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    The Language Program and other stories
    The Language Program and other stories
    The Language Program and other stories
    Ebook79 pages1 hour

    The Language Program and other stories

    By Robert Reid

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    This collection of short stories is primarily science fiction. They range from an alien being in a lake ('It') to an unseen killer (The Peripheral Man), to the horror awaiting a novice thief (Johnson), and then the secret Language Program designed by NASA. Two action-adventure stories involve a quest for riches by post WWI soldiers (Elation) and an elite assassin facing his greatest adversary (I Work Alone). The author also shares a painful adolescent crush (Tina Will Be There), and takes a stab at humor (The Next Super-Hero).
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBookBaby
    Release dateFeb 23, 2016
    ISBN9781483563428
    The Language Program and other stories
    Author

    Robert Reid

    I grew up in rural southern California in the ‘50s. Life there seemed a bit slow so I passed my time between chores, schoolwork and music lessons by reading and dreaming of fantastic voyages and space sagas. All of that ended when I went to UC Berkeley in 1962, and it might have stayed that way, too, except that I was accepted into the Peace Corps in Niger, Africa from 1965 to 67 and it was there that I found what it is like to live in a place without technological change. It was a “fantastic voyage” to a place science fiction could not prepare me for.Coming back to the U.S. after Africa was an equally serious shock, and I began to think about where all this technological change I saw everywhere might be leading. If the rate of increase in technology is itself increasing, will it lead to a period of extremely rapid increase in the future? Will technology someday be able to create itself without human intervention? And toward what ends – or do we have any choice in the matter?I developed an interest in philosophy and the history of science, and fell in love with the writings of philosopher David Hume, biologist Stuart Kauffman, and neurobiologist Gerald Edelman (among others). I began to attend the Toward a Science of Consciousness conferences in Tucson. For my own peace of mind I began to compose a story about a future that might possibly be different from the Orwellian nightmare that I couldn’t dismiss. The Minded Man is the result of that effort.I presently live in rural northern California with my family, library and the tools left over from a career in homebuilding. I’ve developed an interest in the Enlightenment and its philosophical successors, and there’s always something to plant or to repair around the house. But the starry-eyed future of my youth is no longer part of my dreams.Instead, I observe technology in the hands of arrogant individuals who lack moral self-discipline. I wonder about the historic concentration of money and political power enabled by computers. I read about new military technologies that will increase the power of individuals by orders of magnitude. None of it seems as much fun anymore.

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      The Language Program and other stories - Robert Reid

      Program

      Elation

      The following is an account my father wrote of an oral history told to him by his father.

      After reading the original I decided some background was necessary. My grandpa was an elegant man. He was a superb farmer and cabinet-maker and devoted his life to bettering and caring for his family: my grandma, their children and grandchildren. I never saw grandpa drink alcohol, never heard him swear or raise his voice. He hummed as he did chores. Those big, calloused hands carried me effortlessly around the farm, showing me how care for the animals. After reading his narrative I realized why animals were so special to grandpa and, also, why he seemed so content with the routine, quiet, and peaceful life he led.

      My grandfather, Thomas Evans, was born on a farm in Upstate New York in 1895 (?). He went to France with the American army during World War I. Shortly thereafter (by his account) he and some soldier friends travelled to Africa to search for adventure, fame, and fortune, although I suspect not in that order. He later returned, married, and settled down on the family farm. My father was born in 1925 and his three brothers followed. My father heard this story of Africa from an early age. Eventually, he asked my grandfather to recite it, slowly and completely, so he could write it accurately. My father made some margin notes or comments, which he bracketed [ ]. Here is the story as remembered by Thomas Evans in 1959. I typed it faithfully from my father’s written pages inserting my father’s notes [in italics] where they seemed appropriate and keeping the story intact, unedited, and unaltered [Unaltered means just that; wording, punctuation, and paragraphing remain as originally written]. Judge for yourself.

      Of my fellow adventurers I believe I liked Gene McCarty the best. He was a jolly Irish –American jokester, a quick wit, and a rabble-rouser. He was also the best soldier I ever had the honor to know and serve beside. [Dad and Gene (and the others?) were with the 1st Army 2nd Company that fought at the Marne River near Paris, France] We met at the front, among the trenches that separated the slaughter grounds known as ‘no man’s land’. Seven of us doughboys met there, all seven of us survived the ‘Great War’, and all seven of us decided home would no longer do, would no longer satisfy our newly embraced masculinities. War changes men. Some seek only the security so long eluded, content to live in quiet safety. We decided, as a group, unanimously, without discussion that the elation of danger must continue, but on our terms and to our benefit. [Dad often refers to ‘elation’. I believe he uses it interchangeably with the excitement of danger and adventure]

      We journeyed to Africa, the dark, mysterious continent and its promises of elation and riches, there for the taking by those unafraid. Once we arrived, stories and myths abounded. Maps to secret, ancient wealth were readily available for a small fortune. Most sellers of these dreams pursued us. They recognized us as soldiers, saw through to our motives, and unselfishly offered their knowledge at a self-sacrificing price. These we left battered in the gutters to contemplate their own deceits. However, there was one old German, once an enemy of some prestige, now a nobody in that unforgiving city. [Casablanca? Algiers?] Him we sought out. His spirit withered, his body broken, and his own desire for adventure and wealth abandoned, he freely shared his story with us seven. An unlikely story of an ancient city, half buried in the lush jungle, a treasure room and an emerald as large as a skull, inexplicably shaped as a skull, he had, himself, seen. Where an emerald of that size should be found, more must also reside, we reasoned. And with the lure of adventure and riches we left within a week. Within two, Gene McCarty was dead. The plain, ‘that damned dreaded plain’ onto which we trudged, unable to think for our elation.

      A monument the old German had said without further description. On the way you will pass a monument to all that is strange and mysterious of this land. Then with a dark and somber expression he added It stands as a warning. Heed, and abandon further pursuit. We were not there to heed. Well armed, well equipped and supplied, young, foolishly fearless we would continue past the monument. We all agreed it was awe inspiring, fearsome in the raw power that had produced it and which its members once possessed. But, to us, young, brash elation-bound ex-soldiers, it would be but a landmark. The old German’s route would also involve crossing a plain. He referred to it as ‘that dreaded plain’ and, again, as if to exonerate his conscience, he mumbled a warning to desist the quest while still time.

      We had travelled five days on the backs of horses supplied by colonists from what far away empire I no longer remember. We each brought two that we might travel more quickly. Another five lightly carried supplies and munitions enough to load three. On the fifth day we came to a village of supposed ‘friendlys’. The old German had told us these people we had no need to fear. We rested, ate, and exchanged trinkets for useless tribal décor. Donald (whose surname is now forgotten) managed, although unappreciated at the time, a useful trade; a knife, a good army issue, honed to perfection for which he received a small earthen jar. That jar, or rather its contents, would save my life in the last days.

      True communication was not possible with these friendlys. We were accurately directed to the ‘monument’, a half-day’s ride to the southeast. We were, in retrospect, also advised to beware the plain that lay past the monument. Two hands, palms down crossing each other in front of the signer’s chest, is now, belatedly, an obvious gesture for a plain. Two closed-fisted arms crossed in front of the body should have signaled danger. A slight turning of the body while pointing behind oneself now is clear; go back. Another warning!

      We didn’t leave the village until noon. Soon night was approaching. We could see the ‘monument’ far in the distance but, prudently decided to camp and wait for light. We

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