Terracorp
“Alright, you can all be called ‘Surer Duper Whiz Bangs.’ You can have tax-free company cruisers and 100% raises. But there is one condition,” said Elliott Quik.
“What’s that?” asked Buck Wheat. “I’m CEO.” “Hey, Elliot. I like your style. As long as I’m the Chairman of the Board of Terracorp, you can be anything you want. It’s the least I can to for an old college buddy.”
“There’s one other thing,” added Elliott, standing up and pacing around the large conference table in the Tonsorial Engineering main conference room.
“What’s that?” Buck Wheat asked, lighting up a big cigar and blowing smoke Fs and Es into the air.
“I want level one of the complex completely filled with cement.”
“You can’t do that!” shouted Dr. Vernon Flat Top, who was quickly surrounded by field engineers holding EMMBU rods to his throat.
“Yes we can,” replied Wheat. “Why don’t you just sit down and have another stick of gum, Doctor. Unless you would like to join Mr. Pudge and Mr. Stoppo down in the drain hole?”
Dr. Flat Top sat down in his chair and reluctantly chewed a stick of stun-gum until a smile returned to his face. Buck Wheat arose, walked over to a white-board on the wall and began to draw. “This is the new organizational chart for Terracorp:”
“What do you think?” asked Buck returning to his seat at the head of the table.
“Rah-rah-rah!” yelled all of the field engineers in the room, holding their toolbags high in the air.
“Good. Now what about Compol, Doobie?” Wheat asked as he turned to Dooberwan Lambrusco, who removed his trushed metal helmet and placed it in front of him.
“No problem, Buck. The main view screens at Compol Central have been emitting Reagatron radiation for two days straight. There won’t be anything resembling a human being down there by row. Everything went according to the plan.”
“Great. Well, that about wraps it up for today. We’ll begin the cementing of level one tomorrow at about 9 o’clock in the morning. Meeting adjorned.”
The dark cave smelled of dinosaur manure as Rosy Petson and Bill Torque met Mr. Robotto at the entrance. “I have removed all the refuse from this cavern,” spoke the automaton. “I am preparing to fumigate. Please stand back.” Mr. Robotto extended his arms, bending them at the elbow hinges, and popped his elbow caps. Activating the AFS (Air Freshener Select) relay in his internal hydrolics system, the robot begain to spray the cave with the smell of springtime freshness until every trace of the offending ooor was removed.
When he was finished, he rolled out of the cave and spoke to Mio who had found several fruit trees nearby and had constructed the magnificent fruit hat she was now wearing. “You may enter the enclosure now,” Robotto said.
The 80 surviving diagnostic programmers, Mio, Bill Torque, Rosy, and the animals from the tree museum all entered the cave and started constructing stone cubicles. Mr. Robotto’s carton arc hand attachments provided the light for the work while several of the programmers constructed wood torches fueled by pitch from a nearby tar pit. When the torches were in place, Robotto left the cave to expose his solar collector hat to the sun.
Rosy spoke to Bill and Mio, “Bozoni is on the way. How long do you think we can hold out?”
“Not much more than 30 days,” replied Bill, looking through his toolbag for a smoke.
“But, Senor Torque, this planet is full of food,” reasoned Mio.
“That’s not the problem,” answerer Bill, lighting a big cigar and blowing smoke Fs and Es into the air.
“Then what is the problem?” asked Rosy.
“Look at those people,” Bill motioned toward the diagnostic programmers. “They look normal now. But you haven’t seen a diagnostic programmer who hasn’t been able to test a program for a month. You think the tyrannosauri were bad? You ain’t seen nothing!”
“Captain Garlicbreath, the Cosmic Partner has just ertered the star-gate.”
“All ion drives ahead one quarter. Prepare for hyper-space entry in 60 seconds. May God go with us!”
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