1966 - The Dish

[Calder]

The Dish – 1966

Early morning, The Dish

"Well look what the cat dragged in - tea's on."

"And a very good morning to you too, sorry I'm bit late," replied the heavy sleeper, moving like an automaton towards the teapot.

"No sweat mate, shift change is always a right pain in the arse, bikkie?" Asked Greg Robinson opening the tin.

"Don't mind if I do, Ta. You seemed to have brushed up alright though, have I missed much?" inquired Christopher Plumber, fishing a Scotch Finger out of the battered biscuit tin.

"Days to nights is easy, it's nights to days thats the problem. I just wish I could get to sleep; and no you haven't missed much. Canberra rang about ten minutes ago looking for you, but I told them you were on the loo."

"Why thank you Gregory, and what did their lordships want at this hour? If it was about those spares?"

"You're more than welcome Chris me old china, Id do the same for a black fella; and I did mention your little query in passing. The answer is no; if there is still one left in stock, you can't order replacements until the end of the month. But if the spare gets used they'll do an emergency requisition."

"Lord almighty, a rush order is both dependant upon on availability and twice as expensive. If they allowed me to keep a reasonable inventory..." and he trailed off around a mouthful of soggy shortbread.

"Mate I sing in church on Sundays!" proclaimed Greg

"Liar!"

"Alright I dont, but you're still preaching to the congregation and anyway that wasn't the reason they rang. You lucky bastard, youre getting a visitor this morning!"

"Oh no If its another one of those Political hacks who cant tell a light switch from a lightning rod.... I you do realize Tour Guide was not on the job advertisement? Peace, quiet and pure science is what they promised, and how can anyone work if..... So who is it this time?"

"We if I could get a word in edgewise, I'd tell you its a Yank and they didn't say why or who just when, and that's today sometime."

"If its that fellow from NASA again about Skylab; honestly how many more ways can tell them we didn't hear a thing! It was well over our horizon - the dish wasnt even pointed their way. You'd think we were supposed to be a tracking station - and what it has to do with me I don't know. You were on shift at the time, gazing at a goat's posterior if I'm not mistaken."

"Well I suppose its a good thing I finished this off last night then." Greg slapped a manila folder on his cluttered desk. "Give NASA a copy of this, my prelim report on the sector known to one and all as the arse end of Sagittarius. I dropped the film in yesterday so if the Yanks drops by the Chemists on his way back to town, Phil can give him a set of prints from the boresight to go with the bumph."

"I'd gladly provide them with a leather bound collectors edition if it would be the end of this, but I can't see much point to tell the truth. They'll get their own copy in a month or so; and I get the sneaking impression they are just grasping for straws at the moment. Apparently their Senate is going to hold some sort of Royal Commission or what ever it is they do over there, it was on the wireless this morning. Well nothing for it but to pat the poor fellow on the back and tell him the same old story."

"Better you them me chum; now you're here in body and soul, Ill be off. Thought I might nip out the back way and see about getting a couple of rabbits, so Ill see you tonight then."

"Hold on a minute, not so fast my predatory friend. When you see your good lady wife, please be absolutely certain to extend my warmest regards and deepest felicitations if you please."

"No - you hold on yourself mate. My rabbits, my wife and my flaming rabbit pie; you can fend for your bloody self! Oh and tell Rowan, Cliffie greased the races last night, so he needn't bother."

"Good night Greg."

"See yah mate."

"Oh Greg!"

"Yeah?"

"Just remember, lots of onions!"

"Bugger off!"

Hard on the heels of Greg's Drover, a clattering muffler heralded the arrival of young Rowan Townshead, currently the dayshift electrical technician.

"Morning! Tea up?"

"Well that is a bit of cheek isnt it; ten minutes late and looking for a cuppa - biscuit?" Chris watched with dismay as Rowan automatically helped himself to the last Scotch Finger. Oh well he thought theres still the Teddy Bears.

"Ta, much on?"

"Well Greg is going to do an Astro-calibration this evening, so I'd like to give the Dish a bit of a spruce up this afternoon, we might have a look at that paint that needs touching up too, it should dry quite well Id think; ahh - other than that." Chris paused to dunk his biscuit and scoop the soggy mess into his mouth. "If you check the maintenance log, you'll see Clifford did the greasing last night and the system is on automatic so youve got a pretty easy morning." He found he was already talking to Rowan's back as the young man snatched his faded hat back off the peg and shovelled his notebook and a handful of biscuits into his pockets.

"Cliffie cleaned Greg out early then did he?" Asked Rowan hanging his field glasses around his neck.

"I'd rather say it was the other way around actually, Cliff had already left when I arrived and Greg was in a remarkably cheerful mood; perhaps they should go back to chess. Cribbage can get quite expensive at a penny a point."

"Well you'd know after last week! Anyway I'll be on the top deck if you need me."

"Give my love to the Red Knobbed Nutty Warbler!" Called Chris up the stairs towards Rowan. "Oh and we're due a visitor so if you see anyone, do try and look busy!"

"Right oh!" Echoed Rowans reply down the brick stairwell.


Afternoon

"Struth, never thought I'd see a boong dressed up as a ruddy Officer." Muttered Rowan softly as the two men watched the black car drive away from the gate.

"And that will be quite enough of that Rowan, you salute the uniform not the peg its hanging on," rebuked Chris mildly.

"Yes Sar-major!" snapped out Rowan jerking to a mock attention. "I never had you down as one of those Anti-Discrimination League types Chris," he said returning to his more usual slouch.

"Oh I'm not; youll find me a card carrying fully paid up member of the Pro-Discrimination League if such an organisation existed. I just can't see the point in judging a man by the colour of his skin," replied Chris as they walked back to the dish. "A man is recognised by his actions and his character, both of which are functions of intellect; and intellect is a matter of intelligence and culture not skin colour.

You might as well despise an electron for the charge it carries, or a coin from the number stamped on it no its not only illogical but to lump half of humanity together and dismiss them on simple biology, its worse than illogical, it is shear mental laziness! Are all tall men brave, all fat ones dishonest, would you refuse money to your mother...? Sorry, no offence or reflection intended old bean, not having a poke by any means." Chris opened the door and ushered Rowan through into the cool interior of the tower.

"She's jake Chris, and I might not be the sharpest knife in the dinner bowl; but even I can drive a coach and four through that argument."

"Oh?" inquired Plumber

"I mean of course you discriminate between two electrons, you want a positive charge on a negative lead? An gawd, a penny and a double bob are about the same size but I know which Id rather have."

Chris smiled quietly. "Rowan old fellow - old lad. Discrimination is a choice based upon a given need. As an abstract either electron is blameless unless its somewhere you'd rather it wasnt, a penny and a crown are just two lumps of metal in my pocket unless I have to pay for something."

"Come on, pull the other one! They're totally different, different material, different mass, electrical conductivity, even without their face value, in your collection of loose change each coin is different."

"Of course it is, each of those points, mass or conductivity are only important - are only worth discriminating between, if they are subject to a need. Unless I need a coin of a given weight, value or thickness they are just different; not better or worse. You have to apply a standard based on whats needed to find before you can decide if A is better suited for what you're after than B."

"All right, I'll need to think about this one. But I've still got you on mental laziness though. This is making a decision, you're doing something, not well not-not doing something!"

"Rowan, Rowan, Rowan. Put the kettle on theres chap, this conversation is going to need a little lubrication and you might as well break out the biscuits while youre over there."

"To discriminate against a group when you are really dealing with an individual is just lazy. Its nothing but an easy way of avoiding a little mental effort. Look, lets say I was to consider all coins as pennies; to save the effort of thinking about halfpennies and threepenny bits. Then I was to need a disk of a certain size that didnt match that of a penny so I discriminate against all coins on that basis. I might go off in search of a custom made washer when there was a florin that would do the job sitting in my pocket the whole time. Putting anything in a pigeonhole thank you," Chris paused to sup his refreshment, "is a matter of convenience. That isn't to say you can't organise things by grouping like with like, however making a value judgment about a group with out reference to a specific requirement that has not been eliminated from the sample Major Clark is a negro, but if one looks at that as just another layer of underwear we find he is a technically competent well he seemed that way to me yes?" Rowan nodded his reluctant acceptance of Clarks apparent knowledge. "A technically competent, middle ranking officer, of a prestigious arm of a particularly large and powerful Air Force. So we are either to presume that the USAF hands out Majorities in SAC on the back of Wheat-Bix packets, or that Major Clark is a human being who would meet our general standard of civilised behaviour and most probably above average intelligence." Chris sat back and sipped his tea, Rowan made no reply.

"If character defines the man, and culture drives the character; and were going to put people in pigeonholes. I think you might find that you and I have more in common with an Aboriginal culturally speaking, than Major Clark."

If Albert Clark had been a proverbial fly on the wall, listening to Dr. Plumber's little lecture, he might have felt obliged to point out at least one substantial cultural phenomenon he shared with any Australian Aboriginal. He might have only been in the country for a little over 20 hours and he hadnt seen much sign of men in white sheets running around burning crosses; but that isn't to say he hadn't felt a little uncomfortable at times either.

Major Clark was actually 5 miles away, sitting in his embassy issue black Plymouth sedan parked in the scanty shade off a dirt road, with the windows would up and the air-conditioning on full blast. From Colorado in early fall to central New South Wales in a single flight, had left him both jet lagged and mildly heat shocked. But what really had him bothered was the rampant suspicion that something didnt add up. His briefing pack had been very through, not only giving him a full technical run down on what he would find, but no end of other helpful information; the current exchange rate to the new Australian decimal currency, the going price for gas, not to tip the waiters, even which of the two Pubs in Parks served the best luncheon. But somewhere there was a gaping hole and the gentle hum of the engine, a cool breeze and the dappled sunlight was helping Clark to pinpoint exactly what hed fallen into. Driving in that morning Clark had only been uncertain about one thing, he thought the O in CSIRO probably stood for Organisation, but it might be Office.

Albert might have spent the last few years living under a mile or so of granite as SACs mid level electronics man in Aerospace Command; but he hadn't forgotten his Security Indoctrination. When hed looked at the facility on the two maps his pack provided, he had been pleased to note the very discrete way the site had been presented. Just the neat words Commonwealth Property - Access by Appointment in the same script used to notate minor features like cattle sheds.

He'd had an appointment, and his access had taken him almost 20 miles from the nearest town, the last 4 over country back roads devoid of blacktop, ending in a narrow mile lane through a belt of woods. Even the unnamed dirt lane which had been ruler straight took a right-left kink as it passed through the trees, screening the facility until the last minute and providing a perfect ambush point. There had been no sign posts, no utility wires leading towards the woods, not even a Keep Out notice, in fact the only posted notice of any type was a polite hand painted Sheep - Please Shut the Gate wired to the portal.

Clark hadnt been in any way furtive; but he had arrived an hour early, left his car in the woods and checked the place out from the tree line with his binoculars. Security had not been obvious but he'd spotted at least one armed guard with a rifle in the woods on the far side of the perimeter, and there had been a lookout stationed on the top of the dish tower the whole time he was observing and he knew hed been made. The whole thing was so low key it quite frankly confused him. To the causal visitor whod strayed 4 miles from the main road, the whole facility just looked like a 200 radio dish on top of an 80 high red brick tower in the middle of a farmers field, complete with a handful of sheep running about and two beaten up old cars parked out front.

Of the two people he meet there, one was obviously a typical civilian egg-head, complete with bad table manners; who had done all the talking and shown him over every inch of the place, even into what hed called the bunker with a laugh. That had only been a basement with diesel back-up generator, a couple of transformers and some caged in switchboards. The only place hed not been dragged through was a little room in the basement, tucked away under the stairs. A room that to Alberts educated eye was about the size of a 6x6 elevator, and sealed by the sort of door that screamed Level 1 Containment. Who ever had built the place was a real expert, the only sign Clark could spot of any hidden levels were the presence of open fire places inside the tower, chimney or ventilation stack who could tell? It wasn't that hard to fake blackened bricks and a dusting of ash, but they lost marks for the poor excuse they had for a wood pile; and anyway who puts wood fires in a radio observatory?

It was the other man that confirmed Alberts suspicions, while he had been introduced as a Radio Technician he was almost certainly the same man whod been the lookout on the pylon, and the suspicious edgy feel he exuded was all too familiar to anyone whod been exposed to professional paranoids; the icing on the cake had been the little scene hed witnessed in the rear view mirror as he was driving away. The older guy said something to the security weenie and the little guy had broken cover for an instant, snapping to attention and all but saluting. It takes a pro to know a pro thought Albert to himself.

But the thing that really bothered the Major was the fence. Hed known there was a fence, even if it would have been a natural assumption anyway; the fence was marked on the smaller scaled of the two maps, as was every other fence line, water tank and windmill, they were very good maps. Its just that in the flesh it really was just like every other fence in the area; a typical wood post and wire farm fence, only the top strand was barbed! It literally wouldnt keep a child out, that level of security and deception with such a fence, he expected something like a 10 chain link to find a 5 wire cattle fence

If Albert still couldnt decide if O stood for Office or Organisation, now he wasnt too sure the rest of the acronym stood for Central Spectral Interception and Reconnaissance either. He really had to get back to the Embassy and find a brain to drain.

Early Evening, The Embassy

Major Clark prided himself on his map reading ability, he thought he was a good driver too; but between driving on the wrong side of the road, jetlag, heat, lack of sleep and Canberras quirky circular one way street system. Albert managed to get lost, miss footed or otherwise diverted so many times the journey from the outskirts to the embassy took him the better part of two hours. His frustration only increased when he found he had returned long after Business hours (rush hour traffic had been yet another distraction) and the only brain available for him to drain was a young staffer from the Cultural Affairs section. Clark had been hoping from some sort of intelligence type, a fellow professional. He got an east coast fake beach boy type and his first thought that there must be something about Cultural Affairs that defied contracting; Simon call me Simmo Shuster wouldnt have lasted five minutes in The Business.

"Man you look rough, hard day?"

"Yes. Hard and long I was told you could help me with some local knowledge."

"Sure brother, Im hooked in around the Big C what can I do yeh for mate." Simmo ginned thought his mutilation of the Australian vernacular, Albert was too tired to notice.

"I need some information on the Central Spectral Interception and Reconnaissance Office I mean Organization."

"The what? Central Spectra"

"The big Radio telescope out near Parker or Park something."

"Parks?" asked Simmo very carefully.

"Yeah, thats sounds right. Parks! replied Albert slowly."

"Albert right, mind if I call you Bert?" Albert had just about decapitated the last person to call him Bert but if it got him some answers, "Bert I gotta ask, how long you been in country man - a week?"

Albert looked at his watch and surprised himself by answering "Thirty four hours, eighteen minutes and ten minutes."

"And you aint been to bed yet am I right? Oh brother; and no one has filled you in yet? No orientation, no no sleep. Ok. Look man, sit down there, light up a stick, Ill get you some joe and give you a brief, how do you never mind. I'll be right back."

The coffee when it came was medium warm, with four sugars, cream and judging by the murky colour Simmo had added a couple of spoonfuls of instant granules to the cup. Being the first vaguely food like substance Clarks stomach had seen since the insipid cup of dishwater and a sweet cracker hes had before leaving the observatory, it slugged him like a hammer. Combined with the first hit of nicotine Albert didn't exactly feel alive, but some part of him was functioning.

"Ok Bert, what do you know about Australia? Big sorta island, other side of the world kinda lumpy at the top? You gotta think of this place as a little Russia where they speak English ok? It's like man this place has sorts the industrial potential of Michigan, maybe with North Dakota thrown in." Simmo bit his lip for a second. "Populations kinda the same too I think, not my field. Anyway throw together New York, Detroit and Chicago we'd swamp this place man, swamp it.

"Thats people and industry right? We start talking natural resources man, and its a different ball game, like two thirds of the lower forty eight; thats what we know about! They haven't finished mapping the place man, no one knows what the hells out there; the only things theyre short on are oil and electricity, an they're fix'n that. For everything else; iron, coal, uranium, copper, aluminium, gold, silver, zinc, lead, tin this is a one stop shop. So here's Australia, population density of Utah or some where, stable, democratic, US friendly, not a bad economy for what they got and the biggest bag of goodies this side of a Maceys parade. Lucky Aussies, am I right or am I right?" Simmo took a draft of his coffee, lit a cigarette and continued.

"Ok, well not really if you look at it from their point of view, if we walk the other mans shoes, we see a few thousand miles that-a-way he jerked a thumb in a roughly northerly direction. the second most powerful, most populous, most under resourced, aggressive.. oh Jesus Im talking about Chipan right? But they"re miles away, no threat at all, until you look at whats in those miles man More oil than Texas, more tin, rubber enough for Hugh Heffner, lumber, spices; man its the riches of the east man. And look who controls it, a hand full of tin pot little countries the Chimps could swallow whole with out a belch! Those miles man, they ain't a barrier; they're a golden highway leading straight to the mother load in Australia." Simmo paused for more coffee and another cancer stick. Albert wasnt so much listening, as dumping straight to tape recording for later analysis a flow of information his brain just couldn't keep up with.

"So heres poor little rich Aussie at the end of the rainbow, an they got only two friends in all the world, kay? India, who are twice as poor and already deep in Chipanese kak-kak on one hand, and the Thais who might have money but are even deeper in do-do on the other and man, these are the Thais; you count your toes twice after shaking hands with those guys. So the golden road has only got two traffic cops, ones old, fat and up to his ass; the others busy with his own problems and might be on the take! So the Aussies are a little paranoid man, an they been that way for bettern twenty years now. But see they aint serious paranoids like the Ruskis, they're more like us, you know leave somethn for twenty years and its not quite a joke but it kinda is at the same time dig? Look man, youre zonked. Am I just flappn my gums here?"

Albert found it had been so long since hed last blinked that his eyelids seemed glued open, he drained his coffee, lit another smoke and motioned Simon to continue.

"So ok, the Aussie Government is a little coy, they don't lie, and they don't hide nothin, but they dont volunteer much neither. You ask, and they'll tell yeah, but if you dont ask, man its the silence of the grave. Its not like Omerta man, people talk, if somethings a secret its like an in joke, everybody knows. But if something really is secret, I mean secret-secret you just never hear about it man, its like it dont exist. One of the guys from Lang..... oh you're SAC. One of the Company guys thinks the Aussies have no secrets, hell he actually says they don't even know themselves if they have any secret. But then sometimes things just happen. Shucks, look youve seen an Aussie map right? Albert nodded slowly. They make good maps; but like I say they're coy, youve got an agricultural research farm right, now we colour it yellow and plaster the Big Daddy Warbucks Memorial Pig Research Farm all over it. The Aussies will just say Commonwealth Property, its still a pig farm but they wont tell you right out what it is.

So they make jokes, somethings got an acronym, GARTE say, it might mean the Governments Art Education program, but they'll call it the Government Assassins Recruit Training Establishment see, making a joke of what isn't there, they call it Taking the Piss. Don't ask; even I don't even want to know." Albert just nodded. Simon continued.

"Now that one you used before, Central Spectral Intelligence"

"Interception" corrected Albert automatically.

"Yeah right Interception. Thats a great one man, I gotta remember that, its just so damn appropriate, it really fits."

Little bells had started ringing in Alberts head some time before, but the lag between ear, brain and mouth was such that the question just sort of trickled out CSIRO?

Night, The Dish

"Ah that smells wonderful, the tables laid. I've even washed the cutlery."

"Good evening Greg, how are you Greg, how is the family Greg you do realise this is my, I repeat MY dinner. Made with great love and affection by your magnificent lady wife. Yes I know; I also know Martha is a woman of keen perception and unerring judgment, who no doubt is all too well aware that you could never stuff half of that superb construction into the rakish figure you call a body. Thus it is obviously intended to be subdivided; and as I am the only possible person with whom both you and that crusty ambrosia might be expected to encounter, why it logically follows that I am to assist with the bi-section."

"Chris, has anyone called you a Wally today?" asked Greg mildly.

"Not off the top of my head, or if they did I"

"Pass me your plate, let the dog see the Rabbit and for Christs sake shut up!"

"You wish is my command, oh provider of provender."

"You are a chirpy one tonight, the visit went well I take it?" inquired Greg over his first forkful of Rabbit and Ham pie.

"Not as well as your rabbiting by the look of things, how many did you get?"

"Twelve, I used the silencer, not wanting to disturb your beauty sleep, and I noticed plenty of deadfall out there, we really should think about restocking the wood pile" answered Greg.

"Not wanting the bunnies to hear you coming you mean, but twelve. Isnt that a bit rich?"

"Well you werent complaining about that last forkful, they just kept on popping their little heads out so I didnt see any need to stop. It filled the freezer, and since when have rabbits ever been in short supply? Two years ago you couldnt throw a stick out the window with out hitting four of the bloody things."

Chris rubbed his chin for a moment. "That's an interesting question Greg, just from memory theres an eight year cycle, and of course every time we have a hard year, remember three or four years back, 69-70? I didn't see one for months. But it isnt like I care about the numbers; no its just these are special bunnies, calm, peaceful and contented animals who are remarkably succulent. I cant remember the last fox I saw around here, and if you go stressing the delicious little creatures and they toughen up; well dont expect to be remembered in my will."

"Dont worry about that mate; killing you will be all the satisfaction I require if you keep avoiding the bloody question, how was the bloke from NASA?"

"Laid up with piles I hope! Him and his 'Are you positive you didn't receive any transmissions?" You'd think NASA would be able to calculate a forward back scatter radio horizon, I mean theyre bound to have at least a desk globe, perhaps we should just do the calcs and pass them on with our Lat.Long; if we knew what scale their globe was then, the arc theyd need to circum......."

"It was the same old same old then?" asked Greg around a mouthful of pie.

"What was?"

"Strike me pink Chris! The bloody bloke from, from bloody NASA!"

"I wouldnt know old bean. Our visitor was one of their Air Force chappies, Strategic Air Command no less. Care for a cuppa?"

"Struth, its that time of the ruddy month for you isn't it" cried Greg "Full bloody moon! So what did this fella from SAC want with little old us then; lost a bomber they cant explain?"

"Not as far as I could tell, he wasn't the most communicative of chaps. As best I could tell hes on their ground control side; seemed to know his stuff alright though. Rowan and I gave him the Cooks Tour, and it was like he was just ticking of some mental check list: 1x1000ton 64m Radio Telescope check, 1xTalyor & Hobson 14 reflector bore sight check, 4xAWA DM/119 reel to reel data recorders check to be honest it felt more like an audit than a friendly show and tell, got so damn shy by the end I didnt take him through the spares vault just in case he noticed 2x Valves Radio #807 were missing and the rats had chewed the door seals!"

"So he was a nosey-parker was he?"

"Hmm, not so you'd notice but it was hard to tell what he was really like, Rowan and he did not exactly strike it off, more like struck sparks actually. I am bit worried about our Rowan I think it might be a good idea to ship him down to En Zed a spell, he needs his cultural horizons broadened a little."

"Rubbish, thats what the Army's for, broadening horizons; and Rowan did his time ARA plus trade school, he'll be right." Greg dismissed the issue with a wave.

"No seriously old boy, the old Join the Army, meet new people and Kill them routine has still left a few edges that could do with knocking off, I quite jumped down his throat today. New Zealand might be just what he needs."

"What was the problem" groaned Greg, "come on tell father."

"Well this SAC fellow happened to be black you see"

"Oh ****, you win. Kiwi land it is; he didn't make a dogs breakfast of it did he?"

"Well he didn't go quite as far as telling racist jokes no actually he didn't do too badly, silent hostility was more his line; socially awkward but not insurmountable. But all this hardly gets us closer to what SAC might want with us.."

"That it doesnt. Oi, where did you do you Nasho? I dont think its ever come up?"

"Guess." smiled Chris

"Alright, where would a Radio Astronomer do his time The Pioneers?" joked Greg "Now I was in the Sigs, but Nah I reckon the RAAF, you've got a touch of the blue orchids about ya and Im sure I've smelt Bryllcreme.

"Well that last slice of pie is mine then!" said Chris gleefully "All mine."

"So?"

"Leading Artificer Plumber at your service my ex-pongo friend. I did my Nasho time star gazing in the most perfect radio conditions possible, periscope depth in the middle of the Indian Ocean."

"Oh god a bloody sailor; and a dunny diver at that! I suppose it figures with a name like Plumber and it explains the beard, but I honestly thought you were my friend."

"Cheer up Greg, at least you not an insufferable Raffie like Clifford. So come on 'oh oracle of the Royal Australian Signals' lend us you winged staff and what was SAC after."

"Look out, you the one who spoke the bloke but if I had to take a punt, Id say they were looking for ground station over here. You said it yourself this morning, NASA is in a bit of strife and SACs already sub orbital, if they take over NASA and go super well they are going to need ground coverage, and where else offers both southern and western hemisphere?"

"But surely Woomera would be the place to put them, not with us"

"Did you come down in the last shower mate, to get the sort of support theyd be after its gunna take a dedicated ground station, which they are going to want to man, and that means a hundred or so Seppos running around. The Government isnt gunna stand for that down at Woomera, not in a Cockies age."

"Oh come on Greg, I seriously doubt there's anything down there the septics don't know about, I dare say they're on the distribution list for every memo."

"You still dont get it do you? I know you've been through the place a few times; with all those people all the way out there, Woomera is the bloody Gossip capitol of the of the world! All they have to talk about is work and whos sleeping with who, and Canberra is never going to let the yanks get hip deep in that."

"Whom, Greg with whom. But I still dont see why the USAF is going to give a tinkers about extra marital relations in central Australia."

"I take it you havent been reading Flight or Aircraft lately Greg gestured to the pile of magazines in the corner of the office I suppose youre still too busy with you Piscean Mythology or what ever it is, not surprising a subbie like you should get caught up in all that Atlantis codswallop."

"Atlantis is no more myth than Troy, Im the first to agree the classical numbers are unsupportable, but if we accept the typographical error in the original Minoan to Greek translation that mistakes 1,000 for 10,000 then........"

"My mistake" Greg held up his hand "mea bloody culpa. Do you remember about six months ago, HAL was trying to flog some Hornets to Brazil I think it was; competing against that Northrop F-113? That new light weight job of thiers, no? Alright, it was the usual story; the Hornet did everything the Brazilians wanted at a price they could afford. The F-113 or what ever it is; was more capable, but three times the price and ten times the running costs or something like that. The word was, HAL had it stitched up, until these rumours started floating around that the Hornet was dynamically unstable at full deflection in a Dutch Roll at aft CG limits, or something equally obtuse, I cant remember the details. Anyway the Spicks called the whole thing off and purchased a sample batch of F-113s for extended trials against their test batch of Hornets. The ones the Indians almost give away to prospective customers. Now it looks like the F-113 is the winner, but some reporter bloke from Flight has back tracked the rumour mill and found they all link to bloke in America whos Northrops ex-chief publicist. It was a put-up job."

"So? One aircraft manufacturer uses slightly shady methods to win a contact, I seem to recall HAL were caught making a few hard to explain payments the other year; your point being?"

"My point being, that you old mate, are not fit to be let out alone! Why does the US aircraft industry export fighters and why do they feel the need to fight dirty to do it? America is her own biggest market man; Northrop would do quite nicely if it never exported a blooming rivet, but exports provide a little more cream and they lower the unit price for the home market.

"If here is a big pot of money floating around somewhere they want it, the concept is called capitalism I believe Now me old china plate, aside from the Rocket Range, what are the two biggest things happening at Woomera? The TSR2 rebuilds and Archer; both are costing a bomb to develop and will cost even more to buy, its a very big pot of money. So someone plugged into the rumour mill out at Brown & Bonkers slips say McDonald-Douglas a nice bit of gossip about the Wigwam Mk.12 for the TSR2s goose bridal, to whit the program is running into problems and there will be a massive pile up in two years time costing a couple of million. Lick your finger and wipe two mill off the blackboard, something else slips out about the Mk.14 Gewgaw another few quid gone. And sooner or later you have a program that's actually doing quite well, but is seen as a dead parrot waiting to die. Don't Worry Little Australia Super Yank is here to save the day, with our new FGBCD-5612 at a mere fraction of the what you'd waste on that hangar queen you're building. Get the picture?"

"Frankly no, I dont. You cant invalidate a process with unsubstantiated innuendo. Its just......"

"Chris, mate. All rumor is true until proven otherwise."

"Well since we must cater to the lowest common denominator. If the Americans can provide the aircraft cheaper that we can do for ourselves, why shouldn't they?"

"Tomorrow, go over and start pulling some specifications out of those magazines. American aircraft are great! They're faster, they're this, they're that. You cant beat them. But every aircraft has its weaknesses; its a crock in this flight regime, or its radar cant do that, what ever. The good American stuff, the first line product not some gutted down export models. Look the Seppo's operate a wider variety of aircraft types than anyone else, and the different types complement each other. One weakness is matched by anothers strength; it works great guns for them. But for the rest of us dumb bunnies, we have to run fewer types. An since the Americans are their own best market, their aircraft are designed for their services. To get the best value for money, we have to buy the same model as the US runs or a lesser spec, because with volume production they're the cheapest. So we have to live with flaws the yanks are happy to deal with and probably never even notice, but were stuck with gaping holes see?" Greg shrugged his shoulders and appealed to sweet reason. "If SAC is after a ground station, then here is the perfect place not Woomera."

"But but if they come here." Chris pushed his glasses up his forehead and rubbed his eyes if they come here, "theyll take the B site! The B site," his voice expressed a mixture of disbelief and horror. "Thats ours! 10 metres higher, solid bedrock only 20 feet down for some **** communications array that needs a dome to hold half a second of arc." He was now totally aghast "The waste While were sitting here on putty they are going to have our foundations for Betty! Shed never have a chance on the crap down here only another three years and we'd have nothing."

"Now hold on Chris, Dizzy does bloody well and Ill not have you knocking her foundations. We keep as stable as the bloody rock of Gibraltar here."

"Now who came down in the last hail of pixy dust?" snapped Chris "Lord knows were do very well, but then we do a full astro-calibration once a week and at least two flying fixes a program. This is the most geometrically calibrated telescope in the world and I dont know about you, my friend, but I dont do it all out of love. Its mostly necessity. We both know that up on B site is a better foundation and that's all there is to it."

The Embassy

"The Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation, its the Aussies applied science think-tank ok? Putting egg heads and farmers together, you know. Hay Bert, you all right man?"

"Why Parks the Radio" Clark ws almost muttering his questions now.

"Oh that, hey look you're ok around here for phones and telex and all that jazz, but go outback as they say and the whole country runs on radio man. Radio brings in votes and votes get money, invent a radio swizzle stick and Aussies will most likely fund it. And they are good at it, gotta give the bastards credit for that. My old man, his brother was Foreign Service, bought me back my first new radio hay Bertie, what was your first tune-machine man? RCA, Motorola?" Albert didnt have the energy to explain how he'd built his own. "Well mine was AWA and man was it ugly. I hated the thing when Uncle Forest gave it to me, no chrome just that black crinkly metal not even on the aerial, just this greeny gold crap. MilSpec surface coating, cadmium plate." Albert was still tracking the words and filling in the blanks but half his mind was on the weave of the carpet. "No plastic either, that thing was so heavy it had a belt clip, shirts just wouldnt dig the weight. full steel case for ground and electronic screening and it only had two crappy old fashioned knobs, rotary potentiometer for power-gain and a pure coupled mechanical tuner no sliders or anything that grooved, it was so square! But man that thing could pick up stations from the Moon and it didnt eat batteries. I trashed it years ago, stopped working so I blasted it with poppas shotgun; but that what these people produce."

Albert looked up "1953 AWA Handi-Sound 20 or 40, there's a wire that vibrates lose, takes about 30 seconds to fix; worth between eighty and a C-note now in good condition. Based on a military air to ground broadcast system, the inner chassis on the 20 was gold plated."

"Mine was a 20." choked Simmo.

"Figures." replied Albert. "So youre telling me that Parks and the whole CSIRO thing is on the level? That name was just a dumb joke invented by some bloody yokel to pass the time." He didn't say "and Ive just wasted half an hour listening to a fruitcake calling me Bert to learn something you guessed in the first 5 seconds." but he came much closer punching Simon in the balls than he really felt comfortable with.

"Hay man, they get some big bird bath that can hear a rat break cheese on the moon, its only natural."

"Thank you Mr. Shuster, you have been most helpful; but if you dont mind I think I might find a rack."

"Sure buddy, you look hammered man. The desk downstairs has the keys to the crash pads; and you have a good night."

The dish

The other two Rabbit and Ham pies had cooled off on the back seat of Greg Robinsons Drover long before the night shift finally packed Doctor Plumber off to his bachelor digs in town, still muttering and cursing SAC and all its minions. It didnt really matter though, Martha Robinsons pies were almost better cold than hot. Well not quite, but to a dedicated connoisseur of her art, as all the men who worked at the Observatory were, a little congealing of the gravy was no major problem. Greg had carried the two dishes down to the Bunker and into the spare parts vault. Sliding aside the valve rack holding the sole remaining spare #807 he slid the pies into the miniature spare parts lift that doubled as a dumb waiter on these special occasions and hit the down button.

The Embassy

"No sir, Major Clark is that good sir. I don't know where SAC finds them but we could do worse that poach him for ourselves. No that is correct sir, he made them right from the start yes sir he was tipped off, but how much SAC actually knows? No sir, he had Central for Commonwealth and Interception for I but I dont think he was positive about O sir, so the leak was on our side sir Yes sir that depth of knowledge is a problem sir. But at least Interception pins it down to the West Coast sir No I dont think the whole organisation is blown sir We need to push for the North West Cape sir, its much better for everyone If they give us the resources sir I know sir, but until then its the Aussies who have this part of the world taped down and wired for sound sir. If we want to remain inside their ELINT loop over Asia we have to pay the piper sir yes sir, if that means we have to protect their airplane business, thats the price sir Thats not for me to say sir, the product is valuable no question, and we cant replace their input with a single ground station sir no matter how many overheads we have sir, its base line length, we cant fool geometry sir. Im no expert sir, thats just what all technical reports say sir No sir, Major Clark is not going to be a risk sir, he took the dose like a baby sir No sir, the Parks is just what it seems sir yes sir. As far as we know sir no connection sir, just some scientists looking at stars sir. Yes sir Ill make a note of that sir." Simon Shuster clutched the telephone between his shoulder and chin before plucking a pen for the immaculate deck set in his basement office.

[Craiglxviii]

So THAT is why he took dumps when his orbital path took him over Oz!

[JBG]

The Argus, the author of this story, has not rejoined.

Sadly.

A most fascinating individual. I met him twice.

Jonathan