The Trouble with Truth E-Book

Julian Grow

• Herausgeber: Jovian Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 39

Beschreibung

Nobody knows where it will end. I only know where it began - in Rutlan - twenty-four hours ago! Julian Grow weaves a science fiction tale of epic proportions, demonstrating a clear and concise understanding of the futuristic genre!

Leseprobe

THE TROUBLE WITH TRUTH

..................

Julian Grow

JOVIAN PRESS

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Copyright © 2016 by Julian Grow

Interior design by Pronoun

Distribution by Pronoun

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

I

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“THE WPA STINKS,” SARA SAID. Now, I’ve known Sara four year. We’ve been engaged three times and married once—only marriage, not matrimony—so I pretty much know what to expect from her. I didn’t speak.

She rummaged in her belt pouch and waved something from it under my nose. It was a plastic tube, pointed and dark at one end. “Do you know what this is?” She said it loud enough to make people at other tables look away from the program on the Rutlan Community Room cubeo.

As it happened, I did know what it was. “Sure,” I said. “It’s a pencil.”

“A pencil!” she hissed back. “A pencil such as they’ve been making for, I don’t know, maybe three hundred years. Plastic and a black core, that’s all. An atavistic, human writing instrument. But there is more real, solid news in this one pencil than in all the gadgets and wires and whirling wheels of the whole stinking WPA, your World Press Association! And in one edition of my poor little Argus, that funny little country monthly....”

Fortunately, at this point, the familiar Thomas Edison Pageant broadcast ended and the announcer on the cubeo rang his Town Crier bell. Copies of the Northeast Region edition of the Sun began pouring out of the Fotofax slot. As a matter of habit I rose and got a Sun for each of us, Sara taking hers with a snort, and sat down again as the announcer gave the World Press Association opening format:

“An informed people is a free people,” he droned. “Read your Sun and know the truth. Stand by now for an official synopsis of the day’s happenings prepared by the World Press Association.”

We both got up to go, leaving our Suns behind as most in the room later would too. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Sara said, the way she does when she’s been thinking about something all day. “That reminds me. I’m pregnant.”

“Ah?” I said. “Okay. Good.” Not just marriage this time: matrimony it was. We walked out, and she held my hand, a thing she doesn’t normally do.

On the belt-way to Milbry and Sara’s house, some 48 kiloms north of Rutlan, we talked about getting wed. I lay back in the seat of my car and through the roof watched the December snow fall—making plans with only half a mind for moving from my Nork apartment, deciding whether to keep both cars, arguing whether the commute to Nork took 40 or 45 minutes, choosing a sex for the baby. Mostly I was thinking about what Sara had said about the Sun. I’m a Reporter, after all.

When the car locked onto the exit tramway and started deceleration, I suggested that we go to the Argus office first. Her apartment was just upstairs anyway. “We had better,” I said, “have a little talk.”

The demand sensor of the radiant heater in front of the Argus building was, as usual, out of order, so we didn’t linger. Sara pressed her ID bracelet against the night lock and the door swung open with a squawk that lifted my hair.

Once when I asked her why she didn’t get it fixed, she said it saved the price of a cowbell on a spring. I told her then that Vermont had no business in the 21st century, and she said the 21st century had no business in Vermont, the 19th had been more fun. Fun! She said if I didn’t like Vermont I could go back to Nork, and she gave it the old fashioned pronunciation, Newark, I suppose just to irritate me. As I recall, I did go back to Nork, that time, but that was a long time ago.

This time, anyway, I pushed her gently down into her chair, the worn old oak swivel chair in front of the disreputable old rolltop desk, with that battered old electric typewriter of her father’s and her grandfather’s. For all I know, her five-great-grandfather Elias Witherill started the Argus with it in 1847, two centuries ago.

“You say the WPA is bad,” I said. I tapped the typewriter. “There’s your real villain. And there—” pointing at the ancient offset press she printed the Argus