A personal protection suit remembers the last size of the person that is registered for the suit. This is convenient for those who wear one often. However, for those who have a PPS registered to them but who have for any reason not worn the suit in a while or, more precisely, kilograms ago, they will find themselves desperately pressing the command insignia five times quickly to turn on autofit before they are extruded like sausage through the suit. The solution for this problem would only require two lines of code to ensure that the autofit was in on by default. But unfortunately, it is just two lines of code, and therein lies the problem.
Its simple inelegance ensures that no one is interested in making the change. Or more precisely, making the change and putting their name on it. If it were a more complicated solution, say perhaps requiring three thousand lines of code, then there would be no shortage of people eager to take up the challenge. But just two lines? It would look very silly in performance-review sessions despite the enhancement for users.
Eflin and Indira both experienced this problem as they got dressed, and both could be heard smacking the insignia quickly and muttering obscenities.
“What do you want for your birthday?” asked Eflin as he walked up behind Indira and squeezed her tightly.
“A night alone with you,” she said as she turned around and kissed him. “And a son safe at home.”
“Yes. Let’s protect our investment,” replied Eflin.
“When was the last time you updated your weapons?” she asked him.
“Right,” he said. “Been a long time. I’ll do yours too.”
“Thanks, dear,” Indira said as she pulled her hair back and tied it behind her head.
The call from Professor Wingut was short.
“I need you both to come with me to see Dean Midge,” said the man in the video.
“But we’re almost ready to go.”
“There might be a way that we can have more than three of us on the planet.”
“How long a delay?” asked Indira as she put on one of the pantsuits she wore when teaching her classes.
“Half rev, tops.”
“What do we gain?” asked Eflin.
“Twenty or more,” replied Wingut.
Eflin looked at Indira. She shrugged.
“OK. We’ll be there as soon as possible,” replied Eflin.
Indira and Eflin arrived on Centrum Kath during afternoon classes. They made their way to Professor Wingut’s office. They heard the end-of-class tone and then the sudden rush of activity in the hallway. After a few tox, Professor Wingut and another man came into his office.
“Indira, my dear, you are as beautiful as you were when we attended the Historical Patterns lectures.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Now stop there before you risk your own recertification,” she said with a smile.
“And very good to see you again,” said Eflin, stepping up and shaking Wingut’s hand.
“I remember that class. Wonderful topic, terrible lecturer. Hipplop was his name,” said Eflin.
“It was, it was,” replied Wingut excitedly. “With the warm sunshine in the room and his boring old voice, I often found myself dreaming.”
“Me too,” said Eflin.
“I liked him very much. He was a very good educator. Just had a boring voice,” replied Indira.
“Please let me introduce a friend. Professor Wipley Necker. He’s from the Literature Department. “
“Good to meet you,” said Eflin, shaking the hand of the tall, slender man.
“It’s my pleasure,” replied Professor Necker.
“And mine,” said Indira, extending her hand.
“Necker will be underwriting the transportation cost of our mission.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” said Professor Necker with almost a cringe as he looked at Wingut.
“It’s not as simple as you think,” replied Wingut. “I’d better let you explain it to them.”
“Right. OK. Where to start? Got it. OK. On Earth 7 there is a man named Ip. At this time he is one of the greatest living storytellers in the galaxy.”
“How do you know this? Satellites?” asked Indira.
“Yes,” replied Professor Necker.
Satellites that orbit quarantine planets are no meekly equipped little round balls. They can listen to everything and watch everything. And they do. But most often no one is interested in listening to everything, so it comes down to listening by keyword or interest area.
“He has started telling a series of stories about the collapse of the Stultus Dynasty. The dramatic plot of the stories and the word choice is remarkable. It’s lyrical, meaningful, often profound.”
“I had no idea,” replied Eflin.
“And I’m going to extract him,” said Professor Necker enthusiastically with the wild-eyed look of a child who has just been handed a loaded gun for the first time.
“But he’s in quarantine,” replied Indira.
“He’s got a dispensation. Dean Midge. She is particularly fond of the Stultus Dynasty stories,” replied Wingut. “We wrote it into the escalation procedures for Earth 7 about five hundred revs ago. He’s to be extracted and revered.”
“Revered, indeed,” said Professor Necker. “He doesn’t even know he has been translated into hundreds of dialects. He doesn’t even know we exist. The most celebrated person in literature and he doesn’t even know any of it.”
“But for right now we have other more mundane aspects to consider,” replied Wingut.
“Such as?” asked Indira.
“Minton Mining.”
“What about them?” asked Eflin.
“They managed to knock the asteroid belt from its usual position in the Earth 7 solar system. We can’t rely on the maps until it is re-charted.”
“So how do we get through it?” asked Indira.
“We don’t,” replied Wingut. “We come underneath it. Use our eyes to navigate the last gap.”
“Is it dangerous?” asked Professor Necker.
“Not if we are careful,” replied Wingut.
There was a knock at the door of Wingut’s office. They all turned to see Professor Trill standing in the doorway.
“What’s he doing here?” Eflin asked in a less-than-polite tone.
“He’s got the people,” replied Wingut.
“But they aren’t historians. They haven’t been through our training,” replied Eflin.
“I think you will be surprised,” said Trill with a smug look of self-confidence.
“Is this some sort of departmental rivalry?” asked Professor Necker.
“Yes,” replied Indira.
“We have one too. It’s with the Chemistry Department.”
“Really?” asked Trill. “Please tell me about it.”
“Yes. Ever since they stopped letting us edit their papers for them. All because Professor Knotmead revised one of them with a very intricate rhyming scheme. It was brilliant. The rhythm and pacing was superb. Still, they have never forgiven us for that. Those bastards.”
“Those bastards,” Trill repeated.
“OK. Let’s go see Dean Midge,” said Wingut.