There’s an emergency on the SS Foundation and our hero, alcoholic inventor Jonas Jupiter, is the only man for the job!

“You could have warned me the catapod was about to launch, Doc! I nearly had a heart attack,” said Jonas. He was holding his vomit-filled helmet at his side.

“That’s what the countdown is for,” replied Dr. Borg.

The two men were standing in the airlock of the SS Foundation, waiting for the decontamination process to complete. The room had been filled with an odorous fog that was gradually dissipating. A light on the wall turned from red to green and was accompanied by a pleasant chime. Then the airlock opened, revealing an imposing figure.

“Welcome to the SS Foundation, gentlemen.”

The figure was tall, broad shouldered, and barrel-chested. He was a military man through and through, from his buzzed haircut, to his pressed blue and white uniform. He stood at a rigid parade-rest, with his hands folded behind his back. His chin and cheeks were clean-shaven but his upper lip held the biggest mustache regulations would allow. It was perfectly maintained in a neat, black rectangle. His semi-permanent scowl seemed to have worn hard lines into his stern face.

“Ah, Commander! It is so good to see you again,” said Dr. Borg warmly. “I would ask how things are but I’m aware the situation here is not good.” The commander shook Dr. Borg’s hand enthusiastically. The hard lines on his face seemed to soften for a very brief moment. The commander clearly felt a deep respect for the doctor.

“Commander, let me introduce you to Professor Jonas Jupiter.” The commander’s scowl returned, possibly stronger than before. He did not reach out to shake hands, although he did offer a curt nod. “Jonas, this is Commander Grieg.”

“You’ve, uh, got a little something on your face,” said Jonas, pointing at his own stubbly upper lip. Grieg reflexively felt his upper lip only to realize Jonas was talking about his thick mustache. Grieg scowled even deeper.

“Professor! It is such an honor to have you here!” came a voice from out of nowhere. 

Jonas was startled by the appearance of a young woman from behind Grieg. She wore the same, tight blue-and-white uniform as the commander but with a different symbol upon her shoulder. She had a pretty face with bright green eyes. She kept her black hair pulled back in a tight, regulation bun. 

“We are in danger and I am confident a man of your abilities can remedy our problem before things get desperate!” said the woman cheerfully.

Dr. Borg introduced the young woman, “Professor, this is Kemalia. She is the station’s chief technical officer and an outstanding scientist. A great mind with the potential to do great things!”

Jonas flashed a charismatic smile at Kemalia, “What a coincidence . . . I’m a scientist, too.”

“Yes . . .  I know,” replied Kemalia. She held a smile but her eyes betrayed her confusion.

“Please forgive my bluntness, professor, but we don’t really have time for you to flirt with the crew,” said Dr. Borg.

“But I was just about to seduce Greg,” objected Jonas, jokingly.

“My name is Grieg and your advances on me will not work. I am on duty, and I am not interested in copulating with you.”

“Straight to copulation, huh? Not one for the typical dating rituals, like dinner and a movie?”

“I am confident that we have very different mating rituals.” Jonas did not witness the lightning-fast warning look that Borg flashed at Grieg.

Jonas reached up and patted the commander on the shoulder, “It was just a joke, Greg. You don’t have much of a sense of humor do you?”

“I have not yet needed one.”

Dr. Borg cut in, “Professor, we are here because there is an emergency that requires your immediate attention. Kemalia, will you please show us to the engine control station and debrief us on the situation?”

“Of course, Dr. Borg,” she replied.

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“I will be on the command deck,” said the commander.

“Hey, Greg, can you be a sport and hold this for a moment?” Jonas handed his helmet to Grieg. “Thanks, chief.”

“My name is Grieg and I am a commander, not a chief!” said Grieg, but Jonas, who was already following Kemalia and the doctor, only waved over his shoulder.

The commander looked down at the helmet he was holding and noticed what was inside.

“Ugh.”

The engine control room was spacious, with several consoles manned by focused workers. The far wall was entirely glass, a window into the engine chamber. Kemalia’s console was the only one attached to that wall, and most of its lights were flashing red.

The engine chamber beyond was shaped like the inside of a massive sphere, the walls of which were mostly large white tiles. There were six massive tunnels spaced evenly around the chamber’s circumference. The engine control room in which they were standing was positioned between two of the tunnels. There was a large black-and-silver sphere suspended in the center of the chamber, pulsing with a faint blue glow. Six black pipes emerged from it like spokes on a wheel and ran down the center of each of the tunnels.

“Whoa, I designed this?!” exclaimed Jonas.

Dr. Borg and Kemalia exchanged a glance. “Uh, well, yes,” said the doctor. “However, we’ve made a few alterations to your original design, which is probably why you don’t recognize it.”

Jonas nodded soberly. “A few alterations? That makes sense.”

There was a series of catwalks encircling the engine chamber, including a station manned by two men wearing radiation suits. One of them nudged the other with his elbow, who looked up and waved enthusiastically towards the engine control room. Jonas waved back, then noticed that Kemalia had stepped up to the console beside him. It was her they were waving to. Jonas turned his wave into an unconvincing stretch and yawn. 

“So what’s the emergency?” he asked.

“I’ll explain the situation, professor,” said Kemalia as she stepped up to the console. “These engines use a proprietary version of your atomic conversion method—the same one used in your vambrace. However, we use the process to create propulsive plasma. Dr. Borg recently sent us a necessary software update from your lab. Unfortunately after we applied it, something went wrong and the injection module did an overwrite of your original formula and calculations for the conversion process. Without that formula the engine can’t convert our fuel to plasma. We’re dead in the water, metaphorically speaking!”

Jonas chuckled, “So my assistant, Dr. Borg, did some bad programming and now the space station won’t move, eh? I know it’s hard to find good help these days but I would hardly classify this as an emergency.”

Dr. Borg bristled, “I think you misunderstand the gravity of the situation, professor. The engines are not just for propulsion. They are also for lift. The Foundation is incapable of maintaining a stable orbit. Without working engines we will begin to fall back toward the Earth—towards New York City! A space station this size falling from this height would obliterate the city and everything else within a hundred mile radius. You have to restore your formula quickly or all your friends and loved ones in New York City will die!”

“All my friends and loved ones . . . I see,” said the professor. “How long until the station’s trajectory is terminal?”

“Less than five hours!”

The professor nodded. “In that case, I’ll need something to eat, and a cold bottle of Atomicola. Oh, and something to write with.”

Nearly an hour later, the glass wall was covered in lines of formulae and calculations. Jonas was standing on a step stool, squeezing a few extra numbers and letters into a corner with a felt-tip pen, and taking periodic sips of a bubbly blue liquid from a glass bottle shaped like a rocket.

Kemalia and Dr. Borg watched from across the room.

“This is impressive, doctor, but what’s with the pop drink?” she asked. “He’s had three of them in less than an hour,” she said.

“I suppose it gives him a boost of energy,” hypothesized Dr. Borg. And he was right. The professor had become a different man entirely compared to the hungover malcontent he had been upon his arrival. He was focused and articulate, energetic and youthful. His feet carried him from equation to equation as if he were performing choreography. His tired eyes and flushed face had been replaced by a clear vision and a look of determination. Put simply, he was in his element. 

“The professor drinks soda when he’s working and alcohol when he’s depressed and, from what I’ve seen, he’s always either working or depressed. I don’t believe I’ve seen the man drink a glass of water once, unless you count the occasional ice cube in his whiskey.”

The professor climbed down from the step stool and stood back to examine the entirety of his work. He stroked his jaw thoughtfully as he looked over his calculations. Then he stepped forward and circled a short formula and two long equations.

“All done. If you plug that in, the conversion process should be restored and the engine should work.”

Dr. Borg examined the three circles. The austere man did not smile exactly, but he did look satisfied. “You’ve done it, professor. This is brilliant work!” He looked at the watch on his wrist, “And in less than an hour. I’m afraid I’ve underestimated you.”

“You’re not the first, nor will you be the last to ever underestimate me. Hell, I do it as a matter of practice,” replied Jonas.

Kemalia entered the information into the console. A few moments later the engine was purring like a kitten. The engine had begun to project a strong, stable blue aura.

“It worked!” she exclaimed.

Dr. Borg clapped the professor on the back, “Good show! You’ve saved the city . . . and the space station!”

“Thank you, Dr. Borg. There is one thing that’s been bothering me, though,” said the professor.

“Yes, professor? What is it?”

“I don’t have a space station!”