Book 1, Physics, Lust and Greed Series
Humorous Science Fiction
Date Published: June 15, 2020
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
The year is 2044. Housed in a secret complex beneath the eastern Arizona desert, a consortium of governments and corporations have undertaken a program on the scale of the Manhattan Project to bludgeon the laws of physics into submission and make time travel a reality.
Fraught with insecurities, Marshall Grissom has spent his whole life trying not to call attention to himself, so he can’t imagine he would be remotely suited for the role of time travel pioneer. He’s even less enthusiastic about this corporate time-travel adventure when he learns that nudity is a job requirement. The task would better match the talents of candidates like the smart and beautiful Sheila Schuler, or the bristle-tough and rattlesnake-mean Marta Hamilton.
As the project evolves into a clash between science and corporate greed, conflicts escalate. Those contributing the funding are mostly interested in manipulating time travel for profit, and will stop at nothing, including murder, to achieve their goals.
Excerpt
A HARD ROW TO HOE
October 2044
Global Research Consortium Projection Laboratory
Global Research Consortium Projection Laboratory
“So,
do you think they’re telling us the truth why
some of the lemmings didn’t survive?” Sheila Schuler whispered from the side of
her mouth.
“The . . .
what?” Marshall had to replay Sheila’s comment one time before he could muster
the concentration to make sense of it. As he scanned the computers, lights and
lenses while he absorbed stares of scientists, engineers and technicians,
though, a single thought consumed him.
We
should have practiced naked.
The one
time he’d suggested it, several female scientists and computer techs scowled as
if Marshall personified the lowest
bundle of perverse male hormonal scum on the planet.
The
smart guys who represented the conglomeration of competing interests pursuing
time travel had considered the question. Would nudity create such a distraction
at a critical moment that the mission might be jeopardized?
Marshall
recalled a couple of scientists insisting that, just as when the astronauts
took man’s initial steps into space, everything should be
rehearsed in precise detail. Every conceivable
circumstance should be anticipated and practiced.
Within
the Wormhole Project, Marshall now realized, this philosophy represented a
distinctly minority position. Training is fine, conceded the folks putting up
the money. As representatives of the various governments and corporations
pointed out, however, unlike the swashbucklers over at the Light Speed
Project, travelers here at the Wormhole Project didn’t fly anything, navigate
anywhere, or even push any buttons. They only needed to stand there and live
long enough to describe the experience.
As for
nudity, any male who suggested some of the rehearsals should take place in the buff suffered an unspoken accusation
that he just wanted to ogle a naked woman.
“The
lemmings?” Marshall asked, shifting his gaze from computers and cameras to look
directly at Sheila. He did his best to concentrate on her eyes, making a futile
effort to ignore the spectacular and unambiguously nude body below her chin.
“It
doesn’t bother you?”
“Um . . .
but . . . but why would they lie?”
Sheila
gave a quick shrug, which resulted in a corresponding jiggle.
Marshall
understood unequivocally. They should have practiced naked.
Until
this moment, with the platform beneath him beginning to hum and a plasma sort of ooze crawling across
giant mirrored metal globes to each side of them, Marshall counted on the
historical gravity of the occasion to block the male animal’s primordial
response to the female body. He might have been okay if Marta Hamilton was the
only naked lady he had to try and ignore. Attractive in her own way, Marta was
relegated to something like optical background noise compared to Sheila. And none
of Marshall’s carefully nurtured best intentions would pass this test.
When that awkward moment arrived for the six
travelers to remove their robes, the men hesitated. Sheila and Marta exchanged an eye roll, shed their garments and
stepped under spotlights illuminating the projection platform.
Marshall felt his first warning tingles at the sight of Sheila from behind. When she turned to face the room, though,
she eclipsed all the technological wonders surrounding them.
Marshall took his place beside her, aware that he was doomed.
That’s
when Sheila asked about the lemmings.
The
first-time travelers were two lemmings wearing sensors and miniature video
cameras and recording and tracking devices built into their tiny collars. The
scientist’s first choice as test subjects had been dogs. Dog lovers among the
technical staff had objected, though. Which set a precedent, and the scientists
were forced to seek popular approval for the choice of test subject. The only
two creatures to which staff people had no objections were lemmings, which are
suicidal anyway, and African tree frogs. Because an African tree frog has
nothing in common with mammalian anatomy, and because the collars kept slipping
off over their little heads, the scientists went with lemmings.
When
the scientists waved their wands and pushed their buttons, the lemmings went
away—somewhere. The scientists waited a while, pushed the buttons again, and
the lemmings returned. The fact of their decapitations, though, dampened any
sense of triumph. Both lemming bodies and lemming heads were present, albeit
neatly disconnected. The collars were conspicuously absent.
The
second time around, someone suggested the issue, rather than fine-tuning all
the calibrations and power settings, might be the collars. They put the
instrumentation into lemming vests. This time a head and four legs were all
that reappeared. So, the scientists said screw the popular sentiment and went
with their original second choice, pigs. The pigs worked out better only
because the researchers could barbecue the leftovers.
Finally,
they attempted a projection without vests or collars. Both lemmings and pigs
returned in good health. The process of time travel, though, acquired a
completely unanticipated complication.
“N-naked?”
one female traveler candidate stammered when Naomi Hu, the project’s chief
medical officer, made the announcement.
“That
is correct,” Naomi said, “Our physicists now believe only living organic matter can be transported through the wormhole. We can’t send devices crashing around through
time and space to record things remotely. We can’t write notes to ourselves to
warn of some impending doom. We can only project a living, breathing being,
showered and scrubbed free of inorganic
matter. And is completely naked.”
“In front
of . . . people?” another weak query sounded from somewhere
behind Marshall.
Half a
dozen female candidates decided they could not abide the nudity and transferred to alternate duties. Marshall considered
his options. None of the other male candidates appeared particularly concerned,
though, so he felt he could not withdraw without seeming prudish or cowardly.
And in truth, Marshall felt he could
ultimately deal with the danger. He couldn’t, however, abide his
fear of making a mistake that might jeopardize someone else.
Not to mention his other
problem.
About the Author
Mike Murphey is a native of eastern New Mexico and spent almost thirty years as an award-winning newspaper journalist in the Southwest and Pacific Northwest. Following his retirement from the newspaper business, he and his wife Nancy entered in a seventeen-year partnership with the late Dave Henderson, all-star centerfielder for the Oakland Athletics, Boston Red Sox and Seattle Mariners. Their company produced the A’s and Mariners adult baseball Fantasy Camps. They also have a partnership with the Roy Hobbs adult baseball organization in Fort Myers, Florida. Mike loves fiction, cats, baseball and sailing. He splits his time between Spokane, Washington, and Phoenix, Arizona, where he enjoys life as a writer and old-man baseball player.
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