Solutions: The Dilemma of Hopelessness, James Gerard [free children's ebooks online .txt] 📗

ends.  The ship will arrive.  The friend will slow it down.  The aliens can deal with it without my help.”

 

*                                 *                                 *

 

“What’s wrong?” shouted Timothy.  The head pounded and throbbed.  The pain intensified as he sat up.  Nausea whirled about the stomach as dizziness disoriented the thoughts.

 

Fingers groped about the wall and tapped the emergency stop button.  The rotation stopped, threw and slapped the body about the bedroom.

 

“What’s going on?” he uttered as hands twitched and clutched the head.

 

Eyes popped open, but slammed shut from the beams of light intensifying the pain.  Hands groped the walls for support.  Muscles jerked about as he felt the way to the doctor.

 

A hand shook violently and shoved its way into the dark recess: “Doctor, pain, dizzy, nausea, spasms, diagnose, hurry!”

 

The doctor proceeded at its normal pace.

 

“Come on,” Timothy uttered.

 

Stomach muscles contracted and spewed forth the contents within the stomach.  Bits and pieces and globules of puke splattered on the doctor and rebounded into his face.  The mess floated freely about the room.  The putrid smell, the acrid aftertaste of the vomit that lingered in the mouth triggered another violent heave.

 

“This is it,” he gasped after heaving up and spitting out bits of partially digested food.

 

But then, just as Timothy thought the end had come, the pain and nausea and dizziness eased.  Lightheadedness slowly soothed the thoughts.  A warm sensation tingled throughout the body.  A smile appeared while slipping away into unconsciousness.

 

The doctor had hold of an arm.  The body was motionless amidst the vomit.

 

Watery eyes popped open and squinted to identify the blurred images about.  “Where am I?  Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory?”

 

At last the vision started to come into focus.  A familiar sight was spotted.  “Oh yes.  The doctor.  The ship.  The journey.”

 

“Uncertain as to what had happened, Timothy looked to the doctor, but the diagnosis it flashed was still a bit fuzzy.

 

An arm slipped out of the slot and guided the body onto the chair.

 

He managed to secure a single strap around the waist.  Resting there, Timothy yawned and rubbed the focus back into clarity.

 

“What happened?”

 

Severe dehydration, the diagnosis read.  Administered intravenous saline solution.

 

So that’s what happens when you don’t drink the replacement fluid.  Timothy looked at the doctor: “Well, I don’t know if I should thank you or dismantle you for what you did.”

 

He expected a response, but the doctor had no sense of humor.

 

“Just kidding.”  He laughed.  “Besides, the friend would scream at me if I tried to harm you.  By the way, you didn’t happen to inject an air bubble in my veins?”

 

A finger poked the puncture point created by the catheter.  A bit sore, he noted, but it will pass.

 

Then the greenish, brownish globules and strands of slime floating about caught his attention.  “Phew.  Quite a mess.  Better clean it up.”

 

Arms embraced the vacuum from the east garden.  Timothy twisted and turned in the air, danced the vacuum back to the living room.

 

With the nozzle of the hose gripped in a hand, the vacuum ambushed the globules and strands of filth.  “Take that,” he shouted as the suspended slime was swooshed into the belly of the machine.

 

The nozzle ran over the doctor and sucked in the oozy bits of crusted matter.  It wandered into the slot to capture any slime that may have escaped its way into the hidden passageway.  A rag wiped the rest of the slime off the doctor and herded it into the waiting tube.

 

“The wall also,” said Timothy having observed the clinging mess.  “Go away intruders; into your soiled prison.”

 

Only after the walls sparkled, the area cleared of debris, did he dispose of the filthy rag into the hamper and danced the vacuum back to the grip of the garden floor.

 

“Blah!”  The utterance of the very word enhanced the taste of the acrid substance about the palate.  A rinse will take care of this.

 

Timothy floated to the bathroom sink where he plucked a moist napkin from a cabinet and wiped the slime off soiled lips, face, hair, arms, and hands.

 

With a squirt of water in the mouth, the vomit flavored saliva was squished about.  Once free, the slime was spat out to the reclamation unit below.

 

Hunger pangs announced it was time to eat.

 

The sight of fresh selections in the refrigerator caused lips to smack.

 

“Let’s see,” he whispered eyeing the colors.  “Some tomato, snow peas, carrots, onion, and why not, some broccoli and spinach.”

 

He secured the bits of leafy and chunky green and white and red portions of savory delights in a container.

 

“And meat?” he mused over as he floated over to the meat locker.  “Naw, been eating too much lately.  Same for rice.  How ‘bout plain old noodles.”

 

The water needle fed the container the level of moisture required to awaken the feast of foods.  Slipped into the microwave and set for a slow simmer, Timothy decided to visit the ship’s observation lounge.

 

Just as soon as the perch provided comfort before the view of the twinkling stars, the friend screamed.

 

“Yes?”   Eyes looked at the agitated monitor.  “Do you need something?”

 

The friend flashed its command.

 

“Oh, gee, beware!  A water pump has ceased operating properly.  Run for your lives.”

 

The friend continued screaming.

 

He pondered over a solution to block the noise of the tirade.  “No,” he whispered, “I can’t use paper.  It starts to fall apart minutes after getting wet.  Let’s see, something that’s slightly tapered and won’t fall apart for awhile?”

 

Eyebrows rose.  “Why not?” he said aloud and shrugged the shoulders.  “That should do the job.”

 

The friend still screamed.  “Now now!  Temper temper!” he said to the ranting friend.

 

Tossing the straps to the side, Timothy glided to the refrigerator and picked a package of readied carrots from a bin.  This one, he noted as fingers plucked a tapered piece from the air.  A little saliva for a snug seal.  A twist and turn—too small.

 

Eyes scanned the pieces in orbit.  Fingers plucked yet a bigger piece from the air.  “Oh yes.  Much better,” he said while feeling the snug fit.  “And this one.”

 

He froze and listened for the scream that called for pampering.

 

“Hello, is someone there?”  A smile broke out, for the screams now sounded of whispers spoken in the dark.

 

A hand scooped the remaining pieces of carrots and corralled them back into the bag.  “Appetizers.”

 

Timothy glided back to the perch.  Pieces of carrots crunched between teeth and drowned out the faint whispers of the friend.

 

“Ah, what a lovely view.  The stars seem to be especially bright today.”

 

The sound and sight was heaven.

 

After the last bits of carrots was chewed and swallowed, Timothy figured the main course had finished simmering in the oven.  He floated back to the kitchen and escorted the container back to the comfortable setting of the living room.

 

He picked the cup of precious salt out from the hold of one of the doctor’s cabinets and stirred a heaping teaspoon of granules amongst the mixture of noodles and vegetables.

 

The spoon shoveled savory bites into the mouth.  The tongue moved the food about the palate.  “This is so good.  My compliments to the chef.  Well thank you.  No, thank you.  Oh no, thank you.”

 

The bountiful meal disappeared from the container.  Timothy scraped the spoon all about to capture every last bit.

 

“I believe the succulent nectarines would make the perfect dessert.”

 

After washing the dishes, he glided over to the refrigerator.  Eyeing the larger of the packages, a hand picked it out of the bin and into the hold of a pocket.

 

“A picnic,” he thought aloud.  “A picnic in the garden.”

 

Having floated into the east garden, Timothy stared at the kaleidoscope of colors emanating through the porous walls.  “Well hello,” he said to the trees basking in the warmth of their compartments.  The rotation stopped.  “It’s been a lovely day today don’t you think?”

 

Timothy noticed a clutter of leaves scattered about the compartment of the apple tree.  “You shouldn’t be shedding leaves now.  Not getting enough water?  Too hot?”

 

The needle on the maximum/minimum thermometer stood above the blue background.  “Well, the air temperature is fine.”

 

A glove was removed so a naked hand could feel the soil.  “It’s moist, the humidifier is working.  Maybe some fresh water will do you good.”

 

Instead of using the hose leading directly from the fresh water tank, Timothy opted to fill a large container with oxygen rich water, and guided the container to the apple tree.

 

A finger activated the wheel.  Its acceleration settled him to his knees.

 

“Here you go.”  The water poured around the base of the tree.  While the soil soaked in the puddle, he pulled the savory dessert out of the pocket and sat in the spongy soil among the fallen leaves.  The mask came off.

 

Timothy slowly chewed the bites of nectarine.  In between the chews he listened for the friend’s frantic scream, but the whirring of the wind in the wheel blocked out the sound completely.

 

Fingers uncorked the pieces of carrots from the ear holes to listen for the screaming sound, but none could be heard.  The shoulders shrugged and eyebrows rose.  Maybe it shuts up when its vocal cords start to sore?

 

The wheel stopped.  “I’ll check on you later my friend,” he assured the apple tree.

 

Though lights flashing from a terminal signaled Timothy that the friend had not died, he could not understand why it ceased screaming.

 

“Friend, transfer, clipboard.”

 

The friend flashed the problem.  “Well, your hearing isn’t impaired.”  Eyes peered over the list.  “I don’t believe it.  You’ve thrown your circuit breakers off on yourself.”

 

Laughter filled the room.  The very action shook the clipboard out of the grip while the body somersaulted in the air.

 

“What’s the matter?  Can’t you reroute the function?”  The roar of laughter echoed throughout the ship.

 

“Need me to fix the problem, do you?  Well,” snickered Timothy, “ask me nicely.  What’s that?  I can’t hear you.”

 

The last time Timothy remembered having laughed that loud and hard was the first day aboard the station where he was free to play around in the weightless environment.  The friend actually damaged itself.

 

But slowly the laughter died.  As much as he detested it, he knew he would have to fix the problem.  Eyes fell upon the friend.  “Okay.  Let me replace the water pump first, and then I’ll switch your voice back on.”

 

With the garden secured, the wheel rotating, Timothy picked the clipboard from the air and a headset from the terminal.

 

Not having yet to correct a problem with any pump, Timothy carefully noted the instructions.  A red access panel was raised and exposed the broken pump.  “Friend, power, off, pump, water, one.”

 

While one hand gripped an outlet conduit from the tank, the other twisted valves to seal the stilled water trapped within.  A tug on clasps dislodged the mechanical organ.  He escorted it to the hold of a storage room.

 

The cycle of life, thought Timothy as he took hold of a replacement pump to carry on the job the failed one had performed.

 

“Friend, power, on, pump, water, one.”

 

The clipboard flashed the success of the transplant.  With the problem corrected, he floated back to the east garden and secured the headset to its terminal and slipped the clipboard back into its slot.

 

“Your turn,” he whispered.  “Friend, display, location, circuit, breakers, audio.”  A yawn disrupted the eyes focusing on the pinpoint of light flashing within the schematic.  “Ah, the attic.”

 

Timothy floated into the bedroom and thought about restoring the friend’s voice later, but he pushed on.

 

Immediately the lights flashed on as he floated into the attic.  “Sure, now you do your job.”  He then looked to the airlock.  “Just kidding friend.”

 

The attention quickly switched to an overhead panel.  Eyes scanned the rows and rows of switches searching for the ones leaning to the wrong side.  “There they are.”

 

Fingers clicked and clicked and clicked the switches back to the left until all conformed to the same position.  Floating below the switches, Timothy listened for the scream but only the soft humming of terminals could be detected.

 

“If you’re working again,” he whispered, “I’m sure you’ll let me know the next time something goes wrong—important or not.”

 

The feeling of fatigue suddenly arrived.  “Time for sleep,” he