Excerpt from The Answer continued:

(Scene Suits Armandos Restaurant Luna)

“Paul the Marines have secured your tube. It’s a little damaged.” Chevrolet always finds out stuff first with her thirty member team. I lament. Plenty of time to sue Utah later. I toast my brand new freshly damaged furnishings. I’ll not cry over scorched squishy walls; there is work to do.

I quickly get one of my new junior researchers on com no holo vid. “Are you the Senior Junior?” “Yes sir.” “I want you to set up a different section on all of humanities known religions of the pre reform type. Are there any animal religions? … Any religion regardless of species, animal, plant, bacteria, whatever! Catholics one section, animist snake worshipers one section, bright light devoted plankton one section. Even if there are hundreds of sections. Staff according to data flow.” “Yes sir.” “I want reports from department heads daily of pertinent info. First query: What is the nature of God?” That should take care of the rationalistic approach. “Atheists too sir?” “Especially all atheists! I need to know what God isn’t and atheists usually won’t shut up telling you exactly that.” This gets me a stern look from Helen's holo face. “Zubums also sir?” “No. The Zooboms are mine. First reports in say three hours?” He didn’t get time to respond before I primary com channeled the three hundred invites to my first conference on zoobums to be held on Luna. Anybody invited to my fete here that wants to study the fanatics up close will have to be let through the blockades both ways. Armando’s should serve nicely as the venue. Suit projects the plans to the restaurant to help me plan the seating and I notice there are four tubes above the restaurant level that house Armando’s offices and deluxe Condo Suite. I am assured that my extravagant clothing owns all this.

“We give Armando some time to pack and we can go up hatch and check it out.”

Chevrolet checks her vicinity contact display. “Armando just boarded a limo for Balance Station. Gave the keys to Jerome.”

“Carla tells me he’s abandoned all his stuff. Including a cat!” Space’s ear twitches.

“Pardon me, Paul, did you just call your suit: ‘Carla‘?” Chevrolet’s eyebrows arch. I can’t do that.

“Um…ah…”

“Paul! If it is not some liaison… than it is the suit!” The lawyer thinks she’s quite astute about the suit.

“Admit it Paul! A womyn would. For a womyn it would be easy to just say: ‘I love my outfit!’

“And he’s outfit loves him!” They laugh they laugh. What can I do? I’m always falling in love with computer programs. For once I got a rich one. Now, how can I loose them all so I can compare my unknow to the unknown of the liaison Folney? Carla, real Carla was never the jealous type.

The marines, the police, Chevrolet’s sec squad all go on alert and turn their weapons toward the doors. This clears that part of the bar. Helen’s holo voice whispers “Demarist and his librarian!” with more then forty staff and liaisons. “We’re gonna need another table. Jerome another launch tank!” Amanda looks worried.

This place has hit capacity. Only Demarist and Stoat are allowed through. The reporters and public already inside get up close with the most dangerous man on the moon: a militant Librarian looking for a war. I think he wants to attack me. I’m aware as he approaches that he’s armed with an Urbanizer automatic pulse pistol and is armored up like a sec sub grunt. Now I’m sure he’s going to attack me! He scowls at me with righteous indignation. Demarist is distracted by Helen’s holographic phone call image, he’s edging his way into her contact cone. How sweet. Chevrolet coordinates her sniper squad into the systems girders above us. 

“Should I declare war on you Dvorak! It follows you everywhere!”

“I go but to war… me war just finds…I war no cause…”

“My god! You’re drunk!”

“So where are you right now?” Demarist whispers to the laser beams. “You look great tonight.”

“Demarist! Could you pay attention?” Rex is riled.

“You can’t declare war on him! He’s not under investigation…the report it is filed!” Amanda attacks. It’s good to take a lawyer with you everywhere.

“No it isn’t. I haven’t finished my report.” Demarist would know.

“It’s that Paul’s been reinstated to a full budget, syscon one, and he gets his own librarian now.” Chevrolet says over his shoulder. “Or two...” I add. She continues: “And no librarian would ever declare war on another librarian. The military would never go for that. They’d say “To hell with them! That would make bad history. Let them fight it out with books.”

“I can declare war on whomever I want!”

“No you can’t…” Demarist puts a stop to this. “You can only declare a war if I’m concerned that some data relevant to my report is about to be lost to predisposed violence. Well, the subject of my report is Paul Dvorak and if anything happens to him than the data is lost so I would expect you to be prepared to declare a war any time he might be attacked. And his dog too!” Space likes Demarist.

“I think you need a drink Rex… what’ll you have… it’s on the house…”

“I… um… Gravatorade.” Nobody wants a dehydrated librarian.

“I want you both to attend my conference on Zoobums. Fully catered of course. Entertainment. Space Spa. Travel pay. Free accommodations. Gift Basket.” They would be there of course whether I invited them or not, I must respect any of Demarists warrants and subpoenas, professional courtesy among researchers is very important.

“Will you be there?” Helen is asked by Demarists holo cone. She blows him a kiss.

“Where is this to be? Here?” Stout’s tongue glows bright Space Gravatorade orange with ionizing electrolytes.

“Yes this is my new home base, operational HQ. With enough military defensible from all sides.” I guess. With enough military anyplace should be. “The party starts as soon as I awaken from the outcome of this one! You should move into the hotel next door and we could have overlapping liaisons.” That sounds kinky.

I suggest to Jerome to bring a keg tank of Gravatorade punch spiked just enough to not taste like it was spiked. Soon we all had bright orange tongues.

Dinner is excellent and not just cause I’m space drunk. I’m not as think as you drunk I am. I say “Celebrate!” for my research is on and tomorrow we find God. Spare no expense! In fact no religion has yet to find out exactly how much money is needed to find God, they keep needing more. So…

A big budget is a wonderful thing. Of the thirty two active research’s currently listed mine’s the biggest once again. Yet I haven’t spent hardly any Government monets. My expenses lately have been literally out of pocket. And now in the latest ten minutes my staff grew by three hundred. We start with everything ever written about God and work backwards from there to rock piles and cave art. Nothing commed by the great eight to me about any interest at the library in God. Why send a librarian to liaise with me on a research into God? Who declares war on God? Not sensible librarians. What does the Public Library Board know about God? Probably everything. I should start there for sure and Moody hires another hundred juniors and clerks. Instantly the opinions on Gods existence flow into the chaotic data vacuum which is my style.

We refugees and fugitives at suits Armando’s are cut off, with destruction, a construction zone, and a police cordon keeping me from home. The UNG hold my tube. Housekeeping tells Suit that the locks have been overridden. I have clear vid of paramilitary burglars documenting my choices in sanitary suit liners. This gets great laughs at our tables.

“Forlney?” She beams at me from purest open warmheartedness. “You document the unknown for the Anti-library?”

She frowns at that. She gets quite clinical. “I’m not a librarian or anti-librarian. I’m a field trained unknowologist. We are certain you will encounter the active unknow. I intend to draw a publishable conclusion relative to the nature of the unknow aspects of current evolving deistic sociologies.” She gets worried for a moment. “Of course if you will allow me to liaise with your research…”

“Well you could wait around till I don’t know something, which shouldn’t take too long, or we could combine our research’s.”

“Combine…?” “Paul often combine’s with young female liaison’s.” “He’s married several.” “Eet is how we met in Paris WE...”

“The key to successful liaise-ing is to combine with the Senior Researcher.” I knit my fingers together and raise the universal gesture of combining toward the glowing screen zone that floats with a no-G lab suited co-ed at its center. “I need your help. I want to know what the Public Library Board doesn’t know about God. Isn’t that unknow not stored in the database of the non existent anti-library? The PLB stores all the information it can get into databases. All. All mans knowledge of God is stored in there somewhere. It could solve the whole question of Gods nature if we could find out what the Public Library does not know.” This should cover mysterianism amidst the shelves of unknow.

“I don’t know…”

“You’ll be my Aeropagite! Strip away the light and bring me a box of the darkest unknow!”

She got cagey with me, projecting a holo calling grant adviser between us for a moment. With a gesture he cleared it as covered by her contingency clause. “There’s a lot they don’t know…” She fairly growled. Soon she had to get a separate table for all the holo callers of her support staff, her Aeropagus in my Athens, interns all busily considering how to find out what the most knowledgeable organization known does not know. I knew they would love it.

“I need a drink!” A nice launch tanker of Marstini.

“Lets see if Armando’s is open.”

With Jenkins covering us we stroll the shops to Armando’s Cafe Lunar, the one place on Luna where Amanda can feel European and I can enjoy the best imported dusky red olives of a marstini.

It’s open and the bar is packed with media entnews crews from all the Solsys broadcast channels. Everyone in the room is stunned to silence as we enter directly beneath a huge vid screen wall at that very moment lit by our three faces framed with destruction bracketed by ricochets the foreground of a scene of crumpled bodies of Utah National Guardsmen. Faces before us rise and fall from screen to us in apparent disbelief. Then it is a rush of questions amidst a jostling mob of drunken pundits and anchorpersons.

“Mr. Dvorak Mr. Dvorak! Why did you cause this war?”

“What do the aliens want?” “How will you plead to the charges?” “Why don’t you surrender to them so the destruction will stop?” “Who do you think will win the Oscar for best actor next week?” We’ll pay any amount you name for an exclusive!” “Do you really intend to investigate God?” “Are you afraid of burning forever in hell?”

“I’m no librarian! I didn’t cause anything!” “You tell me.” “Fuck You!” “Fuck You Too!” “Roomey Bepal for her remarkable performance in O San Jimja” “More money then my suit has?” “Yes.” “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Now then, what do I have to say to get a drink in here? One launch tank of Marstini Armando!”

“And I’ll have Calvados.”

“Bark! Yap!”

“No beer for you Space!” I must be firm about this. I’ve been warned by the authorities he’s technically not old enough to drink on the moon. We’ll top off his suits hydration basin collar with water neat.

We claim a table at gunpoint near the back in a corner next to the kitchen hatches. Space marines carrying multiple weapon systems wait not for restaurant seats. The drinks arrive. Once again suit buys. Jenkins has an energy cocktail that sparks and foams, that he must drink through his goggled blast visor to protect his eyes from the fumes. Space has a bowl of cool moon water. Amanda’s suit, what little of it remains, takes audio control of our local zone and play-lists us a selection of rousing accordion songs. This barely drowns out the background roar of a bar full of excited drunks and their holo caller staffs blinking in or out.

The entnews multi screen update reports in several languages that the zubomilary council has cordoned off the area invaded by the UNG who have their contractors already repairing the damage. It has been announced that damage claims will not be disputed. They are being, as usual, very generous to the victims of their destruction. The spokespersons in Salt Lake City spin the mess back at me. I am to be charged further in Idaho with mass murder and assault as the cause of all the casualties on Luna is my refusal to surrender to their “Police pursuit” of me. I need more Marstini. “Armando!” I wave the empty launch tank. He has one in the sonic shaker instantly.

Jenkins keeps the ravenous reporters at bay with lowered blaster muzzle.

“Researcher Dvorak!” A no-G lab suit with a girl in it pushes the muzzle aside. Her lami’s flash “record” in academi-documentary format. She’s not media-tarian working an entvid news broadcast, she’s from the Governmental University Industrial Complex! The two holo callers on 'observe' mode indicate that: “Folney Shoreham, Sir.” is here on a grant. “I’ve been sent to you by the NN Taleb Anti-Library to assist you in encountering the unknown.” She’s quite cute. I’m falling in love with the unknown of her. I have so much to learn about her I get suit started with the tap of a lami tab, and her message previous plays out silently on a 3cm display strip. Lovely Folney is lami tapping also and her observers on 'holo call muted' disappear with a “bip”.

“My I liaise?” Her eyes say please.

My mouth says: “Have a seat. Would you like a drink?” She has a triple latte in a low-G sippy cup. Amanda calls for the Calvados bottle. Suits treat. Ooooh I predict cat fight. Sor Bon vs. Smith?

Space growls an alert at the heavily armed squad of space Marines who reinforce Jenkins’s perimeter by evicting the most immediately nearby tables of their drunken vid jockey’s. Another team posts at the entrance hatches. Chevrolet pushes through the burgeoning crowd leading a six person team dressed in very expensive invisi-camo armor that makes the scene shimmer as they move. When they semi encircle us the many cameras aimed at me vid only the nano-fiber bent mood lighting of Armando’s artful décor. Chevrolet orders Scotch and cola. We push two tables together. Jenkins sets up his OP by the piano out of grenade range so his cohorts head up displays are not blurred by the invisi-camo. I wonder how soon before he hauls his loungi-cliner out and bivouacs. Armando ushers a gaggle of waitpersons bearing trays of snacks.

“Paul.” Armando is looking very pleased for having a wanted fugitive hiding at his establishment with complete multi-media coverage. “Let me introduce to you, Jerome, my replacement.” Jerome does a bow towards us.

“Your replacement! Armando where are you going?” Amanda is concerned.

“I retire Mademoiselle. I have sold Armando’s Café. I am now a very wealthy man and I am off to live out my wildest dreams!” He turns and leaves through the kitchen door as if chased.

“Suit!” Chevrolet, Amanda, and I exclaim in unison.

“The probability that this place will be destroyed soon made buying it now a sensible investment.” Suits Carla voice tells us. Cheaper then paying the tab? “Ahhh…insurance…” Dawns the Mormon “settle-ers” We three think alike.

So as the owner of the pants that own this bar that’s about to be destroyed I can only think to do one thing: yell as loud as I can…

“Everybody tonight drinks for free!” To the cheers of those not on armed duty. “Free food for all who can’t get drunk yet!” “Free everything! The party is on me!” One sure fire way to be popular in a room full of bloging reporters is free booze and food.

THE ANSWER has family situations

I was of course at that very moment distracted by who had be the most absolutely unbelievably beautiful womyn I have ever seen. Clad in what looked to me from the distance of my babe radar to be strands of glowing multicolored twine that did not hide much of what was underneath. Her outfit appeared to be well ventilated by the various gaps in the windings which got bigger as she strode right at me on an obvious collision course. I intended to take no evasive action. She got more beautiful by the step all soft brown eyes long blond and brunette and a touch of warning ramp iridescent blue wrapped in string that shimmered with multiple states of active data management. That haute couture stuff don’t hold much memory though, no room for defense or weapons systems in barely 3 or 4 square centimeters of fabric total. I contemplated this tiny amount of very expensive very wired in any literal context clothing and I knew that weapons and defense are unnecessary to her for her defense was the stunning shock of her gorgeousness and her only weapon was whatever came next. It was with surrender to the helpless inevitability of presence that I made eye contact to draw her to me for she must speak with me. I must speak to her. Who knows I might get lucky.

“Oh so you don’t remember me?” Her voice had a SA musical accent that made me miss the beaches of Rio. She must know me from there.

“I could never forget a womyn so dazzlingly gorgeous as you!” I certainly must have been in love with her.

“Paul! Paul I knew I could count on you! That you would remember and do the right thing.”

“I...I... always try to do the right thing you know that!” And I do too…I do. She drew back from the bear hug she had me in to look deeply into my eyes.

“Paul I have missed you so much! I think about you constantly, worry about your health your safety, are you dancing? Are you singing?… enjoying life…” I truly still have no idea who this person is.

“I just spent bout a year and a half asleep in space…not that much dancing or singing…” I pulled her close to me again speaking through her fruity smelling hair. Without skipping a nano second she continued:

“life is for enjoying…we should have joy…I think of the joy we shared…the amour and the joy…I was joyful, I am joyful...every time I look at our son I think of that joyful time we were together…” She was squeezing the comprehension out of me, or maybe trying to squeeze the comprehension into me that I really ought to figure out who she is and when she is talking about. Wait a minute….! “Son?” And this is the moment that I notice the person that had been walking behind her was in fact her companion and was stepping forward as if on cue. This most stupendously voluptuous sculpted faced super babe dressed in the merest of electronic strings grabbed my face with both hands nose to nose her breath a bouquet, brown almond eyes beneath perfect eyelashes featherlike brows locking into my attention like a screen frozen fashion portrait. I felt a twinge of panic. She was fully weaponized and aimed locked onto me. “Yes Paul we have a beautiful son together…” This statement gained my face release. She turned to the tall quite handsome well toned superbly dressed in a faux linen euro cut ent heavy pilot suited young man standing at my elbow lamis. “This is Paul Dvorak! Your Father!” and then she had me by the face again framed as a portrait of myself by her tanned and manicured red lacquered fingers. “This is your son Paoulo Dvorak…” I am released a like child from the grips of an elderly aunt, a crazy beautiful young elderly aunt. She is a tall pile of beauty as big as me with my surgically extended legs. Got some grip strength too. I staggered back a step in recoil. Physical and psychological recoil. “Whhaa??!!” was the closest to I could get to a clever rejoiner. Suit was being no help at all. Who is this woman? Oops I might a said that out loud.

“Oh my god…” slowly. “Your Father he doesn’t remember me…!!” Spinally I was prepared, coiled to twist away were she to lunge at my face again as a tiny image of her appeared across the lami display right forearm of my suit. Suit had come through and had her ID’d for me as Serene of Earth News Entmedia. Whom I had had a drunken date with after a banquet on a moon of Mars. “Mmmaarrss.” I stuttered out. And so I am hugged by her in reward.

“Yes darling yes darling Paul. It is I Serene who has always loved you. “ I hug him back. The lug. Gosh. He is the most beautiful guy I’ve ever met. I remember back that what was it?…6 an a half 7 years ago huh?… Becky was… then I drunk yeah hmmm right before the war…only first few days there at MERSC Mars Phobos fuel complex/hotel…she was a him…anndd.

“Wait a minute!…. He’s …what?…too old …how can you be my son when? And…besides…ugh…em. Uh huh.” Hah I had them! Who’s the young guy? Serene’s new lover? What fun it was getting drunk with a bunch of Brazilians again. Knowing them as I do, it could be this young guy is at least fifty. “I only met you six years ago! And you’re… you know…um couldn’t anyway. We didn’t do anything that, I mean come on…” I pleadingly looked from on to other…jokes over.

“There was enough love between us to produce our wonderful son. And he is only six years old one week ago!” He looks at me blank faced rocking lightly back on the heels of his lizard skin deck boots. Like a child would do. Serene strokes his square shoulder. “Poaoulo…” she murmurs, “and you did not even send a card!” turning on me swatting at my defensive anti face grab posture. “What kind of Father ignores his son!?”

Suits been busy and whispers in my ear that Paoulo is in fact legally only six years old. “Thanks Carla.“ The ID produced by his suit systems is valid! I notice my display shows his birth in space at Medisat 12, which has also been his address for the first four years of his growth spurt that has him now at least 2 meters tall. My son is a canned plus! They cloned my DNA tacked on an extra chromosome and cloned his/her DNA tacked on some more chromosomes shoved em together in a vat of goo and now I’ve got a son! What a great looking kid! I bet he’s good at sports. When he grows up in a year or two he’ll be eight, nine feet tall by then! He’s got my brains and athletic physique and her/his beauty. What could I do? I grab my new sons face in both hands an exclaim proudly:

“My son! I’ll love you forever!”

Another even more fifty types of time



Imaginary time; burning time; who's got the time; dimensional time; hard time; before time; check out time; past time; elastic time; amniotic time; from another time; boogie time; quinquagesimal time; time is a naked womyn standing in the snow; antebellum time; give it more time; acceptable time; time after time; distorted time; cross brane time; fictional time; wonder what time; having a little more time; anomaltistic time; Space B-A-T-H time; counting time; god's time; vintage time; archaean time; war time; drunken brain time; infinite time; waste of time; many a time; post to first comment time; bureaucratic time; Madame Claude’s girls time; timeless time; astrological time; waist of time; awesome time; circadian time; being on time; my time; how much time; every other time; money time; watch the time; Moody response time; happy time; appropriate time; where to find the time; third marstimi tine

excerpt from 

THE LESSON 

RIDING THE BUBBLE

“You’re Liaisons! So liaise already!”

The Moon Luna my home. Liaisons my cockroaches, always underfoot.

I love the Moon enviro, the endless half-tube halls radiating like wheel spokes from the giant domes, the caves, the craters, the fractional gravity, the Earthrise, I love it all! Here on Luna I can be as connected as I want to be. When I want some privacy from the monitoring I can go off into orbit and around to the dark side near the poles. Too many people bother me and I’m gone with suit shut down. Sometimes I prefer action, the action of escape. Chaos of avoidance is better than nothing going on with hundreds of liaisons waiting for my next move.

“You are the laziest bunch of liaisons as I’ve ever liaised!”

“Why don’t you do something? Anything?” Oh! Turn it back on me eh! Demanding flock of vultures! It’s only been two weeks of mourning dead Wilson Phillips’s, waiting for some new break, waiting for Mars to get closer.

“Me! Okay then get all your bosses on vid holo! Now!”

“What! We’re all bosses!”

“You guys are all teeny tiny itty bitty shrimpy bosses! I want to talk now to the guys you grovel for! I know their names; don’t make me call them myself! You’re all liaisons to me so it’s your jobs!”

“What?”

“What!”

“Mines on vacation…”

“Call her boss!”

All this commanding I did to the liaise staff meeting left me with the dilemma of having something truly important to tell all their bosses. I think basically I’ll tell them each not to worry. Of course a sure way to make anyone worry is to tell them not to. That ought to stir up some chaos.

The Luna com techs tell me that soon there won’t be any gaps or blind spots left in the con nets. I’ll miss the adventure of escape. Since I noticed that the music amplifier system at the “Eagles Landing” tavern blocks all the monitoring com modes off my suit I’ve been having all the liaison meetings there. This gets rid of many of the University teams who haven’t got the best gear. Their commo problems don’t affect me.

“You!” I pointed to her.

”Um… should I go?”

“What? And leave me alone? No I need to talk with you about operations on Mars. The weather.”

“Sure.”

“It’s Agnes isn’t it? Agnes M…mm…?”

“Agnes Muesel.”

The power of my job is so sweet sometimes. Everyone fears a Senior Researcher ‘without portfolio‘. I have only myself to fear. Someday I might have to research myself! Later. Right now I have the top investigation available with a live Librarian to boot and unlimited budget for my travels and interests. Appointed for life but not immune to impeachment or prosecution. No time limit on cases. No caseload over two priority cases; I prefer them one at a time. No restrictions to jurisdiction or precedent, only periodic desperate justification necessary.

I am a scrutinizer, an interpreter of historical events, a spy upon civilization. A somewhat slow to arrive Knight In Shining Lami, a bully of bureaucracies, a scare’r of conspirators unrestricted by superiors, unrestrained by politics or association, unaffected by proximity to events. I get sent by a situation in revelation not by a boss who can fire me if I don’t cover up or distort or obstruct justice or hide the truth like a turned journalist. I am sworn to tell the truth, all the truth, every truth, and every truth relevant, even half-truths and the untruths. This of course also includes every lie available, every excuse, every side to the total story. I make a list of all the versions of history and present them all. But it is I who writes the final report. Even if no one ever reads it, so what! If it changes Governments or the course of war, so be it. I am an inquisitor to scare everyone with the idea of impartiality not impartial not prejudiced but inclusive complete. Let historians in the future decide who was right. My job is to appease everyone’s present sense of guilt that everything possible be done, be looked at, be considered, be included.

All of this inclusiveness is very conducive to the accumulation of liaisons. They collect like thirsty miners to a comp bar. They come and go at the whims of the mechanisms of every compartmentalized organization I encounter. I have yet to have actually ever requested the services of a liaison from anywhere, they are sent to me. I accept them to further my minor remote control of those who send them. A fresh large contingent of liaisons to an investigation is a sure sign of their boss’s interest in whatever it is I’m up to. I see it as all good Governmental fun of joining in as subtle as arm twisting. Once at a surface interview I witnessed an armed robbery from across a shopping district lane. I alerted my cortege of local police and military liaisons. They were much more interested in relating to their relative superiors that I had accosted them and precipitated the subsequent shootout! ‘If you get killed our job is to just call it in!’ I was told. ‘It’s up to your own bodyguard to cover your ass!’ Bodyguard! I was supposed to have a bodyguard!? This was news to me. I decided that day that in any dangerous situation I would send the liaisons in first ahead of me whenever possible.

I’m usually welcomed by my subjects and at locations given tours, orientations, liaisons and guides. And I can tell when things are getting hot in the high up tippity top offices; that when my liaisons get pulled it is always a good indication of toes being stepped on inadvertently or otherwise.

My staff Helen, Moody, Demarist, John D and all those others whose names I’ve never remembered are often primarily occupied with dealing with this multitude who wish to participate in following me around. It’s their job to remember every bodies name not mine.

All this liaise-ing going on, all this interest in my activities does not make me paranoid at all. Oh no, not me. I deal with their incessant pestering involvement merely by scaring them all shitless every chance I can get. As in demanding to talk to all their bosses.

The excitement created by the events I am usually investigating is always far gone into the past. I am more an event archeologist then compiler of current events. I’m a gatherer of evidence and opinions well after things have cooled down, hopefully, usually. The position of Unattached Independent Senior Researcher Investigator was chartered to interview aged soldiers about thirty or forty years old war crimes. We are research historians with the power to tell the Librarians who to declare war on, sort of, well suggest maybe that some data will be lost or truth unlearned. ‘Chroniclers with clubs!’ Kinda history cops with computers and everybody’s number.

Unfortunately very many people also have my number. At my tube home at Crater View Estates even Agnes and I as we liaise cannot evade the tentacles of access. Our liaison-ing is interrupted.

”Hello!” Gah! Crap tank leaks! I forgot to set the message up again and tab no vid. “Anybody home?”

“Helen.” I acknowledge her 3D intrusion. “Thanks suit you jock sack!” I mumble to a booping that sounds vaguely like an electronic chuckle.

“Oh hello! Whoa…big guy scores! Hi Honey, I’m Helen. Can’t shake hands I’m just a beam of light! Ha ha.”

“Agnes…Helen.” I introduce my Liaison to the light beam.

“I should go…”

“No darling don’t go I’m not the jealous type.”

“I got to go um…bye…ah Helen.” Agnes flees.

“We were discussing the weather on Mars.”

“Must be hot there tonight.”

“You scared away my date!”

“You Pig! Liaison-ing with liaisons again I see!”

“Well…what?”

“What! Well I’ll be there next week! The Moon! The big cheese! I blast off!”

“Oh go blast off then!” I playfully tease her constantly about her, our, interplanetary ship that sits in seemingly endless delay. “Are you ready? What about Mars? It’s time to go!”

“Sorry Boss. Moon first. Mars maybe. In a month, maybe.”

“That might be too late for the data.”

“I know so I got you an appointment with Vorax on VORAX. He’s there right now.” A little reminder; like I could forget another famous genius trillionaire inventor. “He’s got a great new interplanetary. Maybe he’ll lend it to us!”

“What’s he like? Is there really a chance here?”

“I think so. Read his bio. He and de Boveray been rivals before. He’s crazy and just might let us have a ship if I can‘t get ours ready in time.”

“Sure.”

“You’re gonna owe me Paul!”

“Anything for you!”

“I pulled the strings to get you in there. He can get us to Mars. I’m not cashing this in till it’s something worth it. I want you to owe me! You’re gonna pay interest on this!”

“Yes Helen whatever you want. You can have the pick of the liaisons!” That caused her to shoot me a sour frown face.

She hung up. She’s right time is running out. Two weeks after getting mind fucked by hippies, two weeks of chasing dead Wilson Phillips’s it time to get with it and get a ship from somewhere.