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“Go Look at Woods’ Thing”

31 December 2022

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12 January 2023 —
To the The Tattooed Trekkie® and The Squariest of the Squares®

Ledy & Xujjon,
It was very kind of ya’ll to include me in your recent festivities. Even if the inclusion was simply a matter of adding my address to a file and letting machinery do the rest, someone took the effort to do so, and I am grateful.
The beautiful wedding portrait was most apt, as the Wuhan Willies® inflicted enormous damages on individuals (like murdering my mom by house arrest in Oregon) and on society in general (by unleashing hordes of Maskerati and Jabolins to hector and harangue those of us unwilling to pretend that we’re all surgeons.) The shutdown was additionally difficult for those of us who are already socially retarded, and the enforced isolation hardly helped to improve our skills.
But you offered comforts and consolations beyond the regularly scheduled podcasts. It was a delight to witness the budding romance of The Tattooed Trekkie® and The Squariest of the Squares®. Many may have offered scorn (based on their own deficiencies) while most of us cheered you on, reveling vicariously in the joys ya’ll expressed throughout.
The enclosed is a gift, and therefore entails no obligation on your part. It is my hope that someone there will find it entertaining (or at least interesting.) The story is NOT “child-friendly” but hardly too heavy for bright adolescents. If no one there likes it, my hope is that it be passed on to someone else whom might.
While I lean closer to Xujjon culturally, I still consider Ledy to be among my staunchest of allies. And despair not, Ledy, the tide may be turning yet in your favor. More basic moral values, like responsibility, resolve, dignity, honesty, and coherence, seem to be resurging lately, so we could be witnessing the Dawning of the Age of the Squariest.

These comments are sponsored by The Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead).  For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or 
Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars”
in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates,
c/o Gene Greigh // 401 Rio Concho Drive, #105;  San Angelo, Texas; 76903

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But what if the cost is TWO lives?

24 December 2022

correspondent Gommil Jelug points out that while “many people argue for freedom [and decry] safety as a value, any person of reason has those they wish to protect,” and that to ignore “the value of safety is foolish,” and perhaps “hypocritical.”

Of course, every rational person values both safety and liberty. However, we will pit those values against each other with every thought and act. “If it saves just one life” is a contemptible lie, and any thinking person sees right through it. Very few parents build cinder block walls around their front yards to insure against automobiles running into their yards. They have placed the costs of construction and subsequent devaluation of their property against the lives of their children. They regularly put their own (and others’) lives at risk every time they drive down to the QuikkStopp for a six-pack of Coors Slight or a fist full of lottery tickets.

Ridiculing people who pretend that liberty and safety are not in conflict, or who pretend that their hyper-vigilance isn’t dangerously counter-productive, is both logical and coherent. Just not very generous to the mentally deficient.

Jelug adds that one of the (often prohibitive) costs to protecting their children from errant traffic and other dangers are institutionalized zoning and housing authority ordinances, once again revealing an opportunity for libertarian solutions.

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The Richards of Rock

29 December 2016

I feel no disrespect for Ringo Starr or Richard Carpenter. Quite the opposite! They are both competent craftsmen who have expressed a little artistry at times. Good for them! But seriously, if it weren’t for The Beatles and Karen, The Richards of Rock would likely never have been so widely known.

I imagine professionals and the cognocenti would have recognized them as serious studio musicians, and if you were looking for a playful drummer or a bright touch on the keys, you might ask for one of the Richards.

But they wouldna been famous.

What they did was luck out and step up to their very good deals; they measured up and they didn’t disgrace themselves. But I expect they never would have been headliners in their own right.

Well, maybe Ringo. How can ya not love Ringo? And as for Richard Carpenter? I think he never quite figured out whether he wanted to be The Beatles or The Ray Coniff Singers.

update 210112  — I don’t know whether or not Bud wrote the phrase,
“Garfunkel and Oates,” but ’twas from his lips I first heard it.  And sure… “Garfunkel and Oates” IS funny, but now I somehow feel like the joke kind of disses Richard Carpenter a little, too. But seriously, all three of those gentlemen are brilliantly gifted, and Oates’ composition,
“Had I Known You Better” is the most beautiful love song ever written by Daryl Hall or Paul Simon or Richard Carpenter or Ringo Starr or Art Garfunkel or John Oates (and I would be super grateful if anyone could point me to a better one!)

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“Who’s a Super Good Boy?”

17 December 2022

I’m still waiting for the Red Kryptonite story where the mysterious new white-haired boy shows up at Smallville High in “Pete Ross’ (and Lana Lang’s) New Best Friend, Clark Kent’s Rival, and Bash Bashford’s Arch Nemesis” (or “Who’s a Good Boy?“)

Krypto, by Andy Bennett (2021),
is held de jure by DC Comics & Warner Communications.

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On “States’ Rights”

15 December 2022

Suction, coldness, darkness, centrifugal force, and states’ rights have one very important thing in common. They don’t actually exist. They are all convenient constructs that help to simplify the analysis and application of natural or social phenomena. “Suction” refers to a pressure differential; vacuums don’t suck, higher pressure pushes. Coldness and darkness respectively are simply the absence of heat or light, measurable physical phenomena, and centrifugal force is just an easier way of understanding the effect of constantly changing momenta.

A moral theory of rights denies the existence of a state having rights, as its existence is predicated on usurping the rights of individual actors, and only individual actors can have rights. Some may argue that rights themselves also don’t exist, and their argument has merit. Rights are an emergent property of (so far) human intelligence. Just as Kepler and Copernicus could wring a coherent understanding of astronomy from the observations of ancient astrologers, and Priestly and Lavoisier could craft chemistry from the bones of alchemy, so too could secular ethicists divine a theory of rights from our mystical forebears. As briefly as bearable, I would define rights as the reciprocal protocols of expectations shown to result in the greatest measure of prosperity, longevity, and liberty to human societies. Reciprocity, of course, is essential. We clearly do not respect the chicken’s “right to life,” any more than said chicken respects the rights of the bugs that it eats. But when a person violates the rights of a person, he has demonstrated his abandonment of the protection of rights. He has surrendered his rights through his own misbehavior. Boiling it down further, some might equate rights with the most basic set of kindergarten rules: Don’t hit people and don’t take their stuff. Refining that thick syrup into finer crystal, I would just say: No Trespassing.

“States’ Rights” are the powers retained within a confederation or a compact, which is the voluntary agreement between states to delegate some powers to a confederate or constitutional body. Within the context of their agreement only do states’ rights actually exist. They are constructs designed to simplify our understanding of federal relations. No sensible libertarian would ever suggest that a state has rights, but an honest reader of the Constitution will see that through their ratification of federal union, states assert and retain their prior authorities.

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Au Revoir, Tichelle LaBelle

17 November 2022
Bon voyage, mon pauvre petit chat.

Spooky Pukey Tichelle LaBelle James Earl Carter Vygudwyf Greigh died this afternoon sometime around 5pm West Texas time. Probably born in or around Greater Cincinnatistan 12 to 18 years ago, I first encountered her as a mature cat through the agency of my neighbor Vygudwyf Rokhy, who’d taken to subsidizing the feline community in our neighborhood. Her clientele generally equilibrated around three to six regulars over the years, and most would come and go within a matter of months. This one mild-mannered tortoise shell, though, seemed to have achieved a bit of seniority, not so much through the aggression displayed by others, but her tenacity and calm patience. Rokhy and I had both noted her comparative sweetness a couple of times. We had also deduced, from her coat, from the lack of interest in her from potent Toms, and her generally docile (if over-cautious) nature, that she’d been acculturated to people, spayed, and probably vaccinated. Our working theory was that she’d recently moved and gotten lost, or that maybe she’d been abused and gotten fed up.

One snowy November morning, as I was preparing for bed (having earlier completed my graveyard shift at the local QuikkStopp, I heard a great ruckus at the back. I staggered out to encounter three police officers breaking into Rokhy’s half of the house (we shared a duplex.) “Can I… help you?” I enquired.

“When did you last see your neighbor, sir?”

“”Um… two, three days ago? I’m not sure. We’re cordial, but we’re not close.”

They had received word from Rokhy’s daughter and employer both that they’d had no contact for three days, so now it was time for them to break in. Realizing that they had no desire to have me in their way as they entered a possibly sensitive scene, I bid them the best and went back to bed as they (I learned later) carted out Rokhy’s body, and made arrangements for York, the faithful German Shepherd who patiently waited for Rokhy at the foot of her bed.

That evening, as I prepared for work, I noticed the tortoise shell across the backyard keeping her eye on Rokhy’s back door, awaiting her customary dole. I realized then that she’d likely been waiting the last three or four days in the snow. It was more than I could bear, so I set out one of Milli‘s dishes on our back deck, which adjoined Rokhy’s. I no sooner stepped back in than Tichelle (as I’d later come to call her) sprinted across the back yard to the offering. Within a day I had coaxed her into the kitchen. Milli did not approve but she had lots of dishes and the rest of the house besides and no one ever went hungry. Soon they’d established a truce allowing them both access to the dining and gravel facilities in the tiled kitchen and laundry rooms, plus equal access to the great outdoors. In addition to their common privileges, Tiche had her own two-square-foot throw rug in the kitchen while Milli had the rest of the house. And she enforced it, though she was half Tiche’s weight.

Later, Milli and Tiche and I quit the little duplex and moved into the Northern Exclave, whereupon Milli saw her last days (see Milli Kalikimaka). Years after that, Tiche and I relocated from Greater Cincinnatistan to West Texas (see Tichelle’s Bogus Journey).

Tichelle’s appetite dropped off considerably about a month ago, and she’s spent most of her time sleeping, but otherwise not complaining. I tempted her for a while with more expensive savory cat treats, and she showed a little interest in the novelty, but soon that lost its appeal as well. Last night I heard her moving under the bed and when I awoke, she was still there, sleeping. I’d kneel down throughout the day to check on her and scritch her chin or ears and she’d purr softly, and I’d check her again in an hour or so. Finally, a little after five in the afternoon, I found her dead. Her feline dignity remained intact to the last and she rarely missed her cat box, only hanging her ass over the newspapers a couple of times in the last few weeks.

She was far from my favorite among cats, being only basically cat smart and probably the scarediest I’ve ever met, but I didn’t dislike her, and we were pack. The nest is quiet today.

26 May 2023 — {Happy Birthday (5/26/1920) to John Dall, master thespian of the “weary wastrel cynic” school of acting.}
These past six months without Tiche have been harder on me, emotionally, than were the last couple of years in Cincinnatistan without friends. But at least after her demise I had people to grieve with and to help me bury — Oh yeah… That appears also to have been a one-way street.

photo image of Tichelle from her Intermittent Kitty-Mommy

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Watching Her Cat

13 November 2022

Kal-El keeps an eye on Streaky while Kara is off planet.
Krypto couldn’t care less.

[ Oxiffah-Gowhaf, F’mygirgowhaf gewks yockem riz, fiquamu fuq! ]

illustration by Joe Lennon, 6-8-19

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Boothby Lied

3 November 2022

“My Favorite Martian” is Star Trek® canon. Maybe not as far as Paramount® is concerned, but according to this fanboy Trekkie it is. His given name is neither “Martin” nor “Boothby.” He is, in “fact,” an Andorian/Vulcan hybrid mutant political refugee, persecuted for his pink skin, round ears, retractable antennae, and psychokinetic abilities. While he may even have come by way of Mars, his claim to have come from Mars was just a convenient fiction to save him the trouble of a more detailed explanation. Due to his Vulcan ancestry, of course, he enjoyed extended longevity, which is why centuries later, we find him as the beloved and ancient groundskeeper at Star Fleet Academy. Who knows what other masks he might have worn in the intervening centuries? Fan (or Pro) fictioneers have yet to reveal it.

(Still think it’s a stretch?
What is more, they were both spawned by DesiLu® Productions.
Admiralissima Ball-Ricardo is the mother of both worlds!)

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Reparations, Bond Villains, and Git’Tars

3 July 2002 — Reparations (or “Just how much do I owe me?”)

I oppose the (Senator Dan) Akaka Bill for the same reasons I oppose Reparations for Americans of African descent. History is filled with the crimes of cultural expansion — genocide, slavery, dispossession — but nothing can be done about the past but to learn from it. There is no good reason for Americans to look to the Federal Government for special protection or special consideration. The tragedy of native peoples on the mainland shows us that tribal recognition leads inevitably to eternal welfare bondage. All Citizens must stand equally before the law. Questionable property claims must be addressed without delay, but without needless rancor.

7 January 2018 — Real Life “Bond Villains”

They may not be what Ian Fleming had in mind when he first started minting the iconic archetypes, but once you’ve been acquainted with the notion, you’ll have a hard time not seeing them. Some become living parodies, others, touchstones of cultural phenomena. For example, I hesitate to buy into rumors of government misbehavior, at least until James (“Not Wittingly”) Clapper officially denies it.

I don’t pretend to know what’s in a man’s heart, my designation of “Bond Villainy” is based mainly on public persona, though an unusual name and an exotic accent (Henry Kissinger, Sebastian Gorka) sure help. Of course, actual villainy helps even more! (Henry Kissinger, James Clapper)

The reigning king of TV’s Bond Villains is on the ropes this week, being challenged by my new fave Michael (“Dr Evil”) Wolff. But not to worry, Sebastian (“Sebastian Gorka”) Gorka has serious legs, gravitas, and a wicked cool accent!

30 May 2022 — No Violins or Guitars

I love pop music and I love country and western music, and while bad pop is annoying, bad country is worse. I used to think there was nothing worse than bad country. Then I met hiphop. (High fop?) Fortunately, on popular commercial radio, bad country is more common than bad hiphop. One thing that bad country makes clear is that no country music group would ever have any instruments on stage that might be called a “violin” or a “guitar.” Clearly, and emphatically, they are “fiddles” and “git’tars.”

On talk radio, there’s even less annoyance. Of THAT particular variety anyway. However, before I can get to the radio to turn it off, I have been regularly subjected to Sean Hannity‘s current opening score:
Yeah we’re comin’
To your sit-tay!
We’re gonna play our git’tars and sing you a country sowng!
We’ll all be flyin;’
Higher than a jet air-liner!
So if you want a little thang in your ying yang come alowng!
I’m not precisely sure what a “thang” or a “ying yang” might be, so I’ll guess. Even so, if I HAD a “ying yang” and I wanted a “thang” in it, I’m not altogether certain I’d be satisfied by a LITTLE one.

7 December 2022

Applying for Medicare in February of 2021 turns out to have been LESS than useless. (Of course, this was prior to the eviction notice, so I still thought I could curry favor.) Since August of ’22 I’ve been trying to apply for reparations (aka “Social Security”). It has been a relentless nightmare.

To be fair (for those to whom “fairness” outside of a casino or a courtroom are adult considerations) during the same almost two years that I’ve “had” Medicare coverage and not used it, I also haven’t cashed in on the car insurance, I haven’t used my fire extinguisher, and I haven’t shot anyone sneaking into my house. That’s arguably been a waste of my resources also, but still a wholesome trend that I hope continues. But I said, “LESS than useless.” My car insurance didn’t prevent me from changing the oil, and my fire extinguisher didn’t prevent me from starting a blaze in the fireplace, and my guns didn’t spend their free time shooting innocent strangers.

Medicare, on the other hand, has effectively blocked my attempts to apply for reparations on-line. Between my own cybernetic incompetence and the perverse protocols of computers, I kept getting stymied, locked out, and admonished for attempting to update my data on my own alleged account. Seeking permission to proceed, I consented to e-mail updates, which would presumably allow me to continue, but they were sent to the obsolete e-dress. It wouldn’t let me update e-mail without an authorization code, and it would only send such codes to an e-dress that I could not access.

4 September 1991 — On Getting What She Demanded

For the past few months, Drama Queen (or Diva Dearest?) has been enjoying a tryst with Maintenance Man. That was never a problem for me. Since beginning to think about such things I have been strictly heterosexual and polyamorous. Such considerations were hammered out in my marriage contracts, and I never betrayed them, though they, respectively, got fed up with me after Thirteen, Thirteen, and Twenty-two years. Anyway, on this particular evening (last night) Drama Queen was excoriating me over how neglectful I’d been. As a father of three (two teen-aged boys and my infant daughter) I felt I had my hands full with rent, groceries, school activities, and child-care. How little I know.

So, she spent the evening haranguing me about my neglect, and even went so far as to point out that Maintenance Man was much more attentive in his offers of small gestures and tokens. The example she cited was the beef jerky he’d bought for her earlier that day. Finally getting it all “off her chest” by dumping it all over my head, she felt much better, and we enjoyed a peaceful night’s sleep. She woke up bright and jovial and went off to work. It being my day off, I slept a little later, but still woke up angry and morose. I work my ass off to keep the five of us in kibble, and she throws Maintenance Man‘s superior swain skills at me. Well, I DID listen to her, so I divined that she wants small gestures delivered to work. After tending to L’Historienne‘s diapers, I packed a small lunch, threw my best girl up onto my shoulders, and walked down the hill and across the highway to Fytyjuf Twyx, the beach resort hotel where she worked. I walked into the front office, dropped the sack lunch on the counter in front of her, said,”Here,” walked out, crossed the highway again, and proceeded up the hill to home.

That didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped. I got about halfway home when Drama Queen pulled up on the street beside me and started in again. How dare I, she wondered, endanger our daughter by carrying her across a busy street? I’d thought I was following her instructions, but in addition to reading, I’m also not very good at listening between the lines.

14 October 2022  — 
“It could be that I wasn’t trying to hide it FROM you.
Maybe I was trying to hide it FOR you.”

Many years ago, for some reason or another, Busy Body (or Early Riser?) asked me if there was something I hadn’t told her.  I tried to duck the question, because I am not comfortable with casual lies, but she persisted.  Finally, having had enough, I stood up, left the room, and fetched the new tea pot and paperback anthology that I had previously bought for her upcoming birthday.  I returned to the room, put them both on the table and said, “There!  Now I’m no longer lying to you!”  Then I left the house to walk off the anger and to smoke myself down (because at the time I was still a practicing butthead.)

I don’t remember, but I think she threw them out.
I guess winning isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

8 January 2023

Because I am mask averse, and because the local Social Security office is F’eral turf (a wholly owned subsidiary of the DNC), wherein mandatory muzzling remains in effect, I preferred to access their system via my home desktop. Woe betide me! That worked as well as this website works to sell my books. After months of frustration, I surrendered. I trudged down to the local SS office (on November 4th), muzzled up like an obedient little sheeple, and checked in, asking for help to get MY MONEY BACK.

The clerk was very courteous, looked at my documents, tapped her keyboard, and then asked if a telephone interview would be helpful. I responded that, in my state of helpless incompetence, just about ANYTHING would be helpful. So I was given an “appointment” for the telephone interview. I left, and days later a letter arrived recapping the discussion and advising me of which materials would be helpful to have at hand for said call. Come the morning of December 6th, I sat by my phone with all those materials at hand and waited for the call. And waited. And waited.

After waiting for what I figured was a reasonable time, still hearing nothing, I tried to call and my call was diverted to my service “provider,” whereupon I was informed that all of my time had expired. Meanwhile, the clerk tried calling what turned out to be a dead line, finally calling L’Historienne and enquiring after my existence. So she freaked out, raced over to my apartment and gave me the message that they were trying and failing to contact me. Apparently, all the time I’d been left on hold trying to resolve this, and other issues, PLUS the minutes nibbled away by annoying telemarketeers pestering me with “MediCare supplemental insurance” THAT I HAD NEVER REQUESTED AND STILL DON’T WANT.

19 January 2023

Several calls later, follow up authorization codes, and an updating of my ACTUAL phone number and e-dress, I tried again today. And was promptly locked out again.

Next step, I guess, is to show up AGAIN (after the advised “five to ten business days” that the evil IT weasels demand) with my relevant identifications PLUS checking account routing number, and just cry until I get my reparations. Or until I am arrested. One way or another, the Feds will either feed me or kill me.

15 February 2023 — Perpetual Emotion Regime?
Correspondent and Creditor Expectoranzo bemoans my pegging his loan to the CPI, protesting that his Catholic guilt nags him insofar as his other ready accounts were paying him less than that. I assured him that I had no quarrel with the arrangement. In fact, I think I’ve gotten a pretty good deal, but if he INSISTS that I pay less I suppose I should oblige him. Meanwhile, I’ve advised him that if he wishes to assuage his usurious pangs, he should consider supporting some local animal shelter or strip club. (Unless that leads to more Catholic guilt. Do they feel guilty about feeling good, or good about feeling guilty?)

17 March 2023 —
Texas More (in)Secure than the Strategic Air Command?

So, the bureaucratic nightmare continues. Still no reparations, Feds still insist that we all continue to pretend that we’re surgeons, so maybe my savings (supplemented by part time at the QuikkStopp) will last until Mr Bushbiden’s SCHEDULED end of the Wuhan Flu “emergency.” (So, since when are “emergencies” SCHEDULED? “This virus is so deadly, the circumstances so dire, disaster so imminent that, BEGINNING NEXT TUESDAY…” Sheesh! If ya’ll were paying any attention you’d have seen them giving away the fraud at the start of it all.) Or, if the math doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll go ahead and muzzle up again. Haven’t decided, maybe I should drink it over.

But anyway, back to Texas and SAC and who’s more secure. My Buckeye Driver’s License expired on my birthday, of course, and a week or so prior to then I showed up at my local DMV (or DPS?) to hopefully upgrade my ID to a local model. I was met by a friendly clerk (Texans so far seem generally friendlier than most other Americans) who informed me that this office was a strictly by-appointment affair. She offered me a helpful brochure detailing Texan requirements for exchanging drivers’ licenses, so I returned home, gathered the materials listed (I thought!) and scheduled an appointment for two days prior to expiration. All very timely and responsible.

HA! As it turns out, the “birth certificate” provided to me by my parents, though good enough for the USAF, Beaver Tech, and getting me licensed in the states of South Dakota, Oregon, Hawaii, and Ohio, is trash. It is not a “verified” or “official” copy, so it’s not good enough for Texas. Goodness Gracious! The F’eral government trusted me to work on their jets, but Texas doesn’t trust me on the road.

Well, there’s no point sprinting if I’ve already missed the bus! So, I turned my attention to more pressing matters, like impending surgery for my intermittently painful and ever more sensitive herniated inguinal wall, or contemplating “the letter” (a seemingly contentious missive that arrived in an untimely fashion insofar as my heart and head were focused more on my immediate physical issues; delicate little feelings, especially mine, would have to wait.

So I spoke to the Washington State department of vital records (or whatever they call themselves in that jurisdiction) today, put in my request so I can sooner stop defying Texan traffic dicta, pledged them sufficient electrons from my checking account, and now will await the “approved” document, then probably retest (because my DL has expired) both on paper and on the road, and maybe even bring L’Historienne with me in case I fail one of their tests and do not wish to be seen driving illegally thereafter.

Ever try to do one thing?

21 March 2023

Yet another delay. Thought I had the physical and mental capacity to try to apply for Social “Security” again. Still locked out, tried applying the “new, improved” access code, but…

“You need your reset code letter in order to continue.

Please allow 5-10 business days from the time of your original request. (If you’ve lost or misplaced your letter, you may request a new letter to be sent to you.)”

So, back on delay, until yet another letter arrives to mislead me.

Well, at least, post surgery, I am even more fit to work than before (though still just two days a week), so I’m not eating my savings quite as fast as I could. Maybe once the Feds decide it’s safe (from baseless criticism) to stop insisting that we all pretend to be surgeons, maybe I can just show up in person and slog through the whole humiliating process step by arbitrary step.

(“The letter” will just have to wait for a little more.
Seems like more crap I don’t need just yet. Still.)

cover illustration by Frank Frazetta.  Used without permission.  Piracy Press is a non-profit enterprise dedicated to the preservation and distribution of great art and ripping good yarns.
Digital Damage by Lethargy Lad.
Price per issue:  Ten Centigrams Gold.
Stories are selected with the greatest of discrimination, but even numbered issues of Daring Love are specifically edited with the prurient interests of atavistic fanboys in mind.  Reader discretion is advised.

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Moebius Park

a work in progress, please stand by…

other working titles:

Moebius Trip

The Rainbow Bridge

— or —

Rocke DiSerio’s No-Good Fluxed-Up Cosmic Misadventure

Chapter One: Escher Castle

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are now entering Martian orbit. Please note that we have turned on the ‘fasten seat-belts’ sign, so buckle in. Have your sick-bags ready, too, those of you who think you might need them. We’ll be turning off the artificial gravity and docking with Escher Castle in about five minutes.”

“By damn!” The old man seated in first class growled to his companion, “I tell them and I tell them! Is NOT verdammt ‘Escher Castle!’ Is Asgard! I should know, I — “

“Of course, Mr Brandt. You built it, sir. You have every right to name your little planetoid.” Bush Tucker chuckled softly. “But ‘Escher Castle’ has caught on with the public, and now people won’t call it anything else. You might as well try to get Americans to use the metric system.”

“Sprocking Grife! Interplanetary Society calls it Asgard! Why can’t — ?”

“Of course they do. You’ve been bankrolling them for decades. And as long as you keep paying me, I’ll call it Asgard or Strawberry Shortcake or anything you like. But you pay me to tell you the truth, sir, and the truth is you’re outnumbered by about twenty billion to one, so — “

“Pfah! Go back and sit with Rocke. Tell Miss Deen I have dictation.”

Bush rose and moved back, and soon Rhonda Deen appeared next to Odin Brandt carrying her com-pad.

**** **** **** **** **** ****

Bush watched Rhonda as she undulated up the aisle and disappeared behind the curtain separating first class from coach. As he took her place, he noticed that his new seatmate already had his sickbag stuck to his face. He was breathing slowly, and his bag inflated and deflated in steady rhythm. “You alright there, kid?”

Rocke DiSerio took the bag away and smiled weakly. His face was beaded with sweat. “I hate free fall, Mr Tucker. Always have. Even the thought of it makes me queasy. I don’t see why we can’t leave the field on until we’re safe in the Castle.”

“And there it is!” Through the view port on Rocke’s other side, Mars’ newest moon loomed into view. “Look there, kid. History’s second largest artifact. Asgard is an unnatural body, and natural gravity would never let it stand. Only Brandt’s inertial field generators allow it to exist. We’ll be docking on that prominence there,” he pointed, “just outside Asgard’s field. Ship’s field and Asgard’s are not compatible frequencies, and if they should touch — “

“I understand, sir, but they can be fine-tuned. Right? I mean, they had to be in order to support all those different planes on Escher’s — uh, Asgard, and — “

“Forget it, kid. Try decelerating at sixty gees like our captain just did, and negotiating that monster ring out there, and Mars, and Asgard, AND fine-tuning your field generators all at once. Too tricky and too dangerous. Pro pilots may be good, but… well, I’d rather take my chances with floating vomit.”

“But still, Mr Tucker, with shipboard computers and — “

“And too expensive. Besides, kid… you ever play tug o’war? Now imagine you’re the rope, only weaker. Gravitational diffraction can be unpredictable and — “

“Attention!” The ship’s captain interrupted them. “Prepare for end of artificial gravity and docking at Escher Castle. Please remain strapped in until your steward arrives to assist you. Welcome to Mars and thank you for flying Safe-Space Travel. We know you have many transportation options, and we appreciate your choosing us for your business and pleasure needs.”

Rocke slapped his bag back over his mouth and immediately voided himself into it. Bush wrinkled his nose in involuntary disgust, but nevertheless was grateful for DiSerio’s consideration. “Rather be smelling it than tasting it,” he thought.

**** **** **** **** ****

After the stewards had unstrapped Rocke, escorted him out of the craft, through the airlocks, and into the gravity field of Asgard’s upper terminal, his belly ceased its protests. The terminal’s field was a gentle one-sixth gee as a compromise and a courtesy to natives of Luna and the Greater Asteroids, but at least it was steady acceleration and therefore easily quelled Rocke’s nausea and vertigo. After wiping his mouth with the damp towel, he returned it to the attendant and began to straighten his vest and tie.

Odin clapped him on the shoulder and asked, “Feeling any better, my boy?”

“Uh, yes sir, thanks. Sorry about the fuss, I — “

Odin boomed with laughter. “No fuss at all, lad! Zero gee is nothing to an old space hand like me, except a source of endless amusement! Work for me long enough and one day you’ll wonder why it ever bothered you.”

“I hope so, sir, but I rather doubt it. I was born on Luna, but I went to school on Earth. Every trip home was a living nightmare. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

“Some never do,” said Bush. “There’s no shame in drop sickness. You took every precaution and handled it like a champ. You don’t need to apologize to anybody.”

“Born on Luna?” Rhonda brushed back a blond lock and scowled. “Are you going to be able to handle full gee? Many Loonies never — “

“Never fear.” Rocke smiled at her. “Two hours in the Dianopolis centrifuge, four times a week, playing tennis or racket ball mostly. I can take anything Earth gravity can dish out. Just keep me out of free fall and I’ll be fine.”

“Then let us not linger, children.” Odin gestured to their porter and commenced to strut toward the large archway emblazoned with the words “Uelcome to Asgard” in System Standard English, plus a half dozen other different scripts, including Mandarin and Runic. As they approached the gates, he led them to the one marked “Earth Normal.”

They passed through the gate and down the gently sloping ramp. With each step they could feel their weight returning until, at the bottom, they had reached one gee. Before them stretched a dizzying webwork of ramps and staircases extending in many directions, often intersecting at crowded nodes. Many of the double-sided staircases carried pedestrians at right angles or counter-parallel to each other, each seeming to descend in opposition.

The party stopped at a broad landing, and Bush handed their porter their room assignments and his gratuity. The man pushed his luggage cart onto a half pipe structure, smoothly walking up the curve until he appeared to stand sideways on the wall next to them. He turned off of the curve and onto another ramp. Then he hopped onto his cart, and he and their luggage seemed to coast uphill and out of sight.

They moved on to the next half pipe and Odin casually strolled up the side until he appeared to hang upside-down over them. Bush took hold of a convenient grab bar, hoisted himself up, flipped, and dropped up neatly next to Odin. The older men grinned down at Rhonda and Rocke.

“Uh…” Rocke’s face began beading sweat, and he swayed where he stood.

“Vertigo again?” asked Rhonda.

“Nothing to it, kid,” said Bush. “Just walk up the path. Stay between the lines and you’ll be fine.”

“No need for show off like Mr Tucker,” laughed Odin. “If old man like me can do this, healthy young buck — “

“I understand, sir,” answered Rocke. “I mean… I understand the physics and all, it’s just… Well, it’s a little queasy here. We’re at a confluence of fields again, aren’t we? I can always feel it in my guts. I can do it. Just give me a minute to adjust.”

“Oh pish!” Rhonda took his hand. “Close your eyes and walk with me. I’ll let you know when we’re on a level ramp again.”

Rocke obeyed, and they walked together for a while. The flutters in his belly were unsettling, but not as bad as free fall. Eventually, the flutters went away, and he opened his eyes. They were on what looked and felt like a level ramp running through the center of the webbing, surrounded by walkways at all angles, with people strolling or skating freely at various angles to their own orientation. Rocke pulled his hand from Rhonda’s and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “As long as it feels like steady gee,” he said, “my tummy is fine. But it looks insane.”

“Is insane!” answered Odin. “But more efficient. Using both sides of walls and ceilings as floors, I put tens of thousands of us here in Asgard, and still no crowding! Now come children, let’s not dawdle. I don’t like keep pet genius waiting!”

**** **** **** **** ****

Prakash Levy leaned over his scope, oblivious to the door sighing open behind him. Before him, a half kilogram slab of prime rib was suspended in a sealed chamber. As Levy adjusted dials the slab began to descend, slowly settling onto the lab bench.

“There’s my querulous comrade!” boomed Odin Brandt’s voice. “Children, meet Kash Levy, only person in Asgard smarter than me! And much younger and prettier, too!”

“You’re late,” answered Kash, still fixed on his scope. Except for answering Odin, it appeared that he was unaware that anyone had entered his sanctuary. “And I hope you meant ‘inquisitive,'” he continued, “I don’t complain all that much, do I?”

“Mr Braaandt!” David Stucco, Levy’s lab assistant, rushed forward to greet their benefactor, ignoring Bush, Rhonda, and Rocke in his eagerness to ingratiate himself. He held out his hand to Odin, but Bush stepped between them and firmly pushed Stucco’s arm back down. “Uh… You’re just in time, sir. Two weeks it’s been in stasis. You said you have a taste for steak tartar?”

“Hang on,” said Kash, still hunched over his station, “we’ll want a tissue sample first.” He twiddled dials and inside the chamber, delicate waldos descended onto the meat, cut off a section and transferred it into a dish which slid through a port and into an adjacent chamber. He straightened and turned. “Dr Stucco, if you’d like, then?”

Stucco took Levy’s place. The remaining slab of meat rose again. Stucco grinned at Odin and said, “I think thirty gees ought to do it.” The slab slapped hard against the lab bench then, splashing bits of gore against the interior of the chamber. He touched a stud and a glass panel opened up.

Odin stepped forward, put his finger into the mass and brought it to his nose. He sniffed carefully, then deeply, then licked his finger clean and smiled. “Perfect,” he pronounced. “Grass fed Martian beef, as fresh as the day he was slaughtered. Help yourselves, children.”

Rocke put up both hands and shook his head, grimacing, but Bush and Rhonda both stepped up and repeated Odin’s gesture.

“Delicious!” said Bush.

“Could use some salt,” said Rhonda, “and a little lemon and Worcestershire.”

While the others were inspecting the preservative properties of Levy’s stasis field, Rocke meandered over to a large whiteboard covered with doodles and scrawls. He frowned and rubbed his chin. “Uh, Dr Levy,” he asked, “why are you dividing by zero here after these triple-cross products? That can’t work with vectors any more than with scalars, can it?”

Stucco sneered. “Maybe you should go back to class before you ask silly questions, boy. You’ve got to differentiate both — “

“I did that already, and I just get a quaternary matrix over a null field. I think there’s been some — “

“Don’t touch that!” Stucco stormed over to inspect the board, “That’s for Dr Levy and myself!”

“Easy, Dave.” Bush tossed another globule of mashed meat into his maw and ambled over, licking his fingers. “The kid didn’t mean any harm.”

“I didn’t touch anything!” protested Rocke. “I did it in my head, and it still ends up trying to divide by zero. Oh! Wait a minute!” He pointed to another section on the board. “There it is. Someone flubbed this triple-cross back here. These vectors shouldn’t be cancelling out, they — “

“He’s right.” Levy stared at the section that Rocke had indicated, then spoke while he erased and revised the complex matrix equations. “It looks like you mistook the right-hand rule for some sinister substitute, David. In your head, you say?” Levy smiled at Rocke. “That was a good catch.”

“I don’t believe it.” Stucco continued to fume. “No one can differentiate fifth order segregals in his head. It took me at least two hours to — “

Odin dropped his arm across Stucco’s shoulders and laughed. “Nu, you think I hire boy genius to be janitor?” He walked him back to the lab bench. “How about you clean up mess here while savants talk maths, eh?”

“Yes sir,” answered Stucco, quietly. “Thank you, Mr Brandt.”

“Good boy.” Brandt turned to Dr Levy. “Is quieter in your office?”

**** **** **** **** ****

As the test chamber ran through its clean cycle, Dr Stucco went back to the whiteboard to review Dr Levy’s corrections. He studied the equations, ground his teeth, and muttered under his breath. “Snot-nosed punk. Who asked him anyway?” He held out his right hand, the index and middle fingers splayed out at right angles, and his thumb raised, perpendicular to the other digits. “I’d have caught it in time. I know my job. Don’t need that old bastard’s trick monkeys telling me how — ”

The phone in his pocket chirped at him. He looked at the screen and smiled. “Yes, Mr Boyle,” he spoke softly. “That’s right, he’s here now, with that new math whiz he promised us. Plus his secretary and his hired goon. No, no problem at all. I’ll have it, and you’ll have it, just make sure — No, no, you never have. Not yet anyway. Just see you don’t. Okeh, twenty-one o’clock, Phobos Lounge, I’ll be there.” Stucco pocketed his phone and smiled. “Let Kash fawn over his new pet all he wants. They’ll all be singing a different tune soon enough.”

**** **** **** **** ****

“They still at it?”

“Mercy, yes!” Rhonda Deen dropped into the seat opposite Bush Tucker. “I’ve had about all the Pentacostal Integrations and Laurentine Transformations I can take. Pour me some of that.” Bush reached across the table with the pitcher and emptied it into her mug. The frost had long since evaporated from her glass, and he had nursed his drink waiting for her. “I was so relieved to see Mrs Whitaker. And so sorry for her. But it’s all her problem, now.”

“What problem?” Bush smiled at her. “Rocke’s a good kid. And smart, too. Besides, I think he’s sweet on you.”

She sighed. “Yeah, ‘fraid o’ that. I know he means no harm, but…”

“I’m sure you can find some way of letting him down easy.”

“Easy.” She agreed and drained half her cup while Bush waved the empty pitcher at their waiter. “Yeah, Rocke’s not so bad, I guess. After five years of babysitting Brandt’s proteges, I’ve seen lots worse. Still, all these weird mathemagical incantations take a little getting used to. Even harder getting used to Dr Stucco trying to worm his way into the discussion.”

“Ah-huh. I couldn’t bail on him soon enough! Davey’s a little out of his depth. Mainly just sniffing after Odin’s plush tush, far as I can tell. I, ah, do kinda get some of the math, though,” Bush looked into his drink and blushed. “Vectoring in four dimensions becomes second nature when you’re shooting at moving targets, but then… you know, conceptualizing in five or more like Odin, the Boy Wonder, and the Hin-Jew do,” he rolled his eyes and grimaced, “with energy vectors and gravitational flux rotating into plus and minus AND IMAGINARY time components. I mean, supposedly, the accounting works out, but… well, somewhere in that complex time plane perpendicular to three dee space, I guess, that’s where Brandt found artificial gravity and where Kirkendahl and Levy are looking for time travel. And who knows what gets found next in the secrets of nature? From sharp sticks to atom smashers. What new extinction level super threat looms anon, eh?”

From overhead, their waiter swung into view, tethered to the central axle. With her legs curled around the trapeze seat above her, she took the pitcher and silver coin from Bush and agreed to return quickly. She smiled as the tractor cable hauled her back up into the free fall core of the great prolate lobe. The Phobos Lounge was like a giant football mounted on the spire or steeple of one of the many peaks of Asgard. Patrons walked in at one narrow end at an easy sixth gee, then “upgee” to the broader center section where the AG pulled at a relaxing three-quarters. Brandt radiation refracted through the precisely curved cuatrotaenite alloy composing the decking of the lounge, modulating the artificial gravity and cancelling out altogether along the central axis.

That free fall corridor up the center line, around the entertainers’ cage in the middle of the space, was the medium of choice for many patrons and all of the wait staff. With the band playing over everyone’s heads, no one in the house had a back seat to the show. Bush adjusted the mirror on his edge of the table so he could better watch the pretty vocalist and fiddler of the Red Grass Quartet occupying Center Stage tonight.

Opposite the bar, at the other narrower end of the lounge was a large transparent viewport, surrounded by rings of observation seats. Centered in the port was a glittering iridescent field connecting Asgard to Odin’s “Rainbow Bridge,” history’s first largest artifact to date. Nearing completion, the massive articulated ring was in orbit around Asgard’s augmented field, and between them they supported millions of hectares of gossamer sunscreen which powered Asgard, the Rainbow Bridge, and sent surplus energy to the surface of Mars to crack water and other stubborn chemicals out of the Old Soldier’s hide.

They idled at their table, nursing their drinks and enjoying the music when Bush noticed David Stucco swimming through his viewing mirror. Craning his neck, he followed Stucco’s progress through the free fall lane to the viewing lounge. He turned to Rhonda and gestured. “Looks like Odin’s finally sent Davey to bed.”

She looked up, spotted him, and grimaced. “Let’s get out of here before he sees us. I’d rather listen to the boss gabble on about math than deal with Stucco.”

“Suits me.” Bush dropped another coin on their table. “I’m staying at Hilbert’s. They’ve got a lounge off the lobby, English Pub theme, a little raucous sometimes…”

“Good enough!” She finished her drink and stood up. “Let’s stick to the deck and slink out so he doesn’t see us.” As they walked “down gee” up the curved decking, she stopped suddenly and pointed. “What’s HE doing here?”

Bush looked and growled softly. “Cancer and crabgrass! Addison (‘Slow’) Boyle? Does Odin know you’re in his castle?”

to be continued?
Moebius chapter x – The Greigh Area