Red, Part 1- The Pilot

We hit the ground running, popping open the chopper door as soon as it touched the ground and leaping out.

As we raced across the tarmac I briefly stopped and looked back. The helicopter was a collection of yellow and black planes, simple, stripped down, like a childs' toy. A slight leak of Red from the bottom glittered in the sunset like a tear of blood.

The pilot, huge eyes barely visible under some kind of mask, waved slowly at me. "That one needs a bath" I thought to myself.

I rushed to catch up with Steve, dodging the shallow pools of Red on the runway. I had now wish for even a small transformation or revelation right then.

We got a cab and once on the back seat resumed our argument.

"Look Giles, it was all running fine out there. There's no need for human intervention in the drilling process at all."

"A regular supply of Red is too critical to be left to puppets. The only way to run that operation without human presence would be to give them a dangerous level of independence. What if they break through?"

"Breaking through is just a legend. Even if they did we could just nuke then."

"Any use of fission weapons has to be reported to the Families. Do you have any idea how much paperwork that would generate?"

"I can guess. Still it's a valid option. With that much Red around there's nothing to worry about as far as radiation goes."

"It's not going to fly Alan. The Families will never agree to withdrawing human supervision."

And the argument went on, looping around and around, never reaching a conclusion.

We could have flown home or got a ship or even have flowed down the east coast to the Thames.

Instead we took the train as usual, a long journey but one that we found soothing and interesting in equal measures.

Comments

Journal of an Airman

I. three signs of an airman: practical jokes nervousness before taking off rapid healing after injury three kinds of enemy walk: the grandious stunt the melancholic stagger the paranoic sidle three kinds of enemy bearing: the condor's stoop the toad's stupor the robin's stance three kinds of enemy face: the fucked hen the favorite puss the stone-in-the-rain three terms of enemy speech: I mean quite frankly speaking as a scientist etcetera three enemy questions: am I boring you? could you tell me the time? are you sure you're fit enough? three results of an enemy victory: impotence cancer paralysis three counterattacks complete mastery of the air lastly but ten it's moving again lastly but nine I forgot the sign lastly but eight it's getting late lastly but seven why aren't there eleven? lastly but six I dont like its ...tricks the maid is just dribbling tea and I shall not be disturbed until supper...

Ley Lines #1

The concept of "ley lines" is generally thought of in relation to Alfred Watkins, but the stimulus and background for the concept is attributed to the English astronomer Norman Lockyer . [3] [4] [5] On 30 June 1921, Watkins visited Blackwardine in Herefordshire , and went riding a horse near some hills in the vicinity of Bredwardine , when he noted that many of the footpaths there seemed to connect one hilltop to another in a straight line. [6] He was studying a map when he noticed places in alignment. "The whole thing came to me in a flash", he later told his son. [7] It has been suggested that Watkin's experience stemmed from faint memories of an account in September 1870 by William Henry Black given to the British Archaeological Association in Hereford titled Boundaries and Landmarks , in which he speculated that "Monuments exist marking grand geometrical lines which cover the whole of Western Europe". [8] Watkins believed that, in ancie...

Rising Five

"I'm rising five" he said "Not four" and the little coils of hair Un-clicked themselves upon his head. His spectacles, brimful of eyes to stare At me and the meadow, reflected cones of light Above his toffee-buckled cheeks. He'd been alive Fifty-six months or perhaps a week more; Not four But rising five. Around him in the field, the cells of spring Bubbled and doubled; buds unbuttoned; shoot And stem shook out the creases from their frills, And every tree was swilled with green. It was the season after blossoming, Before the forming of the fruit: Not May But rising June. And in the sky The dust dissected the tangential light: Not day But rising night; Not now But rising soon. The new buds push the old leaves from the bough. We drop our youth behind us like a boy Throwing away his toffee-wrappers. We never see the flower, But only the fruit in the flower; never the fruit, But only the rot in the fruit. We look for the marriage bed...

fallslikesnow

Search This Blog