Dweedles To Mission Control : No. 7

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Another instalment of the exchange of messages between a disaffected galactic explorer and an increasingly exasperated staff at home-planet mission control.

Submitted: June 24, 2017

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Submitted: June 24, 2017

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FOURTH MESSAGE TO PLANET X

Yours received – is that short enough? Regarding your fatuous efforts to engage someone to pursue me, I can only chuckle at the thought that you have wheeled in the big artillery by activating good old – and I really mean old – Dwolf. I’ve heard of tomb-robbing, but this must be the first case in which the occupant of a sarcophagus has been revitalised. A little ghoulish on your part, I suggest. Even when firing on all cylinders – which last happened ages ago – Dwolfie was never very bright. Are you sure the poor soul is sentient? You might just try checking with a cattle prod. Oh, you don’t have such things, do you? I must be getting confused. No wonder, when all my words and deeds are monitored by a horde of control freaks.

It might be mildly interesting to you to learn that my provisions are running out. Did anybody there ever consider how I would sustain myself in space with but one atom of matter per cubic metre? This isn’t exactly a walk in the park, you know. Only my ingenuity has kept me going. I had thought that human being were socially  backward, but your latest communication makes me wonder. What a bunch of cheapskates you are. Notwithstanding the above, I appreciate that you’re footing the inadequate bill for this escapade, so I feel an obligation to give you further details, though you may not like some of them.

While humans are a queer crowd, I find them increasingly attractive. Why? Certainly not because of their technological standards. So far, they have lumbered off their own globe to reach the Earth’s satellite, a feat that, cumbersome though it was, extended their ability to its maximum, and made a fearsome racket to boot. Yet, barbarous and destructive as they are, they have something that most of our kind lack. I speak of heart. Yes, that’s a new one for you, isn’t it? I mean, look at yourselves. Your aim is aimlessness. All you’re concerned about is survival. To what end? Most of you aren’t doing much, apart from seeking to prolong your lives for hedonistic purposes. It’s Sodom and Gomorrah all over again if you ask me – but, you won’t, will you?

 Human beings have among their number a sprinkling of philosophers, but I must say that the output from these people leaves much to be desired. Usually they choose to speak in terms inaccessible to their contemporaries, a practice which they appear to believe indicates their intellectual superiority. Pretentious rubbish! If they were really clever, they would realise that all great ideas are simple and can be expressed accordingly.

 As I mentioned earlier, there are also warriors here. On the whole, they achieve nothing but to wrest from others things which in many cases are lost again through further strife. Idiotic. I mean, if somebody else has something you want, the obvious thing is to buy it or barter for it. Using force is surely not right.

I would say that the best hope here lies in the advancement of the common people, most of whom are, though woefully ill-informed, decent types and don’t care much who owns what, so long as they can live in peace and passable comfort and can enjoy their chosen diversions. In this respect sport, particularly association football (soccer), has a high profile. You wouldn’t believe how much feeling this engenders, especially among the fans, who get even more worked up than do the players, and who seem to think nothing of indulging in unseemly brawls, sometimes even before a match, when they have nothing to complain about. After the event, things often get worse – I attended one football game which was followed by a street-fight involving people stropping each other with broken bottles, bicycle chains and suchlike items.

Now, my egg-timer (a dinky little gizmo I purloined from a shop in Switzerland) tells me that I shall soon be obliged to ‘throw another log on the fire’ to beef up my batteries. Watch this space, and each time you think of sending a chaperone this way, remember that I have my hands on some costly machinery. To what extent are you prepared to antagonise me?

Your increasingly unwilling flunkey

Dweedles

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