---------------------------------------------- "The Adventures of Lone Wolf Scientific" ------------------------------------------ An electronically syndicated series that follows the exploits of two madcap mavens of high-technology. Copyright 1991 Michy Peshota. May not be distributed without accompanying WELCOME.LWS and EPISOD.LWS files. ----------------------- EPISODE #6 ----------------------- A Day in the Life of Two Defense Workers >>S-max and Andrew.BAS struggle to adjust to their new lives as defense contractor workers. When the computer builder tires of his responsibilities keeping track of "super-string defense links", he convinces his officemate that they should design a closet-sized replica of NASA's Mission Control.<< By M. Peshota Andrew.BAS was glueing a plastic model of the space- shuttle together when his officemate burst in. "Gus and I just had a man-to-man talk," S-max bragged, referring to their boss, Gus Farwick. "Or should I say--" He smirked pompously. "--technological-innovator-to-technological- innovator?" The self-proclaimed 'genius computer builder' plopped a tin can full of kite string on his desk. "Gus has assigned me to a most urgent task. The very fate of technological civilization may hinge upon its successful completion." "Yeah?" the programmer looked up, impressed. S-max smirked again. He tossed his large, bushy head for effect. "I am to keep track of the super-string links between key components of our multi-billion dollar defense network. I am to ensure that expensive weapons do not fall prey to big hairy knots on the battlefield." He continued on breathlessly, "Gus no doubt chose me for this important task, not only because of my much legended electronic genius, but also for my extensive knowledge of cosmological string theory." He grunted with self-importance. "I will no doubt be working on the project for days. You probably won't be hearing a lot from me." Andrew.BAS nodded agreeably, looking back to the half- built plastic shuttle model propped on the floor by his knees. He liked the idea of not hearing from the loquacious computer builder for a while. For the past four days, all S-max had been doing was shuffling around the office, ranting about how computer programmers like Andrew.BAS were intellectually inferior to genius computer hardware designers such as himself. He called them "brains-in-a- wristwatch programmers." It would be good not to have to listen to that for a while. S-max blurted, "I bet it is a good feeling to know that you have an officemate who is already getting in good with the boss." "I suppose," Andrew.BAS said politely. Inwardly, he couldn't help feel envious that the computer builder now had work to do while he did not. "Employers love me," S-max continued brightly. "They are continually showering me with goodies." He pointed in illustration to the can of kite string on his desk. Andrew.BAS smiled wanly. "I'm very happy for you." S-max stuffed his big hands in his army jacket pockets. He swaggered across the room. Arriving at his half- completed "champagne-filled Jacuzzi" sitting in the corner on the floor, he gazed fondly at its tangle of jet propellers, lawn sprinklers, and half-drained bottles of bubble bath. "It was no doubt my vision for twenty-first century technology--of which this is a prime example--that excited Gus the most." He idly disentangled the cockpit "No Smoking" sign from the three-legged bathtub. "I wouldn't be surprised," Andrew.BAS mused, pouring over the shuttle model assembly blueprints. S-max spotted the plastic cargo shuttle bay with its miniature satellite that Andrew.BAS's clenched. "Please, take that vile thing away, out of my sight," he commanded, motioning to it. "I don't want to be reminded of our space program's gross ineptitude in refusing to avail itself of the free advise of a computer genuis such as myself." He shuddered at the memory of his ejection, months prior, from the employment office at NASA. One moment he had been advising the space program on how to secure its forty-ton satellites in the space shuttle during transport ("Use duct tape--lots of it."), and the next they were escorting him and all his broken screwdrivers to the door. He shuddered again. And to think, if they'd played their cards right, they could have also have had him for a commander on the space shuttle. Andrew.BAS compliantly tucked the miniature cargo bay out of sight in a nearby cardboard box. From the other side of the office, they heard strains of "Chariots of Fire." It sounded ghostly. It was their officemate, burnt out assembly language savant Austin Jellowack, humming the company song, "Onward Dingready Soldiers, As Sung to Chariots of Fire." With each passing day, Austin seemed to sink lower and lower behind his computer terminal, his arthritic knuckles rattling over the worn, dirty keys faster and faster, as if the more he saw of his new officemates, the more frightened he became. Ignoring him, S-max shuffled back to his desk. He pulled from his jacket's inside pocket a wide roll of paper. With loud, self-important rustles, he smoothed it out on the desk. He traced a finger over the blueish paper, back and forth several times, emitted a "Hmmph!" of thought, then stared at it intently, rubbing his stubbled chin. Finally he said to Andrew.BAS, "These are blueprints for a multi- billion dollar weapon sytem. I sweet-talked them out of the receptionist at the front desk." The programmer looked up skeptically. "The receptionist had blueprints for a multi-billion dollar weapon system?" "They were entrusted to her in case of an attack by barbarians. The last place barbarians would look for secret multi-billion dollar weapon plans would be in the top drawer of a receptionist's desk. Clever, don't you think?" Andrew.BAS lifted his small, blond head to get a look at the alleged multi-billion dollar blueprints. "Isn't that one of the posters that Dingready & Derringdo mails to college job placement offices to help recruit employees?" S-max eyed the paper skeptically. Andrew.BAS walked over and pointed out a small drawing at the bottom. It depicted a gaggle of recent engineering school graduates holding their moon helmets. "And look at this plane," he added, pointing to a graceless craft with a missing propeller and which looked like it had been shot down over Cleveland. Passengers, adorned in hombergs and 1954 suits and dresses, slid down a big orange inflated slide propped against its side. They were sliding into the ocean, or else jumping out the door in parachutes. Andrew.BAS explained, "It's a poster that shows how to exit a Dingready & Derringdo plane in an emergency. Don't you see the company motto on the bottom?" He pointed to it. It said "Courtesy of Dingready & Derringdo Aerospace. We're there on the ground when you need us." The computer builder scrutinized it further. He knit his thick brows in disbelief. Finally he gasped, "Why you're right, Andrew.BAS! I should have spotted it immediately! As I'm sure you're aware, these college recruitment posters are often indistinguishable from plans for multi-billion dollar weapon systems. Defense contractors like Dingready & Derringdo often print up plans for multi-billion dollar weapon systems at the same time that they print up college recruitment posters--so as to save on the cost of silk-screening." He grunted. "Consequently, the two frequently become confused. It was an easy mistake to make. I am glad you caught it in the nick of time, though, before I spent <> pencilling in a radar navigation system or a computer telemetry system. Think of it! I could have frittered away enormous amounts of my high-paid electronic genius designing a telemetry system for a plane that specializes in transporting floppy hatted nudniks to Miami Beach." With a cluck of childlike admiration, he added, "My, you are perceptive for a computer programmer, aren't you? I wouldn't have guessed that a programmer such as yourself could unriddle such an intellectual subtlety without the profligate singing of Sesame Street songs." He grunted again. "Usually, computer programmers are not very bright." Andrew.BAS ignored the offensive S-max and returned to his model space shuttle on the floor. S-max jammed the so-called "blue prints" into a desk drawer. Arising from his desk with the hautiness of a lion, he sauntered over to Andrew.BAS's model space shuttle and eyed it critically. He circled it several times. Finally, he exclaimed, "No, no, Andrew.BAS, you are doing it all wrong!" He wagged a finger in reprimand. "Before you glue on the plastic landing wheels you need to mark off your launch ground. Migod, don't they teach you people <> at programmers' school?! I can hardly believe what I am seeing." From a screwdriver-stuffed pocket, he extracted a gnarled hunk of red chalk. It looked like the kind of red chalk usually responsible for indecipherable writing on the walls of circuit closets. With a loud sigh of exasperation, he leaned over and began chalking on the concrete floor--circles, stars, arrows, lines, ellipses, x's, triangles, Mickey Mouse ears, two stick figures, dollar signs, a heart with an arrow through it, something that looked like the coast of Africa, and a maze-like runway in the shape of an Aztec lizard. All the while, he clucked in artistic self-fulfillment. Andrew.BAS watched him in astonishment. Finally, the computer builder stood up, brushed the chalk from his baboonish hands, and surveyed the now bruised-looking floor in pride. "That will do it, now you're set," he proclaimed, shuffling back to his desk. In relief, Andrew.BAS resumed glueing plastic wheels on his shuttle model. S-max, meanwhile, once again took a seat behind his desk, extracted the crumpled "weapon system blue prints" from the drawer, and began sketching a telemetry system onto the plane. For several moments, the only sound was the screech- screech of S-max's green laundry marker and the off-key humming of the assembly language savant in the corner. Soon, Andrew.BAS spotted the computer builder once again eyeing his plastic space shuttle dolefully. "Now what's wrong?" "You need a Mission Control." "A Mission Control?" "Yes, a Mission Control. One with a lot of expensive computer consoles." "I see." "It is absolutely imperative that we have one, Andrew.BAS! The authenticity of the project depends upon it!" "But we already have a launch ground," Andrew.BAS protested, nodding toward the ravished floor. S-max ignored him and pointed to the closet directly behind him. "It would fit perfectly in the coat closet." "The Mission Control?" "I am not talking about that collection of Cracker Jack prizes you refer to as programming tools!" he burst out. "Yes, the Mission Control." Andrew.BAS stared at the coat closet in apprehension. He could see it now: the deranged computer builder stuffing it full of lawn sprinklers and radio-antenna festooned bathtubs, just like his champagne-filled Jacuzzi. He would probably scheme a way to install an electrical outlet which he would proceed to dangerously overload. All that Andrew.BAS could think of saying, though, was, "Where are we going to store our snowboots in the winter?" S-max rumbled, "Migod, you programmers are such old maids! <>" he whined in mimicry of the programmer's soft-voiced protest. "This is not the time for trifles! This is not the time to worry about where we're going to store our rubber boots! Now is the time for action!" "I see," Andrew.BAS reflected calmly. It really wasn't such a bad idea, he mused, building a miniature Mission Control to go with his miniature space shuttle. It could serve as a monument to all the computer programmers who work so hard in Mission Control coding the computer software that speeds man across the galaxy. Whenever he looked at it he could think of his life-long dream--to be one of the programmers in Mission Control. Finally, he asked, "What should we build it out of?" As the waifish Andrew.BAS struggled to push the shopping cart loaded with toy robots down the aisle, S-max bustled ahead of him through the hobby store. "Let's see..." he mused, plucking a plastic rocketship off the shelf, "we still need a moon rover, an all-terrain planetary recreational vehicle, and something with extra-large tailpipes in which to roll over the plains of Saturn in style." "I thought we were only building a Mission Control." "Migod, Andrew.BAS!" the blowsy S-max despaired. "Don't you realize that when you bring an unvarnished computer genius like me into a project, one visionary concept is going to just naturally flow into another?" "I'm sorry, I didn't realize that." "Well it is something you're going to have to become accustomed to." The computer builder snorted. He snatched from a shelf several handfuls of rubber snakes and lizards and heaved them into the cart. Ever since they had arrived at Loose-Toothed Lonzo's Crazy Crafts and War Games, S-max had been animated with the glee of a newly installed diety about to jerry-build a brandnew Creation out of craft paste and 25 cent felt pieces. He paraded down the aisles, tossing into their shopping cart every plastic gewgaw that caught his eye. "What are those for?" Andrew.BAS asked of the snakes. "For the model of the Mojave Desert rocket test grounds that we will erect in the wasteland that is the second floor marketing department." The programmer groaned. Not only did S-max plan to build a model of Mission Control in their office coat closet, but now he also wanted to transform second floor marketing into a rocket test grounds, as well as make the the janitor's closet down the hall into a space-ship airlock by hanging rubber octopus from the ceiling--to simulate space creatures trying to sneak into the ship. How did he ever let himself get mixed up in this? Andrew.BAS wondered. The computer builder's restless eyes fell on a plaster bust of John F. Kennedy. It was wedged between two ready- to-paint birdhouses on a shelf. He seized it with satisfaction. "This will make an ideal prop for the TV announcer's room that we can build in the vault down the hall from our office." "You mean the vault where they lock the engineering blueprints?" "Yes, that is the one. It is perfectly insulated to keep the raucous of ill-behaved TV people from disturbing the men and women of technological vision in Mission Control. It also has a pretty good lock." He nestled the bust of the technologically far-seeing president beneath the shopping cart beside the case of silver spray-paint. Pushing the overloaded cart further down the aisle, Andrew.BAS repeated one of the questions that had troubled his sensible mind all through their shopping spree. "How are we going to pay for all this junk?" "I wouldn't worry about it, Andrew.BAS," came the hasty response. "I'm sure our employee has a credit line here." "Why would an aerospace company have a credit line at Loose-Toothed Lonzo's Crazy Crafts & War Games?" "Trust me, Andrew.BAS, I have worked for defense contractors before. Where else but the local hobby shop are they going to procure their instant paper mache'?" All through the drive home (they discovered that Dingready & Derringdo Aerospace did indeed have a credit line at Lonzo's), S-max chattered away about how they could expand their depictions of NASA operations beyond the coat closet, beyond the marketing department, beyond the blueprint vault, beyond even the janitor's closet. "We can hot-glue plastic diplodocuses around Gus Farwick's office to similate the halls of Congress pitifully frozen in the technological Stone Age. We can affix broken hand-mirrors to that model of the <> in the employee cafeteria to make it look like a dysfunctional space telescope...." When they finally arrived back at work, Andrew.BAS stumbling beneath a heavy load of shopping bags, S-max sauntering ahead of him as nonchallantly as a man with no burdens in the world, the computer builder proceeded to spent the rest of the day lying on his stomach on the floor, modeling from clay misbegotten little figures that were supposed to be NASA employees, but looked more like casualties of an atomic blast. Andrew.BAS, meanwhile, spray-painted his and S-max's tennis shoes silver to make them look like moon boots. All the while, their officemate, Austin Jellowack, watched them fearfully from behind his computer terminal, as he hummed broken bars of the company song, assumedly for comfort. When S-max finally tired of this dirge-like crooning, he seized the startled Austin by the t-shirt collar, shoved a shopping bag full of mirrors and glue gun in his withered hands, then dragged the frail, monkish programmer out the door and down the hall to the employee cafeteria. There he deposited him in front of the model of the <> with vague instructions to transform it into "something we can all enjoy." The model-builders worked late into the night. Whoever passed by their office and spotted the dim, yellow light burning solemnly through the mottled glass window of the door, marvelled at the employees' zest for work and how they were applying themselves so diligently to the problems of our nation's high-tech defense. Some no doubt commented to themselves that the government was for once getting its money's worth from Dingready & Derringdo Aerospace and, as far as the military contractor was concerned, they were probably correct. >>>>In the next episode, "The House Guest with 172 Soldering Irons," Andrew.BAS naively offers the homeless S-max a place to sleep. The two reluctant confreres are not even out of the employee parking garage when he begins to regret it.<<<<