A Feather’s Fall in Vacuum
Walt Staples


“I will not send it!”

Captain Rama Singh realized he was shouting and stopped. The base doctor merely looked at him with that mild expression that told him that, as usual, his outburst failed to impress her. He grudgingly admitted to himself--not for the first time--that that was one of the features that drew him to Flight Surgeon Indra de Cruz. It did annoy him, however, that she presently had the same serene look as the picture of the Christians’ Virgin the doctor had in her office. He sighed. What’s the use? You scream at a Catholic from Goa and you waste your breath. All they do is say a prayer for you to their God. Perhaps if he didn’t look at her charms he would be able to think clearly. He turned and looked at the “window” projected on the wall. It showed the view of the outside with Crater Korolev’s gray-white crater floor and black sky. Where others at the farside base kept their “windows” tuned to views from Earth--the Ganges, Taj Mahal, the Himalayas—Singh preferred the calm of the moonscape. He felt the vein that pulsed on his forehead ease. “Are you sure?”

De Cruz sighed softly then answered, “For the third time in fifteen minutes, yes, I am sure. He’s one of our neighbors to the north.”

Singh rubbed his forehead. Oh, Delhi is going to love this. His back to the doctor, he ordered, “One more time, please.”

He suspected this time she didn’t bother to consult her notes. “Subject is a human male, middle aged, obese, DNA checks out as HGF:2213D4—Han Chinese, he is missing three teeth and has caries but no fillings, early stage hardening of the arteries and diabetes II. He had eaten recently—rice, pork, millet, tea. Cause of death: relatively slow decompression.”

Singh’s voice was flat. “Finish it.”

He could hear a hint of ironic humor in her voice, “Subject was dressed in silk and was surrounded on the lunar surface by a straw-stuffed cushion of linen, sections of bamboo exhibiting charring on insides, and one peacock feather.”

 ~~~~~

The peacock feather on Wan Hu’s hat waved as that worthy looked upon his assistant’s approach with distaste. The Third Assistant Notary to the Emperor’s Deputy Chamberlain of the Interior (to give the short form) turned to regard the square which fronted the Forbidden City, listening to the young man’s breathless gasping. As the other quieted, the older man spoke, “Lei, how often have I made this speech? To wit: ‘An officer never runs. He may saunter with determination. He might walk with seriousness. But an officer never runs.’ A running officer is a bad thing. It causes people to conclude that there is some matter of a serious nature that they are unaware of. This causes them to worry, which leads to fear, which in turn leads them to panic, and to them taking to their heels. Some years ago, before you arrived from—what miserable place did you say you came from? Oh yes, Shandong—an ill-advised officer came running in through the Gate of Heavenly Peace. While he was merely attempting to evade an irate husband, an hour later the entire city was deserted with the exception of the Emperor, his concubines, and his eunuchs. Happily for all concerned, he was having a bath and the staff of the Forbidden City was collected and returned to their posts before he became aware of the situation. That was one of the wonderful things about his Imperial Majesty, he was a man of long baths—we were able to get so much work done…” He trailed off as something caught his eye.

Entering the square was a group of prisoners in chains, each carrying a bamboo rocket on his shoulder. At the head of the column marched Captain Zim, an acquaintance of Wan Hu’s. As the bureaucrat stepped out into the square to meet him, he made a gesture to his second in command and stepped aside to let the column continue on its way. Zim smiled and greeted Wan Hu, “Well met, oh counselor to the all high.”

As they shook hands with themselves, Wan Hu returned the favor. “And how are you, leader of armies?”
Zim laughed then, producing a rag, he took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his head. “Outside of the fact it’s hot enough to boil my egg in this pot, I can’t complain.”

Wan  Hu glanced at the departing column. “What are you up to?”

Zim turned and inspected his command. “Oh, nothing much. The Emperor’s birthday being tomorrow, I’ve got orders to test the fireworks. We’re headed over to the far side of the square to set some up and see if they work.”

A look of interest crossed the fat man’s face. “Might I go and watch?”

Zim cocked his head thoughtfully. “I see no reason why not. Come along.”

As Lei moved to follow, his superior put up a hand. “No. You have far too much work to do to waste time. I expect to find you when I return to the office. Now, off with you.”

Wan Hu watched with interest as the rockets were set up and behind each a prisoner holding a burning torch waited. Zim raised his hand. Then screeching something unintelligible in a proper military manner, dropped the hand. Each prisoner immediately thrust his torch into the rear of the rocket in front of him.
The blast still echoed from the square’s walls as Zim beat out the small flames on Wan Hu’s robe and helped him to his feet. The officer looked around their end of the square and spoke disgustedly, “Wonderful. Just wonderful. Forty prisoners and ten soldiers gone just like that. Do you have any idea how much paperwork I’ve got staring me in the face now?”

“For the soldiers?”

“Hm? Oh, no, not the soldiers—they’re easy to replace. No, the prisoners. They cost money and I have to fill out sixteen pages in triplicate on each explaining how the Emperor’s property got ruined. Which means I‘ve got to dig up a couple more prisoners who were scholars or bureaucrats so I can clear the paperwork out of my office before I retire.”

Wan Hu looked down at his scorched second best robe sadly. “What happened?”

Zim shook his head sourly. “Defective rockets. I bought them from Braun over in the street of the Pig’s Mouth. Apparently, he let the quality slip with this latest lot. His head is going to roll tomorrow.”

Wan Hu rode back to his house in a sedan chair so lost in thought that the lead bearer was uncertain whether to disturb him when they arrived. A few moments after the chair was set on the ground, Wan Hu jerked and looked about in confusion. Leaving the chair, he walked into his house still lost in thought.
Lei sprang to attention at his desk and attempted to look busy. Wan Hu appeared to take no notice. He gave it up and watched his superior pace back and forth. As he walked, head down and hands folded in his sleeves, Wan Hu mused aloud, “The Emperor’s birthday is tomorrow. I must do something to celebrate it. And that should be something to entertain him. You know, Lei, my ride in the sedan chair and Zim’s rockets give me an idea.” He turned suddenly to the other, startling him. The fact that his superior was smiling at him, Lei found even more frightening. “Lei, take some money from petty cash and buy me—oh—say, forty-seven or forty-eight large rockets. And round up the same number of servants. I’m going to give his Imperial Majesty a birthday treat he will never forget.”

~~~~~

Wan Hu admiringly inspected the rockets attached to the chair. Then he looked over the forty-seven servants standing ready with torches. Dressed in his finest silk court robes he turned and bowed low toward the reviewing stand where the Emperor and his court were seated. Wan Hu hoped intensely that his Imperial Majesty was still sober enough to see him. He seated himself in the chair and beckoned Lei. When the assistant had bustled over, Wan Hu asked, “Is all ready?”

Lei nodded furiously. “Yes, oh enlightened one. All is ready.”

Wan Hu looked back at the waiting servants with mild distaste. “Forty-eight would have been a more proper number. This odd number is less in tune with the universe.”

Lei was apologetic, “I sorry, sir. I’m afraid the only dealer with any rockets of a size left in the capital was the new widow Braun.”

The bureaucrat made a face, then nodded. It would have to do. Lei raised his hand. Wan Hu’s eyes suddenly widened. He squeaked, “Did you say ‘Braun?’” Lei dropped his hand and each servant trust his torch into the rear of the rocket in front of him.

As the smoke cleared, Zim looked around and remarked to Lei, “That’s odd. Yesterday, all the bodies were still lying around after the blast. I don’t even see pieces of either Wan Hu or the chair.” He glanced toward the reviewing stand. “I wonder if the Emperor was awake?”

~~~~~

Singh turned. “You’re a certified genius—how do I communicate that to Earth without ending up in a straitjacket?”

She smiled at him. “It’s simple enough, husband, you report the finding of an unidentified body suspected to be Chinese who died of decompression. If you’ve noticed, our neighbors to the north tend to be rather less than forthcoming about accidents involving their taikonauts. My guess is they’ll either decide our message was garbled in transmission or they’ll just not acknowledge it. I see no reason to bother them about some sixteenth century clothing and bamboo tubing that’s probably worthless.”
He grinned at her. “That’s beautiful, devious, and I think it might just work. How can I reward your diligent service to Indian astronautics?”

She stepped over and gave him a hug and replied, “Finish early and have dinner with me and the children. After they’re in bed, I’ll think of something.”

As the door closed behind his wife, Singh turned back to the moonscape. The first Chinese to the Moon and he ends up in Crater Wan-Hoo. I wonder who he was?

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Walt Staples spent far too many years thinking the unthinkable for a living. He maintains this has had no effect on him though he admits to a predilection for collecting odd people and an inordinate thirst for Dr. Pepper. While his physical position is generally indeterminable, his heart is firmly located at 38.9N, 78.2W. He is a member of a number of organizations which shall remain nameless with the exception of the Catholic Writers’ Guild and the Lost Genre Guild-- both of whose blackmail payments for this month are late. He also wastes everyone’s time with his blog, “Variable Credence,” at: http://gkfields.blogspot.com