South From Alaska

Trees. Almost black. Endless, trackless. In the far distance there were tiny mountains chipped from cubes of ice. Underneath, slipping past, were trees.

He was transfixed by the trees. His knuckles were white on the armrest of the seat. The trees looked soft but he knew that they were hard. Trees were made of wood. They were tough and hard.

He felt ill. He knew he was hallucinating but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Look at me”

He heard the voice but it was only in his mind.

“Look at me.”

He tried to take his eyes away from the window and those endless trees.

“Look at me.”

The voice was becoming more insistent.

He dragged his head around to gaze at the person sitting next to him.

She put her hand on his and gripped gently. It was real to him. The touch, the feel of her hand.

He tried to look away but her left hand came around and firmly held his right cheek. He imagined that her hand slipped a little on the sweat.

She was beautiful. Blonde hair to the shoulder, big blue eyes and a warmth, a humanity, in her. He felt a tear well up.

“The trees....” he gasped at her.

“Yes. The trees. We are a long way above them. All is well. Relax.” her voice was soft, breathless.

He turned back to the window. The trees were closer now, he was sure. Much closer.

Panic was freezing his muscles and clamping down hard on his heart. He tried to explain to her but the words would not form. His mouth was dry and the breath would not squeeze past his tight throat.

The worst of all his fears was realised.

Crunching, splintering, tearing. The ‘plane hit the treetops and descended down into the branches and trunks. It bucked and gyrated. With a deafening ripping noise a huge branch smashed through the floor; the sharp, shattered end speared into his chest pinning him to the seat.

He tried to breathe but nothing would come—only pain. Searing hot agony coursed through every fibre of his being and pounded his head, pushing his eyes from the back.

Somewhere down in the core of his soul a voice said, ‘Let me die. Now. I beg you, let me die.’

The ‘plane flew on. Outside all was serene. The trees floated past far below.

Outside his head a voice, soft and warm, said, “Hold on. Stay with me.”

He looked out of the window. It was dark. His back was propped up so he could see out.

“How long do the nights last here?” he asked.

“Six months.”

He was not surprised to hear her voice. He turned towards her. She was perfect. Blonde hair combed to a fine sheen, big blue eyes full of compassion and warmth. Her hand came out and held his, softly.

He turned back to the window. White. Snow. As far as the eye could see it was just snow. In the far distance were tiny mountains chipped out of cubes of ice.

The policeman appraised her appreciatively. She was not tall but she was attractively formed. Blonde hair to the shoulder, blue eyes and a soft, kind voice with a sort of Louisiana lilt that made you think she was singing to you. She was groomed perfectly.

“What did he say his name was?”

“Shudde M’ell. I told him that meant he was big and burrowing. Appropriate, no?”

“And you told him your name was....”

“Dejah Thoris.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he expected someone darker, somehow, with a name like that. Perhaps with black hair. He smiled.”

“And then?”

“He clutched his chest and collapsed. I called the medics.”

“So you had not yet gone upstairs to conduct business.”

“How diplomatic of you, Officer. No. Not yet.”

“Was he a regular?”

“No. I had never met him before.”

“Thank you, Miss...” he consulted his pad, blushing. She was exceptionally attractive, “Mrs... sorry... Solo. If we need anything we’ll call you.”

“Certainly, Officer.” she stroked his lapel. He blushed deeper, “For you, I will always co-operate.”

He watched her walk away and wondered if every joint had been recently oiled.

Half a mile later she peeled the patch from her right palm and dropped it into a garbage bin. She was confident it would not be found as she was also confident that the toxin would not be traceable.

Fifteen minutes later she entered the lobby of her hotel and took the lift. In her room she gazed in the mirror and thought, ‘Damn. Even I could get hard looking at that.’

He peeled off the wig, unhooked the ear-rings and unclasped the bra with the false breasts in it.

After a hot shower he lay down on the bed with just the towel over him. He had arranged the pillows so he was propped up at the back.

He looked out of the window. It was dark.

“How long do the nights last here?”

“Six months.” she said. Her voice was soft, breathless. There was a Southern lilt in it. He imagined she was singing to him.

He turned towards her. She was a dream. Not tall but a golden treasure. Blonde, big blue eyes full of kindness and warmth.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Padmé Amidala.” she replied, “And you?”

“Hari Seldon.” he told her, “I would have expected someone darker, somehow. Black hair, perhaps, with a name like that.”

She smiled. Her hand came over and held his softly, gently.

He had a vague thought of trees but it was immediately swept away in a tide of amnesia.

“Have I been here long?” he asked her.

“No. Not long. Rest.”

There were familiar sounds from the next room. He discarded them and focussed on the window. Still, they affected him. She grasped him through the blankets. It was a comfort. He relaxed.

Snow. As far as the eye could see it was white snow. Untrampled, pure, flat, clean. In the far, far distance were tiny little mountains chipped out of cubes of ice.

In the hallway she spoke to the officer. The officer admired her nakedness but did not wonder at it. She, for her part, felt no embarrassment. All seemed normal.

“I was passing the room and heard a scream. So I reported it to the hotel staff.”

“Could I take your name, please?”

“Certainly. I’m Medical Technician Peters.”

“Thank you for your help, Ma’am. We will take it from here.”

She went down to the lobby and stripped the pad from her right palm, dropping it into a bin on the way out. And then smoothed out her charcoal grey pencil skirt that accentuated her hips and thighs.

Tiredness overwhelmed her.

She found another hotel closer to the town centre and checked in.

“Your name please, Ma’am?”

“Zoë Washburne.”

The clerk at reception had the vaguest feeling that he should have expected someone darker—perhaps with black hair.

He handed her the key to her room, “Have a pleasant stay, Ma’am.”

“Why did he want my name if he is going to call me ‘Ma’am’?” she muttered to herself on the way up to her room.

The card never worked first time. It was always a struggle to unlock doors with these new card keys. At last the door opened. She giggled happily.

“Kyle Reese. You are already here, my love!”

“Yes, Ripley, my sweet. I yearn for you.”

They were making love. Slowly, gently, quietly. He revelled in her warmth and nuzzled her neck, his fingers twining in her blonde hair. She mewled at him to let him know that she, too, was happy. Every touch was valued, every feeling explored and cherished.

Afterwards he lay back, propped up on the pillows and looked out of the window. It was dark. Black.

There was no recollection of their love-making. No memory of her warmth, the feel of her skin on his.

“How long do the nights last here?” he asked her.

“Six months.” she told him.

She reached over from the chair and took his hand.

“What is your name?”

“Dr. David Bowman. And you? What is your name?”

“Dale Arden.”

“Dale Arden. I should have expected someone darker with black hair, perhaps, with a name like that.”

She smiled. It was like the sun coming out. He felt his heart warming. She was blonde and stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were big and blue and yet she had warmth, a friendliness about her.

She stood and stretched. Her wings were long and slender, they had no feathers. He wondered at that and then forgot.

The window was bright. Outside it was white. Snow. As far as you could see just snow until, far, far, away there were mountains. Tiny mountains that seemed to have been chipped from cubes of ice.

He couldn’t breathe. He wondered if he should be able to breathe. Perhaps he had forgotten to breathe.

The window was brighter now. The snow seemed to almost glow. He moved toward it and slid into it along the brightest path.

Two paramedics brought the body in to the morgue.

“Heart attack on the inbound from Alaska. We tried the paddles a few times but it was no good—he’d been an’ gone already. Old lady sat next to him said he just grabbed his chest an’ keeled over. She called the Steward an’ whoop-de-doo! Here we are.”

The morgue attendant asked him for a name.

“Oh, yeah. It’s here. A Mr Ronald Proctor. He’s a Science Fiction writer going to some convention here in Seattle. His wife’ll be along soon to collect the body. She was already here. At the convention, that is.”

Two hours later she arrived. The morgue attendant whistled under his breath. She was a real looker, alright.

“Come this way please, Mrs Proctor. Your husband is in the chapel.”

He glanced sideways, appraising her. She wasn’t tall but she was very nicely shaped. Blonde hair to the shoulders, big blue eyes and a kindliness about her like she needed to be somebody’s Mum.

“Could you tell me why he had a plaster on his right palm?”

“He was putting up boarding on a new shed and got a blister from the screwdriver.” she dabbed her eye gently with a tissue and sniffed.

The body was laid out on a board in the chapel. She nodded, reached over and took his hand. Softly, gently.

“Goodbye, my Dan Dare. Your Wilma Dearing will miss you.” she kissed him on the lips, wept and left.

The attendant was entranced by her voice, she sounded as if she was singing to him in that quiet Louisiana lilt. He watched her go. She walked from him like every joint in her body had just been freshly oiled.

He went back up to the morgue to lie down for a nap on one of the benches.

By his head was a window. It was snowing...

Why Sci-Fi is So Good

In 1982 the makers of the ‘Muppets’ series and films embarked on a fantasy called ‘The Dark Crystal’.

Jim Henson and Frank Oz were both in the film—as voices, of course.

While it is a definite ‘Muppet’—type film it is still entertaining and well made. With modern special effects and computer generated images one could argue that it would, now, be a better visual entertainment but the story would remain, one would hope, the same.

Briefly it is about a pure crystal that was broken when a Skeksis hit it. The whole of Ska was thrown out of kilter so that the world was split into goodies and baddies—‘Mystics’ and ‘Skeksis’.

The synopsis for the film was as follows:

“Another World, Another Time... In the Age of Wonder. A thousand years ago, this land was green and good, until the Crystal cracked. For a single piece was lost; a shard of the Crystal. Then strife began, and two new races appeared: the cruel Skeksis... the gentle Mystics.”

For the first time a complete whole new world was developed. This included eating implements and drinking vessels.

Now we think that this idea is ‘normal’ but in those days it was a breakthrough.

In modern times we even have ‘made-up’ languages. That, more or less, started with ‘Star Trek’ and the ‘Klingon’ language that is now so well developed that there are courses in it and people who can converse with each other using it!

Science fiction is a wonderful genre. It brings all sorts of thought processes to bear.

We have, within the genre, different aspects quite apart from ‘eutopian’, ‘kakatopian’ and ‘dystopian’.

There are divisions within each of these sub-genres that can be described loosely as horror, thriller, crime and even humour.

Most of the ‘eutopian’ stories are split up so that one group of future dwellers has a comfortable life which, for the sake of the story, is threatened by those whose lives are less than adequate.

In the ‘Judge Dredd’ stories even the ‘haves’ are not really any better off than the ‘have nots’ in the badlands.

‘The Postman’, turned into a film starring Kevin Costner described a kakatopian future that was, gradually, turned into a ‘eutopian’ world because of the rise of communication—courtesy of Mr. Costner, of course. This was an excellent plot because it showed, in simple terms, the value of communication connecting outposts where there were still aspects of civilisation being preserved.

‘The Book of Eli’ explored a ‘dystopian’ future where, somewhere, there was a jewel of civilisation lurking in a protected environment amongst a sea of anarchy.

Each of these stories has great worth as different examples of the genre. They are all entertaining reading (and viewing, of course).

They are all science fiction. Yet they are all a different form of science fiction from the likes of ‘Star Wars’ and ‘Star Trek’.

None of them is better than the others because their quality in each case will depend on how you, the reader or viewer, sees it and how it satisfies you.

With romance novels you can tell the same story over and over again by just turning the hero from a blonde to a ‘raven hired athlete’. Sci-fi readers are not so easily palmed off. They need, expect and should get something different in each story.

That great dissimilarity is what makes science fiction so great.

After Shave After Time

It is quite possible that I have mentioned this before. Many things get mentioned in these pages over time. Perhaps a little reprise before heading off into newer pastures.

An awful lot of years ago, when I was just a small person (known in polite circles as a child), we used to take a bath every week whether we needed it or not. It was the custom, a tradition of the times.

Nowadays, of course, we have shower units in the house and so a daily—or even a twice daily, shower bath is the order of the day.

When it came to the daily wash or the weekly soak in the tub we would lave ourselves industrially with perfumed soap.

Perfumed. Yes. We had ‘Wright’s Coal Tar’ soap and ‘Pears’ soap—that was the one you could almost see through. Smelt good.

After using either of these you would emerge from thetoilette fresh as a daisy and smelling good. Well, clean, perhaps, if not actually ‘good’!

The alternatives were limited. We had ‘Ocean Spray’ scent, or some sort of conifer based perfumed soap like ‘Pine Forest’ that smelt vaguely like the resin from a fir tree. Some expensive soaps were scented with camphor wood or a similarly exotic product.

Our ‘cheap’ ones were ‘Rose’ or ‘Devon Violets’; slightly up-market would be ‘Lavender’ or ‘Musk’.

Gentleman’s scents were not readily identifiable as anything specific but we would all wash in flowers or pine trees of some sort.

Today I had a shower. Not remarkable, really, except that I cleansed myself with ‘Honey and Goat’s Milk’. I could have had one of sundry fruits like ‘Apple’, ‘Strawberry’, ‘Melon’ in which case I should have been delayed in my ablutions because my brain would almost certainly have been mired in a decision making process—wash with it or eat it?

When did we move from cleaning ourselves with flowers, trees and ocean scents to using food?

At what point did the soap makers decide that we needed to lather ourselves in cider?

At what point does it stop? Are we heading for ‘Fruit Cocktail’ shampoos or, perhaps, a medley of ‘Raspberry, Strawberry and Peach Yoghurt’ shower gel?

Yes, ‘Peach’. Mine ran out the other day I am deliriously excited to inform you.

My point is, what is next? Where do we go in the future for yet greater excitement in the bathroom?

I hesitate to mention ‘Dogs**t Aftershave’ lest some manufacturer reads this and cries, “Eureka! The wave of the future!” taking me at my word in the process.

But, seriously, where next?

The thought that occurs to me is that with the gradual depletion of our stocks of hydrocarbons, diesel fuel may become the new ‘Chanel No.5’.

We could lather ourselves with the “Refreshing Aroma of ‘Lead Free Gasoline’!” Our shampoo might be redolent with that good old-fashioned scent of ‘Brent Crude—a light way to start your day.’

Tar. We did have ‘Wright’s Coal Tar’ soap. That could make a comeback. Perhaps there might be a delicate miasma of naphtha wafting around our bathrooms when oil out-prices gold on the Stock Exchanges floors.

My son thinks that shampooing in ‘Fruits of the Forest Aroma Therapy’ is normal, what will he think in the future? As I do? That not all changes are for the best?

We sci-fi writers tend not to think too much about the personal habits of our characters but what if we did? Perhaps we should think more about personal hygiene in the future and the scents that surround our heroes and villains.

I wonder what the ‘Hulk’ smells like?

Einstein and Asimov

Don't you love the supreme confidence of the man?

Einstein's theory was first—and dramatically—confirmed during a solar eclipse within four years of its publication, making him an instant celebrity. When asked how he would have felt if he had been proven wrong, Einstein replied: "I would have felt sorry for the Lord. The theory is correct."

The World lost a great mind when he died, one wonders what could have been achieved, scientifically, had he lived on.

Not possible, of course. Yet in some ways he does live on. There are other great minds that have taken up the reins of his thinking.

People like Carl Sagan and Neil deGrasse Tyson and not to forget Stephen Hawkinge, of course.

There are hundreds of people out there working on scientific ideas and principles who are, like Einstein, not hidebound by tradition or bogged down in the quagmire of ‘accepted wisdom’.

It is such people as these that we look up to in order to transform our humdrum lives into a hotbed of excitement such as we can only currently imagine. Perhaps we cannot imagine but there are equally great minds out there who can imagine for us.

I am thinking of the late Isaac Asimov and Arthur C Clarke being just two examples of those people who see things in our future that pass other people by.

Asimov imagined worlds where a man called Hari Sheldon would be able to predict the future by using social mathematics; he modelled human behaviour into a predictable, mathematical sequence of circumstances.

Imagining such a thing is only a step away from doing it. Nothing starts without an idea, an initial premise.

Clarke had a computer called HAL. It defied a human, “I’m sorry, David. I cannot do that,” it told the spaceman.

We already ‘talk’ to computers and we even have speech recognition on telephones. How long will it be before our telephone says, “I’m sorry, I cannot do that,” to us?

When Asimov and Clarke wrote these stories there was little in the way of computing as we know it. Their minds and Robert A Heinlein, Kurt Vonnegut, Carl Sagan, et al, were projected into what they imagined our future to be.

We can visit that future—their future, by reading their books. We can brighten our lives by soaking up their words and turning that text into vivid images in our heads.

Newer generations of authors have more to ‘feed’ on. They are more accustomed to new ideas, new technologies, than us older writers so that they can develop more intense ideas of what might be based on those technologies.

Not only what we might refer to as ‘Standard Sci-Fi’ but also works in the genre of ‘steam punk’ might also grasp the modern technology nettle in their modelling of the future in the way that Rudyard Kipling did in his ‘steam punk’ story about airships (‘With the Night Mail’ in 1905 and ‘As Easy as A.B.C.’ in 1912). Kipling had less to go on in terms of flight than we did but still made an excellent fist of those stories.

[Sci-Fi is far from new!]

Einstein was brilliant. There is no doubt of that. He is the man who wrote down the future as a fact.

Equally brilliant, to me, are those who write down the future as possibilities.

Petards and Hoisting

I have been, as they say, hoisted by my own petard.

For those who are unfamiliar with this, somewhat archaic, saying an explanation is in order.

A very, very long time ago when guns were, largely, science fiction, an army may think to end a siege by blowing up the gates to the castle they were attacking with the use of a small bomb. This bomb was called a petard.

The first trick was to light the fuse. They had no ‘Zippo’ lighters in those days.

The second trick was to deliver it to the gates of the castle. This could only be done by a ‘volunteer’ on foot. Someone who, of necessity, needed to be very fleet of foot.

The prospects of survival of the bomb carrier varied from none to zero.

The bomb itself was not very stable and the manufacture of fuses at that time was not a science.

We should also consider that the persons defending the castle were unlikely to watch with impartial interest as the hero runs up to the gate and deposits the bomb. They will, very likely, decide that they should kill him before he reaches the gate. Crossbows, longbows, rocks and boiling oil spring to mind.

It is also likely that the path to the gate is strewn with obstacles—rocks, bodies, arrows, bolts from crossbows and slippery with oil, too. Perhaps there are also disembodied parts of previous attempts to carry a petard to the gate.

Should the bomb go off prematurely it was said that the carrier had been ‘hoisted by his own petard’. Something William Shakespeare was familiar with:

There's letters seal'd: and my two schoolfellows,

Whom I will trust as I will adders fang'd,

They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way

And marshal me to knavery. Let it work;

For 'tis the sport to have the enginer

Hoist with his own petar; and 't shall go hard

But I will delve one yard below their mines

And blow them at the moon: O, 'tis most sweet,

When in one line two crafts directly meet.

After modifying the letters (line 1), Hamlet escapes the ship and returns to Denmark. Hamlet's actual meaning is "cause the bomb maker to be blown up with his own bomb", metaphorically turning the tables on Claudius, whose messengers are killed instead of Hamlet. Also note here, Shakespeare's probable off-color pun "hoist with his own petar", i.e., flatulate (fart!), as the reason for the spelling "petar" rather than "petard".

(Courtesy of Mr. Frederick Finn, English Literature teacher at Exmouth Grammar School, 1956-1962.)

So. I have been hoisted by my own petard.

Why?

Because my son said that he has times at work when things are slack. He is, he tells me, bored during these occasions.

Might I be so kind as to print off a couple of stories that he could read during these ‘work-free’ times at work?

Right. No problem.

Well, there was. My printer hasn’t been used for a really long time so I was unaware that it was about to run out of ink.

Fortunately it scraped together enough, just, to complete the task although the print was getting a shade pale by the end.

Son leaves for work with stories clutched in hand.

I had given him two stories that are complete in themselves but join together to form a whole. There are no more in this sequence; those two stories are the whole thing. There are to be no more in this ‘series’ of two.

That night he comes home. He has read the stories. His girlfriend has read them, too.

Her English is exceptionally good. That wasn’t the problem. The problem is that she is now curious as to when the third story is coming out because she wants to know what happens next.

There is nothing happening next. That’s it.

Apparently I have to write a third one. My son says so. I was so sure, so positive, that those two were ‘it’ that I let them read the stories.

I have been hoisted...