c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(9-24)
One of the problems with being a university nerd, professionally, was that Dr. Judson Baines looked upon any unfamiliar situation as a chance to study and learn. He did not have the usual fear of being stranded without allies, or ostracized for being a foreign presence. This mindset made him open to gain new experiences, but also undefended when facing the challenge of opposing entities. His innocence was willful. Part of the natural psychology of someone dedicated to gathering information, and sharing it with his students.
After departing Evergreen Estates, he entered a new realm about which explorers from the Mars colonies knew little. There had been only observational contact with civilized districts on the North American continent of Planet Earth. Calimex, at the western edge of that land mass. Atlantia, on the east. Torontara, in what had once been Canada. Other regions held their secrets more tightly. Europe, Africa, and Asia, all had some scattered tribes that flourished despite the global calamity. Yet only Australia seemed to have endured largely intact, due to its geographical isolation.
What survived of mankind was primitive, and secular. A complete reversal of the connectivity that had brought citizens of the blue ball together, 100 years before.
With a calm period in effect, meteorologically, Baines was free to pilot his Digger shuttle around the area without any hindrance. But curiosity caused him to feel cheated. After observing a single fossil-fuel vehicle in transit, near the supposed spot of Roosevelt Station, he wanted to know more.
A short distance away, he noted a clearing in the wild. This naked patch in the green was on the border of an old highway remnant, or perhaps, a state route. Enough of the tarmac remained that he could trace this path back toward a mapmaker’s bullseye, where the radio signals had first appeared. He guessed that it would be a friendly place to land, disembark, and investigate. So, after tracing the arc of another wide circle, he descended carefully.
Dust and debris blew sideways, as the shuttle found a rocky ledge on which to perch. From his control console, he scanned around the woodland terrain. There was no evidence of human life, only wandering creatures foraging for food and shelter. When he twisted a handle on the access hatch, and climbed outside, a petrichor of damp leaves met his nostrils. It was the first time he had inhaled such a pungent aroma, other than during a gentle rain as he hiked up Sidley’s Hill from the trailer community in Ohio.
A directional tool kept him on track, while monitoring the old-style broadcasts. He was limber and energetic at first, but after crossing the overgrown landscape, with fallen trees and large stones covered by moss, he felt fatigued. Eventually, he reached the origin point, sometime after the hour of noon. His device blipped and registered this accomplishment with an icon glowing on its screen. The transmitter had to be nearby. Yet all he could find was a deserted shack, that appeared to be rotting away, anonymously.
When he reached for the door latch, it creaked loudly. Rust made the vintage fixture hesitate to yield. Inside, he discovered a lanky, balding fellow with gray strands flowing from the sides of his skull. He was bent over, and stiff. But nimble enough with large dials on his board. A Shure microphone stood at one side.
“HEYY! WHAT THE HELL? I NEVER HEARD YOUR FOOTSTEPS! SHIT, I MUST BE GETTING OLD!”
Baines recoiled impulsively. He had not expected to find anyone in the forgotten hut.
“This is... Roosevelt Station?”
The radio operator flushed with embarrassment. His voice was hoarse, from offering colorful chatter over the airwaves.
“Who sent you here? Prime Keeper Gardino? If he did, you can tell him to kiss my ass!”
The scholastic steward raised his eyebrows, and took a deep breath.
“Who? Gardino? I’ve never heard that name before...”
His unexpected contact let the antique turntable play a vinyl platter of hillbilly tunes, on its own.
“That bastard rules the coastal kingdom, ultimately. Well, at least he did, about 30 years ago. That was our last episode with his troopers. They wanted to unify the states. Our citizens voted his proposal down. Then, things got a bit nasty. We didn’t part on friendly terms!”
Dr. Baines shook his head, and smiled.
“I’ve been listening to your records. That’s quite an on-air library you’ve got. Where I live, we’ve only heard tales passed along through the generations, about those kinds of songs. I’m a disciple of Old Earth culture...”
The amateur disc jockey peered at his guest with befuddlement. Then, extended his hand in greeting.
“I’m a nobody around here, Porthos Q. Pyle. Friends call me Cueball. This is my sanctuary, we don’t have a lot left, to read or hear, you know? These platters and magazines are all mine. I share them on days when I’m in a good mood. Today is one of those days. But be careful that your fingers are clean!”
The lifelong geek browsed through back issues of MAD Magazine, Floyd Clymer collections, and J.C. Whitney catalogs. Shelves lined the walls, filled with 78 rpm singles, 10-inch EPs, and full-sized LPs. Everything reeked of must. A familiar characteristic of relics from the 20th Century.
“Umm... I am Dr. Judson Baines, from the university at... well, it might require some explaining for you to understand...”
Pyle cocked his head to one side.
“The damned university at Toqua Platte, in Calimex? Screw those arrogant pricks! They pretend to know everything!”
His visitor flinched slightly, at this candid tone.
“No... not Calimex. Trust me, I’m not an invader, not looking to form any political or military allegiance...”
The radio operator spat tobacco juice into an empty tin can.
“Well then, what? I’ve got a pistol around here somewhere, I should’ve had it on my hip in case of a newbie like you, showing up on the premises. Really though, nobody ever comes around. There are only a few receivers left, from old stock. We don’t have many homes rigged up with electricity, anyway. But dang me, there I go saying too much! I keep the antennas connected, there are three going in different directions. The storms mess up my work. It’s like trying to maintain an amusement park. People are rough with the rides! Mother Nature is brutal!”
Baines stroked his prominent chin, which had started to develop beard stubble.
“Look, you might say that I’m from the future. Not in chronological terms, but umm... sociology instead. I’m a seedling from the outward migration. A spawn of the Great Uprising. Are you a fan of history? I could chatter your ears off, if given half a chance...”
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