3.Ø1
Spacetime: 97253.6.071
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Muddle was shaking hands with a Poetic Intelligence construct named Rudyard. The PI was the same size and shape as Muddle, but had darker hair and smiled more frequently. The PI was outfitted in a standard-issue unitard and he was humanoid except for having one pair of pointy ears and two pairs of eyeglasses: One on his nose and the other, inexplicably, atop his head.
Muddle and Rudyard were conversing in a glass tube that was two meters high, and three meters long. There were hatches at each end of the tunnel. The inner portal gave way to ComCen, Star Truck’s command center, and the outer permitted egress to the great outdoors.
“Poetic Intelligence? Hmmm...” Muddle wondered, “What exactly is that?”
“Ah!” The PI brightened, “So good of you to ask.”
Dang! Muddle regretted the question before it had even escaped his lips.
“Now, where should I begin...” The PI stroked his chin, “...I want to give you the full picture, soooo...Have you ever heard of australopithecines?”
Muddle considered faking a heart attack until he seized upon a better idea. “Heyyy...Rudyard?” The professor snapped his fingers, “I really wish I could stick around, but, umm...You know, Sian? She asked me to do something...uhh, somewhere...”
“Not again!” The PI sulked, “I can’t even say two words without Sian pulling the plug. It’s so unfair.”
Muddle nodded, “That does sound harsh…”
“Hey, I know!” Rudyard brightened, “How about if I give you the cereal box version?”
“The...what…?”
“It’s the compact version of a literary masterpiece.”
“Well…” Muddle edged toward the escape hatch.
“Don’t worry, Kyptin!” Rudyard promised, “We won’t journey back in time any further than Homo erectus.”
“Oh…!” Muddle consulted a nonexistent wristwatch, “Sorry, Rudd, but…”
“Ha-hah!” Rudyard cheered, “I’m kidding, Kyptin! Isn’t that great?”
“…uh...” Muddle looked confused, “...I guess…”
“No, no,” Rudyard punched Muddle’s arm, “You’re missing the point. The fact that I have impeccable comedic timing is—in and of itself—the cereal box version of PI.”
If anything, Muddle looked more confused.
“Okay...how about this?” Rudyard sensed Muddle was fast losing interest, “Artificial intelligence is great for blabbering about what’s already known. But what about the unknown? Eh? What can AI tell us about that?”
Muddle shrugged, “I don’t know...”
“Exactly!!” Rudyard cracked a fist into an open palm. “The infiniverse is full of mysteries that AI can’t begin to fathom. So, as the saying goes, where AI fails, PI prevails. To infinity and beyond!!”
“Hmm…” Muddle nodded, “That’s interesting.”
“No!” The PI countered, “It’s fascinating.”
Before Muddle could respond a robotic voice boomed, “Attention all personnel! Will Maxwell Muddle please report to ComCen? Over!”
Unsure what to do, Muddle stammered, “Uhh, h-hello...?”
“Will Maxwell Muddle please report to ComCen! Over!”
“Uhh…” Muddle signaled an apology to Rudyard, “...I guess that means me.” Then the professor called out, “Okey-dokey, I’ll be right there.”
…silence…
“Are you finished talking?”
“Uhh…” Muddle fumbled, “…you mean me?”
“When you finish talking you have to say, ‘Over!’”
“Oh, I se-…”
“How can I tell if you’re finished, if you don’t say, ‘Over'?”
Muddle froze. There was something familiar about that voice, but he couldn’t quite place it…
...or could he!
“Hey!!” Muddle barked, “Is that Gellie?! ‘Cause if it is, you’re gonna regret it the next time you take one of my exams!”
…silence…
“Are you finished talking?”
Muddle snarled, “Where is she?”
“Never fear, Kyptin.” Rudyard directed Muddle’s attention to a ceiling-mounted intercom, “We can fight fire with fire.” Rudyard punched the ‘com’s power button.
“Genius.” Muddle sighed as the light drained from the intercom. The professor extended his right fist, “Rudyard, it’s been a pleasure.”
The PI knuckle-bumped Muddle, “Zee plizzure izz all mine, Kyptin.”
Muddle blinked, “Who’s that supposed to be? Colonel Klink?”
“No, no,” The PI laughed, “It’s someone completely different.”
Muddle awaited illumination. When none was forthcoming, he decided to move in a new direction, “...Rudyard?” Muddle slipped off his backpack, “Can I stow my pack in here?”
“What?” Rudyard gasped, “You want to store that filthy thing in the Shuttle Bay?”
Muddle hung his head. The PI was a genius at running conversations completely off the rails. “Uhh, Rudyard...” Muddle flung up his hands, “...Sian told me to stow the pack, sooo...”
Then Muddle froze, “Hey…? Wait a sekk!” Following an interstellar mental detour, the words “Shuttle Bay” finally registered in Muddle's geek-cortex. “Did you say…” Muddle scoured the tube from end to end, “...this is a Shuttle Bay?”
“I wish.” Rudyard moped, “I’ve been submitting requisitions for lightyears, but I’ve never heard a peep from Star Fleece.” The PI brushed his fingertips along the tube’s molded surface. “Perhaps...one day...” He trailed off, “Until then, this garbage chute will have to remain the placeholder for my dreams.”
“I get it, man.” Muddle was mucho simpatico, “You’ve gotta fight for your dreams, Rudd. Who knows? Maybe one day Star Fleece will deliver. Or, maybe…” Muddle’s horse-trading wheels were beginning to churn, “...if they won’t give you a shuttlecraft, maybe you could finagle an escape pod.”
“Ewww!” Rudyard acted like he had stepped on a cowpie, “I would never forego a shuttlecraft for anything as banal as an escape pod. You must be space sick.”
“Nah!” Muddle parried, “I’d take an escape pod over a shuttlecraft any day. Shuttlecraft are for Sunday drivers, escape pods are for adventures.”
“That’s absurd,” Rudyard snorted, “Escape pods are glorified ballast at best…” Before the PI could sink his incisors deeper into the argument, the tube’s inner hatch whooshed open. Gelli stepped into the tube with a tiny palm tree on her shoulder. When the tree spotted Muddle it cried, “I am Froot!”
Muddle’s jaw dropped. However, Gellie and Rudyard acted like talking palm trees were as commonplace as jelly donuts. Unsure of the protocol for greeting sentient trees, Muddle bowed so low that he almost fell on his head. The baby plant laughed so hard that a cascade of colorful loops shook loose from its scalp.
“Frootie!” Gellie wagged a finger at the plant, “Be quiet! I need to talk.” Froot obediently clapped two tiny leaves over his mouth, but continued snickering nautily.
Ignoring the rascally plant, Gellie demanded, “What’s the hold-up, guys? You’re needed in ComCen. Move it or lose it!”
Meanwhile...
“Plumbin’?” Colonel Billy Bob Shebang spat a gob of tabakkie on the floor, “Ain’t nobody said nuthin’ ta’ me 'bout plumbin’.”
An uppity weasel and shifty scuba diver were demanding permission to carry out an ill-defined plumbing project at the National Security Asylum. The NSA was located in a glass edifice in REDACTED, Virginia. Snowjob and Lutin were hoping to dive deep into the NSA’s lower GI tract, but, so far, had managed to get no further than the visitor's entrance.
“I’ll have you know Colonel...” Snowjob sniveled, “...my associate and I have permission from the highest authority to infiltrate the NSA's sewage system.”
“Da!” Lutin concurred, “I zay vee doo ze projekt. Zo, vee doo ze projekt!”
“No, Igor.” Snowjob whispered into the weasel’s ear, “I am referring to Uranus Blowhard. He is the highest authority in the land.”
“Okay, Edfarrht.” Lutin stifled a snicker, “Eef you zay zo.”
“You fellas say ya’ work fer Blowhard, huh?” Shebang’s eyes narrowed, “Well, what proof do ya’ have? I mean, how do ah know ya’ ain’t pullin’ a fast one?”
“Fezzt vun?” Lutin shook his head so hard that goo came out of his nose, “Nyet, comrade! Vee dun’t pool fezzt vun!”
“Hey, I know!” Snowjob had an inspiration, “I have a photo that will prove we work for President Blowhard.”
“Whuss’ 'at ya’ say? A photah?” Shebang scratched his head, “Heck fire, I ain’t sure that'll...”
“Please, Colonel!” Snowjob simpered, “Don’t judge till you've seen the picture, okay?” The Plumber had to scan through several gigs of Back Sea vacation photos before locating the crucial image, “Ah! Here it is…”
Snowjob handed his iPhony to Shebang. In the image, Snowjob’s head is poking out of Blowhard’s high-volume toilet while Lutin solemnly presents Blowhard with a roll of heavy-duty TP.
“Wowee!” Shebang handed the iPhony back to Snowjob, "Ah’m powerful shamed fer doubtin' ya’, Mr. Snowjob. ‘At’s what ah call compellin' evidents.” In strict compliance with the NSA's airtight security standards, Shebang inquired, “Shucks, fellas, how long ya plannin’ ta’ stay?”
“Vell,” Lutin performed a series of mental calculations, “Eef vee doo guud chobb plumink, ees like vee neffer leaff. Heh-heh.”
All three belly-laughed at Lutin's knee-slapper. Then Shebang presented Lutin and Snowjob with lifetime VIP passes and wished them well in their endeavors.