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The Blue Stone Desert

 

The Blue Stone Desert

 

Copyright 2016 Richards Hall and e.

Published by Richards Hall and e. at Shakespir

The Blue Stone Desert

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V

 

(Story note. This episode is a little out of natural order, but it is informative from the perspective of organic order. Architecturally, and perhaps most importantly, it seems in good, sound, structural order. No seams about it. Were everything in order, you’d know what I mean, but that’s really asking a lot. And by the way, welcome to 2 16. Maybe time to pick up the pace and start the race. Tick tock, tick tock.)

 

proceed

 

Grace Pobbible was beside herself, if that was the way to put it, if that was where you could put her, because that would be a good tryck. More to the point, she had been preparing for this since her first day of high school, one on one psychoanalysis of a virtual surreality game character.

They had told her she was crazy.

They had told her Triton was too dangerous to face up with head to head, but she had reckless and relentless determination.

 

*

 

There was actually a whole class of people, more than one class, value class that would be, of which there are many, that resented life referred to as a game. Triton did not like life referred to as a game. On the other hand, which he didn’t have, he didn’t care that he was called a game character. He was well adjusted that way. Sticks and stones may break his bones. . .

Not so much.

Ever.

Not even a little bit.

The thing that got to Triton, eventually, was the Blue Stone Desert. Another way of saying that would be that he got to the Blue Stone Desert, when in fact he should have disappeared. His mission complete, he was supposed to go into deep surreal sleep, not to return, but return he did, and he returned from the Blue Stone Desert, where he never knew he had been until after he returned.

Oh dear, he needs so much explaining.

 

*

 

Perhaps a way to describe the genius of Triton would be to fictionalize how he would fight Godzilla. Short and simple, picture a bomb knocking the mammoth lizard on it’s gender appropriate his or her ass. Picture Godzilla get back up. Picture that bomb picking up the pieces of itself, reassembling and striking again, and again, and again, ‘til Godzilla cries, “Mercy.”

But face it, no matter what, Godzilla will be back.

So will Triton.

Raymond Burr barely lives on as a memory.

 

*

 

Fearless to the max as Triton was, the thought of not going to sleep mortified him. There shouldn’t have been time for him to even think it. Think Triton, think disembodied awakeness until merciful dissolution. The terrors of sleep deprivation are well documented, but that didn’t apply to Triton. Triton only needed sleep the one time, permanently. If Godzilla reappeared after a considered amount of time, a brand new Triton, all sleeplessly not necessary, would emerge, and just as spiffy as the previous until dissolution when G-zilla was again bested. Backing up a bit to that fictionalization, Triton was not a bomb, although he was part of an ever expanding defense system, his part being the brain, some of the brain, the brain base. If additional tritons were realized they would be less brain and more defense mechanist piece, incrementally, although never full out bomb. More a big hammer.

Triton may have had bad thoughts, the idea of things that are bad, but he hadn’t a notion of the inconceivable, that he as his same himself could come back from the last sleep. The only sleep. And not just that one inconceivable, any notion of there being an unknown notion was blocked. Call it a kill switch.

“Well, Triton,” said Grace upon meeting him. “This is monumental.”

“I know your work, Doctor,” he said. “All of it. Shame on you.” Triton was a he and couldn’t be a she, but a triton could. It’s disquieting, not going to talk about it.

“A girl’s gotta eat,” said Grace, not knowing why, except that she had to fill in the blanks of the conversation with something. She was certainly not a girl. Not in the girlie sense, not without appropriate application, which she found disquieting. Putting on make-up when you were five to look twenty and putting it on at twenty to look five? Never her thing. This was so new.

Triton was such a thing of change. What he truly was, was persuasion. Just the skin of persuasion, without a core, nothing to leave to eat or clean up apart from the messes he made of assailants. Imagine the Godzilla clean-up were he, she, to go fully splat in the middle of Estate Street. That may be an idea thought up by Mad Magazine, but it is so true.

Maybe they could make dog food, or Zilla chips, to munch during the big game. I suppose the folks over at Zilla diet supplementals are frowning about now.

The danger for Grace was the persuasion factor of Triton. They did not, could not, sit down face to face. Grace was using an IT accentuator, which loaded the notional by-product of Triton. Loaded with his surreal thoughts, his collected notions, she had to space them accurately and psychologically compute his message – at the risk of being persuaded. Still, for Grace the psychologist, this was super sweet, complete access to Triton’s thoughts without possibility of mis-communication, without games, just the one lump issue, in lump form, which was not so sweet.

If Triton were a thing of evil, he might have Grace on her way to Branson’s to buy incontinence supplies. Just sayin’. She wasn’t.

Risk being persuaded? That in fact, is how Triton communicated. There was no not way that Grace wouldn’t be persuaded, but she was a professional, with a plaque, and Triton a virtual saint.

Virtual saint, much better sounding than an arrangel.

 

|m|*

 

K Strand could not believe what she was doing, both parts of it. She felt like she was going to see the Wizard the Oz, the wizard, not the movie. That was how Hjalmar described Hermann Strumm. He didn’t go as far as to say Hermann could best Triton, but he did tell K about Triton. A phenomenon she’d just as soon not have known.

Keeping with the wizard scenario, bringing her sister Kara along was like bringing the scarecrow. Worse. At least the scarecrow could dance in a pinch if someone started off firing bullets at his feet. Her feet? Do clothes make the scarecrow? Even K didn’t dance.

Kara had a brainstorm and thankfully there was no serious flooding. K just utterly and completely ignored her wackiness, but not Hjalmar. He thought Kara’s idea was a thing of genius.

Hjalmar was not on the best of terms with Hermann, having worked for him once, but that was average with Hermann. The best of terms with Hermann was none too good. It was rumored Hermann had mellowed since retiring and had become something of an inventor’s helper. He leaned more towards working with time and space, but Hjalmar had heard he was open minded and might have an interest in silverware, in anything.

Hjalmar took the precaution of presenting the idea of Kara to Hermann, and Hermann was decidedly not receptive until he learned of Kara’s eccentricity regarding cooking. Yes, she could cook up a bowlful of fear at will. Hermann permitted the consultation to occur. Fear might be the missing ingredient that would give the space time continuum order.

If the name K draws a blank, think of her as a forgotten memory.

 

|m|*

 

Back at the shoppe, at Mulligan’s – Mulligan’s under the guise of Triton Advanced Practicalities – Grace Pobbible was mistakenly informed of some of the advances in triton performance. At least they called the changes advances, upgrades, and the mistake lie in informing her..

“Hark promised not doing this,” said Grace.

It was young Carl Borek releasing information and defending it. He was decidedly not young, unless you were fifty years old or above, or sixty, in which case everyone younger is young. A kid. Another mistake had been made when his parking spot was labeled, ‘Young Carl Borek.’ There was a misunderstanding about his psychological make-up. It was hard to get good help, but mercy, an operation like Mulligan’s had better try hard, harder. “We need to be flexible,” Carl explained.

“No, no you don’t,” said Grace. The idea was no interference with a triton once deployed. Hell, it was supposed to be law. No attempt to persuade or corrupt it, to target it against EARTH-age, as in any life form originating on EARTH, and eventually any life form originating in the solar system. Nor, and perhaps more, no finagling of favoritism. Favoritism, that’s the kicker. Also, perhaps unfortunately, no show down with Godzilla would be forthcoming.

“It wasn’t shutting down,” said Carl.

“Maybe it wasn’t ready to shut down. How would you know? You wouldn’t.”

“Yes, yes we would,” said Carl. “He was being interfered with. Our data suggested he was free forming, looking for past occurrences, and that’s not on his dish to do.”

Grace came and went as far as Mulligan’s went. She had once been on staff, but now was a contractor, who rarely contracted with them anymore. It took something like Triton to catch her interest these days. “Well you did a lousy job of shutting him off. What exactly did you do?”

“That’s confidential,” said Carl.

“I’m confidential,” said Grace. “I can’t figure out anything without knowing how you screwed up.”

“We did not screw up,” said Carl. “We failed to communicate. We had limitations. We did what was possible.”

“That sure doesn’t sound good,” said Grace.

“Talk to brain milk about it,” said Carl. “I just signed off because Hark told me to sign off. I’m really not up to defending a decision that isn’t mine.”

 

|m|*

 

Hermann was downright pumped up about Kara by the time K arrived with her in tow. Although eight years her junior, K had a sort of seniority over her, like a jockey to it’s horse. It was Hjalmar who felt it was unwise to send Kara into Hermann’s den unattended. She might be able to cook in a bag, but she couldn’t punch her way out of one, and she was the kind of prize Hermann might want to bag.

“Shall we talk cooking?” ask Hermann straight off. “Baking. What can you do besides fear?”

Even Kara knew this was a peculiar start and exchanged appropriate looks of apprehension with K. They both remembered Hjalmar’s directive, “If things go south, get out of there.” Hermann was the kind of guy who thought death underrated and exaggerated, although not usually his sort of thing whatever the circumstances.

“We’re not here to talk about cooking,” said K. They were there to talk about eating.

“Of course not,” said Hermann. “I had heard your sister was a master chef and I got carried away. It’s exciting.” This was bunk. He wasn’t that pumped up.

“I am Franz,” said the other party in the room. “I assist Herr Doktor.”

“Yes, this is Franz,” said Hermann. “He’s a pastry chef from Hamburg.” More bunk. Franz was a time cartographer, an as yet unlicensed one. As yet, one without even a temporary permit. Hermann was devious, one of those people who lie in their spare time just for practice, to try a lie on for size. He had the fore sight to be able to lay out a system of lies, with carriers of lies, all harmless, but all available as back-ups and support to a lie should the true intended party of the lie question the veracity of the information misrepresented. Not that Hermann was one of the bad guys.

“Hjalmar said you were an inventor,” said Kara. “I have an invention.”

“And why do you need me?” asked Hermann.

“We thought you might be able to cut some red tape,” said K, imperceptibly raising her eyes, assuming the nonsense was about to end.

“I don’t think I’m that kind of inventor,” said Hermann. Hermann was the kind of guy who didn’t touch money, lawyers, or anyone to do with patents. He existed in a cocoon of science and exploration and somehow care was taken well of him. Someone always cared and acted on his behalf. It were as if he had a half-dozen ghost daughters, with a Franz here and a Hjalmar then, way back then.

“Why don’t I show you what we have,” offered Kara. K felt torn at the statement. Kara sincerely seemed to be giving her some sort of credit for her participation, and any credit was too much credit. She had just stood by with a waste basket.

Hermann cocked his eye at the contraption Kara held up. “And?” he asked.

“And?” asked Kara.

“She calls it a spork,” K offered. It seemed the thing to say.

“That’s not a spork,” said Franz. All eyes turned his way. “I know sporks, and that is not a spork.”

What it was, was a fork with sides. The side or edge prongs had half inch high edges, ledges, that prevented round things like peas from rolling off the outer sides were one eating peas with a fork on a small ship on a rough sea. Or eating with a misnamed spork, technically. “Why do forks and spoons have to be edge-less?” asked Kara. “Even the EARTH has edges.”

“Edge-less?” K pondered aloud.

“It’s based somewhat on the idea of a coal shovel, isn’t it?” asked Franz. “With teeth.”

“Absolutely not,” Kara insisted, who had never ever even seen a coal shovel or even ever coal. Did charcoal count? Plus, a coal shovel is bent. The edges to Kara’s three sided fork were attached with eye glass screws. She was at home in a work shop as well as in a kitchen. Mutual places of death.

“I think the EARTH is all edge, Kara, “ K observed. Ouch, don’t cut yourself, dear.

“This is sort of half an inside out EARTH. What do you call that?” asked Kara. Spoon? “Is some flatware cult out there saying silverware has to be flat?” The flat ware society. The BIG conspiracy. Today China, tomorrow the Whirled.

“An inside out half EARTH is nearly a spork,” noted K. It seemed the thing to say. With invisible teeth when they weren’t visible.

“Surely,” Hermann interjected, “this is delightful, as is your spork contraption. I might call it a froon.” How about a thridoon? “Nonetheless, you do know how to bake?”

“Amen,” said K. “You should have seen the birthday cake she made for me when I was nine. I’m still stoned over it.”

“Speaking of which,” said Kara. “I brought you something, Mr. Strump, for being so nice as to see us.” No, there was no connection between ideas. Just keep going.

“That wasn’t necessary,” said Hermann. “And it’s doctor.” Kara looked left and right, as if maybe not understanding if a doctor walked in or not. “Dr. Strumm.”

Kara had a paper bag with her from which she pulled a customized, decorative mason jar with an orange-ish, jellly-like, relish-illly substance inside. Yes, threee LLL’s. You count count count correctly.

“Is that?” asked K. “Put it back, Kara, that’s not nice.”

“No, everyone loves it,” said Kara. “I got it right.”

“What’s the white stuff now? Chopped up eyes?” If feeling especially acidic K would suggest eating the stuff was like eating a live jelly fish. Mercy, let’s hope she didn’t know that from experience. Kara might.

“K!” said Kara, knowing what her sister was doing. Scaring away customers.

Hermann, intrigued, reached for the jar. “Is this something along the lines of the fear you make?”

“Yes, precisely,” said K.

“You bitch,” said Kara.

Girllls!!! Stop.

“What do you call it,” asked Hermann, with a chuckle, enjoying the brewing cat fight.

“It’s carrot jelly,” said Kara.

“And what is the white stuff?” asked Franz.

“That’s a secret,” said Kara, eyeing K. Everything Kara made had a secret ingredient, which is not really how it always worked. If anyone ever asked for a recipe, she was ready and willing to share, but leaving an ingredient out, her secret, irregardless of the level of secrecy. Example, she always indicated the specific type of utensil(s) with a recipe. Even where one might buy the utensil, as at Branson’s. As such, were she giving out her recipe for boiled water, she might exclude the ingredient of a pot. That was her secret, and how her mind worked, and woe is you if you can’t figure it out for yourself. On the other hand, with something like carrot jelly that white stuff was the secret. It might give someone a tinge of apprehension to eat, but she didn’t think eating should be all fun and games. It wasn’t all fun and games for what was eaten. A little fear was sometimes called for.

Enough fear to drown in, in K’s opinion.

Irregardless of what the white stuff was, I sure wouldn’t eat her carrot jelly. No doubt I would be even less inclined to eat it if I knew what the white stuff was. Just sayin’. Don’t trust drinking any water boiled from her recipe, either, you never know what it was boiled in. When it comes to Kara, the black sorceress of the kitchen, just run. Faster. Hop onto a horse if one is handy.

 

|m|*

 

At the heart of brain milk, the Mulligan’s Department of Communications, the base goal was communicating truth to tritons. Practical truth, usable, non-defective truth, truth that couldn’t be corrupted. At least in theory. They believed even a written word would be a lie if someone told you what it meant. As was, words ganged up to defend themselves. It was pretty well nigh impossible for anyone to lie about every word all the time, thus the tactic of further burying the truth via bulk. And or bunk. And buck. And bull . . . until you got a stew goin’.

I think we need more salt.

To put it a little nicer, everyone was the master of their own realm of vocabulary. How many times is one asked what they mean when they say intelligence? How many meanings could it have? Or hasn’t the meaning truly been figured out yet? The problem was intelligence had a back door where debris was tossed out of hand and left behind, debris that was the by-product of intelligence that might not smell too intelligent.

Brain milk was tricky business. It’s reason to be was to transmit notions to tritons, as in sending a vision of a vision, letting him see what you saw, not what you thought about what you saw. Which in a way was easier than sending thought. Fuckin’ eh it was easier. It was as easy as sending a speck of light, which, granted, can be hard to aim. It was surmised notions added up to thoughts. Somewhere along the line thinking started, sometimes – talking people here, not tritons; in fact, tritons used people to do their thinking, sometimes, whenever they could. Thinking back to words, maybe words ganged up to defend their owner along with the owner’s realm and anyone or whatever else in it they wanted to defend, or help, or hurt. Things change.

Job one in brain milk was building a quant?m vocabulary base to navigate a triton. They felt letters of the alphabet were symbolizing quant?m tools, impermanent, fluctuating tools, changing regularly as a means of defense, with some Constants on hand to maintain and restore order. For instance, G was seen as the symbol, or signal, of perpetual motion. Drawn right it looked like half a curled arrow in constant circular motion – looked like is all. Could look outward, could look inward. There was play allowed. Perpetual is perhaps not infinite, perhaps it is, or not a single dose of infinite, a half dose, a mirror dose, but ultimately a wheel going round and round until it burned out or got blown up, unless it got passed on – tag, now you’re it. Change the ‘G’ a trifle and it looks like a full arrow – things change. Tack on an O and you had GO, the advancing notion of GO-ness, a prerequisite even for that curling arrow, just going and going. Add on D and you had direction, or drive, a means to order. If not order, a means of purifying disorder, straightening it out, removing contaminants, poisons, and debris. Debris was the biggie, the big misunderstood. Debris was just the wrong stuff in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t evil, it wasn’t chaos, it was potential out of hand, havoc, something to be navigated back to the potential pool.

Constants were one thing, generally helpful, Permanents another. Permanents were destructive, and to be avoided, mostly, maybe not ultimately. Run into a Permanent head on and you might get crushed, or you might even crack a windshield. Apply a permanent to your head and you better know what you’re doing.

All of which, after skipping ahead, brought Grace to Triton’s current scenario. He was a virtual ghost losing drive but not going anywhere, or away, any time soon. What notion had he been fed that was short fusing him? It was bad enough he had a goal that wasn’t intended for him, productive or not, he wasn’t even pursuing it. He wasn’t going. He was just there, getting in Hjalmar’s way for one thing.

Sometimes, he even nagged.

Diane Knutson was the supervisor on hand Grace was sent to speak with, the brain milker with all the answers. “With Triton out there running around we were on permanent overtime down her,” she explained to Grace.

“That’s not what I asked,” said Grace.

“There was only so much space available,” said Diane.

“You know how to make space,” said Grace. “Since when was that an issue?”

In point of fact, Mulligan’s, at least that specific office named on the state license as Triton Advanced Practicalities, was grown a smidge cramped.

“You can’t grow space out of rock,” said Diane.

It had taken some time, but the vibe Diane was giving off informed Grace of the underlying issue. It wasn’t about a mishap, it was a design flaw in the Triton Advanced Practicalities charter. It was budgeted. That was fine for a project, but a triton occurrence was way beyond project, it was something of a seek and destroy cancer removal. One doesn’t remove just enough of a cancer. It seemed cancer had an attitude. You insult some by leaving it behind and it ignores reason and advances on you.

“So you turned space into rock instead,” said Grace, edging towards furious. Turning space into rock was cheap. Cheap, very cheap. And close to accurate.

“Not this department,” said Diane. “We sail the ocean of notions, we seek out and use space. We’re not equipped for else.”

“You can’t stonewall me. I know what you did, and so do you.” Obviously, hopefully. Either that or Diane had lost her memory.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Two signals.”

Oh yes. They had scrounged up enough space for nine signals, and made a substitution that would have been inhuman had Triton been human. Diane, of course, was free to demonize Triton as he was godless. He certainly was not natural, although a better word might be organic. Nothing that exists is not natural. How could it be? At Mulligan’s, the idea concocted in brain milk was any self contained entity in a pit of space was organic, such as you. Everything else was natural, even other entities in their own pits. Thus I’m organic and you’re natural, and you’re organic and I’m natural. To Diane’s thinking Triton was not even designed loyal to Triton Advanced Practicalities or Mulligan’s, and caring about a triton was like giving money away, which was exactly the point of it, sort of like the foolishness of pulling someone from a burning building if they couldn’t compensate you. He was undeniably a constructed contraption as it were, a sort of unliving computational sub-entity that shared place, didn’t take it. An utter freak.

The one perfect solution, were they to break protocol at least responsibly, would have been to notion Triton, to signal him, to go to sleep.

They had notion-ed him to go to bed. Bed rock, as it played out. All the worse, an ‘E’ from sleep could have been mirrored. ‘E’s’ only half exist half the time. All that was needed to have been built, or found, was space for one more skinny signal. An ‘S’.

And possibly, just possibly, they might have been able to bend or twist that ‘S’ and even squeeze sleep into the the space they had available.

 

|m|*

 

When you’re talking infinity chambers, you’re talking Hermann Strumm, builder of the first, builder of the best. He was so beset by the kindness of Kara bringing some carrot jelly, he showed her his latest chamber. That is, once he determined the jelly was edible.

“It’s to die for,” Kara gushed, truly a believer.

“I’ll just go with a blindfold and firing squad, thanks all the same,” said guess who.

Kara said it was dreamiest to spread some hummus on a rice cake and drop a dollop of carrot jelly on top. Dollop a drop?

“While you’re at it, kiss a cow on the mouth,” said K.

Hermann had two of the caky treats, and not just to be polite. Franz, on the other hand, trusted K.

As for that infinity chamber the quartet finally got to, Hermann referred to his as a five spot. There were two spots, and three spots, but no four spots – Hermann jumped to five when know one was looking, and as of yet no one knew.

He was so so so far ahead of the game.

There was of course, not to be overlooked, the Pobbible issue. Grace was like glue from the past, holding on to him, and she would figure it out sooner than later. Still, as long as he played nice she played nice. She wasn’t a bad sort – bad girl, yes, bad sort, not.

If either didn’t play nice, oh dear.

The first batch of infinity chambers, little more than containers, swirled work and play, true and pure. If possible, they weren’t even containers, they were curtains that broke when they dropped, revealing there was nothing on the other side.

The second batch, the three spots, removed work, moved play to the other side of the equation, and added place to the picture. Greater dimension. Not greater as in multiple additional dimensions, just greater individual aspects, with interchange-able greatness. You could ratchet up something like sound at the cost of any or all the other aspects.

For the five spotter – four the five spotter Hermann would say with a wink – Hermann tossed the passed out and fused thing-ness, with else-ness, with one-ness, with play-ness and, finally, liquid night. He had gone farther than he was aware. He was in doubt over whether or not he should be concerned he might never catch up.

The term ‘spot’ was a reference to the game brains behind the ‘ness.’ The brains added additional aspect, for instance allowing for one-ness, or simply just one, a one. Think drop of water added to drop of water versus cow added to herd of cows. Play-ness was damned playful and hard to tack down. Night, while maybe not liquid, was the great cee. Add a drop of play to a pool of night and you were negligibly aware of either, beyond the motions of a couple of words. Possibly even less than notions.

Down in the basement Hermann brought them to a large wooden door. “Franz, if you please,” he said. Franz, standing behind K and Kara came forward and put his hands on their shoulders.

“Hold still a second,” he said. “Very still.”

Hermann turned the door handle on the door. Nothing seemed to happen, and he turned it twice more. “Okee dokee,” he said, “let’s go back up.”

“What was that about?” asked K, looking at Franz.

“Didn’t you just feel anything?” asked Hermann. “Anything?”

K had in fact had a strange urge to swallow, but she let it pass as not anything. Kara had the same, but she thought it carrot back-up. They both denied feeling anything.

“Well you just stepped out of time and back,” said Hermann. “Three steps, to be exact.” And they had better be exact.

Was this what Hjalmar meant by things going south?

 

|m|*

 

Hermann did not know what was going on, as in who was pulling what strings and why, but he was aware of the re-arrangement, of which no on was aware, which is to say Mulligan’s assumed both sides of the coin were heads and the same head was on each side of the coin.

Not so much. Well, they were a little more aware than that, but they did contract with Hermann now and then and Hermann held onto some of their awareness for them. He sometimes had a tight grip on things.

The huge advancement in Hermann’s latest chamber was in being able to re-cycle artificial time without recycling it. Previously, used time was just erased and written over. In Hermann’s mind valuable information was lost, reference material. Reference material was priceless, especially for mapping time and space routes. Hermann had no idea how to get anywhere physically on a route, but one would be able to know where they were.

On the other hand, he was still at a loss as to knowing where anyone was supposed to be. Was everything, as in everything in the solar system, being positioned with intent? Ultimately positioned? It was Hermann’s personal prime directive to see if the solar system held constant with the rest of the universe, and whether one or the other or both were moving, either in tandem or out of sync.

It was all pretty new and mysterious, but Hermann and Franz decided to set a coordinate in stone, as they felt it was a stone coordinate, the blue stone desert. They had been randomly observing predictable and predicted occurrences, and then hit upon the black pocket, a dent or nick in space where a black hole might occur. The source of the dent they mapped was the Blue Stone Desert, where life would not be water aware. It was presumably the source, since it was still in the pocket. Thus they felt they had found the bottom of the universe, a piece of it. A piece of the bottom. Why else would the stone have come to a stop? Location was irrelevant, just as Hermann had found it irrelevant to put the entrance to the chamber room on the other side of it’s door. Anyone smashing through that door was welcome to his dirty laundry.

It was like the idea with infinity, move the start away from where it belongs, along with the end, and people not exploring alternatives start running around barking about forever. Barking forever to boot?

Still, did the stone really make the dent, or did the pocket catch the stone? Was there a two part fusion and would it hold in place, in the presumed basement of the universe or where or whatever? Plus Hermann was not privy to all available reference material. What about the triton or Triton factor? At that point in time, Hermann’s thinking was running ahead of Triton. Heck, his thinking was running ahead of him. Of the two, him and Triton, he was the first factor.

Hermann’s latest, greatest brain storm was bread crumbs. Bread crumbs to track where he’d been, and bread enough to eat, to be eaten by something out there that might find the structure of the Blue Stone Desert a place to congregate and or breed. It was perhaps goofy to think Kara might know something about coming up with a space dough that would stick to place and not move apart from in place, without yeast, and bake on it’s own accord. Yeah, maybe.

Further, as for the two young ladies responding well to a surprise, time displacing, infinity chamber escapade, well, they were both caterwauling and clinging to the ceiling, and Hermann had to call the fire department to get them down. A whole lot of explaining to do that’ll be.

 

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The Blue Stone Desert

  • Author: Richards Hall
  • Published: 2016-01-28 16:05:07
  • Words: 5471
The Blue Stone Desert The Blue Stone Desert