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| LC/174 MUZIO ATTENDOLO |
United Systems light cruiser Muzio Attendolo was a mere 2
hours out from the sector naval base on Alderbaran 6 when the trouble
started. With a groan the portside main engine lost power while the starboard
gained thrust. The great vessel immediately began to slew, a motion which if left unchecked
would send it whirling through the Alderbaranian system like a poorly aimed boomerang.
“Shit!” said Acting Captain Luigi De la Penna, slapping at a
red button on his console intending to kill the engines. It seemed to him that the button turned green a
split second before his hand struck it. “Shit twice!” he added.
“What?” exclaimed a panicky Cadet Mulsberger.
“Gleason Box.” Said Della Penna and the intercom at the same
time.
Dela Penna remained silent but the intercom was not
finished. “I’m still faster.” said the disembodied voice which in reality
belonged to the Attendolo’s only other regular navy crewman, Chief Boson’s Mate
Fenrus Hoggarty in Engineering. ”I had you by a quarter second.”
“Yep” replied Dela Penna. “But I still have what it takes.
Which explains the bunking arrangements. “
He switched the intercom off, imagining the profane and
outraged reply and grinning.
On active duty the Attendolo carried a complement of 52
officers and ratings, with accommodations for a dozen Marines and perhaps another
half dozen supernumeraries. For the milk run to Alderbaran to refit, rearm and
re-crew the current complement of two regular Navy personnel and four Cadets in
Training should have been enough. If nothing went wrong.
Presently Cadet Mulsberger was on the Bridge with Dela
Penna, Cadet N’gon was annoying Hoggarty in Engineering, Cadet Ni was
presumably sleeping and Cadet Yum was in the Captains stateroom, creating ever more
transparent lingerie items using the auto-tailor while rubbing interesting
scented oils into her equally interesting topography in anticipation of shifts
end.
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| CADET YUM |
“What’s a Gleason Box?” queried Mulsberger.
“It's right behind you, kid”, said Dela Penna, pointing “It’s not
working correctly. Normally it balances the ion flux between the anti-polarity nebulizing
generators and keeps us running straight and true, rather than cartwheeling off
into the void and exploding into tiny and in some cases bloody bits. But it isn’t working. Thump it with
your fist, there’s a lad.”
“Thump it?” said Mulsberger, “Fist?”
Dela Penna rose, sighing. He approached the Gleason Box.
This device was about 2 feet on a side, and projected perhaps a foot from the
bulkhead. A twelve by twelve inch monitor, currently inactive, occupied the center. Across the
bottom were 6 controls; an on/off button, an archaic twistable dial numbered 1
through 13, and 4 more dials labeled “volume”,
“contrast” “vertical roll” and “brightness”. He whacked the top of the console with a
clenched fist.
Mulsberger gasped.
A pinpoint of light appeared in the center of the dark grey screen.
It expanded to a horizontal line and then the monitor brightened. The image of
a fat man in grey appeared briefly. Glaring at an unimpressed and garishly costumed woman he gestured flamboyantly.
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| THE MONITOR |
“One of these days, Alice, one of these…” said the Gleason
Box.
The voice faded into white noise. The image on the monitor
morphed into a sea of black and white stipples.
“Not good”, said Dela Penna, “Snow is not good”
“No snow?” said Mulsberger
"No." amplified Dela Penna
The screen flashed, concentric circles appeared, quartered
by one vertical and one horizontal line.
“Damn!” swore Dela Penna, “Test pattern!”
“Not the test pattern!” screamed Mulsberger.
The pattern faded, the screen went dark.
“What does it mean?” quavered Mulsberger.
“That’s a fade to black and it means we’re effed. It will
take two weeks to reach Base on auxiliary power and we only have food for one
week. I expect you cadets will be mighty hungry. It also means no digitally re-mastered
episodes of American Scene Magazine or the Honeymooners. Oh we’re effed all right.”
“Can we make repairs?” inquired Mulsberger?
“Depends. Let’s see what we got in the tank…”
On top of the Gleason box was a circular object, which
proved to be a cap. Dela Penna twisted it free and removed it, a dipstick was
attached. It was dry as Bernard Shaw’s wit.
“Tri-fusioned Gleason Box oil. Worth its weight in honest
politicians. And we don’t have any of either.” He regarded
Mulsberger glumly. “Mulsberger! Did you receive any training at all? What is the
acceptable emergency substitute for tri-fusioned oil?”
“Twice fusioned oil?” Mulsberger hazarded.
“Idiots. We have idiots in our brevet officer corps. I blame
the Bush Administration for this. No, Mulsberger, the acceptable emergency
substitute for tri-fusioned oil is good old fashioned spar varnish. The very same varnish
that Nelson’s old salt’s coated their spars with before Trafalgar. Ring any
bells, Mulsberger?”.
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| TRAFALGAR |
Mulsberger's bells remained unrung. He had never heard of Nelson nor of Trafalgar,
separated by a thousand standard years and half a galaxy as they were in space
and time. He found the idea of rubbing anything on his spar prior to battle
bizarre. And who the hell was Bush? But he was learning.
“Oh yes! Spar varnish! Nelson and Bush, yes indeed! Er,
where do we keep the spar varnish, here on the Attendolo?”
“Points for trying, Kid!” Dela Penna was beaming, “Hoggarty
has a 55 gallon drum of it down in engineering and I expect he has a quart,
which is exactly what we need, waiting for you. Just pop off and fetch it back
would you?”
Mulsberger popped.
“Oh hey and kid?”
Mulsberger paused in the hatch.
“Do NOT
rub any on your spar, there’s a good
boy.”
Mulsberger fled.
ALWAYS REMEMBER, AND NEVER FORGET:
"A WELL VARNISHED GLEASON BOX, IS A GLEASON BOX WELL VARNISHED"
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| THE ORIGINAL GLEASON BOX |
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Then there is no Vida,
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