by garrett
gilchrist
(We
FADE IN on a rather unremarkable bed, in a rather unremarkable, even filthy,
bedroom. FLOYD VAN ALLEN stirs slightly just beneath the covers. He has fallen
asleep with the lights on. This would seem to be a habit. All of a sudden,
music blares in a crackly, overloud way -- a clock radio alarm. [Perhaps
"The Worst is Yet to Come," by GRIMMS, or Elvis' "King
Creole."] Floyd sits bolt upright and looks about in a paranoid way. He is
scruffy and unshaven, and though the simple, soiled t-shirt ensemble he's slept
in seems appropriate for sleeping in it is also, basically, what he wears
day-to-day. He looks next to him, on the bed. There is a wrinkled brown, ugly
fedora, which he seemingly fell asleep in. He blinks and puts it on. He
staggers up and pounds the clock radio. The music stops. He yawns, sniffs some
old socks, gives a disapproving look and then puts them on, along with an old
pair of sneakers (he put them on like loafers, they're already tied). He does
some quick stretching exercises and then walks down the hall, up a short bit of
stairs, and, boredly, opens up the door to take a look out. But we see not
grass and sky but the inky void of space. A bafflingly wide zoom shows that the
door is hanging right off of a huge snail-like spaceship, careening through the
stars. BIG CLOSEUP of Floyd's terrified face. He shuts the door.)
(Cut
to black and fade in, over music, on a small, silver, thermos-like object.
Stars swirl about it, and there is animation. This should look as much as
possible like a stock tv opening. A shorter version will be used in future
episodes.)
LOG
(unemotional, elegant computer voice): Please do not be astonished by anything you
see or hear. All, or at the very least some, will be explained. I am the Terra
Log, sole record of the travels of George, Bill and Linda, ambassadors of the
sixth planet of the system of the unblinking eye. I was designed to see all,
hear all, understand and learn all of the planet Terra, third planet in the
system of Sol. You might know it better as "Earth." The voyage of
George, Bill and Linda was pronounced a failure, but my mission continues. This
is its story.
(Peak
music and show opening credits over shots of the cast and the Pika [for that is
the name of the ship], with music, probably "I'm the Urban Spaceman"
by the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band. Fade out.)
(FADE
IN on the control deck of the UEF Pika, manned, or rather womanned, by TEAL
WINTHROP. She is eating breakfast [a bagel with cream cheese and some odd blue
milk], and seems quite in control of her surroundings. The entire control deck
has a certain spacelike atmosphere but overall looks strangely like an ordinary
suburban home. The LOG is there also, next to the bagel.)
TEAL
(into microphone):
Take us down to 9000 feet, computer.
COMPUTER:
Got it.
(Sounds
of descent add to the already notable spacey soundscape. We occasionally see
the computer's face, on a monitor or elsewhere, and it's a rather peculiar
puppet-construct.)
COMPUTER:
Oh, and do call me Steven.
TEAL:
Your name's not Steven, computer, it's Klup. We've been over this.
COMPUTER:
Right, right.
TEAL:
Do you have any sort of computer mental problems I should know about, Klup?
COMPUTER:
No, no, never! I have an IQ of three thousand, five hundred and eighty-one, and
am specially designed to perform any computational duties you could possibly
desire!
TEAL:
IQ of thirty-five eighty-one, eh?
COMPUTER:
Calculatably!
TEAL:
Then why are you such a scatter-brain?
COMPUTER:
(beeps a bit) Calculating
that ... (whirrs)
TEAL:
Forget it. Can we get visual?
COMPUTER:
(stops whirring)
Huh?
TEAL:
Can we get visual, on the planet surface?
COMPUTER:
Sure can.
(A
large monitor [it, like roughly all the monitors, are really fairly
run-of-the-mill tv sets] lights up to show a smashingly beautiful view of the
planet Earth.)
TEAL:
Wow. So, that's what Earth looks like, from space?
COMPUTER:
Computing. (whirrs) Yes, that's what it looks like.
TEAL:
It's ... beautiful.
COMPUTER:
Thanks. I punched it up myself.
(Teal,
ignoring Klup, admires the view. Then Floyd, rubbing his eyes and clearly in a
state of shock, enters in a shaky way.)
FLOYD:
Uh ... guh ...
TEAL:
Oh, hello Floyd. Glad you could wake up and join us. There's bagels in the
fridge. The milk's a bit blue but otherwise all right ...
FLOYD:
Teal! Teal Winthrop! God, I'm glad to see you.
TEAL:
Why's that?
FLOYD:
Because it means I'm not going crazy alone. Where the hell are we?
TEAL:
We're cruising in a small starship called the UEF Pika 9000 feet above the
planet Earth.
FLOYD:
Ah. And how the hell did we get here?
TEAL:
Well, we stowed away aboard a larger ship belonging to a bunch of fairly
non-deadly aliens, and launched this backup ship late last night when no one
was watching.
FLOYD:
Oookay. And why the hell did we do that?
TEAL:
Because if we didn't, we'd probably have watched the earth get blown up with us
on it. You really don't remember any of this?
FLOYD:
Well, now that you mention it, it is ... coming back to me ... I think I was
hoping it was just a really funky dream.
TEAL:
Weren't we all.
FLOYD:
So, uh, why does the whole ship look like ... like, uh ...
TEAL:
A suburban condo circa 1982?
FLOYD:
Y-yeah.
TEAL:
I was wondering about that myself. I think it's because ...
COMPUTER:
... Your minds are set up to accept the familiar. This ship has built itself up
like a typical Earth home in order to give off waves of calmness and
familiarity ...
TEAL:
Yeah, one of those.
FLOYD:
Fine. Calm. Familiar. Do you mind if I just ... sit down ... over there ... for
a day or two?
TEAL:
Suit yourself.
(He
flops down like a rag doll and out of sight. Sound F/X -- The Log
"ping"ing on.)
LOG:
If Mr. Van Allen would like, I could play back some of my data tapes for him
later. Just so he can catch up.
TEAL:
Yeah, do that. Last thing we need is a confused Floyd on our hands.
LOG:
How well am I speaking this ... "English" language?
TEAL:
Quite well I think, though I'm none to judge.
(By
this time CHESTER A. "CHAZ" DUPRIS has entered, looking clean,
laidback, and preppie-ish. He wears thick glasses and a polo shirt, and is
carrying rather a lot of drinks. Though he carries himself well, for some odd
reason you don't feel inclined to trust him.)
CHAZ:
Hey Teal, whaddaya doing talking to the mechanical help?
TEAL:
Hi Chaz. I dunno, just thought I might see if this alien technology's really
all it's cracked up to be.
CHAZ:
Hey, this project's been tough on us all but that's no reason to flip out and
start talking to tin cans.
LOG:
I, sir, am the Terra Log, and the sole record of this historic --
CHAZ:
Save it. Where's Al?
TEAL:
In the cockpit, I think. I'd give him a holler, but this late in the game it'd
be nice to have someone actually looking over the ship.
CHAZ:
Yeah. "Dooming all humanity" wouldn't be the best thing to have on
your resume. How's it going anyway?
TEAL:
Not bad. The entire planet ought to be frozen in time in just over an hour.
CHAZ:
Glad to hear it. Hey, let's celebrate. You want something to drink? Champagne?
Chaz cocktail?
TEAL:
No thank you, I ... (happily) Al!
(Al
Harris is coming slowly into view now from way in the back. He has the look of
an auto mechanic-in-training but somehow strikes you as competent to run an
entire alien starfleet. He is tall and has an air of authority about him. He
and Teal are something approaching an item and he shows it.)
AL:
Hello love ... Chester. Final navigation course is set.
CHAZ:
(contemptuously) Good
to know.
LOG:
Sir, I would wish to inquire about what sorts of notes I am to record whilst
off the Terran planet ... ?
AL:
Is that thing still on?
TEAL:
Well, yeah, I thought it should have someone to talk to ...
CHAZ:
(arranging drinks on the control deck) You watch your girl, Harris, she's
losing it. She'll be talking to vacuum cleaners next.
AL:
Switch it to narrative reception only.
CHAZ:
Will do.
LOG:
No wait, I was wondering about ...
(Chaz
twists the base of the Log about in an unkind way. The picture becomes a blur
and we hear jarring mechanical static, cutting abruptly to the Log, alone, on a
strange static background, with light, airy background music.)
LOG:
Well, this is nice. I suppose you'll all be wanting to hear the story in a moment
so I'll try to record it as best I can. I suppose it all started with the
flipping of a switch ...
(Jump
cut back to the Pika crew, huddled over the Log as before.)
CHAZ:
I'm not hearing anything, it must not be talking.
AL:
No, it's talking, we just can't hear it.
TEAL:
Poor little thing.
CHAZ:
Oh, save your sympathy for the higher machines, like toasters and trash
receptacles.
TEAL:
I just thought it had to be sad for it, to only take in, and play back
everything all in the past tense, all quiet like. If it were me I'd go batty.
CHAZ:
(rearranging drinks) Yeah, but it's not you.
TEAL:
I know, but still ...
AL:
(puts his hand on her shoulder) It's not anything worth getting fussed about,
love. Those things never get bored, they're not programmed for it.
TEAL:
I guess you're right. How long do we have left?
AL:
About forty-eight minutes.
TEAL:
Have you had a peek at the monitor?
AL:
Oh my, look at that view.
CHAZ:
Apocalyptic, isn't it?
AL:
Good god, I hope not.
CHAZ:
It's just an expression.
TEAL:
I don't think we have anything to worry about. I see nothing but an impossibly
beautiful hunk of rock and all the galaxy ahead of us. All we have to do is
take it all in.
CHAZ:
(picking up one of the drinks) I'll drink to that.
(And
he does. The Log takes over for a brief passage, with music and animation.)
LOG:
Actually, "taking it all in" was the duty of the project log, in this
case myself. Although designed to be able to speak clearly and eloquently in
any encoded language most of a log's existence is spent merely paying good
attention in order to be able to tell a full and interesting story later. This
was the plan of the people of the Sixth Planet of the system of the Unblinking
Eye, the race who also designed this ship, and they followed it to the letter.
The earliest logs had only been required to spit out statistics on ticker tape
but the Eyenet television stations had objected, saying that it wasn't doing
much for their news reporters having to read off little bits of ticker tape all
day, so in order to please the media and by extension the public a vocal
capability was built into the log. At first the log's simple mechanical brain
could produce little but loud grunting, but as science and society progressed
the logs evolved to compete with the increasingly slick and well-read Eyenet
news anchors, and soon became, out of necessity, the most intelligent computer
systems on the planet. Their rather simplistic design, however, proved a
problem in the ratings war so in most later broadcasts the log spoke while
being fondled by a swimsuit model. Through this simple revision the Project Log
replaced all but the best and most attractive of the Eyenet news anchors, at
least in the area of field reporting, and the news programs themselves became
so popular that television ratings technicians reported that the sixth planet
must now be more well-informed and sophisticated than it has ever been.
Meanwhile the Log, though equipped with a flowing, witty and elegant voice, is
preset not to speak unless spoken to.
(Jump
cut back in on Floyd, who is rubbing his head in apparent very real pain. The
computer is whirring madly and this doesn't seem to help poor Floyd either. He
does something painful-looking with his neck and stands up, walking over to the
control deck with the rest.)
CHAZ:
Trajectory, trajectory ... I have a feeling I should be saying something along
those lines but can't think of it. I wish I hadn't failed Physics.
TEAL:
It doesn't matter. The path should be clear in five, four, three, two ... NOW!
FLOYD:
Ow.
(Teal
has hit a button dramatically. Monitor shot of the Earth. A thick translucent
shield begins to generate itself over the whole of the planet's near-spherical
surface. It's quite a sight, really.)
AL:
Quite a sight, really.
TEAL:
(awestruck)
Yeah.
(Chaz
gives a strangely unpleasant grimace and runs off. Only Floyd seems to notice,
and he doesn't give chase. All are fixated on the monitors.)
CHAZ:
Danged thing, open, damn you!
(We
see that he is fiddling with a sealed red envelope marked "Top Secret
Protocol: Sen. Warren G. Dupris." We get just a glimpse of the plans, but
it’s clear that Chaz Dupris is out to sabotage the mission .)
TO
BE CONTINUED ….