more from THE LESSON

Gustav Vorax led me along the line of his astronautic team members while making this little speech to them:

“This is the Government man that will be flying with me to Mars. This was my decision. I do not have to take him. I do not have to go. The Government is not making me go. I think I am going because I like this guy. He has a mission of history and that intrigues me. I’m sure we will have an enjoyable trip. And we will learn a lot about the interplanetary flight characteristics of Spor with passenger and cargo.” With that he raised his arms towards me. I felt like cargo.

Gustav turned to the introductions. “Here is Philippe my Quantum Mechanic.” Philippe hardly looked up from the vid display of rolling calculations that floated before his face. Carla has explained to me that a Quantum Mechanic handles the calculating programming that tweaks the fields generated by the spinning neutrons. Never satisfied with performance the quantum mechanics job is never done. Kind of part space gravity weatherman and part pit crew boss. He will remain in contact with Gustav continuously.

Next the crystallographers. “Yuki, Isa, Junko, and Sue.” All young beautiful and Asian. I had seen them around while exploring the station with Carla. In their stylish plaid mini skirt hot suits they looked like a gang of high tech schoolgirls. They will monitor the shape and structure of the Star Spor’s hull. After them the names and jobs started to blur for me, Margret Floph test pilot, assorted geeky theoretical physicists, systems designers, engineers, sub-contractor reps, anybody who wanted the afternoon off for ceremonies. This was an important flight for them. I tried not to think that perhaps they were there for one last look at Gustav because he might not come back if the ship cracked up.

Soon the scene evolved into “Goodbye”s all around. Some last minute ENT-Media interviews for Gustav with product endorsements. Gustav pitched a soft drink: “I always drink Cargo Cola to blast off!”. There was a last minute gravi drive tune up by the Quantum Mechanic. I, basically the cargo, was ignored.

I entrusted Spacey dog to Carla Carla. She was disappointed that she could not go. I haven’t seen much of her lately though we shared her compartment. Busy with long goodbyes to Gustav I imagine. I don’t have a choice but to leave Space with her. Gustav had been adamant “No dog! I will not share a record setting test flight with your dog!” It’s just as well, I would have worried the whole way that the food would run out and he’d want to eat dog again. These are the sacrifices I must make to get to Mars. Helen’s not ready yet with her ship. She’s pissed at me that I couldn’t talk Gustav into letting me borrow it so she could fly Star Spor herself.

While the multitude of admirers looks on Gustav approaching Spor pulls from a pocket lami printer a small square sticker and peels the backing away from the adhesive side and presses it onto the crystal surface. It flashes and a keypad of mash bumps appears on it. He presses some of the tabs and a slot in the bottom edge delivers a long thin lami that Gustav unfolds into the shape of a hatchway. The sticky side is exposed and pressed onto the hull next to the control pad. I help. When fully adhered the keypad display flashes ‘open‘. This pressed the lami hatch shape with a hiss cuts an entryway into the side of the Star Spor. I board first the empty sphere. “Welcome aboard” chirped the interior at me. As soon as I’m in I’m glad I don’t have much with me, its small inside! Gustav and Carla assured me that the little craft could supply me with anything I could need including suit sani liners. From the inside the edge of the door is discernible by dim twinkling lights. The edges of the gravi wave interior furniture twinkled with white or yellow colored lights. Along the inside of the hull a lami print port was bordered by green lights. Controls lami's, navigation and instrument system lami's designated by red lights, bio and housekeeping by blue lights. ENT and com lami's by multicolored neon borders.

We launched silently in a long slow curved arc away from the greasy soapsuds glob pulled along from the open hanger bay hatch by the momentum of Earth orbit. After awhile, about an hour I’d say, I found myself sitting there bored wondering what would be next. Then I am suddenly left again without any doubts about Gustav’s gender anatomy. He has, right before me, not three meters away, pulled out his genius penis and has taken aim with both hands at the inside wall of Spor and is urinating. Through the transparent hull I can see droplets of urine burst free of the outside of the hull into space. His target was a grated looking lami. Drops sped away into the star dappled blackness.

“What are you doing?”

“Ah! Relief.”

“What? That.”

“It’s a relief panel. If I need to piss and I can’t get to the facility, but there really is no facility on Spor, I just piss out through here or over there” He points as he tucks away personal bio equipment. Until now I hadn’t considered that Spor has no bathroom.

“You can piss there too but aim good or you’ll be electrocuted!” This wit requires uproarious Gustav laughter. “It works for other liquids too. Not exactly for the Ladies!” More cackling. “It uses for the ship whatever it can remove that is needed the rest is jettisoned, there are no holding tanks on Spor.”

“God you’re a genius!” I marveled at his sanitological genius.

“God is a genius. I am not God! Everybody should be glad of that!” Demonically he laughs his way over to his favorite place to sit by the red lit lami's, I see there is a convenient relief panel nearby.

“What do we drink? Where are the water tanks?”

“No tanks. We drink purified pee! Water you will drink from the big nipple lami up there and over there. Water, coffee, tea, milk, whatever. Just press the tab.”

“Will it make me a Marstini?”

“No.” Damn! Well the sippy tube bar in my suit has enough mix for about twelve liters of Marstini if I keep refilling with pee water from the Lami tit. I’m not so sure I’ll be able to make it the whole trip! I’ll be laughed off Balance if word gets out I drank pee Marstini’s all the way to Mars!

After ten days the monotony of travel has become almost unbearable. I find myself lolling about the ship in ever more disparate poses. I feel I’m immune now to Gustav’s endless eccentricities. There is now no effect on me when he stares, I stare back. I pick my nose. I scratch my butt. Sometimes upside down in reference to him I watch him play marathon games of ‘pong’ the ancient vid arcade game. We are like moths trapped inside the light bulb, we flit and flutter about the hollow center. No filament for a source of light we bat back and forth within the glowing sides. I cannot even bump into a corner. There are no real corners. Move across the inside of Spor fast at a gravi field edge and it melts away with a cushion affect close to the hull. Walk up the inside of the ship and the virtual furniture parts as I go. Then stopping perpendicular to my companion moth the mad genius trillionaire I can say couch and one appears beneath my butt. The glowing edged couch will stay so until I sit or until reconfigured. It makes me truly miss a traditional lumbering gigantic mass of a double hull vessel with strap in bucket seats, a solid one with sturdy girders and beams.

I had configured an overstuffed style recliner oriented to a particularly interesting section of space sky, I even gave it leather colored sides to help it have a stronger sense of solidity, so power lounging on the verge of a nap I noticed an unusual area of lami ware band running past my raised feet. It glowed the soft blue of the house keeping systems. I followed the strip by eye to the place where it intensified around a doughnut shaped depression in the hull about 6 cm in radius. A misty vaguely hyperbolic cone spun above the spot. I leaned over off the seat and like a good ape descendant I stuck in my left index finger. It could not be pulled back out. Yup my finger is stuck in the hole which sucked it gently further in up to the knuckle. It was like a Chinese finger cuff. My finger was being clenched tight like by an angry asshole. I pulled. The joints in my finger popped. It hurt. I yelped. I could feel my heart rate rise. What the hell! I panicked a little.

This amused Gustav greatly.

“She’s got you huh! I caught you with your finger in my womyn eh! You pig!”

“What do I do? What do I do? Do something! Do something!”

“Didn’t your mother teach you to keep your fingers out of strange holes?”

“Come on!”

“I should leave you to keep you from pushing any more lami tabs!” He mocked me in his version of my voice: “Oh what does this do eh?…I’ll just push it and see….” His accent makes it barely an imitation. “Then we fly into the sun like bugs into a flame! You idiot!” He narrates the moral of his mocking as himself.

“Come on, come on, it’s getting numb!”

“You weenie, you sissy girl! Our Government pays you? You figure it out!”

I looked closely. Ah! Lami tabs in feint blue colors. I press the closest, nothing, the next nothing. Press all. My finger was free! It came out with a champagne bottle corks “pop” covered in hair and dust and crumbs and lint. Yuck and ugh! I tried wiping it on my suit and it stuck to my fabric. In fact it wouldn’t brush off. Highly electrostatic stuff. Still there today I suppose.

“What the hell?”

“That’s the belly button.”

“Huh?” typical Dvorak progressive query.

“The belly button.” He pulled open the Velcro to show me his. The hole now made sense to me weirdly and I was strangely reassured by that fact that he actually had one too, it meant that somewhere he had a mother.

“It’s for sucking in dirt and shmutz and Researchers. Must be working good today! Ha ha! Look what it sucked up! Yes it knows its job. Don’t get your dick near it!” And on and on for hours…

The routine of the ship had settled in with ironic vengeance. As I tapped away on my lami pad I could occasionally glance up to meet the never wavering gaze of Doctor Vorax. He stared across the inside of this space beach ball at me with his head held low, his chin resting of the virtual line of the backrest of his control area seat. This level of interest in me was particularly unnerving as he would pick his nose, or move his mouth as if cleaning his teeth with his tongue or he talked silently to himself. Only his lips moved, occasionally a nostril. His silent conversation grew animated. He stopped suddenly, his bushy brows furrowed, his whisker twitched, his mouth gaped open. It appeared he was about to speak out loud. He hesitated perceptively in indecision.

 from THE LESSON

The hanger decks on the VORAX I orbital station looked typical enough. The outermost margins were of the curved bubble construction. Everything well organized. No confusing holographic scenery here.

After passing many varied and sundry craft parked in rows, there sat the first great Vorax contribution to space travel: The Star Slipper. Over fifty years ago Gustav Vorax with the debut of this vehicle started the cloud hopper craze where tens of thousands of people worldwide built their own privately owned short duration orbital trans atmospherics. I had seen vids of its sensational space flight trials. As a child I had built a model of it that I later inadvertently blew up. An elegant craft of oblong centrimorphic cultivated chrystopoly design hull with hyper ion hydrogen drive. It looked very on museum display. A tiny lami vid placard described its features and specifications in detail in five linkable media and seventeen languages. I took the tour of its opalescent beauty.

About a hundred meters away along a gantry and scaffold storage area I found my destination with first sight of the vessel Gustav would take to Mars: the Star Spor. It sat away from the other space craft. Set aside by its small size and it’s round shape. Not really round though, multifaceted like a highly polished gigantic marble shaped gem stone. From far away it looked to be a perfectly rounded sphere. Closer approach revealed countless facets in each a transparent backlit glow. There was also a tourist’s helper vid info placard here. I asked it for the little ships details:

“Star Spor is a semi liquid crystal hulled lamiware interplanetary vehicle designed and built by Gustav Vorax.”

That’s all that was said. Brief indeed. Star Spor is chock full of interesting secrets no doubt. The Government is supposedly mulling over the decision to purchase several dozen of like craft. And a limited capability prototype is purportedly in the hands of the taxi shuttle manufacturing cartel. Carla dutifully explains to me that Gustav’s real vision for the Star Spor’s technological innovations is as extra-large heavy tonnage interstellar ‘crystal ships’ of legend and rock and roll lyrics. She went gleefully on to tell me in a tour guide style a presentation of Star Spor specs peppered with many catch phrase slogans and neologisms and wave after wave of statistics that it was the most advanced space craft ever flown by humans. Her duties as staff epistemologist covered translating the quantum speak of the theories that it flew on. She practiced her trade on me to help me understand how a space ship without tremendous fuel tanks and rocket nozzles could ever get to Mars.

The trouble and beauty of electrons is you can so easily manipulate them into power grids or vid screens or memory strips. They are either right there flowing where you want them or not. Putting them to work for you by controlling the electrons interactive behavior can become many useful products. The trouble and beauty of gravity is it is everywhere absolutely only in varying degrees of intensity and strength due to densities and mass and rotation and proximities. Despite being everywhere it is almost impossible to pin down and control. Hard to make a product out of gravity; except in space. The best way to influence it is with tremendous masses or very fast rotations. Star Spor carries a six cube mass of neutrons that spins in a dark matter filled antimatter bottle. This is not an engine but a gravity detector. What the detection of gravity allows is an awareness of its existence as a wave force. Detection of gravity in the most subtle of increments allowed systems to be designed to appreciate the differences in the wave forms. Mapping the situation of gravitational fields and the newly devised detection technologies allowed the manipulation of a craft in relation to the apparent subtle forces. Quite a lot of acceleration can be expected in a gravitation transitional proximity.

The instruments of gravitational measurement become ships themselves. The gravi-drive ship is a massive gravity field instrument tuned to either fall toward any great mass, attractive, or rise, repellant, away toward low gravity proximities. The best detection is the result of the creation of a gravitational field in a sensitive environment set to respond to differences in all nearby apparent gravitational fields. The reaction of the instrument itself is amplified by its own gravitational field. The instrument/ships gravitational field is controlled by reaction to nearby gravitational fields in order to move along on the waves produced by them.

Carla says to think of a ship in space as being nothing more than a barrier. It’s a moveable barrier that is not to keep something out but keep an environment within. Our spaceflight efforts of the past were restricted to super strong hardened hulled bullet type rocket projectiles carrying fireproof bottomed glider planes. The interplanetary product of our planets human compliment amounted to bolted together shelves for boxes of gadgets, slow solar sail craft, giant fuel tanks with thruster nozzle ends. Ships like this still blast off from the surface or are hurled out of close orbit still to this day. Compared to the Star Spor these are the human equivalent of ‘puffballs’ made of tissue and spit.

The semi liquid crystal lami ship like Star Spor is grown from the outside in. It was built at nano scale by nanobots. It gets larger and smaller, expands and contracts, rounder or more faceted. In fact the faster you go the rounder it gets. The outermost layers are lain atom by atom into the semi liquid crystalline matrix. Subsequent layers that are lain inside the outer layer number into the many trillions, each to its predetermined purpose. It is this crystalline shell facet construction that creates the great thickness in cross section. Inside the facets are layers of nano sized manifold chambers conducting substances that feed the crystals structure for repairing the surface, transmitting heat, or transforming the structure itself according to conditions. The hull is an alive electro chemical liquid crystal. That is if you consider gazillions of nanobots alive. It is a crystal structure in a state of controlled arrested development. Its surface due to subtle influences can solidify where it has to, liquefy, add layers, or just soften up a little. Careful tuning of the electromagnetic fields within and without and the nanoscale machinery makes use of piezo discharges and ionization. This provides the environment inside without bulky elemental system equipment. Everything needed is in semi-solid state ion oriented flux in the crystalline structure. Essential elements and molecules sort of cooked by tiny chef bots to order as needed.

It is paste up lami controlled. Systems are created and lami’d up where needed. Essentially it is hollow, empty. Anything needed that is gravity centered on a horizontal plane is created with gravi-solid field manipulation. A table or seat is built by gravi fields defined by fine colored border lines. The lamiware program controls the fields shapes. The surfaces have a gentle give equal to the finest cushions.

The whole ship prepared for interplanetary travel is completely transparent or mirrored or black or any color and sometimes all those at once depending on active states and conditions. There is no need to carry fuel, no need for masses of elemental substances, there are no control engines or antenna or solar arrays. It is a huge mirrored disco ball of space.

Star Spor does not have any engines at all. The ship is powered by gravity. Pulled and propelled by gravity. It is a super sensitive instrument for the measurement and calculation of gravity waves. Gravity permeates the universe. The waves and reverberations ring upon all masses always. The Star Spor can ride these waves, ahead of these waves and hypothetically it has been calculated as able to accelerate to near light speed by slingshot maneuvers. Steered by the sensitivity of its attractions and repulsions Star Spor is the first true gravity powered interplanetary. Not much room on there though and Carla wants to go too.

 

Paul Dvorak meets Space

Space meets cats

“Paul!” It's Traci in a stylish shuttle suit clutching a briefcase.

“Traci!” She looks great, white hair flying in vent draft.

“Hey? What are you doing right now? Want to come to this orbital lab with me? It's in a close orbit. I've got something I want to show you.” She had an earnest demeanor that made me think of suits entwined.

“Right now?” “Yeah I'm going to the dock right now.”

I have to go with her for more reasons then that she's gorgeous but none of them matter. No fresh launch tank to sip since... when?... um... suit marstini...

She had her own handi-limo waiting having just come on Balance from a Luna shuttle. It was me, her, with a flickery holographic driver that digitally leered at her anterior quadrants as she twisted into the seat; some guy looked hard at us, more specifically her, on a screen somewhere.

“So what do the armies think is going on?”

“A certain tight knit group of oligarchical types think they can make more money selling hordes of zombies then toilet scrubbers. They subbed most of the design genetic engineering so many different ways few knew what scaling up created.”

“Ok.”

We were there that fast. It loomed half lit in our approach hanging with a big Tera shinning cloud mottled blue across all view. An obvious medi-sat, I could see people working in labs behind bright glass as we skimmed around it's spin to dart into the portal past the ambulance docks. Traci's staff was waiting for her, some in uniform saluted her. This was a Government military spinning space beach ball of science; the guards, the flags, the morale posters, told the story. The entrance airlocks announced 'New Fort Belvoir'. This is bugs, germs, and poisons space central, easily isolated and/or destroy-able. Missiles aimed at us now no doubt in case anything worrisome should escape.

We proceeded with a fractional gravity march to a conference room with it's own large darkened window. The seats arranged around a common console that faced the glass. The room filled up with about fifty lab coated or uniformed techie types. I stood by the hatch trying to look casual. Traci took charge. They all knew her, no intro required.

With a nod: “Everyone. This is Senior Researcher Paul Dvorak who will be sitting in on today’s briefing.” Backing towards an open seat I try to make as much eye contact with as many as will, topped with a awkward involuntary princess wave. She continuous: “Source of the zombie outbreak is an industrial accident revealing a huge global humiform manufacturing operation established to destroy through infection a target civilization. We've made great progress with the bait lure trap eradication program. It has saved Charleston SC NA from the nuke. Disrupting the plan through accident has worked to our advantage. Our job now is to trace the genetics used to create the zombie virus and understand how it works. Saundra has an interesting report for us. Saundra?” Saundra stood and came to the console and the glass wall became a display screen.

“Here's the zombie virus.” A squirmy worm with a blob in the middle covered in knobs. “It wasn't hard to break down the RNA code, so much of it is patented, some is paid licensed, some pirated, some we don't understand. The virus burns certain sugars it converts from it's host cells to transform the host into factories for self replication. Eventually invading every cell forcing them to acquire precursor substances found in human brains at all costs. Which we can demonstrate.” The screen wall became a vid of the contents of a petri dish moving slowly from one side to the other toward a plate of zombie chow. “The cells move by linking up then bumping each other in the direction desired. These are zombied muscle cells we grew.” Even pieces of them can still come after you! “Fire is a more effective decontamination method then chemical disinfectants. Cells lost from the host are not known to survive separation more then twenty four hours. Away from the host brain they eventually eat up the host cell converting for the sugar fuel. The genetic protos are susceptible due to their cells alkaline exchange respiration. Which is what the virus does to normal cells. In forcing alkaline exchange to shut down oxygen respiration in protos it does to them makes them faster, stronger, they move better.” She has vid of stumblers next to sprinters. “The HAPLO batches apparently mixed gene canned minus's designed for the virus as carrier mechanism.” The wall screen darkened Saundra narrowed her coms cone.

“Thanks Lieutenant. The Captain has a word to say about subjects.”

He stood and read from notes: “Identified, one, Ivan Gerschlicter and Ludwig Gerschlicter.” Ludwig I assume is unsaid number two. They stared blankly at us from escalvator security vid, one going up, unsaid two going down. “Brothers, trillionaires, market players, instigators of civic unrest to exploit for profit. Lately vying to purchase portions of the Charleston SC NA zombie damaged zones.” My warrants and subpoenas I post are woefully lost in long lines of elbowed jurisdiction. “They are assumed to be in a secret undersea base or have escaped to the asteroid belt.” Already at the belt? That's fast, I would think it should take a month at least to get near any un-tracked tumblers suitable for trillionaires. They left a week before we knew their names, quite a head start. There's many places closer that trillionaires can hide out at in luxury without weeks of space travel. They could buy someplace, a small country or something then kick everybody out and hide there, might take years to find them.

Subsequent speakers bounced gleeful as scientists that know they are talking to people who understand them, into rattling off ATG sequences, onto hijacking mitochondrial enzyme segments. I fell asleep. Suit got it all for the report, I hope. Perhaps the snoring or the long drawn out sips of marstini my subconscious poured into my drunken dreaming state is what got me shoved back into a medi-sat full of combat bio scientists.

“Paul!” Traci tugged at my face pulling her into my focus. Once I stopped blinking I started drooling so I went back to blinking. It was the light. She was shinning a pen light into my eyes. “Paul? You in there?” Pinch of the cheek!

“YOW!” That woke me up! Pinch me if I'm dreaming, no wait not again!

“I thought maybe you'd gone zombie.”

“Would a zombie...! ACHOO! ...sneeze?”

“Geez I hope not! Yuck! You couldn't turn your head?”

“Where'd everybody go?”

“The noises you were making cleared the place.” She seemed relieved I was not zombied. It would have helped if she lowered the blaster aimed at my head. She gave me a deep look and I could see her decide I was safe and she lowered the weapon and said in an oddly cheery tone: “Come on lets go to my quarters.” A beckoning in which I sleepily dreamed a cats meow.

“Ok.” I stood meow. It was not so far, about six scurrying cats away. A fat calico tabby was waiting at Traci's door to get in. I sneezed an entrance fanfare. Some kinda histamine overload. We sit upon her plush lounge among the gamboling kittens I greet with sniffles. Who doesn't love kittens! Wait! What's with all these felines? I've heard about this curved can! It's cat station! Legendary “Cat Station!”

Traci explains: “Yes this medi-sat is known to some as 'cat station' because we love them so much! But they are a necessary vital part of our crew, we have so many millions of mice and rats here... you know for testing and feeding the snakes that we need our cat crew mates to help control the escapees!”

“There's escapees?”

“Oh yes.” Meaningful frown. “Look at the cats... they must be eating well.” The thought makes her happy again.

“Wait. Snakes?”

“They help with the rats and mice too. The mongooses take care of the escaped snakes... well mostly... they're immune to the venom you know... get along well with the cats. Just don't make one feel cornered if you have an encounter... you know grrrwwl!” She made a claw slash gesture with a low groin level snap. As cute as much of this was I am unsettled by the venomous snake news. Still, no reason not to enjoy a drink, she hands me a well chilled launch tank of marstini, she has one herself. If I'm to be savaged by cornered mongooses I'll want to be well anesthetized.

“Paul, I've still got something special to show you.” She purrs as she strokes a pussy.

The CO2 ice mist has froze my draining sinuses... “I can't wait.”

She's up across the room then back with a garment bag she opens to reveal a dull gray anti-shark suit that she thrusts towards me. “Try it on. Go on.” It's meant for me? A gift? She cares about me so much she doesn't want me eaten by sharks or zombies! It's made to fit over my shuttle suit which it flattens into spandex skin tight when sealed.

“Wow! Thank you Traci! Let's test it! Bite Me! Yeah. Wait. Oof ouch not the nose!”

I feel much better about snakes now. I love it when people give me things, especially things I want but are too lazy or stupid to obtain on my own. Suit: send her some cases of recently ancestral scotch.

Mid nibble is when Traci's cabin door buzzer buzzed intruding-ly, startling the cats. She jumps up to accept a delivery.

“Hey Paul, it's for you!” She signs the delivery bots lami receipt. It hands her a shipping box the size of shoe packaging. What's this? For me? I accept her hand off and set the package on the table by the beverages.

“EDC Embryonic Decanter Corporation, Upper Chufington England. What the heck?” Never heard of them. Opening the box produces a shiny metal flask with a wide mouth spin-on cap. A lami on its side flashed a steady color red as metrics displays flowed. I tapped the INST tab; a display appeared in the air mirroring the tiny lami. A tutorial instructed to “unscrew cap remove membrane tear open along dotted line enjoy many years of puppy love!”

“What?” I unscrew the cap and remove the crinkly packet inside. I tear along the dotted line. The membrane packet holds a tiny dog asleep. A lami at the neck flashes 'press to begin new life' which I do for the little puppy to open it's eyes to see me surrounded by hungry cats.

Suit has linked to the puppies packaging. We read: “Hello my name is (SPACE) I'm your Pic-a-Puppy Genetic Best Friend for Life! All your specifications have been included in our most popular Jack Russel II Terrier Patented Genome, Extra Lifespan, Extra Intelligence, Extra strong bones, Dissuade Coprophagous Behavior, Extra Obedient, Extra Athletic Ability, Extra Anti-flea Coat, Extra Warranty Parts and Labor. Plus Bonus of at Least One Extra Special Ability such as Defensive Genital Pinch, Slobber Trail, Mind Reading.”

“Well you got all the extra's.”

“It says I ordered this?” Suit blames it on my other pants that got recalled, it, snubbed Tom Cavendish, assumed my chat with the pet scientist was the placing of an order.

The puppy, my puppy is cuddled by the cat lover. “Wow. How cute...what will you name him... or her?” She peeks.

“Um... it says 'him' here... male. It says his name is 'Space'.” Translation glitch, his name could very well have been 'blank' or 'your name here'.

“Welcome little Space! Hello Spacey Space.“ Playfully my new puppy ignores me for her. They are so cute together, add kittens, I want to change my name to Space and frolic with them. My attempt spills steaming CO2 ice and marstini all over Traci's carpet.

“What does he eat eh? Got any puppy chow?” Care and feeding instructions say: feed regularly, water frequently, bathe occasionally. That's my lifestyle too! Substitute marstini for water.

“No but I've got Kitten Kitchen Kanned Gourmet. We don't like to feed them often the pouched food as they will slack off hunting.”

While Traci went to plop something onto a dish, Space explored his new world of cats at the nearby water bowl by falling into it.

“My doggy can swim!”

I'm afraid what happened next might have negatively shaped the little dogs perception of cats for life. He was indeed interested in the Salmon Surprise Kitten Kitchen Kanned Gourmet shinning gelatinous-ly upon the saucer, he was drawn more to dip his face in the cup of milk next to it. I noticed here the local cat population had gone up, the sound of the pouch's zipper opening had signaled them like a Pavlov's bell. They crowded the saucer, they shoved at the milk cup. It all happened so fast. Tiny Space defended his salmon and milk, he yapped, he nipped, he scampered menacingly, growling, clawing. It became a catastrophe in the ancient sense of the word, cats went everywhere, wreckage and debris of the furnishings flew as if a floor level whirlwind struck, cats fought cats, cats fought the upholstery, a mongoose ran in from somewhere and kicked one particular cats ass, Space the smallest of all, even smaller then the smallest kittens, fought them all ferociously until I could grab him by his tiny puppy scruff. Ha! Thanks for the bite proof suit! He swung at my arms length squirming, growling with infrequent yaps. His arc across the crowd of cats drew snarls and hisses as I aimed him at them like a weapon.

Next thing I know Space and I are kicked off the platform. I am forced by brandished tranquilizer dart guns to stand at the taxi boarding gate with Space in a plastic cat transport crate which must smell like cat as he's attempting to tear it into small chunks. Apparently it's a crime to bring a loose canine to this SAT. Who knew? I wasn't fully entry briefed. Traci comforts a nice fluffy angora, waving between strokes safely from the other side of thick glass.

Takes Helen two hours to come pick me up... “Hey Paul. Who's that?” Space peeks out from the top of my suit.

“Helen meet Space. The newest member of our research team.”

“Only you would go to cat station and leave with a dog! They try to give everybody kittens!”

“Let's go.”

“Where to?”

“Ginzberg and Cohen Tailors we've got to get Space into a good suit.”

 

God/Gods is

God/Gods is not

Paul Dvorak asks everyone including blog readers: “What is God?”

Add your definition/opinion/belief/refutation to Senior Researcher Paul Dvorak's report (the book The Answer in its next published edition in the section of this following excerpt) by posting in this blogs comments...

More of THE ANSWER:

Demarist is hosting a conference, the subject of which is me and my accidental involuntary part in the founding of the alien religion. He’s invited all the best available minds in cosmology and philosophy, I know because I also subpoenaed them all to brief me on this “God” subject. To me every one has refused, replying that my lami summons is invalid. Trumped by the “request” of a rookie! Sure he pays better since he has a budget. All I’ve got to offer is promises that sound even to me like bald faced threats. Threats have always worked for me before. Now I have to learn how to be nice!? Fortunately Demarist is young and naive enough to easily believe that it is for the benefit of both of us to combine our parties.

The buffet is laid. The place is filling up with sober conferees.

My old junior research co-worker (what’s his first name? suit?) Demarist arrives at the Launch Lounge Balance VIP with his entourage of a Librarian, very young skinny goggles wearing stick figure, and assorted juniors and liaisons. I recognize several. They ignore me. Demarist is effusive in greeting Space and I. Space remembers him but is wary of his live posse, especially those in the interior pixel camo uniforms. The Librarian acknowledges me with a scowling bow. No handshake.

“Paul,” Demarist goes straight for familiar, “This is Rex Stout, Public Librarian First Class.” This librarian with a dogs name scowls again at my outstretched hand.

“Mr. Dvorak.” His voice is British public school. He hunches and stays at a diagonal to me as if ready to leap away were I to attack.

“Don’t worry I won’t bite. He might” I indicate Space, who doesn’t like him and has activated his doggy suit ETACS. “But I don’t.”

“A bite would be minimal compared to your record with librarians! You’ve killed five of us!” He’s done his homework.

“They died. True. Several were my close friends. But I haven’t ever killed anyone that wasn't technically dead already. War is a dangerous business. Declare war and you’re a target. Have you declared many wars Stoat?” You child.

Demarist answers: “This is Rex’s first assignment.” Like a schoolboy Scout reacts: “And your first research.”

Helen arrives live and Rex Stout stares at her like he’s never before seen tits. She thrusts out her chest and wiggles them at him. “OOhh isn’t it hot in here.” Spout turns a blush. She unlinks more Velcro. I can tell from past experience with her that she is now planning exactly how and when to kick him directly in the groin systems. I contemplate this with anticipation while part of me feels I should save him to destroy later for myself. It would be so easy. I make the introductions.

“Helen Tiberius, Rex Stout, and surely you remember Demarist…” who she has latched onto with a kiss that churns as she devours his lips his face with smacking slurping sound effect. Pulling his hands up unto her breasts she turns him so she can stare at Rex Stout.

“They were always very close.” I aside to Stout who stands bug eyed open mouthed aghast. No handshake for him. Demarist breaks Helen’s vacuum with a cross eyed stagger back to reach for the wall. His hair is messed up, his suit rumpled, he steadies himself. She’s shut down half his lami’s, he’ll have to reboot his suit once he recovers his senses.

We leave them to mingle. Let him research me from afar. Librarians don’t scare me. Alien Gods don’t scare me. Handi-cabs docking, that scares me. Hungry lawyers, scary.

“What do you think about God, Helen?”

“God? Paul you know I’m agnostic Reformed Governmental Atheist. No ‘God is my copilot’ for me” she announces from between finger quote marks. “What about you?”

“Dog is my copilot.” It’s amazing how long I’ve known her and we’ve never really talked religion. She has brought it up when an agnostic atheist holiday comes around and she wants a day off, like “International Rationality Day” or “Discount Sale Week!” It must be that those court orders the union imposed on me in my position as her superior that I am “not to offend her atheism” by mentioning or invoking “God” actually have an affect on my behavior. As a swinger sex talk is okay with Helen, but one word of God and she’s calling the shop steward.

My copilot takes us in to the ample buffet for a landing at the chicken bits platter. This “having a budget” thing sure means good catering. In the line for the waffle bar a fight is breaking out between two groups of theologians. Chevrolet holo calls in to give us a “who’s who” of who’s here in person and by holo call. She has a head up of the conference deck plan with red and blue blips and info tags. Above one list the theme of Demarest’s conference: IS PAUL DVORAK CAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING THE NATURE OF GOD? This explains the psychiatrists and psychologists who have claimed widely distant corners of separation in the lounge, barely able to tolerate the others presence. I am closely observed back and front analyzed. My title for this event: GOD WHAT IS IT? Helen say’s that sounds like I’ve stepped in something mysterious. No one of the consultants attending knows my theme since they are all Demarest’s paid “guests” and definitely didn’t exactly expect me to be here to hear them talk about my “blah blah intellectual capacity blah.” The heavy theosophical presence leads me to think Demarist intends to make a complete report inclusive of the definition of God, or all definitions, just as I would if I were investigating myself investigating claims of contact with God. That’s why all the rabbi’s, preachers, and mullahs, and monks. So, somebody here has to know what God is. How could they tell if I can find out the truth if none of them know it? To counter the righteous enthusiasm of the preachers and prophets he has packed the room with a cohort of quietly mumbling philosophers who crowd the barista. “Is the nature of God unknowable?” the philosophers kvetch. “Is hinting at it or being enigmatic an indication of knowledge or just faking?” The monks maintain silence. The preachers are certain; I interpret: “Oh can’t tell you…you’re not ready…better donate more money to prove you’re serious…oh well God doesn’t want to talk to you because you haven’t given me enough money…” Even a researchers budget can’t cover such knowledge. “How much money does it take before some one who can’t know can tell you the unknowable?” I ask a squinty Philosopher type. “No one knows.” He speaks the truth. The main foundation of many historically successful religions is that they not reveal the true nature of the ultimate relationship with God until after the checks clear and the ask-er is dead. No refund no returns. If the dogma is wrong complain to God.

Several counter-dogmatic theologians are jostling each other at the buffet, egged on by their holo caller deacons and scholars to insist on exclusive rights to what they each say is the same God. They agree that each is referring to the same one “God” but disagree on what “God” has to say about everything else since. They can agree that one or two particular persons had things to say about alleged actions or motives of God, but cannot agree on what the words mean. Why did they even come here? An active research in acquire mode is a great way to get history to validate their God concept through inclusion or conclusion or refutation. Some religious organizations have not responded to Demarest’s request to participate, the Roman Catholics most absent, fearing a refutation perhaps. The Pope’s have long ignored my demands and threats. No Atheists attend other then Helen. Why would one care? No client of the Governmental recognized personal New Religious category has bothered to put forth a definition of God since of course none is needed to obtain Government subsidy funding and support; what does God really have to do with a love of beer? There are several very loud very angry attendees shouting at everyone that they know all about God and are personally in touch with the deity and for the right amount of money can confuse anyone with doubletalk and bullying until they think it might be true. It’s a battle of clashing charisma’s. They naturally accuse each other of lying and are here only for the attendance fees that Demarest’s suit is so generously disbursing. Maybe they’ll get a convert or two, you never know, and that would be money in the bank for them. Looks to me like Helen is about to convert one of them into a eunuch. Preacher suits are thin in the crotch, big on lighting and sound systems, low on the combat armor. He’s saved by a blasphemous utterance from across the room that he must respond to. She finds more prey instantly among the righteous ones attracted to her chest baring flight suit. It’s all so much fun to watch but, I have to know, I need to ask: “What is God?” to anyone I can button hole with no escape.

“A delusional concept.”

“The almighty Father Who Art In Heaven.”

“The forces of nature.”

“The earth Mother.”

“Creator of the Universe”

“A metaphor.”

“A universal conscious that’s accessible by few; being the subconscious’s alpha rhythm.”

“An aspect of human conscious effort to make sense of life.”

“All knowing all seeing.”

“Dead.”

“Fear of the unknown and our struggle to deal with it.”

“Immortal supreme consciousness.”

“Fate and chance.”

“An old guy with glasses and a cigar or maybe a gray haired tall African man, or like maybe a frolicking young woman with flowers in her long hair.”

“I think God is…..is…..um….ah….well….”

“I’m not an atheist but there is no God.”

“The trinity of three. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

“An irrational belief.”

“You tell me…hey, hey.”

“A biochemical seizure disruption of the temporal lobe region of the brain causing elevated pathway reinforcement between the amygdale to temporal lobe.”

“God is love.”

“The spirit of life.”

“Histories most plagiarized brand.”

“Bark! Bark! Yip!” The source of all flavorful chicken bits.

“God is what we see when we go to heaven.”

“The sun of the soltera system, our galactic home.”

“Spirit.” Spirit? “Spirit.” “Spirit?” “YES! SPIRIT!”

“Ha, ha, the government of course!”

“The ultimate arbiter.”

“A….(blah blah blah) coping mechanism.”

“Resonant energy vibration of the cosmic microwave background.”

“Ignorance harnessed for evil.”

“The author of the universal story.”

“Cannot be named or described.”

“A tool to control populations of people.”

“Grace.”

“Nietzsche killed God centuries ago.”

“God is great God is good.”

“Opposite of the devil.”

“I’m an Agnostic.” I want at least a dozen Agnostics on my team as a close debate rational shock squad.

“God is dog backwards.”

“Hollywood.”

“The life of the party!”

“I dunno?”

“Ex deo awareness growing.”

“The paradigm.”

“Quien savy?”

“Change.”

“What is God?… You ask what is God!… Ask God!… Only God knows God!”

And so I shall. This bunch of Godly con men and grant hacks are playing it safe. No real ‘out there’ answers are popping up worth the amount of scornful silences. I have trouble believing any of these people know what they are talking about when it comes to reality let alone an abstract dialectical concept. The ones that won’t talk are the scared smart ones. I should try an get them all scanned with a green apples array and hire a couple thousand clerks to sift through all the bullshit for a year or two. That would separate the bull shitters from the truth. If only I had a budget!

Just then, I myself am cornered by an angry Jungian psychiatrist that has broken off from the pack of bearded tweeds gathered near the salmon and crab.

“Be careful researcher you’re playing with fire here. Humanity is caught in the midst of an unconscious psychic epidemic of a malignant egophrenia. A dualistic cultural mass hallucination capable of anything. Capable of tremendous evil in the perpetuation of deep lies.” He jabs his cellulose plate piled high with lab crab at me.

“I intend to report all the lies I can get.” This is truth.

“You will report a history that lies to itself!” He sputters buttered breath. I say let upset overfed Jungians lie.

“What is happening is the unconscious of the masses is shaping the world through mass hysteria!” It’s a mess of masses alright! He nods agreement with himself. Helen nods agreement.

“This an epidemic of a scale not seen in centuries!” “God? or get the fuck out!” I tell him firmly.

“God is a symptom of the egophrenia that has history in its grip!” “Next!” We move beyond the gestaltic schadenfreude.

‘God is whatever you want God to be.” “I want God to be document-able verifiable with corroborative evidence of existence.” Is that possible?

Suit! Note to self: Read Hume then reread Hume!

“Man is God incarnate. Life aware is God alive.” “What?”

“What? Not Who?” “Or He? Or Her?”

“Are you not afraid of God?” “Are you?” “Yes.” “That’s what scares me.” People who are deathly afraid of ‘God’ are capable of anything. This fear can be focused through lies like a cultural weapon. This is the cause of war. Fear of others Gods. Fear of this influence on culture makes history. So far no direct comment from God on history. Does He read the reports from senior researchers?

“God communicates with us by floods and earthquakes and hurricanes and tornadoes and tsunamis and mudslides and volcanoes…” “Sounds like not much good to say huh? But, if you have not been hit by a tremendous natural catastrophe does that mean He’s not talking to you?” She blinks at me idiotically.

“You should thank God every day he has not destroyed where ever you are that day.”

“What about night?”

“Especially at night!” She’s safely holo call company distant from my heresy We exit her sensory dialog cone.

“Did you see the entvid series? You know… 'God'… on entvid? They had five or was it six…or…more…episodes...it showed all about God… I watched some of them… great entertainment. You didn’t catch it then? Oh too bad… you’d a had your answer now.” We narrowed his transmit bandwidth with distance.

The ontologist stared hard at me.

“Omnipotence…” I met his eyes imploringly…”…is a very wide subject…covers just about everything?” He does not flinch.

“Could an omnipotent being create something so heavy God its holy self could not be able to pick it up? Could an omnipotent being change the past? Why should an omnipotent good God allow evil. Theodicy anyone? Is this not the best of all possible buffets? Where do I put my counter-factual subjunctive conditionals? Is omnipotence bound by any laws of nature? Exactly how did Anselm fuck it up?”

“I think you’ll need an epistemologist for that.”

“Ooh sounds painful.” “It usually is.”

“God is inherently mysterious, unfathomable, unknowable, so to seem close to God people seek out the most incoherently confusing self professed personal conductive spokesperson of God. The more hard to understand the message the more scrambled the jargon-ed dogma the more out of fashion the ancient names the more it will be unquestioningly believed for truth. The more unlikely the event the more miraculous the ideation. Popularly personalize a force of nature action of change with a sub textual string of sounds and the mind of man will hear a name for God.” That thought makes him chuckle. He turns conspiratorial.

“Make a vague announcement of a particularly exciting religious revelation and then let others create the religion around this kernel in a conjectural cascade. Thus holy books write themselves through the human need to even subconsciously fill the blanks in the story to the best of the ability of the collective imagination. Better yet make up a person to experience this or even pick some chump and make up stuff about him. A real person is better for immediate marketing of the conjectures. The subject could even deny it all. A successful religious cascade wipes away the true relative past anyway. Dangerous though, often ends tragically with persecution and execution for the founder-victim.”

“I’m becoming familiar with that very scenario.” And here he recognizes me. That’s me: victim of rolling conjecture. Rumor does kill on its way downhill to God. A drunk epistemologist in a stained elbow patched scanty systems resort grade commuter suit could be fun to hang out with to mock reality together. He spots the Librarian staring at me from amid a combat squad of documenting military intelligence assault troops and the smart epistemologist flees to beyond camera range. I get the same urge to flee.

The waste system drain locker, what on Tera surface would be called the toilet or the loo or the potty or the banyo is one place assured some privacy. Past the hatch I leave Space and a hundred monet credit with the attendant with her mints and odor eating aerosols and colognes. She has dog biscuits! On my way to a booth I am “psssstttt..” at and beckoned into a nozzle stall by a no-g suit with hood up, visor closed.

“Oh sorry I’m not into that kind a thing…” I wave the psssttt’er off.

“Mister Dvorak, I’m an emissary. I have a private message.” A whisper. The radiation visor slipped away into the hoody of as shabby an outmoded un-serviceable tape patched pod lami civil crew suit as I’d ever seen. This guy obviously had no weapon as he obviously couldn’t afford even a sharpened plastic knife. The small round face that squinted up at me through thick goggles appeared to me as a type sidekick character from an animae vid. Male, I think. Suburbatoid I dubbed him. I stepped into his vacuous domain.

“Close the door…”

At narrow proximity the face lost none of it’s cartoon quality while revealing the dangerously cute features of a very intelligent badger human hybrid. This body mod phase we’re in is getting ugly. Ugly cute. Suburbatoid seemed quite smug that he gotten me into the toilet with him. He locked his beady super badger eyes onto mine in a feint at an attempt at total mind control. Badgers have tried at this game before. I could not look away or I knew he would savage me with his dull plastic butter knife.

“I represent a secret society…” He paused for the affect of the effect.

“Which one?” I was eager. I love secret societies. “The invisible Masters of the Universe?” I’ve always wanted to see one of those. No. “The Inelectuli?” They are out there somewhere I know it. Not? “Knights of Darkness?” Suit had the yellow pages com code category ’secret society’ scrolling on head up. Are you a really secret society if you have a phone number? “Indemnifiers of Khoast?” “Lighteners of the Armageddon? “Sons of the shadows?” “The, oh my God! The Wilson Phillips family?”

 HOW TO TELL IF YOUR GOVERNMENT IS EVIL

Category: Call Library Board Evil Government Activity Hotline
Top ten hints your Government is DEFINITLY EVIL:
1: Your Governments top boss never changes.
2: Your Government kills you if you suggest change of top boss.
3: Your Government all in same evil religion (see HOW TO TELL IF YOUR RELIGION IS EVIL).
4: Your Government insists it must “RULE THE WORLD”.
5: Your Government puts an evil army in your home (see HOW TO TELL IF THE ARMY ATTACKING YOU IS EVIL).
6: Your Government makes your family spy on you.
7: Your Government takes all your best stuff and deports/kills you.
8: Your Government attacks/takes/destroys neighboring Governments people/land/stuff because “they started it”.
9:Your Government violates any of the applicable 57 irrevocable sentient creature rights.
10: Your Government supports/endorses other Governments that do any of hints 1 through 9.

Category: Call the Library Criminal Government Response Army Hotline
Top ten hints your Local Government PROBABLY IS EVIL:
1: Your Local Governments leaders always elected by over 95% majorities keeping their jobs for life/till executed.
2: Your Local Government always needs more money but cannot explain where “all the other money went”.
3: Your Local Government has reps/employees that will “make life easier” for property/money/sex with you.
4: Your Local Government keeps its activities “secret”.
5: Your Local Government creates/deploys armies not within the Library Scrutiny Command Structure.
6: Your Local Government restricts/denies your ability to vote/ hold meetings/protest/ move away from it.
7: Your Local Government insists everyone eat only bland green discs.
8: Your Local Government insists it will eventually “Rule The World!”.
9: Your Local Government won't answer the phone.
10: Your Local Government bans “Dancing”.

Category: Call the Library Criminal Government Documentation Hotline
Top ten hints your Government COULD BE TURNING EVIL:
1: Top Government boss lives in impregnable fortress.
2: Location of Government offices is “secret”.
3: Somehow your home has been destroyed.
4: You cannot get across town because of the constant militaristic parades.
5: The person that gets elected to Government every time insists you buy stuff/everything from his “cousin”.
6: Your garbage never gets picked up.
7: Your local water supply is dirty/tainted/poisoned/dried up.
8: Your Government leaders wear ridiculous hats resembling genitals/antlers.
9: Your Local elected Government leaders live mostly thousands of kilometers away in luxury.
10: Members of your Local Government start killing each other.

This is not a complete list. All Governments are always considered evil by someone. The Library Board wants to document any/all suspected Governmental evil activity so please report promptly 24/7/365 to minimize whatever subsequent damage/destruction that could occur.



Above is excepted from THE ANSWER

 ANSWER excerpt:

“I saw her on the lift platform going up to the flying esplanade. She looked up at me from the escalvator steps. About three people over. All I said was: ‘Hey, you shaved your eyebrows Hollywood!’ She ran off sobbing! I couldn’t get to her before she got to a restroom and then she just never came out. What did I say? Her eyebrows were bare, it was quite striking.”

“You oaf ! She’s done it!! She’s gone Zubum. She’s over to the whoowhoos! Its sad.” Helen crossed her arms under her breasts and stared holo hard at me.

“What? You think? How do you know?”

“The eyebrows! The lack of them. They say that before you can meet the aliens no hair above the eyes.”

“Come on that’s ridiculous! What about lashes, eyelashes, do they pluck them out as well?”

“No. They dye those bright florescent green. Kinda sparkly like...sorta.”

“You’ve never seen this. This is, oh-my-god, flight deck talk! That’s all you wrench types do is stand around drinking coffee talking bullshit isn’t it. Is that what I pay you for? BS’ing on pop culture cults?”

“Yes of course it is and you know it. And you don’t pay me anyway. I’m a permanent governmental employee twelfth class!“

“Quite right. Of course. Don’t go all calling the union on me again all right okay? I’ll be a good researcher from now on. Um, hey, by the way, did anybody down there mention about depilatory zoo bums fashions elsewhere.”

“Huh?”

“You know down there, hey like, Brazil style?”

“What?”

“You know. A hairless elsewhere? You went in for that once didn’t you? Always swiping my little barber bot. I'd find it later with that silly grin on its face. I was gonna fit it up with a camera.” She grinned at me like a happy barber bot.

“And how was your stay on that power satellite? Did you and Space have fun there? We would laugh for hours at your hairless naked holo calls me and Moody!”

The mention of that arch traitor Moody reminds me that I have to call him soon and apologize for the assassination attempts he’s been encountering lately. It is merely an unfortunate Shakespearean misunderstanding. The group of murderous fanatics only really want to do good things for me. I should not have been complaining about him in their midst, but who takes it seriously when you say out loud sometimes: “I wish somebody would kill that son of a bitch?” I mean come on! Oh, I think I said that out loud again.

“But what do we do about Becky? Paul she’s fragile.”

“Well she is easily brainwashed alright. Look at her career in the military.”

“Lets have an intervention. Deprogram her. Drug her up and fly her out.”

“Dope and hope! She’d kick all our ass’s. Cool your jets Helen.” Oh she hates it when I tell her that. “I’ll see what I can find out from them. After all there would be no zoo without my bum.”

“How well put.” She said dryly as her holo image disintegrated into fading gobs of zubum eyelash sparkles.

This eye hair thing has me thinking that the guys running the aliens have some kind of light show going on with their act, projected down from above perhaps. Visually subjective hypnosis for religious domination purposes is the oldest form of art. Confuse the eyes and the ass will follow. And so I must resort to the most natural enemy of art: the lawyer. I wake up Amanda from her snore accompanied meditative contemplation of my complicated legal budget revenues transfer situation. Suit deposit’s the appropriate amount to her accounts.

“I need you now baby.” I see that she takes obvious note of my word “baby” possibly in order to later inform her lawyers of my perhaps inappropriate behavior. I’ve slept with more lawyers then she can afford.

“You want to consult again? We have consulted all over the tube.”

“There will be time for more consulting later my petite shoe.” She smiles that wonderful honest French smile that makes me think she wants to stab me. “I hope you’re up for the big pay olla ,“ I say this kind of franciaze like so she’ll understand, “of a full price representing appearance.”

And so to get full value I consult with her some more for awhile.

“You mean there’s only two of you in there?” The uniformed elite zub paramilitary looks to his partner. They both make the face of the particularly incredulous. Another walks up.

“OK pay up.” He says flatly to the other two. Muttering they tap away at their id lami wallet displays.

“You two sound like fifty people having sex!” He peels his lami bugs from my door.

“They thought there was an orgy going on in there.” It’s Jenkins the Space Marine.

“There was.” I reply and try to add some twinkle to my eye. Amanda blush’s and giggles in a most un-attorney like way. Suddenly it seems she’s dropped something and must bend over very far to pick it up. Its very obviously good for bending that she wore such a scanty cut away skin tight ultra micro shuttle suit. This attracts tremendous military attention and I use the diversion to step unaccompanied into the lift.

Ducking the obvious camera clusters and ID panels hood up I make my way by back corridors and maintenance tunnels to what I know was Becky’s last known address, an apartment tube off the third domes ring road. I remember the place had a great view of the new low-g water park. As I casually snuck amongst my neighbor Lunarians I thought about how Becky and I had lost touch after the close of my last report. Did I drive her to this extreme, I wondered, through my neglect and infidelity? We are still married after all and I do feel responsible for her even though she’s always saving my life by not killing me. Who’s going to save my life next time if she’s off in some bizarre cult somewhere?

When I’m sure I’m at the right place I find the tubes decomp door wide open. The place is full of people. There’s a chanting party going on. They sway in a contra harmonic trance of unintelligible mumbling. It’s a crowd of mostly tribal techie types of every race or skin dye hue dressed in as hippie as you can make out of a wired systems laden jump suit. Several are not even real in the sense that they are even in the room or on the moon but cast that shadow less electronic glow that shouts cheap holo caller. Some of the more aware less tranced out ones glance up at me as I weave through their fervent languishing. I sense them scanning my eyebrows.

“Pay oool im zub.” Says the man whose hand I’m standing on.

“Eww. Aw. Sorry. Oh. Are you alright? Ooopps. I guess. Sorry, sorry, so sorry.” I think this song needs music. I let suit pick. It chose a Handel scratch acid mix of the halleluiah chorus at a very low volume level three, almost just above subliminal if you’re deaf.

“Hey, um, anybody know Becky Savage? She still live here? Blond, maybe, no brows, no eyebrows?” By now I had engaged several of the closest ones to the man who rubbed his hand wincing. They all had eyebrows. Certainly they would have noticed her. “Halleluiah!” softly shouts my suit as the sub-woofers in my deck boots thump in slow time to the deepest hum like loop bass in the phrase the DJ's are attempting to repeat. The halleluiah’s give it some skank. A woman whose expression clearly is telling me to go to hell, where ever that is in their alien pantheon, points to the door of the once stylishly decorated tube’s antechamber. Rebecca’s bedroom. A room I know quite well having paid for it. Suit thinks its time for Dean Martin to sing and now I need a drink. She used to keep liquor over there by that hippie ore shuttle driver. Suit sends some marstini up the sippy tube next to my blacked out ID lami. I know I will miss the dusky red olives that come with a fresh full launch tank pitcher; that’s the price I pay for the convenience of a full suit bar amidst the ruble of a cult.

Should I knock on the door or burst right in? It is my bedroom isn’t it? Did I say that out loud?

“Isn’t what in zub?” I’m asked mid chant by a young man in a moon suit adorned with multicolored plastic beads.

“Oh but that’s the rub! Bub.” I poet my way through the unlocked slider door.

“Hello Paul. I’ve been expecting you.” Becky, alone, sits naked at her mirrored table, her back turned to me.

“Well I had to come see you right away. I’ve been worried since you ran away yesterday. That was you wasn’t it? On the steps?“ I moved in closer to her, I wanted to grab her and make love to her again, eyebrows or not. In fact the whole no eyebrow thing was becoming a sort of a turn on. A new dimension of Becky-ness to explore. She’s shaving her eyebrows right now I notice. She looks up at me in the mirror soulfully. We make deep eye contact.

“Stubble.” She says beautifully. “I didn’t think I’d get stubble so quickly” She shakes her beautiful long smooth forehead from side to side. She caught me peeking south of the border.

“Um, do you zoo bums do that everywhere? This shave thing?”

“No silly boy. Just the brows. And only a top candidate does this. I am a terrarista!” She announced quite proudly.

“I’m married to a terrorist!”

She laughs.

“Not terrorist. Terrarista. Terrrraaaarrr. Not terrroooaarrrr. Its like French or Spanish or Cosmeranto or something. It means “of the earth”

Solemn moment now.

“You’d make more money as a terrorist. You have the training. You’d be good at it.”

She looked for a moment as if she were seriously considering this.

“Well, maybe when I get back.” I knew it!

“Back! Back what? Where are you going?”

“To meet God of course!” As if I didn’t know! She’s a serious terraaarrrista alright. ”The zubums know God personally and are gonna introduce me. I get a sit down with the man or… the…woman…err… well you know!”

“You get the glowing green mascara too?”

“Yeah! Hey, you know about this too Paul?”

“A little. When are you leaving and where are you going?”

“One… I don’t know. Two…I don’t know. They don’t tell me. The zoo does or the bum does. Or I just know I guess.“

“Well when you tell yourself let me know okay?”

She gazed at me quizzically asking herself.

“What are the other rules? Can I do this?” She squeals with mock delight. “Oh Paul!” “Or this? Can a zubum’s husband do this? Must he be underwater?” Apparently there are few rules of conduct that apply to horny terrarristas. The oddest one I’ve noticed so far is this eyebrow thing. It seems the only proscriptions to social zubumic behavior is the eyebrows, and that you must thoroughly wash your ass. The aliens apparently are sensitive to smells, ass smell in particular. Becky in case she should be about to call herself to zubum takes a bath. We take a bath. I might want to go along.

“Oh no Paul! You absolutely can’t come along with me! It’s not allowed. I am on the solitary path of the chosen.”

“Who chose you?” I tried not to make that sound like I thought that nobody rational would’ve chosen her.

“What? I can’t go on a quest for God? Not me? Look Mr. Senior Researcher” when she capitalizes that I know I’m in for trouble “I happen to enjoy intellectual pursuits. Not like you drinking Marstini’s” she pantomimes me throwing back a launch tank. “I spent half my career an EXTINT officer and had to take the stupidest shit for it: ‘Oh I saw a UFO, it looked like a big butt, ha ha ha!’ “ Her impersonation of her fellow officers was spot on. I could see their pathetic school yard antics. I could imagine their puerile humor. Then she punched me hard in the gut!

“And you ! You’re the worst ever! ‘Oh there’s one over there! Hey made you look…ha!!’ Playing your silly sci-fi soundtrack music! Like right now! Now stop it! Stop the music now!” Suit heard her loud and clear from the corner. “I suppose you expect me to report it all to you! Everything! All of it!”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I mean when you get the chance. I could use it for some new research I think I want to do.” “NO Paul!” “Big project kinda ties in with last one.” “You can’t!” “Big budget. Long scale.” “Don’t say it!” “ You know I need you now more then ever.” “Not that!” “I don’t know what I’ll be up against, and that’s why I need you.” “You mustn’t!”

“Yes Becky, I think I’ll research God next. And I need you to get us in so we can serve the warrants and subpoenas. Just point to the guy in charge, God, you know, and we’ll do the rest. A crack team of paramilitary lawyers’l get the truth outta God!”

“Sure Paul.” She sounded soothing. She patted my hand. Led me from the bath to the bed. And when I woke up she was gone and so were my eyebrows.

“I just looked in the mirror to see if I was actually alive. I feel like I got hit with death!”

“I can’t see what your talking about! Move into better light. Wait there! There!”

“Turn up the resolution in your phone menu. I tell you they’re gone! Gone! I look like a freak’n thespian!”

“Paul just ‘cause your eyebrows have been shaved off does not make you a lesbian. Besides you’re a ah ah… you know what I mean….?” She was confusing herself here I could tell.

“Man? Man Helen. Man? Is that what you mean?” She acknowledges I’m a man with an infuriatingly reluctant nod. “What I mean is Theatrical person, an actor, a make up wearer.”

“Well there’s improvement then!” What! “That’s what you should do!”

“What!?”

“Cosmetics Paul. We do live in the future after all. This is supposed to be a time of tolerance and enlightenment isn’t it anyway?”

“Lets leave the future in the past between us and get to what you’re trying to tell me!” I manage to say through clenched teeth.

“Just paint in your eyebrows with la lusta number seven. That’s your shade I think. Match your brownish hair. Don’t arch them too high up on your forehead though or you’ll look cheap.”

“Oh I’m cheap alright. Cheap Dvorak that’s what they call me… yup.” She readily nods at this in confirmation. “ Helen I’m not putting on fake eyebrows!”

“Come on Pauly, you want people to stare at you? Surely Becky’s got something there that you could use?” I searched like a good researcher the contents of the vicinity. Nothing, no liquor, no cigarettes, no make up. I sip some fresh suit marstini. Besides empty all I found was a lami pamphlet from the zoobums central. I’ll read this dogma later in the karma. “How about a space pen? Or a zero G sharpie marker?”

“I’ll see if there’s something in the other room.” Is always how I innocently descend into ever more trouble. I have really no thought in my head as to the other room than that there is in the food prep area very many sliding storage bin lockers full of junk recessed stylishly into the highly expensive la lusta shade twenty seven Passion Flower decorative paneling that I paid for. I can smell zoobums as the door slides pneumatically aside. Even Space-less I smell a lot of zoobum smell sort of patchouli sweat and sani hose disinfectant. What was another room of the suite, once splendidly furniture’d in modular low G plush-O-hide, the common media room is now merely a shell surrounding the deepest most tightly packed crowd of wild eyed religious fanatics that this room could possibly hold. I can tell this as the main decomp door to the corridor stands open and the sea of brainwashed heads extends full view. People are so close together that they blur in their tribe’d up tech suits. Shoulder to shoulder they form an arc around me at arms length away. I make no move except to put my hand up feebly to hide where my eyebrows should be. They take this as a salute.

“Paaaauuuuoool iiiimmmm bbbbuuummm.” Echoes vibrate the structure of Crater View Estates itself. Such a tremendous blast of fowl breath hits me that I take a step back.

And thus the door, the tiny mind of it’s sensor program quite sane, closes me back into the bedroom.

“Company at the door Paul?”

“Some sales reps.” I stagger to sit on the bed.

“What are we going to do about Becky?” Helen’s holo image drips thick with real concern. As I open my mouth to say… “I don’t know!” I’m over spoken by: “What do you mean ‘what are you gonna do?’ ” of an angry Becky voice coming from behind me.

“You’ve been in the vacu-spa this whole time?” She looks all smooth brow-ed big eyed. Her cheeks are red and she’s frowning because she’s pissed off.

“You don’t have to do anything about me Helen! I do just fine for myself!” She storms over to me on the bed falls beside me and grabs my arm at my com lami and Helen is gone. She hung up on Helen!

“Thanks. That call was starting to cost me.”

Life is strange enough without a cult outside your door. Angry Becky glares at me. She stands askance arms folded. It takes a minute before I realize she’s staring at my forehead. She bites her lip. I pounce.

“What’s the big idea of shaving my eyebrows?! Some kinda joke? Ha Ha! Think it’s funny?” She reach’s out and takes my hands. We sit on the airbed.

“I didn’t shave your eyebrows off Paul.” Her eyes lock onto mine as if she’s looking deeply into me. “You were laying there asleep and I thought and thought about what you said about God and aliens and asked the zoobum if I should stop you or kill you or love you. I asked and asked and didn’t hear a thing. No copy of my coms. I thought about being a terrarista and what a terrarista would do and I didn’t know and so I asked the only other terrarista I ever met. And she said that humans are good at waiting to see what will happen. Its one of our natural special abilities as animals. Its how we learn things, watching and waiting. Sometimes knowledge comes to those who wait. So I waited to kill you because I love you, we’re married after all. And then when I looked at you again your eyebrows were gone! It was just a moment! I didn’t do it. And that was what I was waiting for.” We gaze at each others reflection in the nearby mirror. Holding hands.

“Well who shaved them off? An eyebrow burglar? A hair fetishist?”

“No one shaved off your eyebrows! Don’t you see? You are chosen! You’re a terrarista too! You weren’t picked by a committee like I was, you were chosen by the Bum itself. You are the Zoo!”

“We are the walrus.” I recite. She looks at me uncomprehendingly. Suit gives us some Beatles medley. I see the positive. “This will get me in there for sure.” I admire the new look of my reflection.

“That’s why they’re here.” She nods at the door. I can hear the monotonous chanting.

“What are they saying? Pay ool im Bub?

“It’s you Paul. They speak so many different languages that when they chant all together it blends like a chord. They’re saying “Paul is Zoobum”. You’re the Paul. You killed Simpson Acca Buddha. There would be no Zoobum aliens here if it wasn’t for you. Those people wouldn’t have the chance to meet God.”

“Becky you know what happened as well as I do. I did not kill Simpson Acca Buddha. He killed himself, or rather his neurotic android copy self-destructed.” On the saturoid Il Buacentaurri. Vaporized. “You tell them I didn’t do it! Explain.”

“It wouldn’t do any good. Things have gone too far. Your myth is written. They’re your followers. Your personal bum. They think if they’re around you their chances of talking to God get better. Every terrarista attracts them. Its like a personal cheering chanting squad. Only yours is big! Really big! There’s at least five thousand people clogging the whole neighborhood tube!”

She’s right. Things have gone too far. I’ve been defaced. They got my forehead hair by remote somehow. A tuned down blast and suck was aimed at my face. I’m the prisoner of a mob of fanatics that think I killed the founder of their religion and they’re glad about it. Soon the soldiers of the Zoobo council will be here angry that I gave them the slip. They want me on tube detention. The Mormons from Idaho want me for war crimes against their military industrial complex rooted in the same events that spawned the alien religion. I know I have to act fast.

“I think we should make mad passionate frenzied love right now.”

“Oh Paul we have to stay pure. We’re the chosen.” And so we did. Several times. In rhythm to the chanting. On the airbed. Against the door. In the other room they must have thought we were encouraging them as they then became louder. We were equal terrarista now Becky and I. When I awoke from my exhausted stupor Becky was shaving her face again. I rubbed for some stubble. Nothing. Smooth.

“How will I get outta here?” I mumbled. Space is with Amanda and I don’t want her corrupting him into some kind of French poodle.

“You can go anywhere you want. They won’t stop you. They’ll probably follow you everywhere chanting.” She finishes her depilation’s.

“Lets go then. Come on with me. Talk to Chevrolet. Get Helen to pick us all up. Amanda and Space too.” I hold her close.

“They have space ships too Paul. They’ll follow you everywhere now that the Paul Dvorak is a Terrarista. You’re a religious superstar.”

“We’ll get away. All of us.”

“No.” She stops me. “Not me I can’t go with you. I got the call last night while you slept. My appointment is set. I have to go now to zubum.” So we bathed in the soapy low-g pod. Clean ass-ish-ness is good alien etiquette.

“So where are you going to meet the aliens who introduce you to God?” I ask innocently.

“Clackamas.”

I think she wants me to spank her and it gets quite splashy before she tells me that it’s a place in Oregon NA on Tera.