I know who's going to settle the solar system
Apr 25, 2022 3:21 am
Raymund Eich
Science fiction and fantasy - from Middle America to the ends of the Universe
Happy springtime to you
Raymund Eich here. If you live in the northern hemisphere, I hope spring is treating you well. Some readers in the northern US recently went through an unseasonal blizzard, I hope you made it through safely. And if you live in the southern hemisphere, you probably live someplace with nice weather most of the year.
You might have seen some posts in your social media feed that this April, in addition to Easter and Passover, Ramadan also took place. I'm not going to talk about my religious beliefs, and I'm not going to ask about yours. But whatever they are, you've got to agree that religion has been a powerful force in human affairs for thousands of years.
I recently ran the math about space travel expenses and I came to a pretty strong conclusion: religion will be a major force driving the human race to settle the solar system. And the galaxy.
Don't believe me? Check my math for yourself by reading "The Believers Shall Inherit the Solar System," my speculative fact article in the May/June 2022 issue of Analog. On newsstands now. You can also learn more at this blog post.
Publishing News
A Fistful of Monopoles
A Space Adventure Short Story
A billion-year-old alien ship.
A great treasure.
A great danger.
With a last surge of the main drive, Barnet matched our bearing and speed with the alien derelict.
Twisted lines of tubing and conduit curled around the hull. After a billion years, micrometeor collisions had sandblasted the ship to a dull finish.
But behind that battered surface might lurk exotic materials beyond the manufacturing capability of any human world. Magnetic monopoles, dyons, condensed matter. Even a tiny amount delivered to Earth or a major world could set up a crew for life.
Risks? Yes. I’d seen men die horrible deaths from alien nano. But the rewards could be worth it.
And I had nothing to worry about.
I knew Barnet had my back.
Ebook now available for preorder. Just $2.99. Release date for ebook and paperback editions is Thursday, April 28, 2022.
Patently Curious
I've read thousands of patents in my career. Some are more memorable than others.
April is also the start of the baseball season in North America. (If you know when it's opening day in Japan, Mexico, or other countries' leagues, drop me a line). Though baseball harkens to tradition, the game has undergone continual innovation since the 1860s. (NL DH and extra inning runners on second are only the latest).
Where there's innovation, there are patents. Some become integral parts of the game, like catcher's masks that are easy to flip up when fielding a pop-up.
Some don't. Like this one. US 755,209, patented on March 22, 1904 by James Edward Bennett for "Base Ball Catcher." Who needs a mitt when you can wear a box with padding on your chest?
Other books you might like
The Neighbor You Don't Know (Preview)
by Shane Shepherd
Interstellar journeys? Alien ruins? Come explore the planet Neighbor in this free preview of Book 1 of Shane Shepherd's The Neighbor You Don't Know series. Click HERE to get your free preview by joining Shane's newsletter.
Bonus: Free Story
The baseball patent this month reminded me of a baseball story of mine. I also remembered I haven't shared a free story with you in a while. Enjoy!
Ted Williams Eyes
Cooper jogged out of the Astros clubhouse and up the dugout steps toward
the batting cage. Echoing around nearly-empty TeXolar Power Park,
cameras whirred and reporters shouted questions. Magazines, websites,
and TV from around the world, all here to see him take batting practice
before the final game of the season.
Back in the stands, a hundred fans in team colors cheered. Cooper lifted
his batting helmet. Just like the reporters, they didn’t come to find
out if Astros would finish four games out of playoff contention, or
five. They didn’t even come to see if tonight’s opponent, the in-state
rival Rangers, would make the wild card with a win. They came to see
Cooper make history.
No matter what happened tonight, Cooper would have the highest single
season batting average since Gwynn way back in ‘94. With a couple of
hits, he would be the first ballplayer in almost a century to reach*---*
”Four-oh-oh! Four-oh-oh!” Twelve rows back, a pudgy fan in a retro
’70s-style Astros jersey, with a flat-brimmed cap and a dime-sized beard
patch between his mouth and chin, chanted. Others joined in.
Playfully, Cooper shook his head, then put on his helmet and went to the
warm-up circle. He slid donut weights onto his bat handle.
A reporter in the front row called out, “Even if you miss .400, you’ve
gained a hundred points in batting average over last season! Is it true
performance-enhancing drugs explain it?”
Cooper checked his warm-up swing and peered at the reporter. Bob
Jackson, from purebaseball.com. Jackson needed to trim the hair in his
nose and do a better job concealing the pimples on his neck. “You know
how many times I’ve peed in a cup this year.” He looked at the other
clustered reporters. “Anyone have a real question?”
A reporter from Japan asked, “How else can you explain your great
improvement in all offensive statistics?”
Despite his long-sleeved uniform and the slice of blue, cloud-puffed
Texas sky through the open roof, Cooper shivered. Could anyone have
found out? His childhood friend, Derek Liu, now a biotech entrepreneur
in Singapore, had paid all of his travel expenses to Derek’s new
CRISPR/Cas9 clinic. He’d checked into the hotel under an assumed
name....
He rested the bat across his shoulders. No one would ever know. “I’m
seeing the ball better. That’s all.” He lowered the bat and tapped the
handle on the ground. The donut weights clattered to the grass. “Time
for me to get to work.”
Cooper strode to the batting cage, waggling his bat. Among the group
waiting their turns stood the team’s three next best batters. Odysseus
Skelton, the stocky first baseman, rolling his lips while undoing and
redoing the hook-and-loop fasteners on his batting gloves. Chalo
Dominguez, the rookie left fielder, his hand on the crucifix hanging
around his neck and his eyes squeezed in prayer. For a 22-year-old,
Dominguez had a broad tracery of crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes.
Jordan Himmelblau, the shortstop, facial muscles bunched and jaw working
like a piston on his chewing gum.
Sometimes, your teammates became friends. Others, they were just guys
you worked with.
Himmelblau spoke. “Here comes Mr. Ted Williams eyes.”
The Hall of Famer, last man to bat .400, but*---*”What about his eyes?”
Cooper asked.
”Legend has it Williams had 20/3 vision. Talk about seeing the ball
better.”
Cooper shivered again. Did Himmelblau somehow know?
No. He wanted to know his secret, of course, no less than the reporters.
But the reporters just wanted click bait. His teammates wanted the magic
to rub off on them so they too could become rich free agents after their
contracts expired.
Cooper returned a flat stare. Only one player could become baseball’s
first half-billion dollar man.
”Next group, your turn,” the BP coach called. “Coop, get in here.”
Cooper gave Himmelblau, Skelton, and Dominguez one last look. “Watch and
learn, boys.”
Inside the cage, he stopped outside the right-handed batter’s box and
raised his bat in front of his eyes. Fine details in the wood grain and
minute scorched curlicues in the manufacturer’s brand seemingly jumped
to his eye. Used to it now, but the first time he’d studied a bat after
Derek Liu’s gene therapy, newly-visible details had stunned him.
He shut his eyes, drew in a breath. An early summer day came to him,
cloudless sky, field greened by dozens of child-league fathers. Eight
years old, coming up to bat against a kid from the opposing team for the
first time.
The other boy put the ball over the middle of the plate. A smooth swing.
The ping of the ball against the aluminum bat. The white dot shrinking
as the ball flew up and away. His lips parted, his gaze rapt, his heart
soaring with the ball.
He’d liked baseball before then. From that moment, he’d loved it.
Cooper opened his eyes and stepped into the batter’s box.
The coach swiped and tapped his phone. The pitching machine light glowed
green, ready to fling balls in the style of Huerta, tonight’s opposing
starting pitcher.
The machine whipped forward its arm and released the ball. It looked as
big as a full moon. Cooper read the seams pulsing across the visible
face as if he watched slow motion video. He swung, arms whipping the bat
head through the zone.
The ball sliced to right-center, higher than a second baseman could
catch, low enough to fall in front of the outfielders.
Slider, thigh-high, outer half. He nodded to himself, then dug in his
cleats for the next pitch.
A different pulse of seams, a different trajectory leaving the
mechanical hand. He swung.
Line drive. The ball clattered against the pitching screen. The coach
jumped, then nodded and gave a thumbs-up. “Do that in the game and he
won’t try his curve.”
Cooper set his feet, cocked his bat. Dust motes drifted in air near the
machine’s arm. “Ready.”
Fastballs, cutters, changeups, curves, sliders. He read them all an
instant after the machine released them. He pulled some, went the
opposite way on others, lining most for what would be singles or
doubles. He sent one ball to Tal’s hill, the flagpole mound inside the
fence in dead center, another into the boxes behind the short fence in
left field.
He nodded to himself. He’d found his groove. “I’m ready to play, coach.”
- - -
In the locker room, every player prepped for the game in his own way.
Cooper imbibed sports drink. Dominguez listened to bachata music loudly
leaking from his earbuds. Ode Skelton played dominoes with two guys from
the bullpen.
Himmelblau unrolled his tablet and read baseball news. He quickly swiped
past stories about Cooper’s chase of .400, then lingered over an
article, raking his fingers through his wiry hair as he read. “Huh.”
Cooper capped his bottle of sports drink. “Don’t leave us hanging.”
”A local sabermetrics blogger speculating about next year. He says if
you stay at your new level, and three other guys on the team matched
your same spike in offensive statistics, we’d win a hundred games.”
Cooper’s eyes widened. A hundred wins. Five teams a decade reached that
mark. Division champions for sure, probable home-field advantage through
the league playoffs. The best chance of any team of winning the World
Series.
He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Year after next, he
could get as good a chance of winning the World Series as a free agent
signed with a perennial power, like St. Louis or Kansas City. He opened
his mouth, but Skelton spoke before he could.
”Man, that stathead stuff is flim-flam.”
Himmelblau lightly smacked his palm against his high forehead. “I keep
telling you, Ode, advanced statistics have value. Coop’s OPS has gone up
343 points this year.”
”What’s that OSP business again?”
”OPS.” Himmelblau scowled. “On base percentage plus slugging percentage.
The sabermetricians have correlations between OPS and runs created, and
from runs created to the Pythagorean win projection. Our Pythagorean win
projection this year is spot on*---*”
Ode Skelton shook his head. “Come on, man, formulas don’t play the game.
We do. Ain’t that right, Cha-lllooowww?”
Dominguez blinked a few times. “I just want to play. Give 110%. Every
game.”
”You see?” Skelton said to Himmelblau. “You with me too, Coop?”
He shrugged. “Most GMs these days pay attention to the statheads.”
Cooper stood, sports drink bulging his bladder. “Time to hit the head.”
After taking a leak, Cooper went to the sinks under the broad, paneled
mirror. He washed his hands by feel. His gaze landed on his reflection’s
crow’s-feet and wisps of graying hair. Even a long career would end in
another dozen years.
Would you rather have half a billion dollars, or a World Series ring?
He shook his head, flicked water off his fingertips. His secret trip to
Derek Liu’s gene therapy lab meant he would get both.
From the main part of the locker room came manager Gray Wade’s hand
claps. “Saddle up, men! Time to win a ball game!”
A minute later, the team filed out of the clubhouse. Music from the
stadium PA and the noise of thirty thousand spectators funneled down.
Amazingly large crowd for a home team already eliminated from playoff
contention.
Cooper jogged up the dugout steps. A cheer erupted from the crowd,
echoing from the upper decks and the closed parts of the retractable
roof. The chant began. “Four-oh-oh! Four-oh-oh!”
He lifted his cap. Half a billion dollars and a World Series ring? He
was on track for both.
- - -
For his first plate appearance, Cooper came up with bases empty and two
outs in the bottom of the first. The colossal video screen behind center
showed his picture and, in giant alphanumerics, *AB 591. H 236. BA
.399*. The crowd shouted and clapped. Cooper stepped into the box like
he walked on air.
The opposing pitcher, Huerta, pulled his cap low over his eyes and
peered at the catcher’s signals. He nodded, then started his windup.
The ball left Huerta’s glove. Cooper read it instantly, kept his bat
over his shoulder. Curveball, going low.
The pitch skipped off the dirt in front of the plate, then into the
catcher’s glove. Ball one.
Cooper grinned. “All he’s got tonight?”
”He’s got enough,” the catcher replied, “to keep you below .400.”
Huerta looked for the next signal. Nod, windup. A fastball low and
heading outside. Cooper’s bat stayed on his shoulder.
”Stee-rike!” the umpire called.
Cooper looked back. The umpire’s lowered eyebrows dared him to argue.
Cooper blew out a breath. The fine detail of the batmaker’s label caught
his gaze for a moment, returned part of him to that little league field
decades ago.
Huerta’s next pitches nibbled the edges of the umpire’s generous strike
zone. The count reached 2-2. A fastball left the pitcher’s hand on a
trajectory low and inside.
Cooper swung. The ball skipped hard off the infield grass and dirt, on a
line to thread the needle between the shortstop and third baseman. The
crowd shouted with excitement. A hard grounder dribbling into the
outfield would give him that one more hit.
He raced toward first base. The crowd noise suddenly gained a nervous
edge. Cooper stretched his leg, his foot descending, inches from the
bag*---*
The ball smacked into the first baseman’s glove. Cooper’s foot struck
the base. He ran through and turned his head, face tight, watching the
first base umpire. *Come on, they haven’t replaced you with robots yet,
make this your one blown call all season*.
The first base umpire raised his right fist.
Cooper walked back to the dugout, head turned to the video screen for
the replay. The shortstop got a great jump on the ball, extended his
glove at the last moment, and quickly planted his foot to make a perfect
throw.
Nothing you can do. Cooper trotted down the dugout steps.
His second plate appearance came in the fourth. Nobody on, one out.
Direct rays of the setting sun partially washed out the video display,
but the key numbers remained readable. *AB 592. H 236. BA .399*.
Cooper took the first pitch, a four-seamer outside, and soon worked the
count to 3-1.
Huerta looked at the catcher’s signs, and his black eyebrows crinkled.
The expression faded and he came set.
Cooper guessed at the next pitch even before it left Huerta’s palm.
Change-up. Cooper shifted his weight into his swing.
The crack of the bat rang for a moment, then the crowd roared. Cooper
watched as he ran into foul territory to round first. High enough, hard
enough, it could clear the wall in left-center. On the balcony jutting
over the wall, fans holding half-full cups of beer next to the
solar-powered home run tally board reached out one-handed.
The center fielder’s cleats dug dirt from the warning track. Directly
under the balcony, he leaped, right arm mashing the wall. His glove
plucked the ball from the air inches above and beyond the bright yellow
stripe.
Thirty thousand voices groaned. Cooper jogged back to the dugout.
His third plate appearance came in the sixth inning, Himmelblau on
first, two out, score tied 0-0. The scoreboard blazed *AB 593. H 236. BA
.398*.
Lips pressed together, Huerta shook off signs throughout. He stayed away
from his curve, throwing his other pitches---slider, two-seam fastball,
Vulcan changeup. 3-2 count.
Huerta threw a slider. Cooper swung. A line drive, slicing well above
the second baseman’s reach. The ball landed deep in the right-center gap
and motored toward the wall. The crowd sounded like a rock concert or an
airplane runway.
The two nearest outfielders sprinted after the ball. Cooper sprinted
too. Nearing second, he looked ahead to the third-base coach. Coach
waved him through, then made the stop sign.
Cooper slid into third, well ahead of the relayed throw. He called time
and brushed dirt off his knee, looking at the team’s dugout.
At home, players high-fived Himmelblau. He returned the gesture, then
glanced toward Cooper. A crisp nod, then he trotted to the dugout steps.
The Astros led 1-0. Cooper on third. Two out, but time for more. He
shouted toward the plate. “Come on, Ode!”
Skelton, a left-handed batter, spat tobacco juice and stepped in. He
held his bat straight up, rocking the barrel back and forth more
forcefully than usual. With narrow eyes he watched the pitcher.
Don’t swing for the fences, Ode. A single to the outfield scores the
run.
Huerta threw a fastball, low and away. Ode lifted his right foot but
held back his bat.
”Steee-rike,” called the umpire. Some fans booed. Ode gave the umpire a
mean look, then shook his head and stepped back in for the next pitch.
Next pitch, a changeup. *Be patient---*
Ode swung too early. The ball chopped foul past the home dugout. The
ballboy tossed it to a small child on the fourth row.
Now an 0-2 count. Huerta smirked. The next pitch, a curveball. Cooper’s
heart hung, ready to drop with the breaking ball. Ode swung, waist high.
The pitch crossed the plate at his knees.
”Steee-rike three. You’re out!”
Ode flipped his bat end-over-end to the grass as he trudged back to the
dugout.
The seventh and eighth innings went quickly, with the Astros going
three-up-three-down in both frames. The crowd grew restless. A fan in
the front row behind the dugout told someone that Cooper’s triple had
only gotten him back to .399. Cooper would come up second in the bottom
of the ninth---if the Astros batted.
Top of the ninth, the Astros still led 1-0.
The Astros’ closer stalked around the mound as the PA blared *Flight of
the Valkyries*. He took the mound, his brows lowered, the image of focus
on getting the save regardless of Cooper’s pursuit of .400. But the
closer’s first pitches missed the plate and he gave up a leadoff single
to a speedy runner. A pickoff throw went wide and the runner slid into
second.
Tying run in scoring position, a right-handed pull hitter at bat, the
second baseman shifted to join Cooper and Himmelblau on the third-base
side of the infield. Cooper took position with his right foot almost
touching the foul line.
*If the batter lines one you can’t handle, tie game and you get one more
chance in the bottom of the ninth.*
Cooper blinked. He slammed his right hand into his glove and watched the
batter.
The batter fouled the first pitch back off the screen, then took the
second low and in. Third pitch, fastball on the inside half of the
plate. Swing, crack.
Cooper’s feet shifted to his left. His glove hand rose. He looked back
the runner on second, then rifled a one-hop throw to Skelton at first.
One out.
He paced across the dirt to his usual fielding spot. On his way, he
nodded to himself. He’d done the right thing without thinking, from
habit born on that distant sunny field of his youth.
Warmth filled his chest. Your line in the box score didn’t matter.
Winning a ball game mattered.
The next batter came up. He fouled off four pitches before the closer
left a curveball hanging. Well hit to left. Cooper’s shoulders sagged as
the ball sailed over his head. It landed in the seats, five rows back
and five feet inside the foul pole.
The Astros now trailed 2-1. He would get that one more chance.
To start the bottom of the ninth, a pitch struck Himmelblau in the
thigh. The closer, Ryerson, had a nasty curve and slider, when in the
groove. The scoreboard blazed *AB 594. H 237. BA .399.* The crowd came
to its feet, chanting “Four-oh-oh! Four-oh-oh!”
Energy jittered into Cooper’s arms and legs. He raised his bat and that
memory from his childhood returned, grounding the energy. Calm, focused,
he stepped in.
Ryerson came set and Cooper decided to take the first pitch. The ball
left the pitcher’s hand. A slider, low and outside, but it would
probably catch the corner of the umpire’s generous strike zone.
”Ball.”
The catcher tossed the ball back to the pitcher, then looked over his
shoulder. “Low or outside?” he asked the umpire.
”Outside,” the umpire replied in a firm tone.
Cooper smiled to himself. This plate appearance just got easier.
Next pitch, curveball, breaking too hard. It hit the dirt in front of
the plate and skipped under the catcher’s glove. Cooper jumped back and
waved Himmelblau forward. The ball rolled to the backstop, catcher
chasing it. Himmelblau slid headfirst into second. The catcher didn’t
even throw.
2-0 count, and no chance of hitting into a double play. A base hit would
score the tying run.
The next pitch. Another curveball, this one would barely break. Cooper
shifted his weight and lashed out with his hands.
It broke even less than Cooper expected. He caught it low and it sliced
foul, landing in the second deck behind the home dugout. The crowd noise
lulled, then picked back up as Ryerson readied his next pitch.
Fastball, sailing high. Cooper leaned back. The catcher rose from his
crouch and extended his mitt. The pitch smacked leather. The catcher
tossed the ball back to Ryerson, then made a settle-down gesture with
his hands.
3-1. Thousands of voices took up the chant. “Four-oh-oh! Four-oh-oh!”
If Ryerson missed the zone again, foul it off or take ball four?
Cooper readied the bat and turned his augmented eyes to the pitcher. The
wrist snap, the roll off the fingers, the spinning seams, a slider,
inside, he could foul it off*---*
The bat stayed over Cooper’s shoulder. “Ball four!”
Boos drizzled down on Ryerson from the first fans to realize the walk
would not get Cooper back up to .400. The boos rained down as Cooper
dropped the bat and jogged to first base. Then the boos broke up, giving
way to applause and cheers. A new chant sprung up. “MVP! MVP!”
Cooper stopped at first and doffed his batting helmet to the crowd. He
turned, taking in the fans all around the park. A glow filled his chest.
Then his gaze met Himmelblau’s. His teammate gave one curt nod.
The glow remained. Cooper nodded back.
Nearby, the first base umpire stepped back to position. Still three outs
left in the game. Cooper reseated his helmet, stuffed his batting gloves
into his back pocket, and looked to the plate. “Come on, Ode!”
Skelton squirted tobacco juice from his mouth and stepped into the box.
He worked the barrel of the bat forward and back, as usual, but from the
fraction of his face visible to Cooper, Skelton seemed more relaxed than
he had in the sixth.
Ode took a pitch outside, dribbled foul a strike on his hands. 1-1.
Next, Ryerson flung a fastball on a chest-high trajectory.
Cooper sucked in a breath. Skelton’s arms tensed, but he didn’t swing.
”Ball!” called the umpire.
The catcher tossed the ball back to Ryerson. 2-1. Ryerson stepped to the
rubber, came set. The pitch. A slider, running in, not far enough.
Skelton lined the ball to right-center. Cheers thundered from the crowd.
Cooper ran the instant he saw the ball would hit the ground. The third
base coach waved him all the way through.
Cooper’s foot jabbed third and he headed home. He looked over his
shoulder. On the warning track, the right fielder bent down for the
ball.
A grin split Cooper’s mouth. Himmelblau stood behind home plate, hands
high, waving him in standing up. Near the on-deck circle, Dominguez
lifted his bat into the air. In front of the plate, the catcher stood
with face mask up and a dejected set to his shoulders. Cooper ran hard,
as hard as that eight-year-old in his memory. Another glance toward
right-center showed the ball arching slowly toward the cut-off man.
Cooper ran across the plate. Himmelblau wrapped an arm around him.
Dominguez jumped in. Players and coaches streamed from the dugout and
joined the pile. Skelton high-fived teammates and shouted, “That’s what
I’m talking ‘bout!”
The crowd roared. Fireworks burst above the open roof. The scoreboard
behind center showed graphics and numbers and a snorting 8-bit bull.
Cooper could only make out the final score, 3-2.
Slowly, the cluster of coaches and players drifted toward the dugout.
Fans on the front row chanted “MVP! MVP!”
Cooper lifted his batting helmet. Something deep in his mind clicked,
and he extended his arms, taking in Skelton, Dominguez, Himmelblau, and
the rest of the team.
The chant died away. The cheers mounted, echoing around the stadium,
pouring out the open roof toward the city, flowing with the team down
the dugout steps and the tunnel to the clubhouse.
- - -
An hour later, the clubhouse was nearly empty. Only four players
remained, dressed in tailored suits, hair slick from showers, styling
products, and Dominguez’ black hair dye. Cooper stood in front of his
locker, facing the others.
”Alright, we’re alone,” Skelton said. “What you got to say?”
Himmelblau nodded. “We’re all curious.”
”Yes, yes,” added Dominguez.
Cooper took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about what Himmelblau
said before the game.” He twisted his upper body, pulled a tablet from
the top shelf of his locker. From the end of the rolled-up tablet came
the glow of the private, password-protected, encrypted website he’d
already loaded.
Himmelblau’s forehead creased. “You have a way for us each to gain three
hundred points of OPS?”
”Yes.” A grin tightened Cooper’s cheeks. He unfurled the tablet and
snapped it rigid. On the display, Dr. Derek Liu looked authoritative in
lab coat and eyeglasses, under the caption *Singapore Clinic for
Personal Improvement*.
Cooper said, “I’ll show all three of you where to get Ted Williams
eyes.”
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