Friend to the End

The empty highway is beginning to melt. Lying in the shade of an overturned rowboat is a crusty, disheveled figure in a full-length robe that may have once been white. There are soft, rounded mountains to the west and tall, jagged mountains to the east, and in the miles in between lay an oblong-shaped desert, that from a certain angle at a higher altitude might resemble the bowl of a gigantic spoon sparsely spread with scrub brush and cacti.

"Sir, according to my calculations, we have a problem."

"What problem? We're in the middle of a goddamn dessert with no water, no food, no transportation and now no communication, and there's a massive meteor hurtling our way that is expected to hit the ocean and trigger a tsunami that will spill over the western mountain range, and this is supposed to happen sometime in the next 24 hours. So, what problem were you thinking of, Ezekiel, my robotic friend?"

"Yes sir, you are correct in your assessment of our situation. However, I wish to bring to your attention another ... complication."

"Ah, just a complication. That doesn't sound too bad. What is it? I'm not going anywhere and I'm all ears."

"Yes sir, this new complication has arisen since the last transmission I received from the JPL systems before our satellite connection was interrupted. There are two critical pieces of data that were not included in the portion of the feed that I received. First, we do not have a forecast of the ocean temperature after the meteor hits. Second, we do not have a high-probability forecast of the location of the meteor strike. Without knowing these data, it is virtually impossible to calculate with a 95-percent level of accuracy what the temperature of the water will be after the tsunami crests the mountains and reaches us."

"So, it's 95 percent accuracy we're after, is it? How 'bout just giving me our odds, partner."

"Well, sir. It isn't a reliable projection, but I can estimate with a certainty approaching 55 percent that the water temperature we will encounter will be no less than 100°."

"Fahrenheit?"

"No sir. Celsius."

"So, this little boat that was supposed to carry us to the safety of the foothills of the eastern range is gonna burn up before the oars hit the water. Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yes sir."

"And so, what do you suggest, my good friend and bearer of the news of my—our—imminent destruction?"

"Sir, it is with reluctance that I urge you to 'get right with your deity'—I think that's the correct expression—for it may provide some mental anesthetic in the interim, as it were."