INSIDE THE DARKSIDE

By Les Clark

INSIDE THE DARKSIDE is a collection of 12 dissimilar stories inhabiting the near future. A long-winded, umbrella-like philosophical long story description might be more appropriate if you, my readers, are presented with story clues. Here they are in order:
GREY – A hotshot pilot, attempting to follow in his father's galactic shoes, finds even his own whining is grey-ting.
MISTY JOURNEY – The way out is unclear, even with help.
THE LONGSHOT – What chances do a ragtag band of mismatched survivors have against victors holding a flush short one club?
TRESPASSERS – He's a gun for hire; she's an event coordinator with an agenda. Who's on who's side?
GRAMPS – Yours may have taken you for ice cream and celebratory fireworks. This one doesn't do those things...because he has strange "friends."
TWILIGHT IN THE GARDEN – A young girl with a backyard hobby has hopes to feed the world. Why does the military want to weaponize her research?
THERE ONCE WAS A LADY NAMED BRIGHT – What happens when established theories are put to the test?
BEWARE THE CHAIR – Sometimes "creating" a bargain has unearthly consequences.
MYOFB! – Our characters are busybodies. How will this work out when their eavesdropping is uncovered?
THE WARNING – Some experiments are never meant to see the light of day.
WHAT PRICE PROGRESS – "Finders Keepers" has unforeseen consequences.
PITTED DATES – There's one born every minute. A fool and his money are soon parted. You get what you paid for. They all apply to our guy.

I hope there's enough intrigue for your further pursuit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350912241

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© 2023 Leslie A. Clark

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form and by any means including photocopying, recording or other mechanical methods without prior permission of the author. The exception might be brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Requests can be directed to the author on your validated letterhead. Please address to Les Clark, PO Box 143, Ashland, MA 01721.

ISBN: 979-8-35091-223-4 (Paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-35091-224-1 (eBook)

Any reference to historical events, real people and/or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters and locations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarities are purely accidental.

Printed in the United States of America by BookBaby, Pennsauken, NJ 08110

Front cover, spine and rear cover designed by Book Baby, Pennsauken, NJ 08110

For

Irene Anne Cunha

She knows why

You can make anything by writing.

C.S. Lewis

There was a young lady named Bright

Whose speed was faster than light.

She set out one day

In a relative way

And returned on the previous night.

H. Reginald Butler

(abridged)

OTHER WORKS BY LES CLARK

Short Stories by a Short Guy in Shorts

Welcome to my Soap Box

Included in

Beyond the Pathway

(A Quabbin Quills Anthology)

Contents

INTRODUCTION

FOREWORD

GREY

MISTY JOURNEY

THE LONGSHOT

TRESPASSERS

GRAMPS

TWILIGHT IN THE GARDEN

THERE ONCE WAS A LADY NAMED BRIGHT

BEWARE THE CHAIR

MYOFB!

THE WARNING

WHAT PRICE PROGRESS

PITTED DATES

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

FROM THE AUTHOR

INTRODUCTION

When Buck Rogers and Tom Corbett-Space Cadet first flickered on a swivel base black and white Philharmonic TV my folks bought in the late forties, I was hooked. Early Sci Fi programs were filled with what were then high tech effects. I cared little about blinking lights purporting to be stars, silver spaceships dangling from clearly visible wires and choppy stop-motion action. For me, science fiction had supplanted Howdy Doody.

Okay, I also spent time watching the Mickey Mouse Club. And Annette.

Around the same time, and with a pre-teen adventuresome spirit, I walked the two miles (Yes! Alone!) to my local Hazelton Street branch, part of Boston’s public library system. My mother often didn’t know where I was. Over time, I read all the YA books on the few shelves dedicated to the Winston Science Fiction series. Some I read twice. One day, when the librarian wasn’t looking, I snuck into the adult section. Over the years, I read everything SF in there.

I was not a great HS student. My physics teacher, in the long gone (good riddance!) drafty brick Boston Technical High School, was a drone expert. He may have been talking about pulleys and inclined planes...who knew? Out of sight, nestled against the inside spine of my huge physics book, were a series of Ace double novels I had spent on my meager allowance. I remember Alien From Arcturus and The Other Side of Here. As the decades passed, I found Dune, Slan, I Robot, The Foundation series, The Martian Chronicles, Not This August and the indomitables, Mark Watney and Gully Foyle.

My heroes? King, Heinlein, Herbert, van Vogt, Leinster, Clarke and Bradbury. Like award shows, there are too many to mention. As a nascent writer, the reputations of these real giants of horror, SF, mystery and fantasy are safely intact. On their mathematical scale, I am a low prime number.

But story lines filter through my right-side brain and I give them life. You get my take on the upside and downside of visitors coming to earth or what/where/how we make first contact. What happens, and why David rebels took on Goliath oppressors? Must all planets be colorful? And will you always be found if you get lost?

These, and other short stories await your time, and hopefully, your enjoyment.

Les Clark

FOREWORD

Do you sometimes feel like you’re going nowhere? Then step aboard Misty Journey. You’ll feel at home as the protagonist’s sense of self is a bit…murky.

Les Clark and I are kindred spirits, in a sense. We both have stories in the Quabbin Quills writing group’s anthology, Beyond the Pathway, and his meandering collection of Inside the Dark Side reminds me of my quirky quest of time-twisting tales. While we plunk strange dollops into ordinary moments, his book is edgier and darker than my own. Still, Les manages to lace the stories with levity and some even venture into ‘non-politically correct’ territory which is refreshing. Readers of dark satire will especially appreciate the humor.

So, what’s in store? Embark on a mysterious journey to the bleak unknown. Feel your way through foggy footfalls, careen the constellations in a light-speed ship and fend off berserk, six-legged monsters. No sweat, right?

Then eavesdrop on a futuristic spy who owns Grayson Galactic in Trespass, with imaginative technology, delectable pastries, and a sexy girlfriend. I might lean toward this one as a favorite, because I have a secret agent named Galaxy in a spy romance as well as a futuristic world in a time capsule mystery. It’s hard to choose because this book contains other gems, too, like an oddly old grandpa with a war secret, and vegetables with a mind of their own. More entertainment awaits but you’ll have to turn the pages for yourself.

Chele Pedersen Smith

Author of The Epochracy Files, Chronicle of the Century, The Pearly Gates Phone Company, Behind Frenemy Lines, and more.

GREY

1.

This time, completely out of character, Captain Meltzer hesitated.

Years earlier, however, he had little hesitation volunteering for any mission in the United States Space Service, a successfully achieved goal motivated by his father’s disappearance while evaluating a first generation light speed jump ship.

His father, Major Marvin Meltzer, was of the old breed, violating the credo of old pilots and bold pilots, and dismissive of his teammates gossip and snarky comments. He thought ‘you supercilious snot’ coming from a British pilot didn’t sound so bad with an English accent. His service related exploits, and those off duty, were either the source of free drinks or avoidance by the coconspirators. None of his squadron-mates took up his challenge of a race beyond the Jovian moons at half-light speed. Run you rats! Who needs you? was the last thing his squadron-mates heard on the morning of his disappearance.

He constantly admonished both his son and his astronaut classmates if they didn’t meet his unreasonable standards. It’s either USSS or them, he’d scribbled on the classroom white board. His wife, taking a hint from his actions and tired of the lectures, scribbled her goodbye in lipstick on the headboard of their bed. It’s them or me, she wrote.

He led by strenuous example, however, clinging to his ship, (it was, after all, his baby), sleeping in his ship, memorizing every aspect its capabilities. The ship’s designers couldn’t keep up with his engineering changes. And no, you can’t have racing stripes. Classmates called him Sticky; they knew where he could be found. The Ponce de Leon was his to light jump wherever the USSS sent him.

Gone were the excruciatingly long trips of months and years to Mars, the moons of Jupiter and beyond. The invention of the light speed engine, combining both the ion drive and magnetic attraction of celestial bodies meant exploration of the Milky Way was reduced to weeks, if not days.

As a teen, his son, Creighton Meltzer, knew his father set a new Jovian speed record and then reengaged the drive out near Pluto. I’ll show them, thought the bold pilot who would never be an old pilot. The signal winked out as expected. When Major Meltzer reappeared somewhere in the Andromeda system, the test team’s automatic program fired light speed missiles back to Earth, signaling Meltzer’s successful arrival. Further, he’d found an earth-like star and used the lifeboat to circumnavigate, sending back photos and spectrographic analysis. After an Earth month, he reset the drive for the return trip. In their haste to beat other nations developing the same technology, and with the Southern Alliance off searching for worm holes, the USSS had not anticipated the Ponce de Leon might end up in the middle of a planet. Worse still, its sun. What were the chances, with the vast emptiness of space, a ship could bury itself in flame or basalt?

It took microseconds for a rogue star to convert the Ponce into a briquette.

In the sobering mission debriefing, one scientist thought adding a collision avoidance system, like the standard equipment in his EV, would be advisable in the next build. You think? the team facilitator offered with her best death stare.

As the years passed, this modification allowed exploratory ships to jump anywhere without sending out scouting drones. The military, ever the creator of acronyms, started calling them DOOFUS or, Don’t Forget Us. No further ships were lost.

The younger, more focused Meltzer never held back in Basic Training, even when his drill instructors unleashed captured scaboids from a jungle planet near Ursa Major. He dismembered these berserk six-legged monsters with blinding thrusts from his laser sword. His bravado was legendary. No one wanted to hear him complain his uniform was running out of medal space. Or that his helmet was tight because of his lustrous blond mane. Along with his picture, often upside down and used as a dartboard, classmates plastered the walls of their rooms with posters of real aces from past wars: Rickenbacker, Boyington, Jabara. Meltzer’s tireless bragging drew frequent groans and requests to STFU.

If my daddy was ‘Sticky,’ you can call me ‘Slick,’ Meltzer announced to anyone who might be within earshot. Or not wearing a helmet. Behind his back, however, the young Meltzer was bequeathed with other, less complimentary names. They frequently wished he took after the classic TV show, Lost in Space. And now, when Captain Meltzer was offered an exploratory mission to a solar system with a yellow Earth-like sun somewhere in the constellation Apus, he enthusiastically assented. It was rumored money changed hands between the rank and file officers and senior officials to facilitate Meltzer’s mission. However, the sudden appearance of a high speed anti-grav racer in the squadron commander’s garage was a mere coincidence.

Meltzer was not invited to his own going-away party.

2.

On launch morning, for which Meltzer had grown a pencil mustache in protest of a regulatory haircut of his locks, he performed an extensive pre-flight checklist for interior controls, months of supplies, survival materials and the ubiquitous arms cabinet. This was a mandatory requirement since the crew of the Antarctic had to fight their way off Arcturus 6. Unfortunately, some escapees left limbs behind for the teething monster young.

Meltzer had been part of all the meetings where exploratory flight assignments were handed out to others. He had so irritated USSS officials that the worst job was waiting for him. In a closed senior officer session, the universal opinion was, It’s either USSS or him.

Meltzer’s ego competitor, Randall F. Berwick (F for Flash), the hotshot explorer with two previous discoveries of habitable worlds to his credit, orbited the Copernicus over a water planet near Cassiopeia. Curved clusters of Hawaiian-like islands, white caps lapping their irregular shores, surrounded dozens of colossal land masses. Berwick noted ice at both poles. His great circle flyovers found clear inland lakes teeming with life. Everything seemed ideal for this self-styled Columbus. When Berwick’s communications ceased, a drone automatically detached from the Copernicus and recorded the island’s flora had a liking for warm-blooded fauna. During his initial on-foot exploration, Flash had innocently dipped his sample cup into a small pool of thin, sweet syrup his sensors evaluated as healthy and safe to drink. When sticky leaves snapped closed around him, Randall provided a full meal for the planet’s version of a Venus flytrap.

The first USSS couple, Captains Trudy and Herbert Bassett, discoverers of asteroids loaded with rare metals, were given an unusual research assignment: only circumnavigate the binary star system Beta Aurigae. But eager for another payday, they ventured too close to the hypersonic velocity of the stars. Their light speed ship, the Magellan, was sliced and diced into metal and flesh confetti. Good enough for them, was overheard by an unidentified attendee of the USSS Court of Inquiry. It was determined the wholesome pair had jealously guarded their profits from secretly processed tons of gold and platinum from their towed cargo. Wholesome pairs were discouraged after that.

Creighton Meltzer, the least liked, received the last Bingo ball, a planet jokingly called Dusty. What’s there? he bleated aloud. In his head he moaned, Why me? I deserve better! Everyone else, alive or dead, had been given, allegedly, exciting assignments. At the time, no one knew what had happened to Randal and the Bassets or if they did know—-secrecy prevailed. Why scare the troops?

Were there successes? Of course. Intelligent sea life was found on Ceti 3. Breathable air allowed exploration of an ice planet in the Rigel system. Potable water made for spectacular geysers as its molten core drove subterranean seas miles into the air.

Best of all, intelligent humanoids with a sophisticated society engaging in sciences similar to Earth’s fossil fuel age, welcomed a multi-national exploration team. And promptly ate them. The John Cabot declared Beta Centauri 6 off limits until equatorial drones detected enormous deposits of rare earths along with silver, gold, molybdenum, and copper. A well-armed diplomatic (Marines) detachment made landfall, signed an acceptable peace treaty establishing trade and the rules of engagement. Eating ambassadors was mutually declared unethical.

3.

Descending 100,000 meters into clouds as grey as week-old snow, the Vasco da Gama shuddered briefly, as if the clouds had structure. Captain Creighton Meltzer, unconcerned, made note of the tremor. With the anticipation of a previously unknown world occupying his thoughts, the detail mattered little. Dad would be proud. Observing the new landscape through his filtered visor, Meltzer viewed the same monotonous grey up close, recorded from high orbit before his screen protectors covered the ports from the blinding flames of reentry.

The auto lander sent Meltzer through several orbits until it gave up trying to make sense of the dingy cluttered landscape to find a useful landing zone—is it a plain or waterway or lake shore? The 3D radar was a spaghetti mess on its screen. Meltzer’s compass needle spun wildly, trying to lock on an Earth-like magnetic pole. Is there an east? he screamed in the control cabin. Where the hell is south? After that tirade, Meltzer thought it better to erase the pejoratives.

What’s with the yellow sun? Why isn’t it warm? I needed reliable intel. What do I get? A planet worse than a load of old laundry. I must stop my whining. Not good form. With nothing safe on which to slam his palm, Meltzer cracked his knuckles. His complaints reverberated throughout his helmet. Gravity registered ninety percent of Earth, but there was a heaviness to the air he could not quantify. His environmental gages warned him about the air’s breathability. Meltzer kept his facial filter and visor in place letting in the muted light. This place is duller than my accounting class.

Damnable thing. His muffled grumbling fell heavily no further than his outstretched, instrument-laden arm. His environmental bag contained a variety of cutting tools, collection containers and tubes. A laser hung from his right hip, strapped tightly to his leg. As he stood in the hatchway, both shoulder mounted spots sent out smothered beams, repelled by the misty air.

His ladder ratcheted from the hovering light ship, clanking softly as it sank into shades of silver dirt with striations of ashen earth. The da Gama, during previous missions under more qualified leadership, was a planet hopper, having seen worlds with seas of bubbling orange-red lava, glacial ice, crystal forests, real woodland sucking up carbon and releasing oxygen on hominid inhabited planets. But this perfectly monochromatic place was unique. His helmet camera ran continuously, recording a landscape populated only by identical plants. Another sensor measured the intervals between them, lengths of fronds, stems, heights, and widths.

Curious, he rerecorded over some hyphenated profanity. His heads-up mini-map found a clearing through the vegetation, grey as his father’s hair. He detected no breeze. Before proceeding, Meltzer wondered if this waist-high forest was rigid and whether the leaves could slice through his suit. His eyes darted within the helmet. If he left his gaze on any LED for more than two seconds, a heads-up display gave him more information. This place is boring.

Now, Meltzer hesitated, Wait! Why is there a path? He kneeled, not exactly an easy thing to do in his protective suit. Well, hit me with a hive and call me honey. Look at that.

Along the path lay deep depressions of angled lines cleanly cut into the grey soil. Curiouser and curiouser. Deep in the lines, evenly spaced by a finger’s width, lay tiny black seeds.

Meltzer checked where he stood. His textured boots had caved in many of the lines, covering the seeds. Meltzer retrieved a small scoop from his utility bag and dug into the soil, capturing both dirt and the millimeter-long seeds. Okay, we’ll get these in the analyzer later. Why do I keep talking out loud?

While Meltzer was preoccupied with these strange finds, his inattention to a faint mechanical noise a hundred yards behind was his initial brush with death. The thin atmosphere clouded the synchronized rump-chunk, rump-chunk but the vibrations in the soil were unmistakable. As Meltzer turned, he saw, with open mouth shock, a mechanical contraption bearing down on him that he later recorded as half a tank attached to a conveyor harvester.

"Vasco da Gama diary. One Earth Sol. Dusty, which is the only name it should have, is a dreary planet bereft of any color. What I wouldn’t give for Sol’s yellow light, the red of a rose, the blue of Earth’s sky. But no, all I have is the grey of an old man’s beard. Wait, what am I doing? I’m not sending this sad soliloquy. I’m a Meltzer!" Slick spoke quickly as his more rational words sped across the screen, overlaying the filmy wallpaper of his uniformed father.

"There is no color in this world other than shades of grey, an anomaly in a universe spanning the spectrum of color. The weak sun provides little warmth. My suit provides protection from the environment. The air is unbreathable. The vegetation, were it green and loaded with chlorophyl, would be lush. Sadly, while it resembles fronds of woodland ferns, they are of an ashen hue.

"Behind me, on this first day, a mechanical device the size of an armored vehicle came roaring along, treads on one side, rotating shovels on the other. The angled impressions in the soil are filled with tiny seeds. I have scooped several, now in quarantine. The device rolled past me at a pace faster than I can run, even in this lower gravity. In minutes, I lost sight of it. I waited momentarily for any trace of where it had gone but my oxygen bordered on reserve. That thing blew through acres of this unending vegetation. It reminded me of corn fields in Upstate New York and their hectares of waving golden tassels. Even to me, my complaints are tiresome. I so miss color.

"My environmental bag is getting heavy with samples. I have cut long fronds. They resemble ferns one might find along Appalachian trails. Tomorrow, I will drop the speeder. The path, created by—-and I will call it what it is—-the tank, must go somewhere. The larger questions are why does it harvest the fronds, what does it do with them, and where does it go? The seeds are obviously meant to replant. I did not see any water moistening the grooves.

Whoa! There’s another tank in the next row. I’m looking all around and can see row after row of this stuff. Tanks are everywhere. Where are the drivers? So many questions. Meltzer out.

4.

He walked back to the hovering da Gama. Meltzer signaled the ladder, stepped on the bottom rung and keyed the ascent. And stopped. The gauges monitoring components of the air, light and wind speed now picked up traces of moisture. He called it his dowser gauge. Okay, show me the water. Without accurate compass readings, Meltzer turned in a circle until his helmet indicator glowed green. He set his bearings and headed off perpendicular to the ship, cutting through plants strangely moving out of his way on their own. His pedometer registered three hundred meters before he dug his boots in at the edge of a pond, silvery as pewter.

There’s something odd about its dimensions. Up, up and away, he said to his camera-carrying mini-drone. Watching its flight in his heads-up display, Meltzer gasped, It’s a perfect square. After a few quick breaths, he added, Something intelligent lives here. Nature doesn’t make geometric shapes like this. USSS will love Dusty. And I’ll be king of the hill. I’ll even design my own medal. Medals.

As the drone made an initial trip around the pond, its program kicked in for a second pass a hundred meters higher. Perfectly spaced five hundred meters apart lay more squares, the same flat planes of liquid a footstep from his boot. The drone’s sonar instruments registered a depth of fifty meters, and as it dipped low, sent the sample cup deep into the exact center, then autonomously focused its attention on smaller cubic structures at the pond’s corners. Can I call them manmade? Better not, huh? Might not be things passing as people.

They look like buildings. Well, somebody, or something lives here. As he stood rigid, careful to listen after his near mechanical miss, he felt a rhythmic thrumming, interspersed with barely audible mechanical thumps. His helmet magnifier revealed no faults, cracks, windows or doors in the buildings. What if I knock and someone answers? Or something. Meltzer’s hand instinctively grasped his gun.

I’ll return to them later, he decided. Back to business. Meltzer retrieved sealable tubes from his backpack, filling several to analyze later. The liquid roiled pearly as he held them to the feeble light. It’s like mercury. He knelt at the shore, dipping his right glove into the shallows. Let’s scoop some muck. He filled a large container with mud the color of molten aluminum. Meltzer looked to the horizon. I’d like a rainbow. With no response, he folded and repacked the returning drone and headed back. The foliage had filled in as if he’d never passed through. While his tracker showed him the way, the slog back used up most of his oxygen.

I hate this place. Do you copy, USSS? He later rephrased his comments. This was a successful first mission. I hope my nose doesn’t grow like that wooden kid.

5.

His calorie-pack contained a soy concoction the USSS nutritionists meant to replicate macaroni and cheese with bacon. Tastes like the package it came in, Meltzer mused, finishing the entire packet. In what universe is this dessert blueberry buckle? Thankfully, water is water, even though this came out of me earlier. He laughed at the thought. Satisfied, Meltzer sank into his hammock, asleep in minutes.

Several hours later, the vibration of an approaching tank jolted him awake. It was only a gentle buzz since other alien life interactions trained him for an augmented sense of alertness. He rotated the viewer. The da Gama had collision avoidance radar, so useful when nearing asteroid fields, inclement weather and the far more dangerous autonomous taxis in the traffic around Port Angeles.

The da Gama smoothly lifted several meters higher. Where is the path I was on? he shouted. Below the ship, new monochromatic foliage had sprouted in the time he’d slept. And now the path runs perpendicular to yesterday’s. Seconds passed. Or, he mused, did the ship shift while I was sleeping and it’s the same path? I’m so confused. Uh, scrub that. No sense alerting USSS.

In the da Gama’s cramped bathroom, a shower of precious recycled water and activated ions cleansed his skin. Meltzer trimmed his mustache, gargled, then brushed his teeth in the event inhabitants of Dusty revealed themselves. I need to keep up a normal routine. As he donned a fresh uniform, he wasted a few minutes debating their response to a weapon. Do they know who I am? Maybe there is no they.

He tucked the sealed sample bag in one of the speeder’s many small compartments, and lowered the machine inches above the new, or old, path. Meltzer activated the da Gama’s beacon, ensuring the connection between it and, as he affectionately called it, Baby Gama’s transponder. At low speed, the little replica of the mother ship tracked the path. Field after field of identical plants passed below. Breaking the grey monotony were the colored lights and gauges of his control panel. The sunny yellow one indicated the two ships communicating. Nice and steady and, for Meltzer, comforting.

He noticed the path had a slight curve along its laser smooth sides. As his viewer increased the magnification, tiny sprouts, identical to the parent plants, slowly but visibly developed. Amazing growth, shook Meltzer’s microphone. He braked Baby Gama to see the new plants stop exactly at the same height as the parents. Curious, he muttered, putting the ship back in gear.

Two hours later, the tracking beacon went from a steady yellow to a concerned pulsing. Meltzer’s shaky voice echoed in the small compartment. Time to turn back, Baby, Daddy’s hungry. He held back, and anxious. In half the time, he was back where the mother ship should have been. He nervously checked the odometer, forward and back. Zero, zero, he confirmed. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His vitals on the little control panel moved into the red.

The da Gama was gone.

6.

Get a grip, Slick, Meltzer gasped. He licked his lips and ran a forearm over his forehead. Suction fans in the speeder immediately recycled the moisture. This is not good. There’ll be no king of the hill for me if we don’t find your mom. And no medals. Meltzer was wearing out the ERASE button.

While Baby Gama did not have interstellar abilities, it had most of the mother ship’s features. Its bathroom, however, required contortions Meltzer had failed to practice. I’ll have to hold it in, he lamented.

Meltzer eased the little ship higher. Rotating about, Meltzer saw field after field of the same colorless vegetation, plant after identical plant intersected by the harvesters’ uniform clear-cutting and the strange ponds. He didn’t have long to wait. While he couldn’t tell if the tanks were the same ones, they repeated the same mindless operation: cut, harvest, plant—-cut, harvest, plant.

It would be nice if they had license plates or serial numbers. While I’m at it, I wish dad had built me that tree house.

Meltzer didn’t hesitate this time—-he had a plan.

Time to stalk this thing, Baby. Giddyap. His bold statement, in the style of his father, relieved the tension of his precarious predicament. While Baby Gama had food capsules, oxygen, first aid, personal care, and that damnable toilet, he sublimated the thought he could not live in the ship for long. Mentally, it would become a chore, sapping his morale. His ego could not accept the possibility he might be forced to release the light speed SOS device. Not me. Not Slick. Dad would never approve.

He eased the accelerator forward until one of the ubiquitous path-clearing metal monsters was meters ahead and below Baby’s snout. Meltzer watched as the tank gradually curved through the plants while the rear viewer recorded new plants rising to replace the harvest.

Without oxygen and bright sunlight, how do these plants grow? Meltzer wondered as Baby Gama