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Date Posted: 22:12:37 04/22/09 Wed
Author: Grumpy
Author Host/IP: 67-61-232-104.cpe.cableone.net / 67.61.232.104
Subject: Revisions to date:
In reply to: Grumpy 's message, "I think Glass Eye is" on 22:01:44 04/22/09 Wed

Our adventure begins on a dusty road somewhere in the Southwest – a haven for rattlesnakes, scorpions, roadrunners and vultures (and humans of a sort, who are too tired, lazy, or indifferent to life to be elsewhere). At an inconsequential intersection on this inconsequential road, cowers a small, defeated-seeming store which has lackadaisical pretensions to utility for those too timid, too poverty-stricken, or too lazy to hie themselves off to more nearly civilized environs for their needs.

Along this dusty road, bobbing up over the horizon, can be seen what seems to be, in the heat-laden air, a dark round ball perched atop a cricket bat. As it draws nearer, and the shimmering heat waves lose their power to conceal truth, it assumes the appearance of a lad in his late teens perhaps. This youth, of indefinite ethnicity and dubious perspicacity, is known as Paco, and in mourning because of the loss of his one true love, Trixie, the Stripping Cannonball, to a fiercer competitor in the game of love, he has abandoned home and hearth in search of philosophical solace wherever he may find it. Footsore, weary, thirsty and addled by the sun, the young man finally arrives at the storefront under the gaze of the impassive proprietor and promptly collapses in the dust, leaning b ack against the storefront. He squints upward against the sun’s glare and remarks “Hot.” This demonstration of intellectual prowess seems to stun the storekeeper, for he merely regards the youth impassively, awaiting further enlightenment. The youth struggles to discover further efforts worthy of vocalization, and comes up with “Water?” The storekeeper frowns doubtfully “Ten cents.” The kid wearily nods his head in assent.

“Ahhh. Dry. Do people live out here?”

“Some.”

“Do they talk?”

“Some.”

In a last desperate attempt at communication, the kid blurts “My name’s Paco. Any chance I can find work and a place to stay for a while?”

The storekeeper gawks at the boy in astonishment. “Work? Doin’ what? Sweepin’ sand?” He gazes across the barren landscape and shakes his head derisively. His roving gaze comes to a sudden halt, and a smile distorts his face. “But you might find a place to stay. Here comes one of our local lights who has a place out in the hills. He might want some company besides the coyotes.”

Stumbling down a footpath which meanders undecidedly along the hillside, a gaunt, wrinkled, balding caricature of a desert recluse draped in rags and wreathed in dust approaches the store.Cackling, mumbling and humming disjointed phrases in some indistinguishable language, he skids to a halt in front of the youth and fixes hi m with a mad glare. “Well, come on. I’ve waited for you long enough. It’s a long walk back, and I don’t want to waste any more time here; let’s go.” With that he turns on his heel and stalks back along the path. Paco stares at his retreating back in astonishment, nonplussed at such an abrupt “greeting” and departure. Numbly he rises, looks at the storekeeper, shakes his head in bewilderment, and shrugging, turns and hastens in the wake of the retreating hermit.

Over the following weeks, Paco assumed the role of student to Glass Eye’s Mentor, and was introduced to various mystical practices intended to develop his sense of events as they happened and as they would happen, together with an ability to influence events in some small and some large ways. The Mentor taught Paco that the mind, properly employed, is a powerful instrument, and for those with the ability and will to focus on it properly, an instrument that obeys the will of the user. Paco was a willing student, but a slow learner, causing his teacher much irritation. Still, progress was made, and the boy began to develop some small abilities, which alas, did not extend to musicianship.

Glass Eye frequently puzzled Paco with references to long ago events which he described from the viewpoint of one who had been present to watch those events. It became clear, as time passed, that he was claiming exactly that, and Paco at last asked Glass Eye just exactly what his age might be. Glass Eye paused in his tasks, ruminated at length, and finally responded, “I’m not sure, but I think I remember the French Revolution as taking place during my childhood. I just don’t know how long I was a child.”

A watching observer would have seen Paco shrivel into a ball of uncertain confusion, awe and doubt. “But, but …I mean, geez, that’s way over two hundred years! How can that be?”

Glass Eye sighed, “Give it time, boy, give it time. You’ll see. Suffice it to say it’s possible. Sometimes it’s not all that great, but it seems necessary.”

Paco subsided into silence and fixed his gaze on his task for the day, another exercise assigned by his mentor – a small pebble that was defying his efforts to move it without touching it.

Prologue: The Calm Before The Storm
Above the Mojave, a buzzard circled. It dipped one wing, flicked the other, and ignored the parasites just below the border of its mangy neckline of feathers as it danced the breeze for another pass at some obscure specks of promising interest. One myopic eye, riveted to its mottled skull - a dull, dead button- carefully tracked said speck…not that the specks moved much. But the buffeting winds billowing up from their clash with the corrugated gulley floor annoyed it greatly. Made it downright testy, in fact. So it screeched a harsh complaint to itself, flipped another wing and circled around for another pass at what it hoped would soon be a potential bounty in an otherwise harsh world.
Below the buzzard, Paco glanced skyward. Simultaneously, he strummed his pale blue Fender Stratocaster, cursed at his broken upper E string, and wondered what the circling speck high above wanted.
"Damned bird," he muttered and twisted his fingers into a mockery of an F minor. "Annoying. That bloody bird is just annoying."
"I can sympathize," replied his one-eyed Mentor. "But be gentle. It only wants to eat you."
Paco strummed the guitar. He hoped to reproduce- in some vague way- one of the riffs from Hendrix’s Woodstock rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, but gave birth, instead, to an acoustic trainwreck.
"Me?" Paco challenged. "Wants to eat me, does it? I haven’t seen a decent mirror in weeks, but last I looked you’re closer to his kind of menu than I."
The Mentor laughed at that, and leaned his back against a rusting water pump. "Methinks he’ll eat whatever presents itself. Not so particular are buzzards. Why, he’d happily pluck that succulent eyeball from yon socket without a second thought. After all, as you are led to torture that guitar, so it is driven to dine upon any available fare."
Paco produced another off-key chord, flinched, and spat. "Could you pump me up some water, old man? My mouth is full of sand."
The Mentor rose to his feet, dirty robes flowing in the hot desert air, and made a futile effort to beat some of the dust from his scraggly, dirty-white beard. "I will on the condition that you play something different. Otherwise you can shrivel up and blow away. Or I will."
The buzzard, circling much lower now, cast a final streaking shadow over the two of them before turning on one wing and gliding out of sight behind the run down shack that our two heroes called home.
"But of course, old man," Paco conceded, and proceeded immediately to rattle off a different series of tortured chords.
The Mentor paused, pulled at his beard for good measure, and began to work the pump.
And Paco played on.
As the Mentor continued to man the aqua-conveyor, he gritted his teeth and flinched at each sour note.
As Paco plucked the strings.
And the Mentor pumped with renewed vigor, praying for the trickle that would occupy his young friend with its wet, lifegiving, all renewing, pangenatorial (I think one major reason why this happens so much with genitives--and I don’t mean usages that are clearly ablative or clearly partitive--constitute a structural rather than a semantic category, by which I don't mean to espouse any linguistic theory, but simply to regurgitate an old,old dictum that the Genitive is the "Adnominal" or "Adjectival"case, the case of a noun that depends upon and qualifies another noun in the same way that an adjective does, either attributively or predicatively.) prowess. He struggled with the lever, knowing that when the gush issued forth, that the acoustic gyrations would cease.
But, alas, the water did not come.
"Ah…Paco…?" The Mentor’s voice was low and uncertain. "There…doesn’t seem to be any water in the well."

Paco stopped short. He put down the guitar and lept to his feet.
"No water? That’s impossible! This planet is seventy five percent water!"
The mentor blinked his good eye, and turning to Paco, tapped his glass replacement. "Apparently, we’ve fallen upon that other twenty five percent. I can divine a location for a new well, but meanwhile, you’ll need to fetch some from Rattlesnake Gulch."
Paco’s guitar swung lazily to his side, the butt end dragging in the dust. "Rattlesnake Gulch? But…jesus…that’s two hours away. I don’t have any water, and I’ll be kissing cacti just to get there. And there are rattlesnakes…"
"Indeed. Best hop to it before noon. If the sun sets, those varmints will be out in force," the Mentor replied dismissively.
And so, leaving Glass Eye to rummage through the ramshackle dwelling for his twin copper rods, Paco loaded his red wagon, with several collapsible 5 gallon water buffaloes, slung his Fender under his arm, and trundled off across the desert.
Commentary:
Dear Reader: at this point, we must ask that you forgive our abbreviated account of the misadventures of Our Most Holy Paco. Working as we are with truncated fragments of texts scribed long ago, it becomes a daunting task to relate to you the true depth and breadth of our heroes’ roles in that affair known only to history as "The Great Discombobulation". Much of what is known to us has been passed down for generations by word of mouth, alone. Historians have gathered some facts, and archeologists others, but ultimately the few record keepers of these events in this long-ago era tended to scribble only broad outlines concerning these very complicated affairs.
But from what we do know, Paco did set off across that desert on this fateful day- not a month after the third ascension of the political figure remembered by current history only as ‘POTUS. And he did so with a heart full of song (all in minor keys, of course) pulling his wee red wagon with purpose and a mighty thirst. Bear in mind, however, that our Paco was a stranger to neither want nor hardship. But now, Dear Reader, Paco set forth with a sense of purpose that can only be perfected when survival is threatened. And set forth he did. Our records indicate that he marched for hours- indeed, at least two of them- before he found Rattlesnake Gulch. And there, having filled his water containers, he carefully stacked them high upon the wagon, before turning for home.
But, alas, as he neared the lip of the Gulch, something quite unexpected happened: Paco lost his footing on a small, round rock.
It has long been a matter of debate within the learned circles of the Holy Order of Paco whether this was coincidence, providence, or the attempted interference of El Toro. To the best of this singular priest’s reasoning, the location of The Quickening fell just beneath an outcropping of rock which stood steady for hundreds of years previous to the event. However, an earthquack recorded by locals in an entirely different and disconnected Holy Tome indicate that the rock face was weakened, thereby allowing this one, small stone to roll its chaotic way down onto the path that our hero was to tread. Imagining, as we may, that the Most Holy Paco was straining and laboring under his burden of water, he simply failed to pay attention to his footing.
Being a man of faith as I am, though, I postulate that El Toro placed the stone intentionally in his path, and fate intervened for the completion of purpose.
We now return you to the official Holy History:

When Paco lost his footing, he fell hard. Face into the dust, rear into the rocks, rolling and sliding down the canyon face. The injuries obtained along the decent were painful. The disorientation and confusion accompanying the fall were nauseating. But it was the last stage, the completion of the act, !!that made the event what it truly was. Oh yes, the impact was hard. It rattled Paco’s brain, thrashed it about inside his skull and left nothing of his world but a blinding white light. But it was the final act of fate- the ultimate cruelty that sealed his hardship. The wagon, laden with the weight of water, found a soft landing on Paco’s abused body.

We must abandon Paco for a moment in order to reveal the unfolding of events back at his Mentor, Glass Eye’s, establishment. For truly, there on his doorstep (so to speak) strange events were manifesting in an unspeakable manner. From nowhere, it seemed, a strange-appearing storm had begun, a most unusual storm indeed, for there were no clouds in the sky and yet a most unseasonal rain was falling from a belligerently blue sky, and harsh, dust-laden gusts of wind created a muddy, and thankfully temporary modern art motif on available vertical surfaces. Paco’s mentor sighed, scuttled to the porch and perched on his stool, his attention focused on the center of the purely local maelstrom visiting his domicile. From that maelstrom, it appeared, an ovoid something began to manifest, appearing alternately blue, aluminum or transparent in coloration. It swiftly resolved itself into a metallic object some four meters in diameter and five in height, hovering just above the sand and seeming to spin on its axis while the wind and rain gradually abated as the object solidified, and then sank softly to earth. The spinning ceased, the weather returned to its oppressive normal state, and quiet pings and poppings became audible.

Quiet descended, and the side of the ovoid suddenly formed an opening which swung outward, revealing the interior to the Mentor’s gaze. A ramp spat out to the ground and from within the craft(?) came a procession of four people, three garbed in women’s clothing and the fourth in men’s clothing from a century earlier. All were male, apparently, and their speech was German. Curses, scatological and profane, sprang from their lips as they teetered down the ramp onto the ground. (Free translation provided hereafter.) The small, stocky figure in the lead barked “You! Come here! Now!” Glass Eye raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Professor Crowley. Strange company you’re keeping. I almost didn’t recognize you.” The gentleman in men’s clothing raised an eyebrow. “You know me? Odd, I don’t think I’ve ever visited this country before. We are in the United States, in the southwest, are we not? I’m only familiar with the northeast.”

“Well, yes, you’re right. And yes, I met you some time ago at your home when you were still just a youngster. Not yet twenty, I believe.”

“Really! That was quite a while ago….erhhhh, what year is this, anyhow?”

“2320. I believe you’re about three hundred seventy-five years from when you came across your companions. Would you mind telling me how you managed to collect Hitler, Goebbels and Gehring, alive and in one piece?”

“Sheer accident. I was working out the controls on this thing,” waving casually at the ovoid, “and the buttons I pushed delivered me to Hitler’s bunker just as the Reds were overrunning the place. I thought it would be amusing to bring them along. If this is 2320, and you met me when I was about twenty, I must say you’re remarkably well-preserved. When we have leisure, we must sit down and talk about that in some depth.”

“Yes, well, I keep an eye, so to speak, on certain people with certain talents. But at the moment, I have a more pressing problem. We need to make use of your vehicle to pick up a young friend of mine who will be useful in the future. His usefulness, by the way, is connected with certain side effects of your arrival that you may not be aware of, but will shortly become obvious to many.”

“Now; can you drive this thing and remain in this time frame? We need to hop over a few miles toward Rattlesnake Gulch and pick up the little klutz.”

“Oh, yes. I imagine we can manage that. I suppose my ‘friends’ will be safe here?”

After retrieving Paco’s battered form and returning to ye olde homestead, Glass Eye set about a restoration of the lad’s health. This involved a lengthy, tedious process which I will not inflict on you, gentle reader, but which eventually reached a satisfactory conclusion. Glancing around, Paco gave a quizzical glance at his Mentor, and returned his attention to their guests. “Hello, Mr. Crowley. Thanks for the lift, but what do you propose to do with your companions? We certainly can’t turn them loose on the countryside. May I suggest a small village in Peru that would be salubrious to their health? We seem to have other problems to deal with, if I read the situation rightly.”

“Drop them about 2100 or so, if you would. We don’t need them even possibly interfering with events right now.” Glass Eye shook his head and continued somberly “The world as we know it is about to regress to the early 20th century. Your time machine has created damage to the troposphere and ionosphere that has resulted in all modern electronics becoming useless, down to and including the machinery that makes the chips, so none of our electronics can be replaced until the effect dissipates or is somehow cancelled.”

Paco added, “You’re not familiar with our advances in communications and electronics in general, Mr. Crowley, but what this means is that our banking system just shut down, our telephone services just shut down, and a communications network we call the world-wide web just shut down. This means no one can access their bank accounts, no one can communicate with doctors, hospitals, fire departments or military forces. We have artificial satellites and spacegoing vessels that we can no longer communicate with, so we don’t know if this problem has affected them; we suspect it probably has, at least in earth orbit and they will only live while their oxygen lasts. Our first priority is to discover if your craft can reach them and bring them back down, but we’ll need to improvise some sort of air lock to do so.”

“All right, we can do that. If you can calm them down, I’ll get them back aboard and take them for a ride. Shouldn’t take too long. When I get back, though, we’ll have to go into a little more detail about what you have in mind; this thing has a limited capacity, and I’m not sure what the physical range is.”

“You can work on that during your trip, I should think. Paco, take some measurements and get to work designing your airlock. I’ll take care of our “guests” for Mr. Crowley.”




Meanwhile, in D.C., a briefing for a very worried POTUS is taking place. “To sum up, sir, we haven’t been able to find a single solid-state device that works. We’re back to tube and wire technology, and we haven’t a clue as to what wiped everything out. We can speculate that it is some sort of solar activity that has never been seen, but we don’t know. The antique enthusiasts that have old-fashioned radios and transmitters have managed to contact a scattering of people in other countries, and all reports are of the same phenomenon everywhere.”

Purley Gates (The POTUS’s chief advisor): “Well, that simplifies things, at least. We can make a pretty good case for it being a severe sunspot storm, or even an extra-solar event of unknown magnitude and origin that we can’t detect because it destroyed the detection equipment. The question is, though, whatever we want to say, how do we reach an audience? No aircraft can fly, no modern vehicles can move, traffic control is almost non-existent, and only fairly primitive radios will work. I suppose we can find a few typewriters and stencil machines, but how do we get it outside the building and across the country –never mind across oceans?”

All stare at the silent telephone.

The POTUS: “Commandeer every old vehicle we can lay hands on and scour every military museum within reach for more vehicles that can be put back on the road. We may not be able to run the country, but we’ve got to try. I hope the Lord knows what he’s doing, ‘cause I sure don’t. Get a move on, people, and see what can be done.”

Purley Gates:” Shouldn’t we decide what to say? Sunspots, interstellar storm, divine intervention, or what?”

The POTUS: “You and Jack get together with the physicists or whoever and go through this with them until you get their best guess, and then put it into language for the rest of us.”

Out on the street, the lack of traffic is disquieting. Pedestrians, cyclists and the occasional animal-drawn vehicle barely dent the silence. The POTUSt stares out the window, angrily impatient with the situation and the paucity of information about the cause, about the national mood, about the state of affairs in other capitols, and wonders in angry dismay how to deal with it all.

A knock on the door interrupts his musings and a portly figure is ushered in.

The POTUS: “Reverend Fairwell! Just the man I need to see! It sure is a mess, isn’t it?”

Rev. Fairwell:” It sure is, but I’m sure we can put it to rights if we all row in the same direction.”

The Reverend Frank Lee Fairwell is a person of some renown in the religious community; the most prominent and widely watched of the corps of evangelists; when he speaks, the religious community across the nation pays attention. Small wonder that the political world also pays heed to his views on any topic he chooses to address. Well-fed, of short stature, with glossy dark hair and a benign expression that masks an iron resolve, he has been active in religion and politics for decades, and the prospect of being unable to reach out to the faithful is very much a matter of concern to him. Without his broadcast audience, he realizes he will be just one of many voices, speaking only for his own congregation (if he can retain it – he’s stepped on a lot of toes in his parish). A frown mars his usual good cheer.

He continues: “Has any progress been made in resolving this crisis? It is a crisis, certainly.”

The POTUS: “Not much. We’re fairly sure it’s not the result of hostile action, but we’re handicapped by not being able to conduct an effective research effort. It seems none of our scientific technology has withstood this plague, so we’re blind. You can be of assistance to me, though.”

Rev. Fairwell: “How?”
” We need to be able to communicate with the people. I’d like you to convene a meeting of the ministry to work out a means of disseminating the news and our policies to your congregations so that the people will be kept abreast of the situation. If they don’t hear from us, it can lead to anarchy and people working at cross-purposes when what we need is unity.”

Rev. Fairwell, smiling: “We can do something along those lines, I’m sure, but remember, you’ll be dealing with the faithful, and they’ll expect to be hearing Godly messages from you that are in line with their beliefs.”

(No blatant coercion here, just a gentle hint that the religious agenda must be prominent in the POTUS’s policies.)

“Of course, of course! God’s work is our highest priority, and no one knows that better than myself and my administration.”

Rev. Fairwell: “I’m so glad to hear that. Not to change the subject – it does bear on the subject, after all – but I wonder how much of the old communications technology from our childhood is still around? It would ease the burden greatly if we had even a few workable radio transmitters – and a somewhat larger number of receivers, of course. A receiver in every congregation would be of enormous help, don’t you think?”
”I’ll get some people on it. Perhaps we could manage to find one for the major congregation in each town; I’ll try.”

Unspoken is the realization that in this situation, control of communications is control of the population, and both men are already busily considering means of securing and retaining that necessary control.

The Reverend, making his departure, is already busily scheming how best to establish and retain control of the proposed communications system to reinforce the authority of his voice, which will have an unprecedented monopoly never before possible. Why, he could become more powerful than any of the most powerful popes in history!

The POTUS sighs again, knowing just what’s going through the Reverend’s mind, and calls, “Purley! Come on in! We’ve got to get set up to keep a leash on the Reverend, but we’re going to need his help for a while until we get this figured out. Who’s nipping at his heels?”
Purley strides in and occupies the seat just vacated by the Reverend. ”The science guys say their best guess is an unprecedented EMP from an unknown source. Possibly the sun, but they’re doubtful on that. Did you give the Reverend any reason to think he’d have an exclusive on the radio?”
“No, we both very carefully avoided any details, no positions were taken and no promises made, so we’ve got a free hand.”
“Well,”said Purley, “I think there are several people who wouldn’t mind the Rev being knocked back a peg or two. If he tries to get too important, we can squish him with no problem.

Back at Glass Eye’s homestead, Paco busily works at improvising a hopefully airtight attachment to be emplaced on their time machine when it returns from depositing its passengers in their new home. This involves bending some copper tubing into a sort of rectangular shape sufficiently large to pass humans through, securing heavy plastic sheeting to the frame with copious quantities of duct tape and trying to figure out how to attach it to the space station after they presumably arrive. Suddenly he slaps himself on the head. “What am I thinking!? Of course they have space suite! There’s no need to create an air seal to the station, just an airlock so we don’t lose pressure when we take on passengers.”
Snorting and shaking his head in resignation, he mutters “May as well talk to His Holiness now, I guess. Gotta get my head straight before we get too far down the road.”

“Glass Eye!”

The old man shuffles around the corner and perches his bony posterior on the verandah, peering at Paco with a jaundiced air. “Well?”

“While I was at the Gulch…., well, something happened, and I Saw all sorts of possibilities, and some of them will occur, and it’s not too pleasant for you, me or Mr. Crowley in places. Right now, the Resident is figuring on declaring martial law and suspending the Constitution, Fairwell sees a chance to establish a theocracy, and ordinary folks are scared out of their wits. It’s gonna take a while, but if we get a jump on them, we can prevent a lot of the problems. But, old man, I’m scared.”

“Why? People grow up every day. Welcome to the club, boy. Nothing like a little responsibility to make your innards try to get out. You’re doing fine. Now get back to work.”
Paco glared at the retreating back, heaved a sigh of self-pity and attempted to extricate himself from the duct tape that had cleverly escaped his notice and enwrapped his thumbs and fingers while his attention was elsewhere.
While so engaged, the time machine made its reappearance in the same fashion as in its original arrival, causing Paco to lose the little ground he had gained in his hand to hand combat with the duct tape and filling his eyes and nostrils with mud and sand for good measure. Swearing heartily, Paco redoubled his efforts and at last managed to free himself in time to greet their returning guest. “Welcome back, sir. I’ve got a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. What’s on your mind?”
“Well”, Paco said, “I assume that when you are travelling in temporal mode, external physical phenomena are irrelevant to the machine. That is, wind, rain, gravity and the like don’t affect anything about it?”
“Yes, as far as I’ve been able to determine, the outside world doesn’t really exist in temporal mode. The universe only affects the machine when dropping back into time.”
“That’s a relief” said Paco. “We won’t have to worry about structural strength for our airlock, then. My next question is about navigation. I assume that in temporal mode, you can program not only time but space coordinates? That we can travel temporally to both a desired time and location? And did you manage to check the range and endurance of the machine?”
“Yes, navigation through space-time is no problem. The moon is well within range, and endurance doesn’t seem to be a problem. Every stop in a particle field of any nature at all seems to refuel the engine, however it works. Can we possibly enlist a top-notch physicist to help deal with and perhaps explain how this thing works? Trial and error is fine as far as it goes, but I’m not too comfortable with the possibility of making an unrecoverable error.”
Paco, gingerly carrying his plastic and duct tape contraption to the vessel, replies, “Give me a hand getting this thing mounted around the hatch. That’s all good, and we should be able to get a physicist without too much publicity, given the state of communications. We’ll have to talk to Glass Eye, though. I’m sure he knows more physicists than either of us, and knows which ones can be both useful and trustworthy.”

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