Humorous sci-fi stories
Secret Aerial Services
Short Story
Another ordinary day begins in the AloeVeras' base on the moon. The scene is committee room C and Chairentity Number 12 is in control of proceedings - tiptoeing as tall as possible in front of the whiteboard, heavy-duty black pen ready to scribble.
'That's the trouble with living on a moon with no atmosphere,' explained Number 11. 'The tiniest piece of dust can hurtle down towards the surface of the planet and if it happens to land on one of our solar cells it does a lot of damage.'
'But you've shielded them with electrostatic and magnetic force fields?' asked Number 8.
'Mostly!' agreed Number 11. 'It doesn't work for every incoming particle.'
'Life is never easy,' wailed Number 14.
'Ahha!' beamed Number 9. 'Philosophy! Did you hear Honda Prelude's theory about ...'
'Give it a rest, Number 9,' demanded the chairentity. 'We need to get on.'
'We're running short of spares!' wailed Number 11. It could foresee a future in which it was busy making new solar cells all the time and having no time left for more interesting things. The chairentity wouldn't understand.
'We need to either build a photocell manufacturing plant here - no great problem, but a huge amount of work and time would be used up - or we could trade with the HairyMammals of Earth,' suggested Number 9.
'Their solar cells aren't too bad,' concurred Number 11.
'But what to do to earn money? What are we good at?' asked Number 14. Being either up or down, in my case, it thought.
'We need low material movement tasks - ideally just electronic information - and make the most of our unique skills,' said Number 8.
'Yeah. We can't transport goods to and from the moon!'
'Typing!' burbled Number 11. 'Have a box no. on earth, and a printer and fax. Electronic payments!'
'And a scanner and answering machine,' said Number 9, catching the enthusiasm.
'But how to collect the panels once we've bought them? We can't turn up at the factory in the planet hopper, and we don't have an address,' added the chairentity.
'Fidget's van!' said Number 11.
'Nirvana,' shouted Number 14.
'But I thought it was a truck?' said Number 8.
'Whatever,' said Number 11.
'Never mind,' said Number 14.
'Oh well,' said Number 11.
'We've got the lyrics in the wrong order again,' said Number 14.
Chairentity Number 12 was a picture of bemusement. 'What are they talking about?'
*
'So here's the plan,' summarised Number 11. 'We have a P.O. box number and a web site. People can email or write asking us to type stuff, either dictate it or send us their scribble!'
'Yeah? How will we earn money?'
'We can charge so much per word, for the typing. Have you seen Dot Matrix type? Three words per minute?'
'So we'd be quicker,' the chairentity agreed.
'Not only that,' said Number Eleven. 'Number 14!'
'Yeah?'
'How many parallel processors do you currently have?'
'Fifty five.'
'How many would you use to perform typing?'
'Two,' it replied, after a few milliseconds cogitation.
'Point taken,' said the chairentity.
'And in fact,' added Number 14. 'My service robot could do the actual processing. So could yours…'
But Chairentity Number 12 appeared totally unconvinced. It's colleagues observed Number 12 huffing and puffing, preparing to scribble on the whiteboard, then turning to address them. Then turning back to the whiteboard.
'It's all out of control!' it complained. 'We could set the service robots the task of making more solar panels. We could even set them the task of making more service robots! Anything has to be better then getting involved with the HairyMammals of Earth! Especially uncontrollably involved!'
'Fidget would deliver the stuff?' said Number 11.
'Ha!' sneered Number 12. Sometimes it seemed like its colleagues didn't even listen.
'I don't see why not. He's always complaining that he's done the best elderly-van conversion on Earth and it never has any work to do,' agreed Number 14. 'Plus he would make a wee bit of money delivering the stuff.'
'What if someone from the other side of the world wants typing doing?' asked Number 12.
'We'd need a printer and access to the post service.'
'No we wouldn't! We could send the finished work by email!'
'Can we get Internet access here, Number 11?' asked Number 14. Got to keep the momentum going, it reasoned, don't give Number 12 time to think.
'Not straightaway. If we get access to a telephone connection on Earth, preferably in Smogdale, then we can set up a link from here using an aerial secreted on Earth.'
'Maybe in Fidget's shed/workshop?'
'Good idea. On the roof of the shed, anyway.'
Number 12 pointed to the whiteboard and made strange strangulated sounds as it failed to articulate its concerns.
'Fidget could print the stuff off for us. For a fee.'
'We could even collaborate with BFPrint,' suggested Number 11, its imagination lurching well into mania. It realised this and wondered if a new word may be necessary. Innermaniaation, perhaps.
The chairentity sunk slowly from its tiptoeing stance towards the floor as it forgot to keep the valves shut on the shock absorbers in its lower limbs. The fluid escaped through the now leaky valves with a mournful hydraulic sigh. It seemed a little surprised to find itself sitting upon the floor. The floor struck Number 12 as in need of a clean and it made a note to this effect on its clipboard.
Number 11 winked at Number 14, indicating that their esteemed chairentity and highly responsible colleague was now at its most impressionable.
'If they don't have Internet access, Number 12 will have an excuse for using Fidget's truck!' Number 14 said.
'I don't need to use a truck. Or need an excuse!' pontifdefecated the chairentity.
'And an alibi for getting personalised number plates!'
'Yes,' agreed Number 11. 'We'd have to deliver to some customers.'
'Of course,' began Number 12. 'It would be a most useful service that we were providing...'
'No one would give a unique aerial on the roof of Fidget's shed a second glance,' pointed out Number 11.
'No. We don't want anyone to know what we're doing,' added Number 9.
'Or that we are here!' demanded Number 12.
'Secret Aerial Services!' shouted Number 11.
'Very good,' exclaimed Number 14.
'What!?' said Number 12. 'What's going on?'