The Scientist's New Clothes
"I'm really not that lonely", Dr. Fittering Endus told himself for the ... he pulled out his slide rule ... one-hundred fifty-ninth time, as he investigated the nearly empty lichen rich plain. His research involved breeding a radioactive brown lemming population at Ice Station Nine in the Yukon and studying their leadership behavior. Not content with his academic pay, Endus managed to supplement his income and simultaneously helped correct the Malthusian problem. In protecting the oil company's right to this ecologically sensitive shale habitat, he guided robots after the numerous Queens, chasing the lemmings as they dashed through the underground tunnels and when cornered, he zapped them with lasers. Then he exported his catch as food. Unfortunately, he worked so hard he never noticed the dark and stormy night until mid-blizzard his tractor engine seized.
Out of the blue ball of electricity that cracked overhead, the germ of an idea expanded in his mind like a Xeelee flower. Quick as lightning, he typed the novel of the future into his handheld PC then hit send. Lucky for him he was saved.
To his delight, a major New York publisher snapped the novel up. Publishers Weekly later reported the advance as huge.
Greedily, his friends devoured the galley. "This is elegant, Fit," they pronounced. But behind his back, many complained, "Not quite up to Einstein's E=MC2" or criticized, "No matter. Endus never was much of a scientist." Then they promptly forgot him in their usual game of my cyclotron is bigger than yours.
Elsewhere, Dr. Fittering Endus' popularity grew in anticipation of the book release cocktail party.
A unanimous sigh of relief occurred when he showed up in black, sans retro-fifties pocket protector. "With those credentials," meaning his doctorate from Cambridge, "and all that clout," recognizing his large family tree connecting him to nearly every Mayflower passenger, this was big. Guests peeked continually at the display case where the masterpiece hid behind black cloth.
Out of the blue ball of electricity that cracked overhead, the germ of an idea expanded in his mind like a Xeelee flower. Quick as lightning, he typed the novel of the future into his handheld PC then hit send. Lucky for him he was saved.
To his delight, a major New York publisher snapped the novel up. Publishers Weekly later reported the advance as huge.
Greedily, his friends devoured the galley. "This is elegant, Fit," they pronounced. But behind his back, many complained, "Not quite up to Einstein's E=MC2" or criticized, "No matter. Endus never was much of a scientist." Then they promptly forgot him in their usual game of my cyclotron is bigger than yours.
Elsewhere, Dr. Fittering Endus' popularity grew in anticipation of the book release cocktail party.
A unanimous sigh of relief occurred when he showed up in black, sans retro-fifties pocket protector. "With those credentials," meaning his doctorate from Cambridge, "and all that clout," recognizing his large family tree connecting him to nearly every Mayflower passenger, this was big. Guests peeked continually at the display case where the masterpiece hid behind black cloth.
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