The Only Words That Are Worth Remembering (17 page)

we shall be repaid with interest and what that other w
ld shall have taught us will redound to a better knowledge of our own and of the cos
s of which the two form part.—
The Evoluti
of W
s
, Percival Lowell

At work the next morning, I saw that the cloth had come off the cannon. Only it didn't look like any gun I had ever seen. A truck backed up to the site, and two guys scrapped the device with a torch and a prybar. I ducked when they swung a winch over the long steel barrel. This was a telescope, the very first I had seen in person, and I knew little about them, only what Dr. Ridley had told us.

When I asked Raoul what I could do to help, he said I'd been “spared any complicity in this crime against human progress.” One of the men secured the barrel to the winch and slapped it.

“You have been reassigned,” Raoul said to me, watching the telescope swing over the bed of the pickup.

He gave me a grand from his own pocket and said I should grab some breakfast at the concession stand first. It wasn't open yet, but if I knocked hard and asked for someone named Penny, she ought to let me in. “Unless she's in a mood.” I said I knew all about moods, and Raoul looked at me like I had no idea. Once I'd been fed, Miss Stiles would meet me at the concession to discuss my new assignment.

The concession area smelled of weed smoke. Penny's eyes were pink, and when she spoke I heard the dryness on her tongue. All she had at this hour was yesterday's boiled eggs. She lied; I could smell hoof jelly roasting on a spit in back. Penny fixed a pot of tea and served up the eggs with several packets of yellow mustard. I thought this must be a Flagstaff delicacy. Not wishing to appear unworldly, I requested extra packets.

I had just tapped egg number four on the edge of the counter when in walked Miss Stiles. She showed me a ring of keys and shut her green-painted eyes. The new tour guide, Big Doug, had already run away; if I wanted his job carting visitors around in the Mars Train, she would show me the route.

At a shed behind the main building, Stiles raised a garage door to reveal a handsome Putter golf cart. An aluminum smokestack had been welded onto the hood. Plywood planets and stars were tacked to the sides for decoration. This was the engine of the famous Mars Train. Three hay wagons made the coaches, with folding chairs nailed to the floorboards. Stiles handed me the keys and I eased the engine out of its shed, then backed up to couple the wagons.

When I pulled a chain, a cowbell clucked. In the washed-out morning light, with steam on our breath, the Mars Train took on a somewhat locomotive glory. I felt so proud of my new assignment that I pulled the chain again. Miss Stiles advised me not to overdo it.

“It ought to be realistic,” she said.

The route took visitors (when we had any) from a parking lot at the base of Mars Hill up a gravel path to the observatory. I was to make four stops: the ruined library, the rebuilt dome, the Pluto Loot-o Gift Shop, and Penny's concession area, known to the public as Percy's Punchbowl. It was either busloads of Vocational kids who came because they had to or seniors who turned up for the discount lunch. Nobody made the trek to Lowell Observatory for the right reasons. Stiles said I shouldn't try too hard to educate.

“Don't overdo that neither.”

I did my job diligently for three weeks, making scheduled runs to the parking lot on the half hour. Nine out of ten times I returned empty. I asked Miss Stiles if this might be a misallocation of resources. I was charging the Mars Train for nothing.

She said: “Go stand on the roof of the Punchbowl.”

It sounded to me like an insult, but I did as instructed. The roof was reached by untrustworthy exterior stairs. A café table and two chairs stood on a deck of pallets. I discovered that from this aerie I could keep watch over the parking lot below. If any tourists arrived, I'd fire up the Mars Train. If they didn't, I was free to crack hard-boiled eggs on the table edge and read. I consumed so many mustard packets, my teeth and gums turned yellow.

If Penny was generous with eggs, she was lavish with her womanhood. One afternoon I was performing my daily maintenance on the Mars Train in front of the Punchbowl. While a couple of groundskeepers ate Nebula Fries inside, I scrubbed the battery contacts with a toothbrush and baking soda. I had not yet earned the right to french fries. Penny stepped outside with a cigarette and watched me while she lit up. She complimented the thoroughness of my brushing. I believe this was the first kind word she'd given me. I am embarrassed by flattery, especially from women. I explained how it was the baking soda that did most of the work.