The Planet Perfecters, Trilogy

By Daniel W. Shegrud

He was just a common man - a homeless, nameless drunk - until they came. They, the infinitely recombining, seemingly indestructible star creatures, promised the answer to every problem that has ever plagued mankind, common or not. In short, they promised perfection, and they asked nothing in return. Except that it wasn't that easy. It never is. By the time the last question is answered, the last human will have died. Half the world is ecstatic, thinking they can stop asking questions before the stars come for them and live in perfect peace and prosperity with their fellow survivors. The other half is appalled, knowing perfection is never perfect and that the worth of a human soul far exceeds the worth of a perfect world. But how do they stop the unstoppable when the normal array of weaponry has no effect? What uncommon weapon will save the day? The drunk knows, and his weapon is the most common thing known to man.

The Planet Perfecters is a sci-fi-political commentary-adventure-comedy about the evil potential of governments and the uniting commonness of humanity that is anything BUT common.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel W. Shegrud
• Release date: Apr 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311131614

Daniel W. Shegrud

I'm from Renton, Washington, originally and except for two years in Rexburg Idaho and four months in Kingston, New York, lived there from 1960 (the year I was born) until 2008, when Mary and I moved to Spokane.Here are a few more ridiculously compelling details about me, in case you're interested: I have five sons, one daughter, 8-10 grand kids (it changes periodically) and a miniature poodle named Copper; I am a born-again believer in Jesus Christ; I love cookies; I have read more than two thousands books - novels, texts, tomes, manuscripts, what have you - in the last three decades; I love cooking; I love eating; I love eating other people's cooking; I spent more than two decades driving truck but now work as a Certified Nurse's Aid - it's often messier than driving, but more satisfying at the end of the day.

Book preview

A SHORT

EXPLANATION

of the

COPYRIGHT

This copy of The Planet Perfecters is for you and you only, which means you can’t copy, republish, tweet, email, resell or in any other way distribute this book or any portion of this book without the express written permission from the author (that would be me).

To be a bit more accurate, you are certainly capable of doing all those things without the express written permission from the author (me again) because you are a highly intelligent and capable individual as evidenced by the fact that you bought this book. However, unless you are doing any of those things for the sake of higher academia or to convince someone else to buy the book, to do so would be a no-no.

It would also be tacky and kind of rude.

If you end up loving this book and can’t live another day without sharing it with your buddies, then buy each of them a copy instead of passing this one around. Better yet, have them buy their own. They all have jobs, right?

Also, if you borrowed or stole this book from a friend, for crying out loud, don’t be so cheap. Go buy your own.

Should you choose to violate this copyright with little regard for my wishes or feelings, I would at least expect you to buy me a pizza. Call it penance. And not a wimpy pizza either. I'm talking about one with all the veggies and meats, including jalapenos and anchovies.

Thank you for respecting the insane number of years it took me to write this book.

THE

PLANET

PERFECTERS

is dedicated to all

The common heroes

of this great nation who

possess the courage

and the will to stand

against the tyranny of a

government that wants to

take care of us

BOOK 1:

STAR FALL

CHAPTER 1

Day 1

Sunday

Scene 1

It was a bright and beautiful Sunday morning with butterflies flittering and fluttering through the creamy caress of light sifting down through the piney boughs at the edge of the velvety meadow.

Or at least it would have been a bright and beautiful Sunday morning with butterflies flittering and fluttering through the creamy caress of light sifting down through the piney boughs at the edge of the velvety meadow if, indeed, it had been morning, which it was not, and if the sun had actually been shining, which it also was not, and if there had been a single piney bough in evidence, which again there was not.

Though it was, in all actuality, Sunday, it was a little after four in the afternoon, the sky was slug belly grey, and a soggy drizzle filtered down through a screen of midday mist. Though the occasional fly made its presence known from time to time, no butterflies flittered or fluttered through the light in the meadow because no meadow existed in the dingy back alley of the tiny industrial district where this delusion occurred.

To the bedraggled flop of humanity snoozing under packing blankets and plastic tarps on top of a soiled mattress which lay smack dab flat on the floor of a ramshackle old tool shed without benefit of box spring or frame, this mattered not a whit because a little after four in the afternoon was the closest thing to morning he had seen in many a long and groggy year.

The sad little shack with its sad little occupant sat just off to the side of a small court yard about half way down the alley behind an abandoned warehouse in the scenic mountain hamlet of Mule Elk.

Serving as a gateway between the east and west parts of the state, and looking to the logging industry and tourism for its sustenance, Mule Elk sat nestled in forested foothills bordered by lofty alpine peaks, and played host to single folks, families, retirees, and pretty much anyone else who wanted to live up close and personal with nature.

All through the year, Mule Elk invited travelers to sample its scenic beauty. Every spring, young lovers and the young at heart drove up for romantic getaways. Summer brought the fit and agile to trek up, over and around its surrounding tors. Come autumn, when the weather cooled somewhat, the older folks flocked in to view the breath-taking foliage. In the winter, skiers filled up the motels, jammed the restaurants and crowded the slopes. Year around, creative types from all over the world traveled there to capture it in oil, watercolor, tempura, chalk, ink, pencil, clay, charcoal, film, gelatin, finger paint, food coloring and any other medium that raged in the trendy pop-culture bastions of the moment.

Through every seasonal invasion, and despite the chaotic clash of cultures that unsettled more than a few of the long-term residents, Mule Elk remained a warm and welcoming place. To prove it, the town even claimed its own homeless drunk.

Scene 2

Years earlier, the shed in which the drunk slept housed bags of fertilizer, that substance so beneficial to the prosperity of yards and gardens, and yet so offensive to the sensibilities of esophaguses and sinuses. Devoid of its fertilizer bags and their accompanying stench, as well as a door and most of its windows, the only smelly thing housed by the shed was the societal dreg who called it home.

The societal dreg in question lay staring up at the ceiling, contemplating the pressing necessity of post-slumber drainage. At least he would have been staring up at the ceiling contemplating post-slumber drainage if there had indeed been a ceiling, which again there wasn’t. He was sure that one had existed… probably… but that had been long before he shambled down the back-alley and found this doorless, roofless, tenantless one-room manor. It still had ceiling rafters here and there, tied loosely together by the occasional warped plank, but work had not yet re-progressed to the point of re-covering them with much of anything.

The re-roofing of one’s home is a serious endeavor and, to the drunk’s way of thinking, a task not to be accomplished in a cavalier manner. One does not simply snatch up the first available roof one finds discarded on the side of the road and slap it into place atop one’s well-weathered rafters with a fine fare-thee-well and a saucy dusting of the Wells-Lamonts. No, the materials must be just right and their installation precise. Anything less would be unbefitting a home of such grandeur. Too, the materials must be cost effective and readily accessible, so the work was, of necessity, done quite slowly.

He had once found a few proper roofing materials piled on the perimeter of a construction site just down the road. Coincidentally, at the precise moment of discovery he had also found, cowering beneath his personal ennui, a dash of inclination lying next to a smidgen of energy, both of which he had carelessly overlooked in his last self-purging. That tri-fold bit of serendipity had resulted in an unusual gust of initiative, allowing him to secure a couple sheets of plywood, lug them home, and heft them up and over one corner of the rafters. The plywood sheets were old, warped and stained, but they had been squarely within his price range, and they had multiple nails sticking out of them, which solved that problem as well. The tool he used to drive the nails, thereby affixing the plywood sheets to the rafters, was a large rock found beside a freshly dredged culvert. The drunk wasn’t a thief by nature, but no one had ever come asking for the boards and the rock, so he felt justified in claiming them.

Once installed, the plywood kept the floor directly underneath reasonably dry whenever the rain fell without aid of contrary wind. Mule Elk is a windy place, and quite often the wind took pleasure in its contrariness. On rare occasion, however, the rain adapted an agreeable attitude and fell straight down, affording the affixed plywood sheets the honor of protecting that half of the mattress directly under them.

The discerning observer may well have opined that the mattress would be drier were it placed completely under the plywood where it would have enjoyed slightly better protection. Certainly, such a move would have seemed logical to even the dimmest bulb. As it happens, the dim bulb on the mattress was of the same opinion, and not a rainy or snowy morning went by that he did not regret not moving the mattress when the beguiling spirit of labor had been upon him. He often thought about moving it, but the act of putting up the plywood had so depleted his reserves that he was not mentally or morally capable of undertaking such a daunting chore. It was just too much to expect of one man; he could only reach so far; he could only give so much; he was only human. So, day after drizzly day, the mattress stayed where it was in testament to and condemnation of the human sponge that slept upon it.

Being human, he was, as noted earlier, seriously contemplating a PSD (the aforementioned post-slumber drainage). It was the whole drainage-need thing that had awakened him in the first place. He considered, with some annoyance, the niggling for a PSD as his personal alarm. He would have preferred a cute little clock in the shape of a gnome with a digital read out, six AM and twelve FM programmable radio stations, a nine-minute snooze and fade-in/fade-out capabilities, but that would have required electricity and, goodness-for-hopscotch-certain, his home was a long ways away from that foolish extravagance. No, the PSD urge was more than sufficient for his needs and, being a man of high and refined qualities, most days he responded to its call.

Scene 3

About the eighth or tenth or seventeenth time his bladder cramped, he threw off his coverings and rolled to the edge of his mattress. Thrilling at the continuity of movement, he kept rolling until he floomped onto the floor. Fortunately for him, he still had a floor upon which he could floomp.

Unlike the roof, which wasn’t there yet, or there again depending on your perspective, the floor was still in place and showed no sign of getting up and leaving any time soon. This fact, though reassuring on many levels, caused a small degree of disgruntlement to the man, for if the floor had decided to get up and leave out while he was sitting on it, it would have saved him the trouble, at least once, of walking all the way to the window to perform the perfunctory PSD. But there it sat, as fixed and stubborn as a barnacle, giving nothing but support to four walls, a mattress and an old storage crate, which served quadruple duty as closet, chair, table and personal valet.

He would not have blamed the floor if it had taken off, for the charitable act of holding his sop-saddened carcass year after sullen year had to be depressing even to a well-mannered tongue-in-groove masterpiece as itself. Yet it did not leave, as the willy-nilly roof had done, for it was a loyal floor, dedicated to the hallowed calling of its genre, and gladly accepted every thoughtless burden set upon it.

Staring once again at the non-existent roof, he found himself grateful for the little bit of reassurance provided by the constancy of the dependable floor.

He could not count on the walls, for they could be blown down by any serious wind that bothered to notice them. He could not count on the roof because it wasn’t even there again yet. He could not count on his mattress because some poor sluggard more pitiful than he could steal it whenever he wasn’t on it – or even while he was on it, for that matter. He could not count on the wine, which he drank to excess as often as he could, because it required money. He could not count on the money because it required finding sufficient bottles and cans to recycle. He could not count on sufficient bottles and cans to recycle because that required him to get out of bed and go look for them. He could not count on himself to get out of bed because…well, just because. The only thing in his life he could truly count on was his floor, upon which he was still floomped.

Gripping the handle on the side of his personal valet, which sat on the trusty floor within arm’s reach of the mattress, he hoisted himself to a reasonable approximation of sitting. This was always a fascinating moment in his day, for while the room spun in languid circles when he lay supine, it whirled at full tilt when he sat up.

Some days, the precarious act of sitting up robbed him of his determination to perform a PSD. When that happened, he simply crawled back into bed and let the natural course of his need warm him from the crotch outward. Most days, however, after sitting up, the whirling slowed to a manageable twirl. Today was one of those days, so he managed to attain his wobbly feet and make his tottering way to the toilet.

At least he would have made his tottering way to the toilet if, indeed, he had a toilet, which he did not. Instead, he had four relatively functional substitutes, referred to by most people as windows, found one in each wall and into and through which he sent an almost daily stream of PSD. He never used the windows for discarding anything of solid substance, for even a man of his station had more sensibilities than that. The solids he dispensed in the alley two blocks down wherein dwelt a few portable outhouses. He showed his windows the utmost consideration by reserving them for his liquid unnecessaries.

Never one to let a hedonistic moment pass unappreciated, the drunk used the manageable twirls to make a game of the whole PSD process. He always selected one of the four windows before rising to his feet. Then he tested himself by trying to reach the sill for which he aimed. Most folks could do it with their eyes closed in less than three seconds, but doing it sober was akin to cheating. Where oh where was the fun and challenge in that? Much more satisfying and exciting it is to embrace the possibility of failure.

This time he did not fail entirely. He made it, eventually, to the window in the east wall, which was nowhere near his aim, then granted freedom to his Dear Tommy and grandly began the blessed process of PSD into the drizzle of the day.

At least he would have grandly begun the blessed process of PSD into the drizzle of the day if the window had been open, which it was not. The very reason he had not originally aimed for the east window was because it contained a full pane of glass. The others were mostly bereft of glass, making a satisfactory PSD out of the west, south or north window a fairly safe bet. To do so out the east window took a lot more effort because it required him to open it first. This seemed very much like physical labor and he could not count on himself to do that with any degree of regularity, so he generally tried to avoid the east wall altogether. Most days he succeeded because, with three functioning portals to choose from, and the doorway as a wild card, he had only a one-in-five chance of hitting the east wall window.

This day being a little more whirly-twirly than the usual, he did not notice that he was standing before the east window until he felt the sock covering his left foot begin the amazing process of absorption. By then it was far too late. Even a sober man of great physical will would find it difficult to stem his flow once it reached fire hose force. Might as well try to dam a river with a toothpick or gather in an aroma once it has diffused or put the feathers back on a chicken once it is plucked or rewrite anything by Hemingway so that it has a discernable point. Futility is futility, no matter the degree of determination. Being a man of far less than impressive will, the only option open to him was to hold on for the duration and try not to get his right sock wet.

He failed at that, too.

Scene 4

Despair is an emotion felt by those who once thought they had a prayer of a chance to succeed at something. First, they set their eyes on a goal, be it inconsequential or of phenomenal significance, then they strive to attain it. Staying hard in the running, persevering past the hurdles and the pit falls and the mud puddles, dodging all determined detractors, kicking dust in the eyes of any who dare to challenge them, they convince themselves that the trophy is just… within… their… reach! They can’t lose; nothing can stop them; invincibility is theirs for the taking.

Then… POW! With their fingertips a spare inch from the finish line, their heaving chests straining forward to break the tape, the cruel hand of doom smashes them down into the dirt. Broken and defeated, they know their prospects have all but evaporated. Before the dust settles and the world rights itself on its floppy axis, despair replaces exultation and all of life becomes pointless.

It is the rare few who, finding themselves immersed in the horrors of despair, eventually reach a poised though somewhat begrudging accord with it and step over its ramparts to struggle on.

Even rarer are those who are, by nature, immune to despair. To those fortunate individuals, such as the man who stood at the east window creating a fantastic array of amber performance art, despair is never an option because no goal loftier than getting out of bed and scoring another bottle of liquid bliss ever enters their minds. To fall from those staggering heights would create an extremely shallow crater indeed. Despair, having its own ragged form of dignity, would never deign to trouble itself for so egregious a payoff.

That being the case, the drunk was hardly fazed when he found himself in possession of two freshly anointed stockings.

Undaunted, he finished his tinkle fest and tucked himself back into modesty’s good graces. Slipping his soggy feet into an old pair of shoes, he stepped into the day, completely unaware of the insanity about to crash down on him, and pronounced a cursory benediction to his latest debacle.

Pissonit, he said.

CHAPTER 2

Day 2

Monday

Scene 1

Governor Heade sat in his overstuffed office chair and opened the top left drawer of his oversized desk. An oval mirror in a gold-plated frame popped up to face him and he gazed into with a reverence bordering on awe.

Now that was a great chin! It had oomph, it had moxie, it had charisma, and it was his-all-his. Had ever such a chin graced the hallowed halls of governance in all of history?

Granted, many of history’s greatest leaders had had chins, and some of those chins had even been impressive, but each had suffered from the personal flaws of the politician to which it belonged.

Napoleon’s chin, for instance, was decisive, but it was a tiny thing pasted on a man of disputed stature, so it only inspired obedience at the point of a sword.

Stalin’s chin, though larger than Napoleon’s, was fleshy and possessed a cruel dimension.

George Washington had a fine chin, but his hair was so silly that it rendered his chin almost impotent. George had to resort to eloquence to hold any degree of sway.

And let us not forget Winston Churchill. His chin was so stolid he could have led by it alone, but the silly fellow chose instead to lead with his tongue, and though his words were fine enough, his insufferable accent and doughy lips invited more ridicule than respect.

The point is, God created chins for the express purpose of commanding respect. They were meant to divide dreamers from doers, actors from administrators, pansies from potentates, mice from men, G.I.’s from Joes.

Imagine that G.I. engaged in a pitched battle, standing atop a parapet, his sweat pouring off his war-weary brow, his gun barking in his manly hand, his torn shirt reveling his heaving chest, his rolled up sleeves displaying his muscular arms. Oblivious to the lead flying around him, he scans the torn terrain and signals his defiance to his enemies by pointing at them with his imposing nose…no, wait, his eyebrows…or maybe his tongue…or…well, you get the picture. If it isn’t his chin it would neither rally the troops nor cow the adversary.

The chin that dazzled back from the gilded desk mirror had no detractive facial features. It was not Lilliputian or gargantuan, not fleshy or cruel, not embarrassed by a silly hairstyle or sabotaged by a discordant voice. The eyes, though a brilliant blue, could not outshine it; the nose, though leonine in all the best ways, could not overshadow it; the lips, though gifted in the art of smiling, could not upstage it. The deferential features of the reflected face, each perfect in their own right, came together in symmetry and harmony to serve as staff, faculty, crew and team in support of the authoritative and visionary chin.

It was the chin of chins, destined to be lauded and sculpted throughout the ages as the archetype of chinly perfection, and it was just about the only reason that Montague Tyranius Heade had been elected to lead his state.

Governor Heade – or MT, as his family, friends, enemies, allies, adversaries and anyone else who cared to address him for any purpose whatsoever preferred to call him, admired himself in the mirror. This was a ritual performed punctually every weekday at 8am when he sat at his office desk. Aside from the morning sacrament of shaving, in which he was privileged to gaze at his chin-graced mug for a rousing 10 minutes, he also looked at himself before leaving his office, giving a press conference, hosting a dignitary, speaking at a luncheon or performing any other duty which required his presence. He always started with a full frontal view, then turned side to side, making sure all the other components were in place and complimentary. Once satisfied, he would turn full-frontal one last time and imbue himself with the confidence that only a great chin can impart.

Having completed his morning ritual, MT turned his attention to the duties of his office. First up was the daily briefing.

Saddleback, he hollered to his secretary, who sat patiently on the other side of the desk, Let’s walk.

Scene 2

MT was a fitness fanatic, a discipline drummed into his head by his father from the moment of his birth. On that significant day, when MT had popped merrily out from between his mother’s legs, the doctor had snatched him up in wonder and pronounced to the eager parents, Oh my! Oh my!

What is it, Doctor? asked his father. Is there a problem?

Oh…oh no, there’s no problem at all. There’s a chin!

A what?

A chin! And what an amazing chin it is!

I’m glad it has one of those, said his father, "but is it a boy or a girl?

It’s the most wonderful chin I have ever delivered, said the doctor, and it has a penis!

MT’s father stared between his wife’s knees in confusion and horror. My son’s chin has a penis on it!?!

Our son has a what on his chin? his exhausted mother gasped.

He said it’s a penis.

A penis…?

Yes, dear!

…on his chin?!

That’s what the doctor said!

My baby is defective? Why, God? WHY!?! The poor woman was unable to bear the horror. With a whimper, she swooned.

Honey? Honey! Oh, no! His father bounced his focus from between her knees to her face and back again. First my son is born with a penis on his chin, and then my wife dies! How will I raise him alone? What will I tell everybody when they see him? How will I put on his diaper?

No, no, my good man, the doctor said, Calm down! Your son’s penis and chin are both in their proper locations. It’s just that your son’s chin is far more attractive than his penis. See? He stepped away from the business end of the table and brought the naked little newborn to his parents. And your wife isn’t dead, she’s only fainted.

Gently slapping the women’s cheek until she revived, he placed the child in his mother’s arms.

MT’s parents were torn between elation and trepidation, gazing at their son in wonder and awe, yet fearful of what they would see if they looked too closely at his face or his crotch. After scanning both locales from every possible angle, they had no choice but to concur with the Doctor’s first assessment.

You’re absolutely right, Doctor, his mother squeaked with extreme relief, his penis is fine, but his chin is glorious.

Yes, my dear, his father agreed, We shall teach this child to keep his penis hidden and his chin in plain view.

His father had knocked it into MT’s noggin throughout his childhood that his chin was his ticket to ultimate success in life, but only if he made absolutely, positively, double-bubble sure that the rest of his body neither thwarted nor superseded its rightful position of influence. To that end, his father had trained him to eat only the most beneficial of diets, to wear only the most complimentary of clothes, to sport only the most popular of hairstyles and to exercise with only the most religious of fervors.

Now, at the age of 42, he possessed a chin-directed physique that incited envy among men, inspired fantasy among women, and invited substantial quantities of votes from both sexes. He maintained his trim figure by daily visits to the Capitol gym, twenty laps around the Capital pool three times a week, a full facial massage every other day and the customary walk, rain or shine, around his personal exercise garden during the morning briefing.

Scene 3

What day is it today, Saddleback?

Monday, Governor, responded his beleaguered aide. Would you like to carry your Monday stick?

Absolutely! bellowed MT. Bring me my scepter!

Saddleback moved to the walking stick cabinet and selected the requested implement. It wasn’t really a scepter, of course, but MT treasured his delusions and pampered them whenever doing so did not interfere with State business or with the state of his chin.

The Monday walking stick was a pleasantly gnarled trunk of vine maple that grew in the surrounding forested hills. It was 5 and a half feet in length, thicker at the top than at the bottom, stripped of its bark and carved with the names of all the blessed little tykes in Mrs. Mires’ first grade class from Skweakumcluk Elementary school.

Mrs. Mires had heard of the Governor’s habit of walking each morning and thought that presenting him with a walking stick would be a great way to get her charges interested in the subject of State affairs. They had searched in the forest behind the school for just the right stick, then, upon finding it, had stripped it of its bark and set it by the classroom windows to dry. When it was sufficiently dried, which took a grueling two weeks of patience from the pint-sized pupils, each child had eagerly burned his or her name with a soldering iron somewhere along its wan length.

Two weeks later, they personally presented it to MT in a carefully scripted ceremony held in the Governor’s office. The kids loved it, the cameras captured it, and the reporters predicted it would result in a significant uptick in the Governor’s approval rating. When the whole circus left his office, MT put the stick in the corner and promptly forgot it.

It was Saddleback who pointed out a few days later that if MT carried the stick on his walk, as the Skweakumcluk pupils had intended, not only would the public appreciate his show of humanity, but he would burn more calories and exercise his forearms at the same time. This had thrilled MT, for though he was a diligent exerciser, he was a closeted laze-about who wished passionately that staying fit didn’t take so much blasted work. If he could burn calories and tone muscles by simply carrying a stupid stick, then that stupid stick would get carried!

It wasn’t long before the paparazzi caught wind of it and soon photos of Governor Heade carrying a walking stick popped up all over the state media. The public had loved it. It was so potentate-ish, so health-ish, so Green Tree State-ish.

When the commending letters poured in, Saddleback found himself beset by requests from teachers all over the State to give the Governor a stick from their class. Saddleback arranged for six of them to meet with MT and directed all others to the State legislature. As everyone who watched television knew, those chubbos needed the exercise.

On the appointed day, the six selected teachers brought their students and their sticks to a huge ceremony on the capital grounds. One class at a time, the children presented the six sticks, each representing one of the State’s plentiful native trees, to Governor Heade with all the proper fanfare due such an event. MT, who detested children and physical contact, accepted each stick and place it in a hermetically sealed, environmentally controlled glass box where they would stay when not in use. Turning back to the kids, he shook hands with each one, recoiling on the inside but smiling on the outside because each hand shaken was vote for himself come election time.

When asked at the press conference if he would use all the sticks, he broke from tradition and followed saddleback’s advice when he answered. He explained that since the vine maple stick had been first, it would be the Monday stick. Each stick was then assigned a day, based on the order of acceptance: Tuesday’s stick was western hemlock; Wednesday’s was yew; Thursday’s was Douglas fir; Friday’s was apple; Saturday’s was lodgepole pine; and Sunday’s was dogwood.

Sometimes MT took the hemlock stick on Monday because it carried historically suicidal connotations and Mondays could be so dreary. If the State Apple Growers were visiting, he would grab the apple tree stick, no matter what day of the week it was, unless, of course the growers were being politically obnoxious, in which case he would spitefully carry a cherry tree stick, which he had had made during a particularly nasty pique of temper. Other than that, misinformation notwithstanding, he adhered to the schedule.

With his Monday walking stick firmly in hand, and Saddleback following at his heels, MT strode purposefully through the back doors of his office into his private exercise garden.

MT had ordered the four acre exercise garden installed immediately upon his ascension to his office and he had been exacting in his specifications. The track was to be one mile in length, beginning five paces from his office threshold, and be three feet wide so that with the swinging of his arms, no one could walk beside him. The architects were free to design it with as many zigzags, and curves as were necessary to make it come out the correct length, but at no time was the track to connect with or cross itself.

There were eight exercise stations positioned evenly along the course with the first, the stretching station, placed immediately adjacent to the starting/ending line.

The bushes, shrubs, trees and plants he left to the landscapist’s tastes, but they were to be two feet from the edge of the path on each side with the extra two feet bordering the path on either side being filled with Kentucky bluegrass.

Why Kentucky bluegrass? Why not Red fescue or perennial ryegrass, some variety of zoysia or some hearty Buffalo grass? Because Kentucky bluegrass was the only grass MT knew by name. When he pronounced it with such exaggerated solemnity, everyone who knew no better assumed he had a horticultural clue. Fortunately, being clueless about grass did not prevent his borders from being lush and beautiful.

Saddleback! MT roared, starting out at his customarily brisk pace. Bring me up to speed!

Saddleback, following behind MT, began to read the daily briefing. Item one is the upcoming Governor’s conference. It’s being held one month from today and you’re hosting it in your brand new Heade Conference Center. All arrangements have been made and I will have your agenda and your impromptu greetings on your desk the day before.

Make it two days before; I like to memorize my impromptus.

Yes sir.

Item two concerned the state budget, item three the ongoing irrigation battles on the east side of the mountains and so on until all thirty-four items on the list had been covered, along with two solid miles on the track.

Scene 4

Is that it, then, MT asked?

Yes sir, Saddleback wheezed. I mean, no sir. I mean, that’s all that was in the briefing, but there is one more thing. It’s not written on the list and it’s probably not very important, but I thought you might find some way to make political hay out of it.

And that would be…?

Saddleback took a deep breath and explained. My friend’s dad is a professor at the State U and he has a retired professor friend with a large telescope named Lowgoss who lives up in the mountains in the town of Mule Elk.

His friend has a telescope named Lowgoss?

No sir. The professor’s name is Lowgoss.

I see. Then what does he call his telescope?

I…I have no idea. Anyhow, Professor Lowgoss was looking through his telescope, the name of which is currently undetermined…

MT raised his eyebrows in annoyance and Saddleback hurried on.

…two nights ago and he saw what appeared to be an unknown comet heading toward Earth.

Heading toward Earth? THAT’S not very important?

MT was horrified. Scenes of death and destruction flashed across his mind. Towns could be demolished, crops could be decimated, livelihoods could be devastated and, worst of all, voter numbers could be diminished. He could picture any hope of re-election shattering like space-flung ice on the ground.

Are you out of your ever loving mind? That could be a disaster! I need to notify the army! I need to call the President! I need to hold a press conference!

No, really sir, you don’t. According to my friend, Professor Lowgoss said it wouldn’t actually hit the Earth. It won’t even get close enough to our solar system to be seen clearly by the naked eye.

Oh, I see. Well, that’s much better. MT’s world stabilized again and all his fancies of doom and gloom turned tail and scampered into the underbrush of his mind. Relief, combined with lingering endorphins from the very recent exercise walk, made him feel suddenly giddy. I’m happy for Professor Whosit, but what does this have to do with me and how am I supposed to make political hay out of it? Hmm?

It’s customary that the one who discovers a comet gets to name it, Saddleback explained.

"Yes, so?

So…Professor Lowgoss is going to name it after himself.

I got that far all by myself, Saddleback. Where do I come in?

Professor Lowgoss will be releasing the news of his discovery at a cosmology conference next week at the U.

He’s going to tell a bunch of sissified hairdressers that he found a comet? Why the devil would he do that?

No sir. Not cosmetology – cosmology, the study of the universe.

Use smaller words, Saddleback. I’m a busy Governor and I don’t have time to decipher everything you say. Now please continue, and for pities sake get to the hay part!

Of course, sir. As I was saying, he will be announcing his discovery at the cosmology conference.

And…?

His announcement will make national headlines.

And…? And…? MT said, twirling his fingers in brusque encouragement.

…and, since he is from this State, making you his Governor, if you were there beside him when he made his announcement, you would also make national headlines. National recognition would come in very handy when you launch your campaign for the Presidency.

Ah, MT gasped, a faint gleam of comprehension showing in his witless eyes. Oh! Ooohh!! Aaahhh!!! Brilliant! Absolutely ingenious! Saddleback, I want him making that announcement with me during my weekly press conference on Wednesday.

He pointed a finger in Saddleback’s face. Uh-uh-uh. I see that objection coming. You were about to say that he won’t want to spoil the surprise with all those hairstylists. Well la-de-da. What do they know about the universe anyway, all those poofy young men in their tight silk pants? You just get him here – tomorrow! – and you make him want to. Handle it, Saddleback. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get to my mirror.

CHAPTER 3

Day 3

Tuesday, Part 1

Scene 1

It was a perfect morning for sitting on the sun-drenched terrace of an old world café enjoying a buxom duet of Eggs Benedict tucked under a blanket of hand-whisked hollandaise and accompanied by a luscious fold of nectarine and Neufchatel crepes - while sipping on a sparkling chalice of mimosa, of course! And such would be the repast of Professor Peter Lowgoss if only the diner served such fare, if only it was in the old world, if only it had a terrace and if only the sun was shining, but the self-indulgent game of ‘if only’ could not change the reality of the drizzly Tuesday outside, the padded bench seat inside, the worn linoleum table in front of him, or the common fare on top of it.

Sigh!

Best to get a grip, old boy, Professor Lowgoss mused to himself. It’s what you do with what you’ve got that counts in life. And I’ve got, let’s see… he surveyed his plate, two eggs over easy, corned beef hash, tomato juice and whole wheat toast with real butter. Oh, and homemade strawberry jam! A feast! Thank the good Lord.

Having completed his morning attitude adjustment and feeling content again, he dug in.

It wasn’t hard for Peter to be content. Life was good and, truthfully, it always had been. The only child of doting parents, he had been born and raised on a small family dairy farm where he had learned to appreciate the benefits of hard work and to respect the mysteries of life, of nature and of God. An excellent student, he had breezed through his first twelve years of school and, upon graduating, had left farm life behind and entered the world of academia, eventually becoming a professor of Astronomy and spending his entire career in the State University system.

Somewhere in the middle of all his scholarship, Peter had met, fallen for, and wed a wonderful gal who had gifted him with thirty happy years. The only real disappointment Peter and his bride experienced was that they were never able to conceive children, but they dealt with that by embracing Peter’s students as their progeny, and through the years, the students filled their hearts and their home with the energy and excitement of the young and idealistic.

Professor Lowgoss and his bride had discovered Mule Elk early in their marriage, had fallen in love with its charm, its people and its star-emblazoned night skies, and ended up spending most of their vacations in some rented cabin or other wooing under those stars and, between woos, studying those skies through Peter’s favorite telescope. Often, they had dreamed aloud of buying their own little house in Mule Elk and making it their permanent home. She died before that dream became a reality, but when retirement eventually culled him out of the scholarly pack, he dutifully bundled up his memories and moved with them, and his telescope, into a quaint bungalow in the middle of town.

Though he now lived alone, he rarely felt lonely. Whether engaged in community events, attending church services, or sitting on a main street bench watching life unfold around him, she lingered in his mind and heart. Yet, on those rare occasions when loneliness paid a social call, he was grateful for the familiar things that allowed him to refocus his attitude, such as the diner in which he now sat and in which he ate breakfast nearly every morning.

Scene 2

More coffee, Professor?

Krystal Murdock, the diner’s chef, waitress and owner, stood over him with the ever-present coffee pot in hand.

A pleasantly plump, middle-aged woman