CHAPTER 1
CRAB SURPRISE
Live as brave men; and if fortune is adverse, front its blows with brave hearts.
- Cicero
"Hot damn!” whooped Dr. Narbando Thaddeus Bates, joyfully fired up by his adventuresome driving, as his boss but decrepit old Chevy Nitro thundered forward and left with impossible acceleration, shunted awkwardly through a momentary gap between a sleek Nissan Thunderbolt and the tiny, mysterious looking, solar-panel shrouded Scandinavian Earth-Car that trailed it, and then streaked past the Thunderbolt with speed to spare.
Both of these newer cars had arrogantly whizzed past Bates only moments earlier, and ordinarily that would have been the end of it, but this Monday commute to work was very different. Something in Bates snapped, and he caught just a touch of road-rage. For the next couple of minutes at least, he wasn't going to let himself be pushed around.
On this peculiar Monday morning Bates was at last equipped with a vehicle capable of supporting a genuine berserker road-rage episode. Until a couple of days ago, the aging Nitro had simply allowed Bates to fulfill his commuting requirements in the Washington DC suburbs. His commuting had been an activity lacking in high adventure, for despite its explosive sounding name the old Nitro was woefully lacking in performance. When it was new, back when decent gasoline was available, the car had ponderous power, but that was a decade and a half ago. Lately its performance was downright lethargic. The Nitro couldn't even reach the legal speed limit, much less exceed it.
Then oddly enough last week Bates' best friends and most eminent Department of Defense scientist colleagues Mel and Oscar inexplicably and improbably developed a sudden interest in the Nitro and in auto mechanics. The pair made off with the car for a few hours the previous Friday, tinkered mysterious modifications into the old engine, and then presented Bates with the newly muscled-up Chevy and a special fuel additive to power it that they simply identified as Premium Fuel.
Engaging the new fuel injection switch on the dash-board caused minute quantities of the Premium Fuel to be added to the car’s gasoline when it reached the engine, quadrupling performance. Mel and Oscar also added fuzz-busting electronics like most of the rest of the DC commuter vehicles had, which allowed Bates to break the speed limit without much likelihood of getting caught by one of the few police officers that patrolled the area.
Over the weekend, Bates discovered that when the Premium Fuel was used, driving could be a lot more entertaining than he had ever imagined. He wasn't a fan of racing or any other silly sport; their populist attraction eluded him almost completely. But this was different. This was something that he was doing himself for himself. He was having fun!
Too bad his buddies hadn't also thought to improve things like brakes, steering, and tires though, as higher speeds magnified numerous imperfections in the decrepit old Nitro such as poor suspension, bad wheel alignment, and lop-sided tires. The car vibrated and shimmied outrageously at high speeds, adding just a bit too much excitement of a bad sort to the adventure to completely suit Bates.
Driving a cruddy old primer-gray junker had never really bothered Bates in the least, even when it became agonizingly slow after good gasoline became unavailable, or so he repeatedly told himself. Never mind style or vanity; he was above such petty influences. He was after all a scientist, with more important things to worry about. Important Government things to be addressed by Government men and women such as him, including basic and applied physics research relevant to weapons development. Really important things!
Well, at least they used to be important things. With the end of the Cold War, the attention of humanity turned from preparation for war to the improvement of society. This admittedly had its good points such as world peace, universal healthcare, an end to most pollution, and the end of world hunger: wonderful things, all of them. But unfortunately for Bates and his colleagues, when American military forces were totally abolished so was funding for most basic and applied scientific research, as the work of the civilian arm of the Department of Defense was of course also presumed to be totally irrelevant. National defense was no longer an excuse to fund the quest for knowledge, and public and private funding for science largely dried up.
Fortunately due to institutional inertia and public apathy and unawareness more than anything else, a tiny remnant of the DOD Civil Service still survived at one last DOD research facility in the Washington DC suburbs, where Bates was lucky enough to still have employment.
Bates was convinced that totally dissolving the DOD was a huge mistake. In addition to the moral imperative that human civilization fund basic scientific research to better understand the universe, the USA might again need a military capability someday. These were the rational underpinnings of his views, when he tried to make sense of Government doings that probably couldn't be made sense of completely anyway. Bates remained steadfastly focused on science partly to escape such confusing and mundane considerations. Besides, understanding the origins and functioning of the universe was obviously a far easier and more pleasant task than understanding national and international politics.
After whipping past the first two cars, Bates could see only one more ahead of him, a sporty looking red one. It hadn’t passed him, but he decided to go after it as a lark. This was badly needed, good, healthy, escapist action, Bates told himself. After all, his disintegrating career situation in recent years had been ravaging his meager self-image, and being 43 years old and still single hadn't helped a lick either. He was definitely suffering a mid-life crisis, though since his entire life was an unending crisis anyway, he barely noticed it. Rationally, what driving fast had to do with dealing with any of that was quite unclear, but right now it somehow seemed to help anyway.
“Whoopee!” Bates shouted. Though his accelerator wasn't even halfway down, the Nitro was moving seventy kph above the speed limit, and gaining rapidly on the speedy red car. Considering the kinematics of the situation, Bates estimated that he would have just enough space/time to pass it, if he could only keep the vibrating, shimmying Nitro on the road.
Meanwhile his mind hopelessly churned through his usual litany of personal concerns. How much longer the Base would employ him, he didn't know, but he felt that his termination would likely happen long before he wanted it to. On an emotional level, he felt betrayed by the disintegration of the DOD, and betrayed by his high school guidance counselor, his university, the DOD, Congress, that stupid old Reader’s Digest story that said that science and engineering were good career moves, and especially by the dead-head, dead-beat taxpayers that let the DOD be dissolved. In particular he resented the yuppie snobs that shot by him in their fancy cars each morning as he nursed his old junker to his doomed place of employment.
Usually they drove foreign cars, he had noticed: shiny new expensive ones that actually ran smoothly though lethargically, as most of them were also powered by the weak bio-fuel mixture that passed for gasoline nowadays. They normally whizzed by him with impunity. This time, something in Bates snapped. Sure, his crappy old car was still a decrepit junker, but now it was a junker that could move like a bat out of hell: a clunky old bat, but an insanely fast one.
As he caught up with it, Bates could see that the red car was a sporty new Toyota Kamikaze. His timing was indeed perfect, for immediately after his Nitro cut in front of the Kamikaze, they both entered a single lane, no-pass zone with a lower speed limit. In defiance of fluid dynamic principles, road designers often narrowed roads and reduced speed limits at the same time, Bates had often noticed, leading to inevitable traffic jams. All one had to do to recognize the obvious design flaw was integrate over a road cross section the vector dot-product of traffic flow density and velocity with a unit vector perpendicular to the road cross section, but somehow such basic science skills had eluded civil engineers, or more likely, like DOD physicists, they were budget constrained by stingy tax payers.
Bates switched off the injection of mysterious Premium Fuel and savored his victory. Vibration and eng
ine noise quickly dropped to more tolerable levels. Cruising at low speed, he watched in satisfaction as first the Toyota, and then the other commuter conveyances lined up behind his Nitro, bobbing, weaving and honking their horns in impotent frustration. At the moment leading this convoy of much newer, shinier cars heading towards God knows what few remaining yuppie jobs, he, Narbando T. Bates, was in charge, in his own, fully paid for, made in the good-old U-S-of-A domestic car. He was in the driver's seat, not the stingy under-taxpaying over-paid capitalists behind him. His grin broadened. He felt absofarkinglutely great!
Ignoring the increasing beeping of several car horns he slowed down even further to putter along well under the legal minimum speed limit, and fished out his trusty old unbreakable black plastic comb from an overcoat pocket. With great flourish he pretended to slowly comb his thinning hair, as if he had all the time in the world. He squatted down in the seat lower, to make sure that this defiant act could be clearly seen from the Kamikaze behind him. Let them see the DOD parking stickers on his rear bumper too, he thought, and know that they are being had by a Government man, one of the few, the proud: a U.S. Civil Servant.
He was momentarily distracted, and indeed nearly swerved off the road, when he glanced at his rear view video screen to discover that the red Toyota was actually 'manned' by a young blonde woman, and not by one of the legion of smug male corporate executives that he imagined populated most of the fancy new cars on the road each morning. He could only see her head, shoulders, and hands, and those only indistinctly through the tinted windshield of the Toyota, but that was enough for his imagination to do the rest. He somehow knew at once that she was truly stunning; quite possibly a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader or Penthouse model that happened to be driving this fine morning through the Washington DC suburbs.
Quickly his triumphal elation over beating out the Toyota faded, to be replaced by guilt and embarrassment. Why was he driving like a madman, anyway? This beautiful woman was probably an innocent, friendly, gracious soul, perhaps on her way home from driving cute innocent children to church school. Unthinking idiot that he was, he had mercilessly cut her off, at risk of life and limbs! Her limbs, which were probably fabulous!
What the hell would he have told the surviving orphans, if their mom and their flashy new Toyota had both been totaled when he treacherously cut them off simply to feed his worthless ego? To top things off, it was almost Christmas, too! He was clearly an idiot and a sludge bucket: a public servant gone completely loony-tunes! He shrank down even further in the seat, this time to escape being seen.
Turning off the highway and into the Base parking lot, old Hank (Did he have a last name?) the gate guard greeted him with apparent enthusiasm. "Hi Doc," Hank said, with a strong back-woods drawl. "How's it a-going?” Always the same question; you could depend on old Hank to bring things back to a sound, familiar, normal perspective. Bates felt a little better about everything already.
When he started working here at the DOD Headquarters Base nearly twenty years ago, Bates had been greeted on his very first day by Hank and his cheery 'Hi Doc'. Bates had been thrilled with Hank's apparent knowledge of his professional title, and was soon busting with self-importance. Think of it! Just hired that day and he already had become a recognized figure on the Base: Doctor Bates, PhD physicist!
It took Bates five years to realize that Hank cheerily greeted everyone as 'Doc'. For maybe the next five years, he felt animosity towards the guard, for having been taken in by the man. But gradually after that, he had actually come to look forward to Hank's greeting as something in his life that he could rely on. Dependable old Hank, the last remaining Base security man, was at his post in rain, snow, the hot Maryland sun, or whatever. A rock. A solid anchor in shifting times. A true professional. Today, less than two weeks before Christmas, old Hank was all decked out in his Santa outfit, but he still brandished his assault rifle smartly. What a guy!
Bates pulled the sputtering Nitro into his personal VIP parking space, turned off the ignition, and as the old car heaved laboriously through a few last engine cycles, he also breathed a deep sigh of relief. Just being on Base, he felt safe and secure, for he was back in his natural element now, a totally artificial environment. He could comfortably forget the goofy outside world for the next nine hours or so. Being a road warrior for a few minutes was fun, but it was almost too much excitement to face on a Monday morning. Thank goodness he lived only five miles away from work, such that the commute only took a couple of stressful minutes and then it was over-with, like sex.
He soon felt less guilty about cutting off the blonde in the Toyota. Before getting out of his car, he played back the last minute or so of his rear-view video to discover the woman, to her credit, prominently waving a certain long middle finger at Bates as he turned into the base and the unimpeded Toyota shot off down the road.
"Hokey smokes!” Bates muttered. What an attitude! So much for the sweet innocent mom hypothesis; Bates immediately re-stereotyped the blonde as a spoiled yuppie and probably a tax-evader to boot. Second generation yuppie, no doubt; and her old man probably bought her the car, with money made from selling American jobs to the Chinese or Irish or somebody. If she had any kids at all the poor waifs were probably stuffed away in one of those private military schools that still existed only to torment the young souls of the rich, as no militaries even existed anymore, while mom whizzed up and down highways in her fancy sports-car, terrorizing folks in slower vehicles. To top it off, she probably couldn't tell a complex factored quaternion from a confluent hyper-geometric attractor if her life depended on it. And it did, or at least it used to, before the Cold War ended and things started to fall apart at the DOD.
So all things considered, maybe cutting her off had been the right thing to do after all. Hell, maybe he'd do it again tomorrow!
He reached under the dashboard to retrieve the data disk that Mel and Oscar would be expecting, put it into its protective plastic case, and slipped it into a coat pocket. Then he tilted the steering wheel up to make more slide-by room for his ample belly, and by exerting a number of push/pull-wriggle/hop maneuvers he finally squeezed himself up and out of the Nitro. With any luck, strangling to get out of his car would be the most difficult feat that he would be called upon to perform all week.
After closing the car door he stretched his larger and pudgier than should-be self, buttoned his overcoat to keep out the chilly morning air, and smiling, paused to gaze fondly at the main Base building where he worked. Several beautiful birds flew gracefully overhead; pigeons, they appeared to be. Several smallish, furry, wild animals scurried through trash near the building entrance, probably rats. The DC suburbs were blessed with just about the right level of wildlife to suit Bates.
He opened a rear door of the old Nitro and dug through the car trash in search of his old black leather briefcase, while taking care not to let any rubbish escape out the open doorway and cause a politically incorrect littering incident. Even after a busy weekend of generating more empty fast-food bags, cups and napkins, he reckoned that the briefcase should be in a top layer of refuse and easy to locate. Sure enough he found it under the Sunday paper and two empty plastic garbage bags that he planned to use someday when the car trash situation became intolerable. He opened the briefcase to search through papers of all shapes, colors, and sizes, number-two pencils that fortunately needed sharpening and posed no danger to his searching fingers, dried-out or leaking pens, wrappers holding half-eaten candy bars, half-read magazines and paperback books with folded-back corners, and old paper-clips ensnared by disintegrating rubber-bands, to finally successfully discover his clip-on DOD ID badge.
He glanced appraisingly at the badge before clipping it on. A much younger grinning Bates, thinner and with more head hair, mockingly stared back at him. Good Christ, he thought; if he had only known then what he knew now he'd have taken up something useful and rewarding like selling surf boards in Hawaii or raising bananas in Honduras instead of physics, but now it was
too damn late: his life was more than half over and it was a pathetic failure!
After closing and locking his car, he walked towards the building main entrance. The gray cloud cover broke momentarily and a beam of bright sunlight washed over the building entranceway, the scattering rats, and the ever shifting flock of pigeons. The lovely effect tended to obscure minor details such as cracked windows, peeling paint, crumbling mortar, uncut weeds, and stinking layers of dried bird poop. Over-all, Bates took it as a sign that a good day was in the offing, and his smile returned and deepened further.
After all, why shouldn't it be a good day? What could possibly go wrong? He had some interesting experiments to perform, and he was eager to get started. Mysteries of the universe would crumble before his relentless onslaught.
Weekends and blondes in Toyotas were entirely too unpredictable and incomprehensible anyway. He would X-ray a pizza maybe, if he wanted some excitement, and the hell with women that hopelessly disrupted any semi-rational thought that a man possessed.
Bates entered the main lobby, and immediately forgot about forgetting about women. "Morning, Margaret," he said, hopefully.
Margaret Crane, appearing as always both extremely competent and stunningly attractive (How did she do it?), gazed up from her desk. "Barns wants to see you A-S-A-P Narb!”
Bates never really liked his nick-name 'Narb' that much, except perhaps when a beautiful woman like Margaret said it. However, people had been calling him Narb for over forty years instead of Narbando, and he still had hopes of getting used to it.
He was on reasonably friendly terms with Margaret, but so far that's as far as it went. Frankly, Bates felt intimidated by Margaret. Actually he felt intimidated by everybody and everything, but especially by women in general and by Margaret in particular. After all, Margaret was definitely the most physically attractive woman on the Base. Currently that is; in the Good Old Days the front office area had been mobbed with attractive women; several well distributed metric tons of them he estimated. Nowadays there just weren't very many women of any description, or men either come to think of it, still working on the Base.
Right now one woman was quite distracting enough. Even behind glasses Margaret's eyes were the bluest blue, and on the rare occasions that he got up enough nerve to meet her gaze, those eyes seemed to see right through to his very soul. A leg man, he couldn't help thinking about hers, which were fabulous, though they were now completely hidden behind the counter. Even in winter, she usually wore mini-skirts, bless her.
He suddenly realized that by using the MX-84, his project equipment for the last decade or so, an observer could probably see those spectacular legs right through the heavy wooden counter with minimum radiation damage to Margaret, if it were done with sufficient care.
That would not be very practical though; the approach would be time consuming and energy-inefficient. It would be much easier to simply wait for her to get up and walk around the counter, or for him to simply ax a hole through it. Then of course, he didn't have an ax, but he did happen to have an MX-84.
Distracted visually by Margaret and absentmindedly occupied with calculations for the flux density it would take for the MX-84 to penetrate the oak counter, it took a few seconds for his bogged down brain to finally multiplex through to Margaret's verbal message. "Barns?" he managed to stammer at last. "You say that Barns wants to see me? Fudge Winkies!”
What on Earth could the Head of DOD want with him? Even after workforce reductions left precious little remaining staff, Bates had almost no direct personal contact with Dr. Barns. The DOD Head remained an enigma within the shrinking DOD enigma, and Bates was perfectly satisfied to keep it that way. After all, nearly twenty years as a Civil Servant had taught Bates to maintain a low profile, especially when only seven years from 'early' retirement eligibility.
Being called into the Head Office could only mean one of two things, he reckoned: (1) he was being canned, or, (2) he was being volunteered for something important and high profile. Either way it was a lose-lose scenario, and whatever it was, he wanted nothing to do with it. He simply wanted the next seven years to go something like the last seven: predictable, solid, and low-key. Well actually quite dull, but dull suited Narbando T. Bates quite well, thank you so very much.
"Sorry, I have no idea why he wants to see you," Margaret answered the unspoken question headlined across Bates' paling face. "Better leave the overcoat here though," she suggested, as she glanced up pointedly towards the lobby wall-clock.
Fudge Winkies thought Bates; ten minutes late again! So then, on further reflection there was a third possible reason for this unprecedented meeting. Could Barns somehow know that he was late for work again? After all, Barns was a consummate clock-watcher. Never mind that for years there had been no critical work to do or deadlines to meet once anyone actually got to their office, or that even without overtime pay Bates and many other staff members routinely worked well beyond normal hours on their projects anyway, regardless of a lack of interest in them by anyone else in the damn peace-loving world. No, employees still had better be at work by no later than 9 AM in accordance with arcane and obscure DOD regulations, or the bean-counting John Barns types would be there to admonish them for 'wasting taxpayer money', whatever the hell that meant. No doubt about it, walk into that man's office at 9:10 AM still in a coat, and any employee would be dead meat. Bates took off and handed his overcoat to Margaret along with his briefcase, and muttered thanks. Not even waiting to see if she was going to stand up and expose her legs, he started to slowly walk towards the Head Office.
Having a meeting with a bigwig like Barns would be damn risky business, mused Bates, as he inched slowly down the hall towards the Head Office. He had to quickly compose himself and prepare for this unexpected interview as best he could.
Perhaps he should try to put Barns into a good mood right off. He could tell him a joke maybe? He tried to remember a joke to tell, but came up totally blank. He liked to listen to jokes, but he simply wasn't the joke telling sort. He could only suppose that folks that told jokes took notes, studied, and practiced in front of mirrors every night and morning in order to pull it off, and he just didn't have the time for such shenanigans.
Besides, as poor a joke-teller as Bates was, Barns was completely humorless and an even poorer joke-listener. No, he clearly needed another strategy.
He should of course look professional. Executive types seemed to like that; who the hell knows why? He checked himself over. He wasn't wearing a suit coat, but at least he wore relatively clean and unwrinkled dress shirt, pants, and tie. His clever clothing ensemble today even featured similar green colors to fit the holiday season, and maybe they even 'matched', who the hell knew? His top two shirt buttons were missing, but that was no problem, as his tie adequately held his shirt closed.
He straightened the tie nervously. It was one of his best Christmas ties: florescent green, covered with dozens of red smiley faces wearing little silver colored Santa beards and hats. Unfortunately, the nifty tie was tied wrong again, which left the narrow underneath part extending down at least ten centimeters beyond the wider outer part.
No problem! He tucked the offending part of the tie into his shirt. That clever move renewed his confidence a little, and reminded him that he was after all a scientist: a born problem solver of near-genius ability.
Then he noticed that his shirt wasn't tucked into his pants. No problem! He tucked it in. Unfortunately, tucking it in made more evident the fact that he had forgotten to wear a belt again. No problem! He found that if he tucked in just the bottom edge of the shirt, the resulting lose shirt folds were long enough to cover the offending belt-empty area.
However, looking down over the bulge of his belly and past the bilowing shirt, he noticed that he was wearing his old beat-up running shoes (Not that he would ever actually run in them!) without socks. Good gravy! Old orange running shoes probably weren’t considered to be sufficiently formal office-place attire! Also, he
seemed to recall a VISICOM fashion news brief a few months or years ago that stated that wearing socks was back 'in' again, and VIP executives like Barns probably kept up with that silly sort of stuff.
No problem! By pulling his pants down a few inches, his baggy pants' cuffs hid his knobby, sock-less ankles and grubby orange sneakers. Thank goodness bell-bottom pants had finally come back 'in’ again about ten years ago, and he had the fashion sense to keep and continue to use every article of clothing that he ever owned. Luckily as long as he took little baby steps and slouched down a little, which was how he normally walked anyway, there was still enough spare shirt to hide the empty belt loops on the lowered bell-bottoms.
Now that all of his clothes fashion problems had been completely and effectively solved, his confidence was renewed, and his fertile mind began to churn again through the three possible reasons for the meeting with Barns.
It could mean that a reduction in force (RIF) was happening. But those were usually Base-wide, and typically proceeded by several weeks of rumors, mostly false, about who would get the ax, and how it would be justified, and what exit benefits, if any, were to be provided to the parting victims. Bates had heard nothing about RIFs for several months.
Of course, perhaps the remaining Base staff levels had dropped below some critical density value required to support the reliable spread of rumors. Alternatively, maybe rumors were predominantly a chaotic phenomenon that even with significant further study and conventional computer modeling couldn't be understood or depended upon for predictable timely information, regardless of staff density.
Bates had no idea, so his hopeless thought process moved on to considering the 'hot job' scenario, while at the same time he was attempting to find his hair comb. He must have left the comb in his overcoat, so he combed his hair with his fingers, and that was yet another problem solved! He breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. He was a born problem solver! After all this, he could probably handle anything that Barns could throw at him!
So then, what about the 'hot job' scenario? Upon further reflection, that didn't seem very likely. The DOD, as far as Bates knew, hadn't had real work in years, let along a 'hot' job to which additional researchers needed to be assigned. Even all of the mysterious secret 'black' projects seemed to be gone. Bates felt that he had at least vague ideas of what projects virtually all the few remaining Base scientists and engineers were working on, and he couldn't imagine contributing meaningfully to any of them.
Besides, their projects like his were winding down, and with the funding decreases that everyone faced, why on Earth would anyone want to add another researcher to their project? A mother in-law or an insurance salesman would be more warmly welcomed into most projects than would an additional fund-sucking physicist. Why, if he were to be added to someone's project now they'd surely riot, super glue his pencils to desks and ceilings, spike his hot cocoa with EXLAX, and shoot him up with rubber-band slung paper clips until he was driven off. Scientists are after all highly territorial, especially when under budget stress.
That seemed to leave only a third possibility: the late-worker scenario. Barns must have found out that he was late again, but how could he have known? After all, the Head Office windows faced away from the employee parking lot; Bates had researched that issue very thoroughly over the years. So then, it was therefore highly unlikely that Barns could know when he had arrived at work.
Unless someone else had told him. But who would do something like that? Who had the motive, opportunity, knowledge, capability, and so-forth?
Following a final twist of hallway, Bates suddenly found himself facing the answer to those questions. In the lobby outside the Head Office sat Ms. Sally Twig, also known less than affectionately by her coworkers as The Crab, head secretary for the Head of DOD. Over the rounded, bony, middle-aged shoulders of the diminutive but nonetheless imposing personage of the infamous Crab, Bates could see the big window behind her desk. And through that window he could see his old primer-gray Chevy Nitro, still smoking a little from its recent uninhibited tryst with the perky young red Toyota.
Things were starting to become very clear now. For some reason Twig must have it in for him. Everyone knew who really ran the Defense Department; certainly not Barns, his secretary usually did, of course. That's what head secretaries always did, and The Crab was certainly no exception. Now Bates realized that he was in very serious trouble indeed. "Fudge Winkies!" he quietly muttered.
Also present in the lobby was the immensely tall, incredibly thin, silent, and mysterious Renson. He was supposed to be some sort of staff specialist for Barns, but he seemed to always be quietly hovering around Twig like a great vulture. Currently, Renson stood perched in a corner staring blankly at the opposite wall, seemingly oblivious to everything. Great work if you can get it, reflected Bates.
Nothing escaped The Crab's notice, however. Twig arose from her nesting place and walked around Bates, strutting like a Marine drill sergeant, inspecting him with little prods and yanks to shirt, tie and hair. "Glad to see you could make it in at last, Dr. Bates," said The Crab. "And aren't you looking stylishly professional this morning!"
Actually Bates was reconsidering his appearance. Maybe instead of wearing greenish Christmassy colors he should have worn all institutional gray that matched the Base walls and floor, rendering him virtually invisible even to the snooping Crab. Too late now though. She had seen him and seemed almost happy about it.
Indeed there seemed to be some indefinable sense of triumph in her snide but unusually cheery manner this morning, as though his very presence and appearance had verified something in her favor. If it were in her power to smile, Bates felt that she probably would have. Not a cheerful, reassuring, Humpty-Dumpty sort of smile, but an 'I gotcha right where I want ya' shark kind of smile. If course she didn't smile, and in fact had never been known by anyone on the Base to smile. There was a long-standing unsettled bet between several prominent Base scientists on whether or not she had any teeth.
"Dr. Barns will see you now," Twig at last announced, for Bates had apparently passed muster. To his astonishment a slight, close-mouthed smile formed on her thin lips as she grasped his shirt sleeve in one bony, claw-like hand, and yanked him towards the door to the Head Office. Oddly enough, her bowlegged crab-like gate matched Bates' baby step, grubby-shoe-hiding-pace fairly well.
If he was going to panic and run away, Bates knew that this was theoretically the time to do so. Even if it meant taking long, ankle-exposing strides, he should probably vamoose now. Even he could probably outrun bow-legged Twig. However, though his larger than middle-sized frame towered over tiny Twig even when slouching, he had always felt powerless in her presence, though he could never figure out why. Just a look from The Crab and he was Jell-O. It wasn't just that she was a woman or at least purported to be one; there was an ugly something deeper and indefinable about her that chilled and paralyzed the soul.
Indeed, just now Bates felt like a helpless butterfly being forced into one of his biologist friend Oscar Oscomb's insect collections. Twig would now open the metaphorical lid of the bug-killing jar and throw him in. Barns would administer the ether. Then he would be properly skewered and hung out to dry.
All too soon even though he had been taking only extra-small baby steps, the heavy oak door/jar lid to the Head Office was opened by Twig, and Bates was shoved by her into the inner sanctum of what had once been the most powerful Department of the Government of the United States of America. She closed the door behind them and stood at a parade-rest stance in front of it, blocking any possible escape, while still sporting a slight smile as she watched him with her dark, beady little all-seeing eyes.
Behind a huge mahogany desk flanked by several flags and photos on the wall of recent presidents shown shaking his hand sat Dr. John Thaddeus Barns, the man tasked by Congress to administer an end to DOD, as quickly and as cheaply as possible, though strictly within regulations, of course. That Barns had indeed systematically gutte
d the DOD, but nevertheless for several years managed to actually stretch out its life, and consequently, his own well-paid position as well, was testament to his administrative and political skills. A world renowned scientist, a former U.S. Senator, and a well-known public figure, he was truly a great man.
Right now, the great man sat beaming up at Bates like an idiot. It was the first time that Bates had ever seen him smile at all. Even at Christmas parties with a few belts of well-spiked punch in him, Barns had never been known to crack even the slightest smile. It seemed to Bates that he had been saving it all up for now. It was not a pretty sight, and Bates felt his legs nearly buckle as he abruptly entered a state of utter terror.
"Ah, Dr. Bates," said Barns, smiling as he bounced his small roly-poly little balding self up out of his chair to greet Bates with a surprisingly firm and warm handshake. "It’s so good to see you, Dr. Bates! Here, have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
Guided firmly by the Crab's pincer-hard grip on his shoulders, Bates sat down numbly, more than a little confused by this warm welcome from a man that had never before paid the slightest attention to him, while Barns, in an animated display of energy and apparent enthusiasm seldom seen at DOD in recent years, put on his much more familiar serious face, and started to pace the room rapidly.
"We shall both be having a very busy day today, Dr. Bates, so let's get right to it.”
"Yes sir," croaked Bates weakly, surprised to find that he had any voice at all.
"Bates, as you well know, DOD is a dying department. There is nothing left of it now but this single, aging research base, and its aging, depleted staff. Oh, I've fought with Congress to preserve projects and personnel for as long as possible, but it's simply a losing battle.”
Barns fought to preserve personnel? That's not what Bates had heard, but he prudently decided not to make an issue of it at this particular moment.
Barns continued, waving his pudgy little arms as he talked, as if he were conducting a symphony. A snappy Brahms movement, perhaps, thought Bates, loaded with drama. Meanwhile the Crab stood to one side watching and listening, smiling her scary-looking close-lipped smile. "We have good people here, some of the best in their fields, and we should do everything possible to carry on. However…” Barns shook his head and frowned. "Are you familiar with the MAPRA?”
"Yes sir," Bates managed to whisper. What Civil Servant wasn't? The MAn Power Reduction Act was said to define maximum permissible DOD staff levels, though of course in such unintelligible lawyer-addled politically charged language that nobody that Bates knew was quite sure exactly what the hell the document really meant.
"Good!” continued Barns. "Frankly, starting tomorrow Bates, we would be one scientific staff position over the MAPRA legal limit. I don't have to tell you that all hell would break loose if that was allowed to happen. Audits, RIFs, and God knows what!”
Bates could well imagine the ‘what’ scenario. Why, if the miserly taxpaying public at large were to find out that a hundred and fifty DOD workers still actually existed, the Government would be pressured to dissolve the entire group immediately!
Barns turned to stare straight down into Bates' eyes. "There's simply no way around it Bates, someone has got to go! Today!”
When his heart started up again, Bates, again imagining himself as a butterfly about to be gassed to death, could sense the ether coming. He slowed his breathing to a minimum, as that should offer some protection. He wandered if butterflies ever used similar stratagems. As a last, inspired, defiant act as a scientist, he started to take his own pulse. Later, if he ever recovered enough emotionally, he could graph the results and send it off to some journal as a technical short paper, probably his last, on the effects of terror on the pulse rates of scientists. He took a deep breath and held it as part of his last-ditch strategy. After all, he wasn't a butterfly; as a reasoning human being he could protect himself from the ether. He wondered why he hadn't thought to wear a gas mask that morning.
In the meantime Barns continued, after a suitable pause to let the gravity of the situation fully sink in. "I want you to know that I've worked really hard on this one, Bates. However, my position demands that I make some very hard decisions. Over the last few days Ms. Twig and I studied the personnel records of all remaining staff. You, Dr. Bates, are at best a scientist of very limited talents."
Besides being a mediocre scientist, Bates also wasn't very good at holding his breath. His face was already red and blotchy, his bulging eyes glassy and unfocused. Barns, displaying his usual lack of perception and absence of sensitivity towards humanity, appeared not to notice, while Twig continued to watch and smile, and occasionally nod in approval at what Barns was saying.
"Your performance has been satisfactory, of course, but simply does not meet the highest standards of Government scientific service. Your projects are low priority. In brief, as of this afternoon, your services here as a scientist will not be missed."
With an audible "pooh" Bates exhaled, then helplessly inhaled deeply. There had never really been any chance for his escape. He slumped panting in his chair; limp, numb and ready for skewering and mounting.
He was actually being fired! Over the last few years he had often envisioned what he would do and say if this happened, but right now he couldn't seem to remember any of those things, and he couldn't seem to do or say anything at all! He should at least tell Barns off, but he didn't seem to have any words, or voice, or coherent thought, and had completely lost track of his pulse, so forget about technical short papers.
It was as if his entire being had just been flushed down some cold unfeeling abyss. Everything, his work, his friends here, his cluttered but comfortably familiar desk and office/lab, his VIP employee parking, and any chances he had with Margaret: everything was gone! He was numb. If Barns were at that moment to also kick him in the shins and give him a noogie, he couldn't have lifted a single finger in his own defense.
Dimly, he was aware that Barns was still talking. He was saying something about having had a long talk with Mel and some of the other scientists about him. That he was confident that everything would work out. That the ceremony had to be that afternoon, because of the fishing trip/honeymoon. That there should be no retirement luncheon, perhaps just gifts for his Little Cuddles.
"Huh?" said Bates. Regaining full awareness was an agonizing process, with musty cobwebs and cotton candy still clogging up his mind, and the butterfly gassing and skewering analogy still further confusing things. His first lucid thought was that full scale insanity had finally struck him down while we wasn't really paying close enough attention.
Barns was by now again sitting behind his desk and staring across at him with that idiot grin again, but holding a spinning rod in one hand. On his head was a fishing hat, bristling with hook-laden flies, spinners, minnow-lures, and green, goggle-eyed rubber frogs.
Sitting on his lap was Little Cuddles, alias The Crab, hugging Barns with her thin spindly arms, while managing to still keep a respectful distance from the fish-hook laden fishing hat. She was actually smiling even wider, though it was still a closed-mouth smile that shed no light on the teeth issue. It was the most astonishing thing Bates had ever seen, and he could only sit gaping at them as open-mouthed and wide-eyed as a stunned mackerel!
"I said: we were married just this morning.” Again, the expectant pause and idiot smile from Barns.
"Oh, of course; congratulations sir!” managed Bates, rising numbly for a moment to reach over the desk and shake Barns' hand, spinning rod and all. "And of course, congratulations to...ER...Mrs. Barns also.” Twig actually smiled (With closed mouth!) at Bates. Perhaps she was marginally human after all!
"Now, Bates," said Barns, returning quickly to his no-nonsense business demeanor, "I want you to go clean out your desk immediately and be back here at 1300 sharp. We have some things to discuss before the ceremony is held in the auditorium at 1400."
Bates could only sit there like an idiot. Clear
ly he still hadn't pieced everything together yet. What ceremony, if they were already married? And what did Barns getting married have to do with him cleaning out his desk? Did they mean to see him kicked off the Base before leaving on their honeymoon? Two and two were still adding up to three or less, and Bates didn't like to be confused, even though it was his usual state.
"Ah sir, does there have to be a ceremony?" he ventured tentatively, staring at a big, bug eyed, green rubber frog that now threatened the right ear of Little Cuddles.
"Of course there does," answered Barns, in astonishment. "Just a little one as these things go though: not like in the Good Old Days of course. No time to plan a decent one anyway. But you can't very well take over as the new Department Head of DOD without some sort of ceremony now, can you?"
"Head of DOD?" stammered Bates, eyes agog even further and mouth gaping. "Me?”
"Now Bates, I know it's not science, just administration,” Barns consoled, “but I think you'll find that the job has its rewards. Don't worry; I'm sure you will do quite well.” Barns gave a little nod of his head that very nearly hooked Twig with one of the frogs, but still smiling, she ducked skillfully out of the way. "I'll leave you my VISICOM number of course, in case you need some advice getting started. I’m retiring, but I’ll still be in the area. But we have every confidence in you, don't we Cuddles?”
"Yes of course we do, Lamby Pie," cooed Cuddles. Ignoring Bates, the lovebirds rubbed noses affectionately as they embraced and smiled at each other.
Bates suddenly felt sick to his stomach. The sight of The Crab being affectionate, and with Barns of all people, was simply too much to bear. As the couple was no longer paying any attention to him, he decided that it was time for him to quietly leave, while he still had some control over his breakfast. He stood up on unsteady legs, edged towards the door awkwardly, and opened it quietly.
"Bates!” called out Barns, as Bates was discretely shunting through the doorway. "Tell Crane to spread the word.”
"Yes sir!” replied Bates.
He walked away from the office gingerly, while cautiously checking to see if gravity and other natural laws of physics were still in effect. Was he still in the same universe, or had he slipped through a worm-hole and stumbled into Never-Never Land or something?
While he wandered numbly past her counter, a concerned Margaret Crane asked Bates if he was OK. The dazed and pale scientist could only stammer something about having to clean out his desk, that someone had to leave the Civil Service today to meet MAPRA limits, and that she should spread the word about a retirement ceremony in the auditorium at 1400.
Working from such a poor batch of information, she naturally got the story slightly wrong. VISICOMs were soon abuzz across the Base. In minutes, the staff density still being quite adequate to support the chaotic spread of rumors, all the remaining meager resources of DOD were being brought to bear. At 1400 today, the friends of Dr. Narbando Thaddeus Bates would gather to respectfully say good-by and wish him well. Word was out that poor Bates was being canned!
****