                                  T H E

                               Z E P H Y R

                      __     M A G A Z I N E
                     {__]++++++++++++++++++++++++++[]
                     Issue #64                5-24-89

                A weekly electronic magazine for users of
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                        Editor - Gene B. Williams

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                                (c) 1989

       I've written more short stories than I can remember. A few of
    them keep coming back. This one has been published and republished
    a number of times.
       Oddly, I can't quite take credit for it. The story came about
    like this:

       I'd been doing some writing on astronomy, and particular on
    the planet Jupiter. Some relatively new (at the time) speculation
    indicated a concept of the structure of the planet - much of
    which has been shown to be true.
       Essentially - the outer fringes are very cold. But the planet
    is huge. Gravity is squeezing that atmosphere downwards to such
    an extent that the surface of the planet (such as it is) is quite
    hot. Hot enough to give off its own light.
       The theory speculated that the downward pressure would, at
    some point, be balanced by the upward push caused by the heat.
    This area of stasis would be stable, possibly with conditions
    perfect for life. (The elements needed are there.) But for such
    life to exist, it would have to be of such forms that it would
    be born and live its life without ever touching solid ground.
       Several possible forms were suggested. One of them was a
    huge creature somewhat like a massive hot air balloon. Bouyant
    so that it would float.
       All this was in my mind as I went to sleep one night. A dream
    began to play itself out in my mind. The first line of the story
    came right out of the dream - partially woke me up. It was a
    strange feeling. I was still partially asleep, enough that the
    dream kept running - but I was also enough awake that I was fully
    conscious of it, and could even control it to a certain extent.
       It was like watching a movie. And finally, I just had to get
    up, go to the typewriter and get it down on paper.

       So, here it is again.

                        BEANS, BAGS & SMILER JACK

         Smiler Jack cut another juicy one.
         "Dammit, Jack! Can't you control yourself? The whole ship is
    beginning to smell like a flooded waste recycler."
         Jack looked up from his plate of multicolored, multiflavored
    paste. "I'm sorry. There must be something wrong with the food
    synthesizer. I never did trust those stupid machines anyway. I
    think it's out to get me." He poked his plastic fork at the goop
    in front of him. "This stuff gives me a terrible case of gas."
         As if to confirm Jack's statement, his chair echoed with a
    long and resounding staccato. Commander Phillips jumped from his
    seat, his face turning slightly pale.
         "THAT'S IT!" he shouted. "Jack, get the hell out of here.
    From now on you eat in your cabin. ALONE! For that matter, unless
    you are desperately needed, you are confined to quarters until
    further notice. Nobody else is having that problem, and you're
    making it a definite part . . ." he sniffed the air with disgust
     . . ."of all our lives on board this ship. I'm sorry about this,
    Jack, but you're just going to have to keep away from everyone
    until . . . well, until you're feeling better."
         Jack tried to stifle a frown at one end, and his gassy urge
    from the other - without much success at either.
         The commander squinted at the sound and screamed, "GET OUT!"
         Jack stood slowly, followed by a restrained bubbling, and
    walked to the door. Each step was accompanied by a muffled pop.
    Human muscles just aren't suitably developed to withstand the
    forces of a methane generator gone critical. At the door Jack
    turned to the small group at the table, both to apologize and to
    make one last plea, but a release of "air" came from the opposite
    end of his anatomy even as he opened his mouth.
         "OUT!" yelled the crew in unison.
         The shout caused an involuntary flexing. The resulting force
    lifted Jack a full 3 inches from the floor due to the low gravity
    of deep space. Still in mid-air, he spun and lunged through the
    doorway, propelled along by his own intimate jet stream. From
    behind he could hear the crew pushing aside full plates of food.
         "I can't help it," he muttered to himself. "What do they
    expect me to do about it anyway? It's the synthesizer's fault,
    not mine. And if that damned air system was working better the
    halls wouldn't smell so bad, either. It's not my fault!"
         Trailing clouds of the past glory of synthesized food, Jack
    finally arrived at this tiny cabin, entered and slumped into his
    cot. He glanced at the two empty cots which had once held his
    roommates - before they had evacuated the odorous disaster area,
    and Jack's equally odorous company. Still muttering to himself,
    Jack fell into a deep and vaporous sleep.
         By the next morning his anger at the commander and crew for
    confining him had been suffocated. Sometime during the night a
    clever mechanic had rigged a small air recycler to Jack's cabin,
    and had then shut that cabin off from the rest of the ship.
         It is said that an individual's body odors are not nearly as
    offensive to that person as they are to others. After 8 hours of
    slow build-up, Jack came to realize just how inaccurate this
    theory is. He also better understood the feelings and senses of
    the crew.
         After two more weeks of confinement with his problem, Jack
    began to wish that there was some way he could isolate himself
    from himself. His curses grew increasingly vehement and hot - as
    did his exiting fumes. He cursed his luck, his anatomy, the
    commander, the crew, the ship, space, air, everything. But his
    most violent and juiciest comments were reserved for that metal
    box in the galley laughing called a food synthesizer. "It's a
    monster out to get me," he growled at his now hazy image in the
    mirror.
         He devised plans for its murder. It would be slow and
    tortuous. Vicious and malevolent. Something fitting the crimes it
    had perpetrated upon his person.
         Perhaps he would sneak into the galley (once his condition
    improved enough to allow him to sneak) and program the vile thing
    to reproduce heavy oil. Or soft, melty plastic. Something similar
    enough in structure to food hydrocarbons for the machine to
    accept into its programming, but something liquid and damaging
    enough to work its way into the innards of the machine - and then
    choke it slowly, very slowly, to death.
         He dreamed up ways to cause the machine to produce large
    quantities of methanous gas, just as it had done to him, then let
    the gasses build up and up until the synthesizer exploded in a
    metal-tearing flatulence.
         The whistle of the intercom burst Jack's daydreaming.
         "This is Commander Phillips, Jack. I want to see you in my
    quarters in 10 minutes." There was a slight pause. "No, meet me
    in the rec hall. It's bigger and I want to be as far away from
    you as possible." There was another pause. "Uh, no offense,
    Jack."
         A steady breeze pushed on Jack's face as he entered the
    recreational room. At the far end of a table sat the commander,
    with a large fan spinning next to him to return any possible
    gaseous contamination that might escape from Jack.
         "I, uh, . . . hear, . . . that you still have that little. .
     . problem, Jack."
         "Yes, sir. It seems to be better, though." Jack's hopes of
    talking the commander into letting him out of his cabin were
    destroyed as a tiny tail gunner let go a burst of warm, gaseous
    bullets. "No, I guess it's not getting better. But, commander,
    I've just GOT to get out of that room! It's . . ."
         "Never mind, Jack. You'll be getting out. We've reached our
    destination and have gone into orbit around Jupiter. In fact, two
    shuttle teams have already been down into the atmosphere. The
    reports are correct. There are creatures down there, just
    floating around in the upper atmosphere.
         "The teams reported that the creatures gather into groups,
    almost like herding. It appears that they communicate with each
    other in some manner. Since you speak several languages, you're
    the logical choice for an attempt to communicate with them."
         "But commander, just because I speak a few languages - EARTH
    languages - doesn't mean that I can talk to these things." He
    tightened.
         The commander switched the fan to a higher speed. "Now don't
    get nervous, Jack. The creatures seem peaceful enough. They
    haven't made any aggressive moves. You'll be in no danger."
         "But, I . . ."
         "Jack, you're the man for the job. The whole crew agrees."
         "But, I . . ."
         "I suppose I should be honest with you, Jack. Actually there
    are several others I considered. A few are even better qualified.
    It's just that, . . . well, the crew unanimously 'volunteered'
    you for the job. To be perfectly honest, we need some time to, .
     . .well, we need some time to clear the air."
         Jack was still trying to talk his way out of if as the hatch
    to the shuttle was being sealed. "Isn't anyone even going to come
    with me?"
         As the air lock to open space swung aside the radio clicked.
    "Are you kidding!"
         The violent outer atmosphere of Jupiter buffeted the tiny
    shuttle. Slowly the temperature sensors began to climb. The
    twisting, tearing gales slowed, then ceased. And then, there they
    were. Great, ugly fish-like creatures suspended in the atmosphere
    by huge, fleshy bags. They looked much like monstrous whales tied
    to hot air balloons.
         As if curious, they came closer. Jack's posterior bubbled a
    distorted stereo to his greeting through the microphone - a
    mixture of human nervousness and synthesizer plague. To his
    surprise, the creatures moved in still closer and began to make
    weird guttural sounds, like a thumping Morse code.
         "I am from the planet, Earth," Jack announced.
         "GGrribbit pppptthhhhhh," answered one of the creatures.
         Jack tried Spanish, Greek, French, Latin and finally Arabic.
    All useless."
         "Pprrak prrrrrraaaaak griipth phoooooo."
         "Dididididididit didit," Jack tried.
         The creature became very excited and spun in quick circles.
    "Phophophophophophophooooooop grwagrap."
         Jack leaned back against the console chair and mumbled, "Now
    what the hell did I say?" Outside the creature approached the
    shuttle and opened what appeared to be a huge mouth, as if to
    swallow the small ship and make Jack the Jonah of Jupiter.
         He stared at the approaching cavern and tensed. The tension
    forced a seething explosion from Jack. The sound bounced around
    inside the shuttle, was greatly amplified and then broadcast into
    the atmosphere.
         The creature stopped suddenly, slammed its mouth shut, and
    began rocking back and forth like a treeswing in the wind. "Krrrg
    krrrrrg," it muttered happily.
         Jack fell back into the seat and pondered the situation.
    Some kind of communication was taking place. Twice he had "said"
    something that had caused the creature to react. The creature
    seemed to understand.
         He looked through the port at the creature. It was still
    rocking to and fro, back and forth, making the odd purring sound.
    Then Jack noticed that the huge bag attached to the creature
    seemed to swell and collapse slightly as the creature muttered
    its happy tune. "Krrrr," and it moved forward and up. "Krrrrg,"
    and it moved back and down.
         Jack knew that he was communicating somehow. As the creature
    rocked like a baby in a tree - and a happy baby at that - he
    tried once again with his armory of languages. All seemed to be
    ineffectual.
         The building pressure in Jack's gut suddenly released itself
    and echoed through the cockpit. The sound was picked up by the
    microphones and broadcast outward. The creature ceased its
    movements and watched the shuttle with great interest.
         "Methane!" Jack cried. He thought back at the time he was in
    summer camp, when several boys were getting their midnight kicks
    by lighting matches to see if the gaseous exits of the bean
    filled campers would light. (They did.) "Methane!" He flicked the
    recording switch. "The creatures keep afloat by filling their
    bags with methane. Warm methane. The release from the sac
    produces a vibration across a membrane. This appears to be how
    they carry on communication.
         He flipped the mike switch again and squeezed out a bubble
    of the synthesized gas. The creature outside spun a quick circle
    and answered the sound with one remarkably similar in both tone
    and duration. Jack tried again, with the same response from the
    creature.
         The baggous creature rubbed against the shuttle, making its
    version of flirtation obvious, and attempting to get its new-
    found friend to speak again. After an hour of such attempts, Jack
    found that he could flex his sphincter muscles just so, like the
    flexible opening of a balloon, and that he could thus duplicate
    the sounds of the creature. It wasn't very comfortable sitting on
    the microphone, but both he and the creature were learning.
         The creature would turn left with a tonal, "kkrrrriipp," and
    Jack would answer with a nearly identical release and finger the
    shuttle controls to turn is ship to the same degree. The creature
    rose 20 meters with a "phhhhtttoggrrrrr," and Jack drove the
    shuttle upwards and squeezed out a similar "phhhhtttoggrrrrr."
         Finally the creature farted out a hearty "Ggggrrepppithhh"
    and returned to the group of creatures waiting in the distance.
    Jack returned the salutation (wondering what the outside
    atmosphere would do to the olfactory nerves of a human - with a
    ready answer growing inside the capsule) and shot upwards through
    the atmosphere and into space where the mother ship was waiting
    for his report.
         His skin tingled with excitement. (His nose also tingled,
    but for a different reason.) The first contact with extra-
    terrestrial beings, and he, ol' Smiler Jack, had been the one to
    make it! Without the divine help of that malfunctioning - that
    very dear, wonderful - food synthesizer, it wouldn't have been
    possible.
         How he loved that machine. Every glorious confused circuit
    was a delight. The thing deserved a good polishing. Perhaps he'd
    give it a name. Charlie! Yes, Charlie. He's carve a name plate
    for it, and write home about it, and tell it bedtime stories, and
    take it to the movies, and . . . and . . . and. . . After all,
    there isn't anything two best friends won't do for each other.
         As the little shuttle glided through the opening, Jack was
    planning the evening's festivities - all in Charlie's honor.
    First he'd set the buttons to serve everyone a heaping plate of
    refried beers and bubbly beer. Then when things were popping all
    over the ship, and when the rest of the crew joined Jack in his
    "problem," he'd set all the available fans to concentrate the
    smelly fumes in the commander's cabin.

    UNTIL NEXT TIME

       I hope you enjoyed it. (How words can YOU think of for "fart"
    without using that actual word?)
       In the chance that I'm not yet done with my present deadlines
    by the time the next issue should go up, I'll pull another of the
    older issues (that one was Issue 2, put up 3 years ago) just to
    keep the flow going.

       See ya soon.

Zephyr Magazine is © Gene Williams. All rights reserved.