                                  T H E

                               Z E P H Y R

                      __     M A G A Z I N E
                     {__]++++++++++++++++++++++++++[]
                     Issue #26                 9-4-86

                A weekly electronic magazine for users of
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                    owned and operated by T. H. Smith

                        Editor - Gene B. Williams

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                                (c) 1986

    THIS ISSUE:

       Being a writer by profession, there is a fairly steady flow of
    questions from people who would like to give it a try. One of the
    most common questions asked has always puzzled me. "How do you
    get ideas?"
       I have a stock answer for that. "How can you NOT get ideas?"
       Ideas are all around you - flooding you from the moment you
    wake up to when you fall asleep, and again through your dreams.
    There is never (or should never be) a lack of ideas.
       When I was teaching creative writing, the same question came
    up often enough that I developed a technique. I'd have the
    students close their eyes, swing an arm all around, then point
    at random. Whatever they pointed to when they opened their eyes
    was the subject. The exercise was to start working up ideas about
    that subject.
       Try it.
       Say your finger ends up pointing to the clock on the wall.
    You've now got the endless topic of time, plus the mechanism of
    the clock, or the history of the clock, and so on and so on and
    so on and so on. It takes a few tries before you get the exercise
    down, but it works if you're ever lacking an idea for a open
    ended theme for school, or whatever.
       Well . . .
       I've been using that exercise for quite a few years, but only
    in class as a demonstration. So for this week's issue I thought
    I'd pull it on myself. Beforehand I've decided that I'll limit
    it to a piece of fiction - science fiction since that's what most
    readers seem to prefer. The rest will be random choice, both to
    show you that the technique works, and for me to have some fun
    exercising my imagination. No editing allowed. Just straight out
    and as fast as I can type - so forgive errors and repetition.
    Consider this an experiment.
       Eyes closed now .

       My finger ended up pointing to a little black beetle on the
    floor. So we'll call this week's issue . . .

                                  BUGS!

       Bugs! How he hated bugs!!!
       God, they were everywhere. During the day they sucked on his
    sweat. At night they kept him awake by trying to turn him into
    a one course dinner.
       He grabbed at another, then rolled it angrily between his
    fingertips. Almost instantly he knew he'd made a mistake - for
    the hundredth time. An invisible cloud of odor burst forth, which
    both threw him into a fit of sneezing and coughing and seemed
    to attract new swarms of the pests.
       Within seconds he was nearly out of control. Between the coughing
    and sneezing, it was difficult to catch his breath. When he did,
    ended up swallowing one of the bugs. Countless others bit into
    him with an unmatched fury. And for each one he swatted and
    smashed the swarm grew.
       He screamed - as best he could with so little breath - gagged
    on a bug that had lodged in his throat - and ran. It was beyond
    his comprehension how it could happen, but just ten feet away
    from the dense, hot jungle with its six-legged denizens was a
    pond of ice water. It seemed bottomless and shoreless, as he'd
    found out in previous escapes.
       He dived in. The shock hit him as though he'd been tossed from
    a sauna into a frozen lake. It took away what little breath he
    had left. Desperately he fought the water to get his head into
    the air again. A large swarm of the insects floated in the air
    just at the edge of the pond, as though waiting for him to be
    more considerate and come back.
       With his skin and body still protesting violently against the
    abuse it was getting, and burning with an itch caused by a reaction
    between something in the water and the bites, he gently plucked
    away the clinging bugs that were chewing on his flesh, pushed them
    beneath the water, and crushed them. Tiny bubbles of gas burst at
    the surface, irritating his nose and lungs again. Twice a fit of
    coughing caused him to lose the rythym of treading water and sink,
    which in turn caused him to take in a breath of the salty tasting
    water, which in turn caused a new bout of coughing and choking,
    which in turn . . .
       The bubbles of crushed beetles seemed to be stirring the cloud
    of bugs at the pond's edge. A few ventured out over the hunks of
    ice and almost immediately dropped as though stunned.
       One struggled in the icy water, trying to swim towards him.
    He slapped at it, trying to drive it deeper into the cold. Its
    last dying effort was to bite into his palm. Instantly the
    dreadful itching increased, not just at the bite but all over
    his body.
       No sooner had he begun to recover from the assault of the bugs
    when he felt in inevitable chewing from the creatures hidden in
    the water. He cursed and fought his way onto a a chunk of floating
    ice. The water around him seethed with unseen creatures that bit
    and chewed against the ice in frustration at having been robbed
    of a meal.
       The bath of ice water chilled him right through the flight
    suit. A blast of hot air from the non-shore kept hitting him,
    making him feel like a weenie on a barbeque but with ice cubes
    glued to the other side.
       Hot-cold; bit and half-eaten; gasping for breath.
       All he had to do was to hop back into the ice water, let the
    creatures there chew off another layer of his skin, climb onto
    the land, let the bugs there get at him, and make his way across
    the 100 yards to his ship. Once inside he'd be safe and could
    take off for home.
       It sounded easy, and he'd tried again and again to make that
    football field run. After two days of the constant torture with
    no food other than bugs that had zipped down his throat, and no
    water other than the putrid pond swallowed while half drowning,
    it was tempting to forget trying to get back to safety. Two days
    without sleep. A single blast from the weapon at his hip would
    end his misery. For the hundredth time that day he reached.

       Landing had been easy. The onboard computer systems made sure
    of a soft set-down. From the viewscreens the planet seemed to be
    a literal paradise. Chemical analysis of the atmosphere showed
    it to be slightly rich in oxygen, but otherwise perfect. Not a
    trace of pollutant. Biological testings showed an abundance of
    life - primarily insect - but no harmful microbes.
       The perfect place! And he was the one to find it!!! He'd be
    famous. More important, he'd be rich. By the revised laws of
    salvage, he could lay claim to the entire planet, then sell it
    in parcels at his leisure, while remaining as the proverbial
    king, lord and master.
       It looked perfect. All tests showed it to be perfect. Being
    a cautious sort, he ran all tests twice - some of them three
    times - before stepping outside. At the exit platform he had
    even gently lifted the face plate to take a cautious whiff. The
    air had been clean and good. He had taken a wonderful deep
    breath such as no human had taken since the early 1800s - if
    then. A little warm, perhaps, but his clients would adjust.
       Still cautious and fully armed, he descended to the surface.
    It was slightly spongy beneath his feet, like walking on moss or
    on thick, expensive carpet. The plants gave off a perfume that
    no factory could hope to duplicate. It made him feel full, good
    and very much alive.
       In the euphoria of walking on solid ground after months in
    dead space, and the euphoria brought about by thoughts of
    becoming one of the richest men in the universe from this
    discovery, he failed to notice that there was a nearly total
    lack of sound.
       There was a very soft and constant buzz off in the background,
    accompanied by the gentle bubbling of water. Those he noticed -
    or rather didn't notice, since they produced deep in his mind
    memories of peace and quiet and tranquility. The lack of other
    sounds - the songs of birds - rang an alarm, but one too deep
    inside to be of immediate importance.
       A small black beetle had skidded across the air and had
    landed on his bare hand. Being cautious, he brushed it off - a
    little too hard. A musky odor came forward as the beetle was
    crushed under his hand.
       A short distance away he could see a pond. Water, he hoped.
    If this lush gardenspot also had a ready supply of clean, clear
    water, his fortune would automatically double.
       He glanced down at his weapon to be sure that it was fully
    charged. People just didn't find a true paradise. Lurking in
    that jungle could be any manner of deadly beast. Even the 100
    yard walk to the pond could be a quick journey to a grave for a
    planet explorer.
       He could hardly resist the urge to stroll - saunter - to the
    pond. He almost expected to see Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer and Mark
    Twain all sitting beside the pool with pipes in their teeth and
    wicker poles edging out over the water, all softly humming
    contentedly to themselves.
       A perfect planet. God, was he ever going to be rich!!!

       He never made it to the pond. The first attack of insects
    caught him while he was 50 yards away - the halfway mark. There
    were maybe 20 or 30, all coming in like miniature Spitfires.
    He swatted and slapped and squeezed - a defense that released
    the insectile vapor and brought on a session of coughing that
    dropped him to his knees.
       A few more came as he approached the pond, then more and more
    and more and more, until he found himself turning into the
    proverbial whirling dervish.
       Under the continuingly violent onslaught he stumbled closer
    and closer to the pond. Vaguely he recognized the cold, and
    that the white chunks in the water could be nothing but ice. But
    all that mattered at the moment was to get free of the growing,
    biting swarm.
       He hit the water and was instantly shocked but its cold. Then
    the itching hit, followed quickly by the nibbling at his body
    from beneath the water. Where the beetles on the land had taken
    delicate morsels from his skin, the underwater creatures showed
    a more ravenous appetite. In a few spots he could see tiny
    trickles of red blending in with the more clear water.

       Just 100 yards. A decent sprinter could make that distance
    in 15 seconds. He was no athlete, but knew that he could do that
    distance in 20 seconds or less.
       Jeez. Just 20 seconds from relief. But each climb from the
    water meant an instantaneous assault, which meant a plunge
    back into the water, which meant an even more vicious assault.
    How are you supposed to brace up for a physical effort when a
    second or two into that effort someone starts sticking you
    with hot needles tipped with itching powder?
       Slowly he paddled the miniature iceberg back to the edge
    of the pond, being careful to keep just off the shore and out
    of reach of the swarm. In desperation more and more of the
    flew out over the water, only to be stunned by the wall of cold
    and drop into the water. The melting block of ice on which he
    crouched frothed at the edge as the creatures beneath fed in
    a frenzy on the insects that fell into their reach.

       His body hurt. His lungs hurt. His head hurt. His stomach was
    completely empty. He was more miserable than he'd ever been in
    his life before. Two days of this was two days more than anyone
    should have to endure. He was quite ready to take on a 30 foot
    long sabertooth or a 20 ton tyranesaurus. That would have been
    easy. His blaster was useless against the steady stream of 1/8th
    inch long beetles - like taking a .44 magnum up against an ant
    hill, with each shot doing little more than exposing more and more
    of the pests, and getting them royally pissed. That .44 could
    kill an attacking rhino, but would be useless against the ants. His
    blaster could vaporize a whole building, but was little more than
    a stimulate to the enemies he faced here.
       He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to
    shake away the fatigue without much success. Slowly and carefully
    he took a number of deep breaths, feeling as though he was
    trying to prepare himself for a record dive in the ocean. One
    last time he scratched his body in hopes of reducing the ever
    increasing itching. Then he leapt for the shore.
       The chunk of ice slid beneath his feet. All at once he was
    assailed from above and below. His face and hands were attacked
    by the insects of the land while his feet and legs were being
    chewed by whatever was beneath the surface of the water.
       Still holding his breath he clambored up, ripping plants
    from the soil. His skin felt as though it was being ripped off,
    one layer at a time. Time and again he resisted the urge to
    swat and crush.
       Then he was on his feet and running. At 30 yards he stumbled and
    took in a mouthful of dirt. God, even the dirt was alive with the
    things. They bit on his lips and crunched into his gums. He
    flopped onto his back and began vaguely aware of the acid odor
    of insects that had been crushed beneath his body.
       Up again. He ran, always fighting the urge to swat and kill.
    The port was just 10 yards ahead. He fingered the trigger on his
    belt to open the door and stood for the hundred years of waiting
    while his flesh disappeared for the door to open and the ramp
    to descend. The faceplate at the base was useless. His face was
    already covered to the point where it was difficult to see.
       At the top of the ramp, and still walking, he swatted with a
    vengeance. Let the crushed beetles bring on new swarms. Fine. No
    problem. He was safe.
       He slammed the button to close the door. Then, just before
    he opened the inner door he regained presence of mind and instead
    signaled the sterilization sequence. It wasn't pleasant, except
    for the fact that he could watch the insects drop off of his body
    and onto the floor where they struggled in a non-pain pain of
    death.
       He stripped off his flight suit and gleefully crushed the
    few remaining beetles. His body was a reddish blight of pimples
    and sores, and itched as though he'd taken a 3-month long bath
    in poison oak. Nude, he jumped up and down on the flight
    suit and hollered.
       "Die! Die!!! DIE!!!!!!!!"
       Satisfied, he hit the switch to allow him entrance into the
    main ship. Once inside he flooded the entrace compartment with
    a series of deadly gases and fluids, then flushed the entire
    compartment again and again back onto the planet - thinking
    happily the entire time of the effects of the chemicals on the
    environment.
       "DIE!"

       After a long antiseptic shower and bath in soothing balm, he
    returned to the viewing plate. With a slight smile he dug out
    his camera and snapped off photographs of his newfound paradise.
    Then he tore off computer printouts of the readings taken of
    the atmosphere and conditions. The entire batch went into the
    the processing shoot, where it could be transformed into the
    digital signals that would be beamed across space to record his
    find.
       A paradise should bring at least $50,000 an acre.
       God was he going to be rich!
       Rich enough to disappear before the new colonists could find
    him.

    Until Next Time

       That was kinda fun! I honestly had no idea of what was going
    to happen next, and just let it flow along on its own. I haven't
    done that in years.
       For those keeping track, the story was started at 5:15. It's
    now 6:47. So once again, you're just gonna have to forgive and
    forget the errors that creep in.
       My question for you is - is this story worth the time to go
    back through for an edit job and eventual submission? Or does
    it completely stink? (Be honest!!!)

    Next time around?  I don't know. Maybe this kind of thing is
    popular among the readers? Maybe I should do it again? I had a
    ball doing it, but there are other things that can be done
    with the magazine. (Besides, maybe next time my finger will end
    up pointing at a roll of paper towels. Sheesh! What kind of
    story can I do about paper towels?)
       DO let me know, either here on the magazine board or in
    private mail. Comments, criticisms (intelligent ones), questions
    and so forth are always welcome.

Zephyr Magazine is © Gene Williams. All rights reserved.