c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(8-24)
When Dr. Judson Baines exited his Digger shuttle, to make a visual inspection outside, the result was gloomy and severe. The small craft had been damaged underneath, from its impact with thick, Buckeye mud, and an uncontrolled slide across the front field at Evergreen Estates. Yet all of its internal systems still seemed to function properly. The question that lingered in his mind was simple, but daunting. Would his transport retain its structural integrity, if taken beyond the planetary atmosphere? Or collapse like an eggshell, under the pressure of acceleration?
No answer could be obtained without a technical analysis. He needed the Morningstar for that kind of check-up, and its flight deck full of instruments.
As a half-measure, he decided that taking the ship on a limited excursion would help to build confidence in its abilities. An overland trip eastward, to explore and catalog the natural terrain. He knew that large portions of what had been New York and Pennsylvania were now more like what early settlers first encountered when they arrived from Old Europe. Forests had sprung up again, in place of artificial, population hubs constructed by mankind. Once again, a balance of elements dominated the landscape. Yet he suspected that there must be stragglers left behind by this devolving evolutionary curve. Certainly, it was possible that family tribes had survived, protected in the woods. In Atlantia, some sort of higher-function had been achieved, with a lifestyle more on the level of 20th Century folk. Less than modern, but specialized enough to exist on a reasonable level. He could not guess if they were in touch with other clusters of humanity, or even curious about their presence.
With the C-drive powered, Baines navigated his tiny vessel into the sky, and pointed it toward the east. Acres of green lay ahead, seemingly untouched by sentient inhabitants. He flew along Lake Erie, then soared down, across the Southern Tier of New York. The empty districts looked verdant and glorious, yet sad in such a state of abandonment. All the while, he continued to monitor his rig’s outer hull for fractures or compromise. He could hear the craft creaking slightly, as the Cloitanium cells spewed their reactive stream. This innocent noise caused his pulse to quicken. But in reality, posed no immediate threat.
At the Finger Lakes Region, he circled over the familiar ruins of Ithaca. A place often depicted in his archival materials. No life signs were apparent, other than the call of birds, and scratching of wandering rodents in the brush. This pervasive silence made him bow his head, with remorse. He had hoped that some traces of the lost world might have survived here, yet realized that many of those who studied at Cornell University were among the first to join their generational freedom convoy, to Mars.
Upon reaching the coast, he retreated slightly. Antiquated radio signals had led him to a point on the map that indicated Roosevelt Station should be directly below. But he could see nothing through the overgrowth of timbers. He circled once, then twice, while listening to the broadcasts. Was the announcer simply on a recording, looped to play endlessly? He had not considered that possibility. Maybe their particular version of society had covered itself on purpose, to remain anonymous? That didn’t jive with sending out signals, over the airwaves. He felt puzzled. Somewhere, an answer to this riddle must have been close at hand. He needed to look hard, and think critically. But no clues appeared.
There was a break in the tree line, where ocean waters lapped at the beach. He hovered along this sandy stretch for several miles, going north. Then found a break in the ground cover. A concourse of some kind was situated between flanks of leafy vegetation. He spied a motor vehicle, puttering along with smoky trails of exhaust lingering in its wake. The style and appearance were ancient by design. Yet updated in a sense, as if repaired in a shop or garage by amateur mechanics. That sight buoyed his spirit. It was the evidence he needed, to hypothesize that indeed, mankind had outlived dire consequences related to the Great Uprising.
Now, he had to ponder options. Would it be wise to land in a favorable spot, and attempt to make contact with this pocket of civilized people? Or should he remain distant, and disconnected? The choice was not one to be made in haste.
Beyond thinking about the potential to observe and study this isolated kingdom, as a professional scholar, he also wondered if they held any sort of defensive assets. Might they launch an attack against his vessel, because it was so far superior to their own technology? Or would they strategically hide in trenches and holes? With suspicion guiding them to take extreme measures, only when an advantage had been gained?
The conundrum caused him to suffer a headache.
While fine-tuning the receiver in his shuttle dashboard, he realized that indeed, songs heard over the previous days were being repeated. With the same commentary, except for reports and asides about the weather. When he attempted to pinpoint the signal’s origin, it varied as he moved. That factual revelation made him quizzical about his original premise that Atlantia was a humble colony of unsophisticated inhabitants. He surveyed the shore and curled westward, toward the inland. There were no further appearances of living beings. And he saw no signs of construction, or any metropolitan center. Yet the hillbilly music continued to echo.
“Here’s a good ol’ tune by the Stanley Brothers, it’ll make you want to get up and do some clog dancing, I swear!”
Dr. Baines steered around the neighborhood while observing, and whistling along with this rural classic. He tapped his right foot to the rhythm. The melody brightened his mood.
“I got a pig at home in a pen;
Corn to feed ‘Em on
All I need’s a pretty little girl
To feed ‘Em when I’m gone
Goin’ on the mountain
To sow a little cane
Raise a barrel of Sorghum
To sweeten ol’ Liza Jane
I got a pig at home in a pen;
Corn to feed ‘Em on
All I need is a pretty little girl
To feed ‘Em when I’m gone...”
...and then...
ReplyDeleteThe trove of Mad magazines???????