

---

Travelling at the speed of light may or may not be impossible -- no one who could do it cares.  There are better ways of getting around without losing all your friends and family in a time discrepancy.

It should be understood at this point that there are more dimensions than just space/time.  There are a lot more and we don't know how many so don't ask.

An important feature of many of the dimensions that humans don't directly experience through their 5 senses is that, unlike three-dimensional space, existence in these dimensions would be erroneously described as "everything in the universe taking up approximately the same exact spot".  For instance, there is only one creature that is native to the Sixth Dimension.  It can not be described in space/time terms, but imagine a snake eating its tail, now forget about that and think about a bunny.

Beings that can convert or transform themselves from the more spread-out dimensions into one or more of these "same spot for everything" dimensions can benefit from low travel insurance rates.  This is because the transportation of a space/time/matter person through these dimensions has two benefits -- you can go across your galaxy instantly and you'll come out feeling better than you've ever felt in your entire life.

In many advanced galaxies, conversion/transformation services are not readily available just anywhere, but can be set up ahead of time if one has sufficient forewarning. 

Although humans have always postulated the existence of wormholes, among the advanced species in other galaxies the name for these phenomena is best translated as "fuzzy-navels".  There are many reasons for this, but the most likely one is that going through a fuzzynavel gives you a warm, cozy, connected-to-the-universe kind of feeling.  Of course this also means that intergalactic war is impossible, because every time an aggressive and ferocious warlike species pushes their battle-ready armies through a fuzzy navel, they came out very mellow and well adjusted and not at all up for a good fight and, so, get slaughtered.

There was a Conversion/Transformer fuzzynavel directly in the path of the Waste-REL.  The Waste-REL had no way of detecting the fuzzynavel because, in space, a fuzzynavel looks like a big chunk of nothing, which is what space looks like too.  The only difference is, the fuzzynavel sends you through to another space and time by converting you through the sixth, seventh, eleventh dimensions and part of the fourteenth (AKA thirteenth) dimension.Moving through the conversion/transformation fuzzynavel has the same effect on every sentient being who crosses the thresh-hold from space/time into spottiness and back again -- it's the most therapeutic experience a person could possibly enjoy.

---

Next: The Fuzzy Navel 

26. Too Fast

In an orbit there is an apogee and a perigee, the farthest and closest distances, respectively, from the really big thing being orbited.  If both are the same distance then you have a uniform circular orbit.  If both are very different distances, then you have an elliptical orbit.  At this point the Waste-REL's occupants were just hoping to have an orbit.

---

An orbit is essentially a free fall toward the planet that never reaches the planet due to the speed of the craft, centrifugal force -- physics stuff.  The Waste-REL was moving at nearly 10,000 kilometers per hour and it was moving away from the Earth, not falling towards it.  This was okay if the Waste-REL was at perigee and if its orbit was elliptical because the craft would then slow down at apogee and everything would probably be hunky-dory (see glossary for technical terms).  However, if the orbit was uniform, or if the craft was at apogee, they were going too fast and would likely be flung out into open space.

---

Ayame and Verna and Jules and everyone at STC Mission Control was busy trying to calculate what was happening to the Waste-REL so they could figure out what to do.  Since the only information they had 2 minutes after the explosion of the Shuttle kicked them into higher orbit was that the Waste-REL was moving at "quite a clip" (another technical term to ignore), all they could do is observe and calculate.

Of course, Verna wanted to "do something" but Ayame kept telling her to "cool her jets," which was, in fact, technically accurate as the maneuvering rockets did need to be cooled when not in use -- so Verna pressed that button and felt much better.

Jules monitored whatever diagnostic sensors he had on board, which wasn't many, and otherwise spent his time estimating the probability of potential technical glitches and failures based on cross-referencing schematics and making predictions on failure rates.  It wasn't that he wanted to keep the team busy -- the Waste-REL was already starting to disintegrate under the stress of actually having to operate.

"Team," said Jules.  "I'm going to need all of your help."

"What do you want now?" asked Verna.

"Um, well, I'd like to assign some maintenance and repair duties if you don't mind," said Jules, apologetically.  "You see, um, the ship's starting to fall apart."

"What a piece of junk!" said Ayame.  "Can't you people build anything?"

"What do you mean, 'you people'?" asked Verna, indignantly.

"I mean STC," said Ayame.

"Oh, no, they can't," said Verna, returning her attention to the console.  "It's like a training ground for incompetence.  They actually have research and development projects where the stated objectives, the method of inquiry and the final conclusions have nothing to do with each other."

Everyone on the Waste-REL was more than happy to defer to Jules’ authority because they were all experiencing what can only be described as a heightened sense of their own mortality - which felt just like a chugging down a frosty mug full of overwhelming panic followed by a triple adrenaline chaser.

They needed access to the ship's FullSenz for quick training sessions and they did have pheely brain contacts built right into the back of their helmets, but it was cumbersome to work in their pressure suits and, besides, Portia really wanted to clean up.  Jules warmed up the Waste-REL and filled it with air so they could change, which required a whole new level of education in space-sharing etiquette.

Portia even took a quick shower, which was essentially the same as standing naked in a 30-second category five hurricane.

Donny and Mickey set up three chairs with FullSenz cables and SPECTACLs.  Then they woke up Lyle. 

Portia and Ayame joined Mickey for the first Pheely session.  Each would receive an assignment from Jules, based on his growing knowledge of their capabilities and weaknesses, then they would take a training session with Jules in accelerated pheely-time to learn how to do what they were supposed to do and then they'd go do it for real. 

Mickey became Mr. Fixit, the handiest astronaut on board.  Everybody got in everybody else's way but somehow nobody got too touchy with anyone else because it was becoming obvious that the work they were doing was life or death stuff and there was no time to be irritable.  Of course, Verna was excluded from this unspoken agreement because it was her job to be irritable.

"I can't plot this stupid vector," snarled Verna followed by:  "Get away from me with that glue-gun!"

"Sorry," said Lyle.

Surprised that it was Lyle behind her, Verna turned and said apologetically, "It's okay, baby.  I'm sorry for the way I treated you before."  Then Verna grabbed Lyle's glue gun with one hand and his hips with the other and missed his lips and kissed his nose, while nearly poking out his eye with her goggles.  "Oh, sorry," she begged.

"'s okay," laughed Lyle, his pulse racing.

"Wait a minute!"  Verna hatched a full-on epiphany 1–inch from Lyle's face.  "I think we're accelerating!" re–epiphanated Verna, turning to the Jules in the navigation display.  "How the helix can we be accelerating?"

"I don't know," said Jules.  "I think you're right but could you let go of that maintenance worker because he has about 45 seconds to glue the hose he's supposed to be gluing or you're all going to have to hold your breath for a couple of weeks."

"Okay, go," said Verna, letting go of Lyle's pants.  Lyle took care of the hose promptly and then returned for more pants pulling.

"None of that," said Jules.  "I've got another assignment for you."

"Okay," smiled Lyle.  The need for constant ship maintenance and repair was having a very positive effect on the crew; everyone but Verna was too busy keeping the ship afloat to worry about where it was going.

At one point Donny had to go into the nuclear engine chamber and repair and reseal the water pressure to Jules' specifications using parts from Jules' blue crates - including the condoms.  Portia was impressed.

"You thought of this back then?" asked Portia.

"You've only just begun to see what I've thought of," said Jules.  "However, we really have to figure out how to get back in orbit because we're going to need some parts from the old satellites inevitably."

"That, and spinning off into outer space for eternity sucks," said Portia.

"Yes," agreed Jules.  "That too."

-----

Edgley was getting seriously worried.  His flight was late getting in and his SPECTACL was piling up a growing list of congratulatory email.  As Edgley's shuttle touched down in Houston the news sites were already lauding the new STC achievement (somewhat because market analysts had predicted that the Waste-REL would be a major snafu but mostly because the story was drawing a demographic segment of SPECTACL viewers that were considered advertising-impressionable.) 

The intra-vehicular monitoring cameras on the Waste-REL were being restreamed on multiple news sites, showing the crew working their butts off.  The Waste-REL wouldn't have been newsworthy if the shuttle Advantage had not been destroyed, but pictures of its explosion were being constantly Webcast all over the 'Net and half the planet was watching.  Ayame was already a hero in Japan; video replays of Ayame and Donny's quick escape from the shuttle being the most popular download of the day.  Commentators who yesterday couldn't have cared less about the Waste-REL were suddenly pontificating that the loss of the Advantage would be more than worth it if space could finally be cleaned up by the capable crew of the Waste-REL.

Little tiny cameras embedded in the walls throughout the Waste-REL were sending back images of the Waste-REL crew climbing on top of each other to take apart, fix and put back nearly every piece of the complex craft.  Scientists at both NASA and STC were being pressed for a blow-by-blow commentary on just what the crew was doing.  The consulting engineer from NASA kept telling the interviewer that Donny was jury-rigging a poorly manufactured part of the fission radiator on one channel while the engineer from STC told his interviewer that the impact from the shuttle's explosion had caused an indefinable problem that Donny had to repair.  Nevertheless, the one person who came out looking like a hero was Donny.

Of course, information on Donny's biography and personal statistics weren't available, even from the STC Web site, where the press would normally expect to find such a thing.  Edgley began getting SPECTACL calls from the press at approximately the same time he entered the cab to take him to STC Headquarters in Houston. Sitting in the back of the taxi, he found himself talking on "Live with Chad Baxter" the 'Net's most popular live news and views program.

"Not only is this Donny Summers a whiz kid but, I mean, who is this, uh, Mickey Humboldt?" asked Chad Baxter.  "He's quite the looker and he's sure handy with a tool."

"He's, uh, he's really an astronaut," stammered Edgley.  "I swear."

"Well, it looks like Humboldt and the rest of the team on the Waste-REL are doing a bang up job of keeping her going up there, even though they're up against tough odds after losing the Advantage.  Can you tell us what STC expects will happen in the next 24-hours?"

"I'm afraid I haven't been, I mean I've been on an airplane and I just got into Houston. I mean I'm on the way to my office now.  Can I call you back?"

"You bet, Doctor Edgley," said Chad.

"That's just Mister Edgley," said Edgley.

"Okay, Doc," said Chad as he disconnected.

-----

Edgley arrived at Headquarters, scrambled into the front foyer and found half his Board of Directors standing together, waiting for him.  They were applauding.

"Great job," said Sam Grafton, the chairman of BazooPalookPatoot Corporation and one of the most influential members of the board.  "STC stock has quintupled -- tripled in the last twenty minutes!  What's it feel like to be a paper billionaire, Edgley?"

Edgley swallowed hard.  "Whaa-at?"

"That team you sent up," said Grafton, slapping Edgley on the back.  "Half the world has been watching them for the last hour!  My wife called to tell me to browse all the 'Net shows.  Market analysts are now suddenly predicting unparalleled gains for STC this year!"

"The way you handled that whole protester thing was brilliant," said another board member, Anton Turner, author of Bite Off More Than You Can Chew and other popular business books, including his current bestseller, Hardball Investment Strategies for Savvy Seniors.

"Well, I … I had to take care of … I… it was… " Edgley stammered like this for about another 20 seconds until 6' 9" tall Senator Jack Puller interrupted.

"We're very proud of you, Edgley," said Puller, placing his catcher's-mitt of a hand on Edgley's shoulder and smiling.  "Let's go into the boardroom and talk about your future here at STC."

"But I," said Edgley.  Just then, a short, stocky and balding engineer raced into the foyer, slid all over the marble floor and could only stop his unchecked progress by grabbing Edgley by the elbow.

"We've got the calculations," panted the engineer.  "The Waste-REL.  It's going too fast -- they're leaving orbit!"

"Oh, thank God," blurted Edgley, wide-eyed and panicked.  He then remembered the 6 board members surrounding him.  He raised a finger and said, "Thank God… thank god we've got the know-how to save them!"  He smiled weakly and then ran off with the anxious little engineer.  "I'll be right back!" 

Next: Pheel Romantic