From: masticol@cadenza.rutgers.edu (Steve Masticola)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.havens-rest
Subject: [Quig/MaryMary] One Flaw Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Date: 16 Dec 92 20:18:28 GMT
Organization: Rutgers Univ., New Brunswick, N.J.


[ Quig's parts are by Carl Fogelin (fogelinc@cyanamid.com); MaryMary's
are mine. -S. ]

>MaryMary whirled. "Quig, goddamit, YOU and ME? Anyone who _did_ believe
>that wouldn't survive to puberty on this slagheap. Or at least
>shouldn't."

"Sheeesh... Don't get your knickers in a twist" quipped Quig, fending
off her words as if they were physical blows.

"I'll twist your NECK if you try anything like that again! For your
information, I do _not_ appreciate being used to improve your
reputation as an assman with your drinking buddies. All I can hope is
that this room isn't bugged too." She made a mental note to arrange
things so that Quig couldn't cut her notch into his Justice-damned
barstool - if she could do it without losing Quig altogether.

>MaryMary brought out a tiny, complicated-looking gadget, unfolded a tiny,
>complicated-looking antenna, and pressed its largest, simplest-looking
>button. "We're in luck. No unexplained electromagnetic fields in this
>room, so no bugs, probably. But keep the talk to a minimum, just to be
>sure. And cover what you're doing."

>... Unrolling his maps, he said, "Let's see, a hundred klicks..."
>and started tracing lines with his finger.

"Why do you use those paper maps anyway, when you could plug into the
Matrix and get much finer detail?"

"Some details here that ain't in no Matrix," Quig mumbled, not looking
up. "And shouldn't be." He absently pulled a protractor from his
utility belt and said, "Hmmm...  Well, here's Termi" pointing to a
smudge on the map, "aaannnddd", fiddling with the protractor "let's
see... two point seven.. five centimeters would be about a hundred
klicks..."

Without so much as looking, Quig reached over to a food container on a
nearby shelf and removed its plastiluminum cover. The can self-heated;
within a few moments, the smell of meatballs and tomato sauce had
filled the small back room. As Quig cleaned the lid with his sleeve,
he eyed the uncovered meatballs, then popped one into his mouth and
placed the "cleaned" lid on top of his map. 

MaryMary watched the scene skeptically, and with a slight,
psychosomatic nausea. Oh, well, she thought, if he doesn't believe in
using the Matrix, there's no reason he should believe in pencil
compasses, either. Not when there's a perfectly good grimy container
lid handy...

"Ok, now here's a hundred klicks," said Quig, etching a circle around
the smudge he labelled Mount Terminus.

"You sure you don't need to compensate for the thermal expansion of
the lid, and the extra sauce?"

"Nah, I already done that." Quig stood up and peered at his map.
There were eight, no nine, notations within the circle.  Pulling out a
magnifying glass and removing the lid, Quig muttered, "Want a
meatball?"

MaryMary had the prefect comeback on the tip of her tongue, but
refrained from loosing an unnecessary attack on Quig. "No, uh, thanks.
I'd be over my fat ration for the day if I ate that. What's the story
with Terminus?"

"Not sure yet. Gimme a minute..." Moving from one note to another,
Quig muttered, smiling, frowning, and just plain grunting. One note in
particular attracted his attention.  Looking again, he said, to no one
in particular, "What's this???  Quig, my boy, there's somethin' very
familiar about that place, something..."  A moment later, like a
lightpanel switching on, recognition struck.

"Quig, what is it?" MaryMary demanded excitedly. "Did you find
something? What are those marks?"

Quig rolled up his map unhurriedly, turned to MaryMary, and remarked,
"I know where your Tong computer is, and I'll be glad to guide you
there!"


- Steve (masticol@cs.rutgers.edu).
Newsgroups: alt.pub.havens-rest