Olympus Mons by William Walling Page A

waltz God knows how many klicks higher in semi-vacuum, fix the break or blockage — wait, make that the possible breaks or blockages — and skip back down to drink hearty forevermore?”
    â€œNo,” he admitted, “not yet. As of right now, it can’t be done.”
    â€œWell, at least you’re honest.” For the first time in our acquaintance his tone had hinted at less than ironclad, one thousand percent Jespersonian assurance.
    â€œThere are several catches,” he said, sounding reluctant to come right out with it.
    â€œUh-huh, there usually are.”
    â€œAlways,” he confirmed. “Climbing that high and far will be a tough component of our travel plans, but not the toughest.”
    â€œYour travel plans,” I corrected.
    He went on as if I hadn’t piped up. “A whopping collateral deficit is tacked on to the prospective altitude goal, Barney. As told you, the most devilish detail will be a week or more spent hiking a distance uphill over incredibly rugged terrain.”
    â€œThere goes the ball game.”
    â€œYou could be right, except for one inescapable, indisputable cast-in-concrete fact.”
    â€œI’m all ears.”
    â€œThe most colossal, least avoidable catch,” he said with a trace of uncertainty that didn’t sound natural coming from him, “is that climbing that big hill and doing a fix is the only game in town, plus a corollary we’ll have to deal with that’s every bit as gargantuan.”
    â€œNot sure I want to hear it,” I said.
    â€œEven if we can scratch out some way to make the uphill trek and repair the pipeline,” he said, “I haven’t figured out a way to get us down again.”
    Some goddamn catch! “Not get down! Jesperson,” I said hotly, “I used to think you were plain stone crazy. Now I know you are!"
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Six: Hoots and Catcalls
    Her dark eyes blazing like beacon fires, her lower lip quivering like it was about to fall off, my one and only cried, “Say wha-a-at!”
    At times the woman of the house gets downright peevish over my lacks and faults and blunders. On this hurtful morning a force five temper storm was blowing through our humble domicile. “Does your half-wit buddy,” she demanded, acute indignation steaming from every pore, “honestly think anyone can climb that . . . that thing out there? Is he nuts, or just plain stupid saying stuff like that?”
    â€œOnly way to save ourselves,” I told her, using my extra-sincere tone of voice that sounds kind of lame.
    â€œOnliest way? Sez who?”
    â€œListen, Babe, it’s sort of . . . well, it’s real complicated. Let me fill you in on why Jesperson insists that we don’t have any choice except to — ”
    â€œOh, no! You’re not doin’ no fancy-word tap dance on my head, Mr. Barnes. What’s more, don’t you bother callin’ me ‘Babe’ no more, neither. If I told you once I told you ten thousand times: keep hangin’ out with that wild man and you’ll end up in big, deep serious trouble. Hear what I’m sayin’? Jesperson’s tetched in the head, as fulla crap as a Christmas goose, and you know it well as me. Get shut of him! Get shut of him once and for all, and save yourself bags ‘n bundles of agony.”
    Our little guy’s eyes were round-eyed, and his head kept swinging back and forth from she to me like he was watching a tennis match. A smart kid, if I say so myself, Jay learned early on to sweat us out when we both got angrified at the same time. We must’ve disappointed little Jay something fierce. More ‘n once he’d wrongly figured the fireworks had all shot off and it was time for kiss-and-make-up season. It got to where I couldn’t stomach any more of Lorna’s sass or my own cork would have popped, except she hadn’t finished her say, and kept beating her gums in a fishwifey