Pleas to the Pleiades

“The first I had known about it had been when I had worked for that advertising agency in Chicksookhatchee, Florida, back in the twentieth century, on Earth. My boss had sent me on an assignment to design an ad for the small-town gossip rag, an advertisement for an enigmatic vitamin and exercise-equipment company hidden deep in the swamps of Florida. They claimed to bring out the animal hormonal nature for sportsmen and bodybuilders, and were always dreaming up some steroidal precursor compound that did not show up on drug tests for athletes. I remember the first job interview.”

In his modified ex-military four-wheel-drive truck, Jimmie drove up to a Florida swamp secret facility office surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. He parked outside, then pressed the button and was cleared into the gate.

“In the office of the vice president of the company, trophies for martial arts on the walls, I relaxed … until, in walked the VP. What a grip. And the look. Don’t screw with me, I have your dinky little hand in my big hard hand, which is like a vise, and I am so much stronger than you. Now, what did you want? … His grip seemed to say.”

“Darrell D’Autignan. What can we do?”

“In the process of developing advertising copy for your company, I enquired about the possibility of employment here rather than my current position, and was told to speak with you about the possibility. I know about hormones. I have a doctorate in such.”

“I see. Well, come this way… since you were sent to me, it means you have been put into the probability category. For the Chatterquot Facility.”

D’Autignan’s expression was that of a tiger, with glowing eyes beyond the peaked fingers that made a temple of his hands, glowing but cold, looking straight as a spear into the solar plexus of the opponent. He got up and led Jimmie out of his office, through the reception area, and then through a massive locked metal door into … a large echoing chamber of dull green colors, water lapping edges ten metres or thirty feet all around.

“I suddenly felt a little dizzy, and I was supposed to get busy. Strange.”

It was more humid in there, and it was only barely possible to see the walls of the rather large chamber. Across the green indefinite space ahead extended a sidewalk-sized causeway of concrete, a foot or so above the water. There, beyond the mist, was another door.

“If I had not been so dizzy, I could have walked across. But I felt so suddenly woozy, I thought I would surely fall into the water on either side of the walkway. Orientation is more important than we realize. Ah … there, to the left, I could see a chain-link fence extending down into the water. Something could be kept out, and it was then that I realized the source of the smell that was all about.”

In the water on each side of the walkway there were several large alligators, some swimming, some relaxing on the concrete ledge on the opposite side.

“Gators like to relax.”

Everything smelled like turtle piss from a failing grade school kid’s terrarium.

“Now, I know about alligators, from the wetter world of my past. When a gator was on the other side of the lake, I would swim in the lake … keeping one eye on the gator over there on the other side. I’ve even wrestled with them a little bit, that is, captured one with a few of the boys and transferred it to a fishing lake … as opposed to a swimming lake.

“What you do is dangle a chunk of spoiled meat, or I don’t know, maybe you want to dangle a filet mignon. I don’t know your budget. You dangle something attractive out on the end of an aluminum pole, they’ll eat a bamboo one. A flapping chicken works well. It works better at night, that’s when they feed.”

Osha interjected into the story. “Come to think of it, I don’t swim at night in Florida lakes known to have gators.”

“You can judge the size of the gator at night by how far apart the glowing orange eyes are when you shine a flashlight across the black surface of the water. When the gator comes over and hits the meat, its jaws open, you get to smell its breath. Foo-whee, you think you smelled bad breath on a rotten-toothed wino who just got through puking? Or your dog just after he’s been eating another dog’s doo-doo out in the yard?

“Florida gators are not that aggressive, and they prefer to eat fish, turtles … or maybe a pet. Or something already dead. A human baby would be in definite danger around one. I ain’t no baby, but those gators in the Chatterquot Facility were hungry. The eyes, just like the vice president with the templed hands.”

On the other side was another strong metal door, and it opened, revealing a room full of huge writhing diamondback rattlesnakes.

“I had to walk across the room full of rattlesnakes.”

The door clanged behind Jimmie. If he walked slowly and carefully enough, and did not step on a snake, he would not be bitten. But they were constantly moving, making the walk difficult. He reached the other side, another metal door opened, and he entered another nicely furnished office. On the desk was a note: Congratulations! You have qualified for a special mission to Mars.

Then, however, was a charming young lady who took over as Jimmie’s guide. She also had eyes like an alligator. On that other side, Jimmie was immensely surprised to see an old classmate of his from high school! But equally was he immediately intrigued to see the old acquaintance move his eyes in a subtle way, as if to say, don’t recognize me. Jimmie complied, for the old friend’s eyes looked normal … not gatorish.

“There was something fishy about this place, and my old high school chum did not want to let it spoil in our faces. It had to be caught fresh.”

Then, Jimmie moved right on through the additional inner office, a sort of design and planning center from what one could see of the maps, plans, and diagrams there. Beyond this area, he was taken to a hallway, which led to a door, and disappointingly, the vice president again.

No more cute brunette.

Then he and D’Autignan entered a marvelous recording studio, and Jimmie was in ecstasy, immediately transported to another state of awareness. The room was of an ideal television studio size, which was of course also ideal for sound. Off to the side were, in fact, three separate isolated booths for sound, one with a gleaming drum kit behind the aquarium-like bay windows. You could see everything the drummer was doing, even his feet.

“To me that was important, especially if I was playing bass.”

There were two booths more for vocalists, or any combination of percussion and vocals thereof, for they were the most challenging things to record well.

“Whoever built this place knew about sound.”

And then the main studio itself, like the inside of a huge scarlet carpeted stomach. There were no corners, no clear distinction between ceiling, walls, and floor. Just one part of it that formed a wooden stage that was flat, and in front of that, enough comfortable leather chairs for around thirty of the privileged few to sit and listen and watch. Lots of power available there. And eighty-four RCA TV cameras. The Strolling Roans had recorded there – Jick Madder, with Reef Kickards, Warlie Chats, Mob Barley, Teeter Posh, Wunny Bailer, and Dough Biddley … and Binger Shaker, and Brack Juice, and Cleric Apt One.

“But they had all opted out.

“When I learned about the reptile research going on there, the rattlesnake and alligator genetics, and what those cameras recorded, I decided it was not the kind of place in which I really wanted to work. I too opted out. I opted out with all the stars.”

Osha, sitting in the Hesperian Hippodrome on Mars, reflected aloud, “Earth is weird. The rainbow has a beard. Ah wish Ah had stayed with yore friends in the Pleiades, with yore Asteropian friends, or with the Taygetians, or them reputed Alcyonians them hippie women keep a-talkin’ about.”

“Maybe we can visit there someday. They all seem to have left this neck of the galaxy. We have not seen much of them since the middle of the twenty-first century. I remember I used to see their craft, flicking about instantly, when I was under a century old, but since the century point I have not seen one, not even one.” Jimmie paused. “I want to take a trek over to Syrtis City one of these days, see what they have been building there. It’s supposed to be the most modern arcovale on Mars today. They put a canopy over the canyon, built of titanium alloys and bulletproof glass, just like the Draco Sapenti and the early Martian people did.”

Binger was skeptical. “How you gonna do that? Tickets are astronomically expensive.”

Osha added, “Besides, I ain’t inner-sted in all that there so-called civilization.”

“I’ve got a new technology, a special alpha-mercury turbine drive. Takes only a few grams of mercury to get anywhere on Mars … or anywhere in the Solar System.”

Just then, a meteorite whizzed down and struck not far from the Hesperian arcodome, scattering fragments all over the canopy of the dome. Everybody ducked for cover, then got up, breathing sighs of relief.

Osha observed, “So … bullet-sized meteorites will not pierce the dome, just locomotive-sized ones.”

Binger said, “Ain’t that the thing about Mars, y’know? It’s a very dangerous place.”

Jimmie rejoined, “People just don’t realize that the Moon protects Earth from a large percentage of asteroids and meteorites that might all of a sudden punch the planet in the paunch. We’re closer to the ’roids and ’rites out here, so we get more of ’em. Our atmosphere doesn’t burn them up as well as Earth’s does, either. And then we’ve got volcanoes and dust storms and woy, dragons fer-cry-sakes! I could go on.”

There was a long moment as all three of the musicians contemplated.

Jimmie continued, “Anyway, then they pump up the pressure inside the arcovale a bit, put in plants as well as other back-up oxygen generators. It really is a nice environment, especially the parts of it where they keep it natural, with landscaped garden terraces all up and down the somewhat sunlit side of the mountain, or rather the steep slope of the canyon wall. Also, it gets toasty warm in places – they even have to vent off the heat. It warms and humidifies the outside air, and nitrogenizes and oxygenizes it. Both nitrogen and oxygen outside are twice what they were two decades ago, but they’re still not enough to breathe.

“You can climb up paths to the top of the canyon where we were, and in the daytime take a real sunbath up there. You can get sunburned worse than on Earth. The atmosphere here, well … it’s thin, like the Earth’s is getting to be. But down on the bottom levels, there are caves dug into walls and made into malls, as well as plenty of room for freestanding buildings in the middle. Our canyon, here in Hesperian Cimmerium, well, I like to think it’s like Laurel Canyon or Topanga Canyon were, a century ago. We have all kinds of adobe houses, and it’s where a lot of musicians live. We’re even growin’ trees. Wood? Ha! I wish! Maybe someday. I’m a carpenter, I really miss wood.”

Osha replied, “Fur-git wood, what about food? Jimmie, Ah seen all this on TV. Ah need more barbecue.”

Binger said, “We really have to bust our butts just getting enough vegetables and beans and rice harvested each year. I’ve brought in olive trees. We are going to try doing wheat next year. It needs something more like real soil though. Mars dirt does change into humus after a while, but it takes a long time, and we can generate enough topsoil for some vegetables and trees, but wheat, ah … we’ll see. I have me lickle olive trees. I really like olives. Also, we’re voting on animals next week. Earth-type animals. Yeah, the real cities here have their own satellite farms with beef cows and all, but we are about half vegan here, and so far no animals … hardly. Me auld loidy has herself a lickle dog.”

Jimmie added, “There are a few smuggled pets – they got grandfathered or grandmothered in. Mostly useless little snack-sized things. I’d like to breed some rare-air huntin’ hounds.”

“Well, let’s go hunting, Jimmie Mack. For durgeons? Warthogs will be established here soon, you’ll see! Hey guys, I’m turning in, gotta spot a spot. See you later, alligators,” said Binger. “Have a good sleep.”

Osha continued the late-night conversation with his old friend. “You been to Syrtis? For any length of time? I heard it’s nice. I only passed through.”

“Last I was in Syrtis, they had only a few kilometres of the canyon glassed in. Now they have the complete area around the perimeter of the neighboring crater glassed, as well as quite a ways in either direction, and they have also built the inevitable exclusive subdivisions with security airlocks in particularly sunny and scenic bends of the canyon. They are even starting on doming over the main crater there, like they have done on a couple craters in Hellish Basin. Uh … I’ll tell you more about Hellish later. I don’t see why they don’t just put the scalar matrix to work and put up a standing wave dome. That would disintegrate any incoming projectiles – that’s right, any projectile, no matter how large.”

“That there scalar technology is hahhly govmint-controlled on both planets.”

“Yeah, once they tapped into the inexhaustible perpetual flames of petroleum that cover Venus with pools of tar and naphtha, the oil business shut down scalar and time-space flow technology with a velvet fist.”

“They sell gas cheaper here than they do on Earth. Nobody’s worried about pollution here yet except the old hippie women in Hesperia.”

“Still, I’ve got my own secret mercury fission project.”

“It’s risky to try to go into hah-tech all on your own. Here, any kinda signal is easily traaacked. Lotsa Mars is still ray-dio-dead most of the time, like northern Mexico used t’be when Ah’s a kid.”

“I like it.”

“Ah swar Ah kin feel ray-dio waves, and they don’t make me fill good when there’s lots of ’em.”

“Maybe another reason to live on the red planet. It can get really quiet here. Man, I’ve got nostalgic feelings for Earth as she was, though.”

“Nostalgia means ‘our pain.’”

“To get to Syrtis, there are several ways to go. You can pay for a flight. It’s twenty minutes for twenty grand. That’s for the serious rock star with a hit record. Maybe Binger has enough royalties. You can drive, if you carry enough extra fuel tanks, and you like rugged off-road driving with your behind bumping up and down on the seat, and you know what to do if you come across a durgeon. It takes two days – some people do it non-stop. No facilities on the way. Not yet. Less than a thousand dollars worth of fuel, but … hey, you want to go with me there?”

“Uhh, Jimmie, Ah gotta say, Ah warn’t too wild ’bout that there truck stop town Syrtis. Not yet. Ah’ve gotta adapt here in Hesperia for awhile, maybe jam with Binger Shaker a few more times. He’s the best durn drummer Ah ever played with.”