End of May

Chapter One: "Call Me Al"

Stratus dragons slithered across the moon’s face in a balmy black velvet sky as we drove across the airfield under the tower’s dispensation. After the obligatory words, we sat and waited as the China Air heavy dirigible arrived just ahead of the encroaching fractonimbus arms of another wad of gentle mist and rain. At the edges of the moon, glaring at the massive aerial displacement before an arrogant threatening mob of water vapor, the great ship shadowed the docking mast as automated weighted cables spewed in four directions. The steel spheres dragged short furrows before the behemoth ponderously stilled itself under the flutter of electric ducted fans.

Umbilicals and safety lines made fast the tardy vessel in refracted artificial light shining upward to dissipate in the vast parabolic sweep of the monster freighter’s plasteel hull. The radio crackled to life with the liturgy of aviation. Algernon Southworth blinked and turned away from the artificial moon resting at moorage and the bright white of landing lights and baggage car headlights. The ritual words opened the approach field for the solitary night excursion. At least, the stores will have fresh fruit tomorrow—and maybe more parts for our aging equipment. The air smelled fresh through the half opened window of the lighting maintenance van.

Momentarily awakening from twilight sleep, over in shotgun position, the old marine awoke with instant eerie silence and reached for the bronze clipboard, quickly noted time and date. By the last 600 seconds of the day, Algernon called off the airfield. Old Jake Arnold was back into his meditative state. As the bulk in the right seat dozed, solitude descended on the two men, quiet articulation of the hanger door ceased. Another 30,000 seconds, another 4 trillion dollars—
I’m glad the port pays us in WuLong dollars.