Sidney's Comet Read Online Free PDF Page A

rumor,” Sims said.
    The council ministers whispered to one another again.
    President Ogg fixed an icy gaze on Hudson. “What I want to know is this, Dr. Hudson. You have told me everything about this alleged comet? It is a bunch of garbage, isn’t it?”
    Hudson wiped his brow with a white kerchief, glanced at Munoz.
    Tell him, Munoz mentoed. Better to hear it from us.
    “Uh, no sir,” Hudson replied nervously. “I mean, yes sir. It is garbage.”
    “Dammit to Hooverville, Hudson!” President Ogg thundered. “IS IT GARBAGE OR ISN’T IT?” A bulky mechanical arm popped out of the desktop, smashed a clenched fist down with tremendous force on the desk. WHAM! Papers scattered in all directions. CRASH! A brass lamp rocked and fell to the floor. The arm flexed back into its compartment.
    Hudson shivered with fear, smoothed the fine muslaba robe he wore across his lap with one hand. He glanced at Munoz for support, then stammered, “S-sir, it’s d-difficult to ex—”
    “It’s a garbage comet, Mr. President,” Munoz said. “Our own damned trash is coming back!”
    President Ogg sat back in stunned disbelief, slack-jawed and mute.
    “The th-thing is huge, sir,” Hudson said, “and Earth is directly in its path!”
    Hardly able to speak, Ogg said, “I can’t believe. . . . ” His
    voice trailed off, and a pained silence fell over the room.
    Bu-Bu’s Cassius Murphy broke the silence. Looking at Hudson, he said, “You mean it stinks?”
    “Why yes,” Hudson replied. “I suppose it does.”
    “That’s interesting,” Murphy said with a wry smile. “If it kills every last one of us, will it still stink?”
    Hudson shook his head, rolled his eyes upward.
    “Those deep space shots we’ve been making for the past nine years,” Munoz explained, looking at Ogg. “A Bu-Tech computer miscalculated their trajectory.”
    “Now w-wait just a minute,” Dr. Hudson protested, staring through sweat-fogged glasses at the battle ribbons on General Munoz’s chest. “The electro-magnetic catapults are operated by Bu-Mil people. Your staff should have checked the figures before making the shots!” Hudson took a deep breath, realizing he was treading on dangerous ground in speaking to the General this way.
    “I don’t know about that, Dick,” Munoz said calmly. “There’s nothing in the procedures manual to that effect.”
    “It was only a tiny miscalculation,” Hudson said plaintively, looking at President Ogg. “Just one-nineteenth of a percentile!”
    “A tiny miscalculation!” Ogg half rose out of his chair. “It doesn’t seem so tiny to me!” He sat back, lit a tintette and blew an angry cloud of yellow smoke in Hudson’s direction.
    “Tiny in galactic terms,” Hudson insisted. He removed his horn-rimmed glasses with shaking hands, wiped the glasses on his robe and put them back. “And besides, my bureau didn’t manufacture the Comp six-oh-one computer. Bu-Industry did that, and they didn’t follow Bu-Tech’s specifications. The circuit board that failed and caused a one-nineteenth of one percent trajectory error was constructed to consumer quality instead of industrial quality.”
    “Hold it right there!” All eyes turned to Marc Trudeau, the Minister of Bu-Industry. Seated at the end of the semi-circle on the President’s right, Trudeau’s heavy brown face sported a bright pink mustache that had been dyed to match a new line of kitchen appliances. With his features contorted in indignation, he gripped the chair arms and said, “All circuit boards are manufactured in space . . . on therapy orbiters. How can we be expected to monitor quality with crips and retardos doing all the work?”
    The President’s gaze was bone-chilling as he asked: “Why did you entrust such a critical part to the therapy orbiters?”
    “It wasn’t our fault,” Trudeau said. “Some therapists from Bu-Med came into my office one day and asked to be given tours of our manufacturing and assembly lines. I