The Kruton Interface

CHAPTER 9

Repairs to the ship were just about completed. The chief engineer at the graving dock placed a call to the captain of the Repulse, who had once again gone into hiding.

“Sir, we’ve done just about all we could. But there’s just so much that we could do in the way of repairs and refitting… well, sir, there’d be no end to it.”

“Is this ship spaceworthy?” Wanker wanted to know.

“In a manner of speaking, sir, yes.”

“In a manner of speaking?”

“Sir, she’ll boost to interplanetary speeds easy enough and she’ll hold together. At least I think she will. Shell have no problem going quantum, either, sir, as long as you don’t push her.”

“What would be our top speed in quantum drive?”

“Q-Level Two.”

“Two? But that’s barely a crawl.”

“Sir, personally I wouldn’t chance anything higher.”

Wanker grunted. “Very well.”

“Sir, the Repulse is long overdue for a major, major overhaul. In fact, I hate to say this—”

“Then don’t. I have to skipper this bucket of bolts.”

“You have my sympathy, sir. By the way, nice use of space lingo, there. ‘I have to skipper this bucket of bolts.’ Nifty.”

“Stuff it. Wanker out.”

When the engineer’s face had gone from the screen he said, “I hate that ‘she’ business. ‘She’ll have no problem going quantum if you don’t push her.’ Give me a freaking break.”

The graving dock crew finished up repairs, such as they were, the next day.

“Take it out, Mr. Rhodes,” Wanker ordered.

“Me, sir? Don’t you want the honor of taking the ship out of orbit?”

Wanker made a rude noise with his lips. “Spare me the honor. Boost the ship out of orbit and make tracks for the Kruton Interface. That is, if Ms. Warner-Whatshername can find the bloody thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And under no circumstances is this ship to attain a transluminal velocity over Q-Level Two.”

“Yes, sir. Any further orders, sir?”

“Yes. Leave me alone.”

“Sir, are you aware that Dr. Strangefinger and his crew are going to begin their alterations as soon as we get under way?”

“Yes. I don’t understand it. How are they going to do that with the ship under power?”

“Well, they say they’ll do most of their crucial work when we power down, once we get to Sector Four.”

“Still crazy.”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Strangefinger’s a strange man. But he has the government and most of the brass behind him.’’

“Sad, but true,” Wanker said. “I’ve been reading about him in Midnight People. What the hell’s Marxism?’’

“Sir, I don’t know. I do know that Dr. Strangefinger is considered by the intellectuals to be some kind of artist as well as a scientist.”

“Right,” Wanker confirmed. “Says here he’s a ‘neo-dada existential agit-prop performance artist.’ What the devil is that?”

“Can’t tell you, sir.”

“Seems to me they’re just a bunch of artsy-fartsy types who run around dressing up and using personality brainware. ‘Wireheads’ is the street term.”

“Yup. Heard of them, sir.”

“But what I can’t understand is this fascination for the twentieth century.”

“Oh, it’s all the rage, sir. Twentieth-Century Revival is the latest fad in art, literature, science, and that stuff.”

“How can you have fads in science? I thought science is above that. What the devil could ‘post-ultramod’ physics be about?”

“Beats the hell out of me, sir.”

Wanker collapsed the screen window holding the magazine text. “Don’t know why I waste my time reading that rag.”

“It’s one of the oldest newsfiles in existence, sir. A respected intellectual journal.”

“Can’t hold a candle to The Enquiring New Yorker. Never mind. I gave you orders, Mr. Rhodes. Carry them out.”

“Aye-aye, Skipper!”

“Skipper of what?”

Over the next several days things were quiet in the ship. If Dr. Strangefinger’s staff was busy at work making alterations to the ship’s propulsion system, no one noticed them much.

The crew did notice the strange sounds coming out of Dr. Strangefinger’s tiny cabin. Darvona spent most of her off-duty hours there, but she was enigmatic about it.

“Oh, we’re just having fun. Ever hear of a ‘happening’?”

Sven shook his head.

“Neither did I. It’s fun. Why don’t you join us?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Sven did, and a few hours later he was seen leaving the suite with a strange smile on his face.

“Tell me one thing,” a curious Mr. Rhodes asked. “What’s the honking all about?”

Sven shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”

“And how come every time I pass by, and the door’s open a crack, I hear someone say, ‘Make that three hard-boiled eggs’?”

“Well, sir… ”

“Yeah, hard to explain. All right. I guess I’ll just have to see for myself what this is all about. You know, just for the sake of ship security.”

“Certainly, Mr. Rhodes. It’s well within the purview of your duties as first officer.”

“Well, sure. In fact… why are you smirking, Mr. Svensen?”

“Smirking, sir? Me?”

“Never mind.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Thing I really can’t figure is how so many people can fit in that cubbyhole.’”

For the rest of the journey to Sector Four, Mr. Rhodes wore a strange smile. His eyes had a slightly glassy look. All the officers took their off-duty hours in the “Stateroom,” as Strangefinger’s cabin was now called. Everyone on the ship made the visit at one time or another. And with the Repulse being run almost entirely by the automatic systems, everyone on the ship was often in there at one time.

The only other event marking the journey was the death of Dr. O’Gandhi, his third for the month.

“His third?” Wanker said in utter disbelief.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Mr. Rhodes said. “He’s revived already, good as new.”

“Another clinical death?”

“Yes, sir. He really does need some time in the shop.”

Everyone hung out in the Stateroom — everyone, that is, but Captain Wanker.

He spent his time watching entertainment, working acrostics, and reading.

“Give me something on the twentieth century,” he ordered the ship’s librarian.

“Please be more specific,” the voice droned.

“Something representative of that century. I want to find out what it’s all about.”

“It is impossible to designate one artifact or intangible that is representative of an entire century.”

“Okay, let’s limit it to.… oh, entertainment. No, art. No, wait, to hell with art. Uh, how about literature?”

After a pause, the librarian said, “What about literature?”

“Give me the representative work of literature — play, novel, poem, whatever, of the twentieth century.”

“It is impossible—”

“All right! Give me a list. Can you do that?”

“That can be done. Moment.”

Presently, Wanker’s screen filled with a list of titles with names.

“Splendid.”

He read through the list. Both titles and names were unfamiliar to him, except for Marcel Proust.

“Uh, who would you recommend — besides Proust, that is?”

“Any of the works listed are thought by critics and scholars to be exemplars of twentieth century literature. Marcel Proust—”

“To hell with Proust. Who’s Ernest Hemingway?”

“Ernest Hemingway was born in Oak Park, Illinois, in the United States of America, Earth, on—”

“Stop, never mind. Who’s this George Luis Borges fellow? Forget it. Never heard of any of these people. Maybe I should try the twenty-first century. At least they had Stephen King.”

“He was twentieth century.”

“Then why isn’t he listed here? Shows you how much scholars know. Okay. So, this is it for literature in the twentieth. Right. Ummmmm… Okay. Give me something daring. New, innovative. Experimental. Weren’t they big on that stuff back then?”

“The work best fitting that description is highlighted.”

“James Joyce, huh? Whoever he was. Finngans Wake? What’s the format? Just text, I suppose.”

“There are illustrations.”

“No video? Hmph. All right, put up the text and … You call those illustrations? They’re doodles.”

“Done by the author.”

“Silly. Okay, let’s read this thing.”

Wanker began to read.

A moment later he sat back with a look of annoyed perplexity.

“What the hell is this supposed to be? What language is this?”

“The author’s idiosyncratic dialect of Anglo-Irish.”

“Huh? I can’t understand a word of it. Is there a translation?”

“No translation is available.”

“But this is gibberish!”

The librarian made no comment.

“Take it away. Thank you very much.”

Captain Wanker capitulated. He whiled away the rest of the journey in one of the ship’s simsex pods.