0230: Of Martians and Magicians

Ziggurat #138

“What’s the verdict?” Lamont asked Ed as the Chief Technician pivoted and began walking toward a computer console on one side of the room. “How long will it take to complete repairs?”

“Two weeks? Four weeks?” Ed’s reply came out as a question. “It depends on a lot of factors.”

“What kind of factors?” The newspaperman pressed.

“How fast we can extract metals from the moon and make them usable. How frequently we can transport them to the ship. How long it takes Phobos to do whatever the hell he does. How soon I stop getting interrupted by stupid questions.” Ed stopped at the computer station, where two crew members were hovering over the control panel, absorbed in an intent discussion. “Is this thing operational?” He asked.

“Yessir,” Answered one of the technicians, looking up. “Mostly.”

“I need a hardcopy of status codes from junctions 10-A through 10-D, 13-B and C, and a complete record of the last diagnostic from the plasma containment unit,” Spratt ordered. “And a cup of whatever’s passing for coffee tonight.”

“Coming right up, chief,” The crew member nodded. He quickly began punching buttons on the control panel, while his partner darted out toward the hall.

Nodding an acknowledgement, Ed started toward the standing computer banks that lined the rear wall on either side of the heavy door leading to the landing bay. Before he arrived, a long paper readout was emerging in fits and starts from a slot in one of the machines. Ed caught the edge of the readout and began to examine it while it continued to print, his expression stoic behind his thick glasses.

“I think that Phobos should be with us when we return to the tower,” Lamont noted casually.

Ed looked up at him blankly. “What? Why?”

“I’d value his perspective on the situation,” Lamont explained, rubbing his jaw tiredly. “The garden, the grove, Clifford. I’ve a feeling that we’re in over our heads.”

Spratt made a grunt of derision, as if Lamont had just said something intolerably stupid. “Of course we are,” he said. “Which is exactly why the last thing you want is his fat head butting in.”

“I don’t follow,” Lamont said slowly. “With his advanced intelligence and outsider’s perspective, he may be able to see things that we…”

“Dammit, Townsend,” Ed snapped, “He’s a Martian, not a magician. You think you can drop Phobos into any new or confusing situation and he’ll sort it out for you? It’s that kind of thinking that gets us into messes like this.” He emphasized his point by ripping the readout rather violently from its slot. “I seem to recall that we have a hot-shot investigative journalist aboard. Why don’t you ask him for help?”

Lamont felt his cheeks warm. “It’s just that we don’t have much time,” he started to say.

“Which is exactly why Phobos needs to stay here, working on his part of the problem,” Ed interrupted, hastily folding the long readout along its perforated seams. “If he’s not doing that, then we might as well be building model train sets for all the good it will do us.”

Monday: Finding Phobos