Connie Willis - Blued Moon

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2024-11-24 0 0 60.08KB 30 页 5.9玖币

BLUED MOON

Connie Willis

One of the chanciest areas of scientific study is that which tries to delineate and predict the laws of

probability-for probability is subject to change without notice, it seems. (Actually it isn't- but it's always possible for

strange things to happen that stretch those "laws" without breaking them.) Here we have a funny novelette that will

stretch your grin as much as it stretches the laws.

Connie Willis won two Nebula Awards in one night in 1983 for her short fiction, most of which is thoughtful and

moving. So is this story, but it brings an added dimension of humor that's rare in science fiction.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: Mowen Chemical today announced implementation of an

innovative waste emissions installation at its experimental facility in Chugwater, Wyo-ming.

According to project directors Bradley McAfee and Lynn Saunders, nonutilizable

hydrocarbonaceous substances will be propulsively transferred to stratospheric altitudinal

locations, where photochemical decomposition will result in triatomic allotropism and

formation of benign bicarbonaceous precipitates. Preliminary predictive databasing indicates

posi-tive ozonation yields without statistically significant shifts in lateral ecosystem equilibria.

"Do you suppose Walter Hunt would have invented the safety pin if he had known that punk

rockers would stick them through their cheeks?" Mr. Mowen said. He was look-ing gloomily

out the window at the distant 600-foot-high smokestacks.

"I don't know, Mr. Mowen," Janice said. She sighed. "Do you want me to tell them to wait

again?"

The sigh was supposed to mean, It's after four o'clock and it's getting dark, and you've

already asked Research to wait three times, and when are you going to make up your mind? but

Mr. Mowen ignored it.

"On the other hand," he said. "What about diapers? And all those babies that would have

been stuck with straight pins if it hadn't been for the safety pin?"

"It is supposed to help restore the ozone layer, Mr. Mowen," Janice said. "And according to

Research, there won't be any harmful side effects."

"You shoot a bunch of hydrocarbons into the stratosphere, and there won't be any harmful

side effects. According to Research." Mr. Mowen swivelled his chair around to look at Janice,

nearly knocking over the picture of his daughter Sally that sat on his desk. "I stuck Sally once.

With a safety pin. She screamed for an hour. How's that for a harmful side effect? And what

about the stuff that's left over after all this ozone is formed? Bicarbonate of soda, Research

says. Per-fectly harmless. How do they know that? Have they ever dumped bicarbonate of soda

on people before? Call Research…"he started to say, but Janice had already picked up the

phone and tapped the number. She didn't even sigh. "Call Research and ask them to figure out

what effect a bicarbonate of soda rain would have."

"Yes, Mr. Mowen," Janice said. She put the phone up to her ear and listened for a moment.

"Mr. Mowen…" she said hesitantly.

"I suppose Research says it'll neutralize the sulfuric acid that's killing the statues and

sweeten and deodorize at the same time."

"No, sir," Janice said. "Research says they've already started the temperature-differential

kilns, and you should be seeing something in a few minutes. They say they couldn't wait any

longer.''

Mr. Mowen whipped back around in his chair to look out the window. The picture of Sally

teetered again, and Mr. Mowen wondered if she were home from college yet. Noth-ing was

coming out of the smokestacks. He couldn't see the candlestick-base kilns through the maze of

fast-food places and trailer parks. A McDonald's sign directly in front of the smokestacks

blinked on suddenly, and Mr. Mowen jumped. The smokestacks themselves remained silent

and still except for their blinding strobe aircraft lights. He could see sagebrush-covered hills in

the space between the stacks, and the whole scene, except for the McDonald's sign, looked

unbelievably serene and harmless.

"Research says the kilns are fired to full capacity," Janice said, holding the phone against

her chest.

Mr. Mowen braced himself for the coming explosion. There was a low rumbling like distant

fire, then a puff of whitish smoke, and finally a deep, whooshing sound like one of Janice's

sighs, and two columns of blue shot straight up into the darkening sky.

"Why is it blue?" Mr. Mowen said.

"I already asked," Janice said. "Research says visible spectrum diffraction is occurring

because of the point eight micron radü of the hydrocarbons being propelled…"

"That sounds like that damned press release," Mr. Mowen said. "Tell them to speak

English."

After a minute of talking into the phone, she said, "It's the same effect that causes the sunsets

after a volcanic eruption. Scattering. Research wants to know what staff members you'd like to

have at the press conference tomorrow."

"The directors of the project," Mr. Mowen said grumpily, "and anyone over at Research

who can speak English."

Janice looked at the press release. "Bradley McAfee and Lynn Saunders are the directors,"

she said.

"Why does the name McAfee sound familiar?"

"He's Ulric Henry's roommate. The company linguist you hired to…"

"I know why I hired him. Invite Henry, too. And try to get Sally as soon as she gets home.

Tell her that I expect her there; and tell her to dress up." He looked at his watch. "Well," he

said. "It's been going five minutes, and there haven't been any harmful side effects yet."

The phone rang. Mr. Mowen jumped. "I knew it was too good to last," he said. "Who is it?

The EPA?"

"No," Janice said, and sighed. "It's your ex-wife."

"I'm shut of that," Brad said when Ulric came in the door. He was sitting in the dark, the

green glow of the monitor lighting his face. He tapped at the terminal keys for a minute more

and then turned around. "All done. Slicker'n goose grease."

Ulric turned on the light. "The waste-emissions project?" he said.

"Nope. We turned that on this afternoon. Works prettier than a spotted pony. No, I been

spending the last hour erasing my fiancee Lynn's name from the project records."

"Won't Lynn object to that?" Ulric said, fairly calmly, mostly because he did not have a very

clear idea of which one Lynn was. He never could tell Brad's fiancees apart. They all sounded

exactly the same.

"She won't hear tell of it till it's too late," Brad said. "She's on her way to Cheyenne to catch

a plane back east. Her mother's all het up about getting a divorce. Caught her husband Adam 'n'

Evin'."

If there was anything harder to put up with than Brad's rottenness, it was his incredibly good

luck. While Ulric was sure Brad was low enough to engineer a sudden family crisis to get Lynn

out of Chugwater, he was just as sure that he had had no need to. It was a lucky coincidence

that Lynn's mother was getting a divorce just now, and lucky coinci-dences were Brad's

specialty. How else could he have kept three fiancees from ever meeting each other in the

small confines of Chugwater and Mowen Chemical?

"Lynn?" Ulric said. "Which one is that? The redhead in programming?''

"Nope, that's Sue. Lynn's little and yellow-haired and smart as a whip about chemical

engineering. Kind of a dodunk about every thin' else."

"Dodunk," Ulric said to himself. He should make a note to look that up. It probably meant

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Connie Willis - Blued Moon

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