First, there had been the media blitz for the first accountant in
space, then the weight challenged person. That one became a disaster when
the 'Republibusher's found it cost fifty grand for the added fuel to send
up the four hundred pound man. Then there was me. The shortest man to fly
into space. The agency announced that I weighed 500% less. The headlines
read: "The Budgetnaut." The agency didn't tell them about the law suit I'd
brought that forced them to take me. I yawned. The trip to Mars orbit had
been boring. Now, I waited for the firing instructions being beamed from
earth, anticipating the vibrations of the positioning rockets firing.
Instead, the ship yawed, shook and rolled. Bounced against the
restraining webs, I stared slack-jawed at careening readouts on the command
console.
I yelled into the intercom, calling for earth command.
Nothing. Sweat formed all over my body. My hands gripped the arms of
the seat, and then just as suddenly as it started, the ship stabilized.
The main computer showed the positioning rockets firing. I felt just brief
vibrations, a tug here, a shove there. I keyed in for damage control and
with relief found the only damage seemed to be to ship's communication.
What caused it, I don't know, but the agency's redundancy package worked.
The two computers on board both knew the entire mission by heart.
The tension melting from my neck, I played back the event. Data
storage circuitry contained one last memory, an odd, high pitched siren
type of a noise, apparently a result of whatever hit the ship. I played it
over several times without result.
One trip around the planet revealed several other earth ships, still
apparently intact, but in bizarre orbits. I'd solved that part of the
mystery. The unmanned ships hadn't sailed off into the galactic unknown.
They were right where they were supposed to be and probably in the same
situation I was in -- no ability to send or receive signals. But why?
I could see myself now, on the runway, reporters everywhere, and what
would I say: "Don't know."
The headlines: "Budgetnaut comes back empty handed. You get what you
pay for."
That disgusting thought I had to endure as the computer programs
orbited my ship a few dozen times, snapped a bunch of tight pictures and
finally sent us back to earth. On the ride back the only entertainment was
the pictures. One of them looked strange. It showed a picture of a tall
cylindrical structure. At this level of detail, the thing looked
remarkably man-made. It was in an area that had not been well mapped.
Months later, they hustled
me right away from a runway celebration with the announcement that before
speaking I had to be debriefed. Gagged, was what I guessed. All the men
escorting me stood at least two feet taller than me. Minutes later in a
small room deep in the constricted bowels of mission control, I sat and
listened to the scientists as they conjectured on the nature of the alien
machine.
A week later, we had to announce something soon. The press was in an
uproar. One headline read: "Budgetnaut -- where did he go -- does anyone
know?" I hated the coverage. Instead of a hero, I appeared as a buffoon.
Having analyzed my ship's data banks, the tame scientists had proceeded
to key in an orbiting antennae to the type of signal produced by the alien
machine. They found they could induce the Mars machine to react with its
wailing squeal by transmitting certain types of radio signals toward Mars.
At this distance, the alien machine's return signal didn't have the energy
to blow out the dish.
I squirmed as one after another of the scientists tugged their beards,
ran their hands through their hair and had nothing to say. Finally, a man
with no beard and not much hair on his head either, sat up in his chair.
The movement caught my attention, and I looked at him hoping for something
cogent.
"I'm going to make the assumption that some
manned or robotic race left this machine. Does that seem unreasonable?" he
asked in a soft voice.
I nodded my agreement. Sure I thought, little green men.
"And given there appears to be no other evidence of their existence
anywhere near the earth, it would seem they came from far distances and
either traveled exceedingly rapidly or for a very long time and probably
both?"
I nodded again. The others were not listening, and I was wondering
whether I should ignore the man, too.
"If the aliens traveled at exceedingly rapid speeds it would seem
reasonable they would attempt to not travel dangerous areas such as
asteroid belts, therefore I believe they would have developed warning
systems that would allow the ships to alter course in time to avoid taking
hits from obstacles in the belts."
"So?" I said. The rest of the scientists had gone silent for some
reason.
The man folded his arms across his chest. "There is an asteroid belt
near Mars. It makes sense there would be a warning device nearby. It
would need to send out very strong signals, and as it would need to last
for years, it would probably only send out a signal when it received one.
My guess would be, the alien ship's generated constant output signals.
When they neared a place to avoid, they would receive a signal back. Our
batched radio instructions fit close enough to the configuration of the
alien ship's output signal and elicited warning signals in return, a signal
intended to be received only at quite a distance. When received up close,
the signal is so strong it fries our equipment."
I groaned and slumped into my chair. "You mean I near was killed by a
god forsaken buoy."
The scientist shrugged his agreement.
It took a while but after I got over my anger, dismay and finally the
urge to laugh hysterically, I began to wonder -- just what would they tell
the public?
I slouched in another chair. Next to me an old grey-haired veteran of
the Space Agency cautiously peered around as if somehow by looking he would
make the four walls of the small room expand and let in the light of day.
No such luck. Moments later, the President's own media relations man, a
spin doctor they called him, walked in, pulled a chair from the other side
of the room and placed it backwards not three feet from my face. I had to
suppress the desire to inch my chair back. The man had long dark hair,
small eyes and a narrow face. Right now that face had tightened up into a
scowl. He sat down and stared at me. "I understand," he said in a soft
voice, "that you are unwilling to take the blame for this failure."
I shrugged. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"So you're suggesting we tell them the truth?"
"Sure."
"Do you know what would happen if the public knew about this alien
race?"
"I guess it could cause a panic." I'd thought of that and just really
couldn't care. So a few people panicked?
"Panic?" The man straightened. "Yeah, sure. People going
hysterical. A few losers crushed in a crowd. Food disruptions.
Starvation. Power outages. Sure, but that would go fast. No, I'm talking
government paralysis. Controversy. Nobody would know what to do. There'd
have to be committees. The space agency's budget would be frozen. Same
reason you became an astronaut to begin with. Your law suit was nothing.
We've got lawyers. But the controversy would have kept the public's
attention. Instead of being delighted by great astronomical discoveries,
the opposition would have taken care to focus the public on the court case.
We'd have lost no matter who won. This president doesn't lose."
"Controversy?" I rubbed my eyes.
"Yeah. Kills government. Nothing gets done."
"Well than blame it on equipment failure. Say that we didn't have
much experience with long manned voyages -- special solar winds --
anything. But now, we do know what to do."
The man eyed me and slowly he let his face draw into a tight smile.
"Yes, that's possible."
In short order, I became a hero, having overcome great technical
difficulties to bring my ship back, and I learned something. Create enough
controversy and you can get anywhere -- the House of Reps for instance.
Thank God for controversy. It certainly can make a small man tall, even
the smallest man in the House. Believe me, I'm earning my living and you
can call me the Honorable .....
