 Photo courtesy of Nasa |
Let's Sign Up For Eight
by
Greg Beatty
"I don't understand. You can design a completely safe manned mission to Mars, on the current budget, but only if we agree to a series of four flights?"
Jeff nodded, most of his attention fixed on bandaging his finger.
"Why four?"
"You wouldn't believe me," he said, "so just tell the President about the deal."
His supervisor crossed her arms. After the recent spate of tragedies, nobody at NASA was skipping any question. "Jeff? I gotta know."
"You won't like it."
"I like surprises even less."
Jeff sighed. "Okay, here's the deal. I was staying late, trying to find a way," he gestured hopelessly.
Sharon finished for him. "Trying to find a way to get us to Mars on the budget we've been given, before the public support from the recent probe runs out." What she didn't say was, "and working overtime without pay to do it." That could go unspoken because everybody did it.
"Yeah," Jeff said. "And after I'd compared the timeline against the technological demands and financial constraints for the 10 goddamn thousandth time, I lost it."
"That's what happened to the monitor?" They glanced at the smoking pile of rubble.
"Yeah," Jeff said again. "I lost it. I threw my damn 'Quality' mug through the screen--"
"And maybe a few other things?"
Jeff shrugged. "Maybe. And then I screamed."
Sharon jumped when Jeff screamed, only settling down when it resolved into words.
"AAAAARGHAYYAII-I-I I swear I'd sell my soul to the devil himself if it would get a manned mission to Mars. Can I go now, Shar? It's been a long night."
"What? No. What happened?"
"Oh, I thought that was obvious. All of a sudden, there he was. Big. Red. Horned. Flaming."
Sharon started to speak, but Jeff spun his chair on its wheels, revealing two scorched hoofmarks on the floor.
"And he said, 'Do you mean that?'"
" 'Sure,' I said. 'What do I have to lose?'"
" 'Your soul,' he said."
" 'Deal.'" Once again, Jeff stopped talking, like he thought he was done. Sharon stepped towards him, ready to strangle him. "Finish the story," she said.
Jeff shrugged. "I'm an engineer. He's the devil. We each did what we had to do. I insisted on multiple tests-three manned beta flights runs before the official mission-- to demonstrate that his design was bug-free. He insisted on the contract being signed in blood." Jeff waved the bandaged finger. "We worked out the wording together. It took a lot of blood."
"But Jeff-your soul?"
"Well, I could say I'm an engineer, I don't have a soul."
"But?"
"But damn, woman. It's Mars. I'd swap a 1000 souls for a safe trip, and build 10,000 new souls from the wonder we find on a brand new planet. Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same!"
In response, Sharon picked up a shard from the monitor and slashed her palm. "Call him back," Sharon said, her blood flowing freely. "Let's sign up for eight."
Greg Beatty lives with his wife in Bellingham , Washington , where he tries, unsuccessfully to stay dry. He writes everything from children's books to essays about his cooking debacles. He has a particular fondness for speculative poetry—he won the 2005 Rhysling Award—and flash fiction.
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