Alan Foster - The Metrognome and Other Stories

"Why, that's merry marvelous!" said Van Groot. "How ever did you manage it? I admit I didn't have much confidence in you."

"Friend . . . friend of mine will present enough evidence to the Subway Planning Board showing that the ground, the area for the proposed station, is unstable. Unsuitable for practical excavation. If they think it'll cost them another five bucks, they'll move it to the south side of the tunnel. It was all a matter of just using the fact of your mine, not trying to pretend it wasn't there. They don't know it's a mine, of course."

"Seismic test?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"Reasonable. Three of my best pick-gnomes reported in earlier this evening with migraines."

"Sorry."

"Don't give it no mind. Serves 'em right." Van Groot chuckled with satisfaction.

"Anyway," Charlie continued, "lives, time, and difficulty cannot stop the New York Subway Authority. But money . . . yeah, your mine is safe, all right."

"And so are your phone lines. So is that of the chairman of the board of General Computers."

"It'll be an express station, anyway. It shouldn't bother you too much," Charlie added. He was getting groggy again. His stomach and brain were ganging up on him.

"You've done very well, indeed, my boy: I'm surprised at you. It's been a long time since any human traded favors with us:"

"Aw, I'll bet you set the whole thing up. Anyway, I've got to be honest about it. I didn't do it for you. I didn't do it for me, either. I-I did it-" And here he stood very tall, straight, and patriotic. "-for the telephone company!" It was all he could do not to salute.

"Bravo! I wish there was something we could give you. A little token, a remembrance. I don't suppose you could use a nice scepter."

"I'm afraid not. No coronations for a month at least. I'm going on the wagon."

"Too bad. Well, here. Take this, anyway."

"Sure," said Charlie agreeably. The gnome thrust something into his raincoat pocket. "So long, Veen Grat! It was nice knowing you. Stop up at my place sometime. Play a couple games o' gi . . . o' gin!"

"I may do that," replied Van Groot. "Some night. I'll bring my own djinn."

Charlie was halfway up the tunnel when he whirled at a sudden thought and shouted back. "Hey, Van Greet!"

"Yes?" The voice floated down faintly from the distant blackness.

"What did you give me?"

"Why, a Flagan-flange, of course."

Charlie giggled as he thought about it. He couldn't stop giggling. However, it wasn't so funny. This made him nervous, and he stopped. He was just about to enter into a symbiotic relationship with his mattress when there was a knock at his door. It repeated insistently. It refused to go away.

Grumbling, he stumbled blindly to the door and peered through the peephole-no one just opens his door at two in the morning in New York. Suddenly he was sure he'd actually gone to sleep four hours ago and was now dreaming. But he opened the door.

It was Miss High-Pressure Area.

She had a robe draped loosely over a nightgown no self-respecting spider would hake owned up to. Cumulus formations were disturbingly apparent.

"Can I come in, Mister . . . uh . . ."

"Dimsdale," mumbled Charlie. "Charlie Dimsdale." He took two steps backward. Since he was still holding on to the knob, the door came with him.

She stepped inside, closed it behind her. The robe opened even more. So did Charlie's pupils. Proportionately.

"You're going to think I'm just terrible (this was a blatant falsehood), but . . ." She was staring at him in the strangest way. "I really can't . . . explain it. But, well, if you could just . . ."

She took a quick step forward and threw her arms around him. For someone out of practice, Charlie reacted well. She whispered something in his ear. It wasn't a weather report. What she said, softly, was, "It'll be okay. He thinks I'm in Geneva."

Charlie hung on and directed her into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind them. He listened gravely.

Now he knew what a Flagan-flange attracted.

Artists naturally inspire other artists. Contrary to certain theories, creativity does not take place in a vacuum. One could write an extensive book on the history of western art utilizing only paintings –of the temptation of Saint Anthony as illustrations. Science fiction writers can find the inspiration for whole novels in a throwaway line in a colleague's book.

Sometimes the inspiration takes the form of a challenge to do something different with a similar idea or approach. The result often surprises the writer, who may have started out intending to do something utterly different.

Many years ago Poul Anderson wrote a short novel about a beer powered spaceship. Poul knows his science, and the darned thing worked. I've never asked him where the idea came from, but one can imagine him sitting deep in conversation with physicists and chemists, working out the precise details of requisite orbital mechanics and thrust necessary for the story. Alternatively, one can imagine the likely reality.

Perhaps the concept came in the form of a challenge from a fan or colleague. Or maybe it arose out of a bud attack of what-the-hell. Regardless, the story that resulted was amusing and entertaining. Poul's stories always work.

Now me, my background in the hard sciences is the product of much head scratching and difficult research, not formal academia. But a challenge is a challenge. If a spaceship powered by beer, why not one propelled by something more unlikely still?

DAY 001-22:32

Boyd Cottle, Commander, still sounds funny. Everyone on board is at least as nervous as I am, which is plenty. That is only to be expected. As everyone is also far too busy to allow nerves to affect their performance, I am not worried.

Dr. Sese Oyo has refused to administer tranquilizers to those in need of a relaxant. I concurred with her decision. This point in our journey is no time for anyone to be functioning at less than maximum efficiency. I have assigned additional work instead, believing that to be more effective in calming post-ignition jitters than a casual dose of coraphine.

All ship's functions are operating within 99.8 percent of prescribed parameters. Of course, the Secondjump pretty much runs herself. I can't escape the feeling that we're more passengers than crew.

By the way, Eva Ostersund and I traced the two-tenths error to a minor malfunction. possibly/probably located within solid waste recycling. Though far from posing an immediate problem, its existence offended Moutiers's professional pride. He's hard at work correcting the problem. Dr. Oyo is helping him as best she can without neglecting her own job, which is primarily to keep a wary eye on us first deep-space travelers.

We're all disgustingly healthy, she insists. Hardly surprising, since physical fitness was as important a criterion in our selection as any mental abilities.

Only sixteen years, four months, two days to Barnard's Star. That's barring the successful utilization of the Molenon Multiplier. None of us expects anything to come of that. We don't see how the installation of an alien device, however efficiently modified for human use, can help us. Especially when the experts don't profess to understand fully how it functions:

I realize that the Multiplier is somehow supposed to react to mental output and translate that into space-time distortion leaps along our line of flight. I'll stick with the photon engines, thank you. Slow but steady wins the race.

On Day Twelve out Sese Oyo is supposed to lead us in our first "session." No one here is looking forward to what all consider essentially a waste of time, but orders are orders. The thought of six highly trained scientists squatting around muttering "om" while thinking positive thoughts about Barnard's Star strikes most of us as more than marginally ludicrous. I am willing to concede that such meditative sessions might have beneficial relaxing effects, however. That's the only reason I finally agreed to go along with this.