Going Flat Our

Doug Donnan

Executive Editor/GTNW

goodtimesnewsweekly

donnan.doug@yahoo.com

"Going Flat Out on Mars"

('NASA by the Numbers')

by

Doug Donnan

"What the hell do you mean it has a flat tire?" the NASA mission control supervisor shouted as he yanked off his wireless

headset.

"I'm afraid so sir," the young geeky video technician replied sheepishly. "It must have rolled over one of the sharper Mars

rocks as it was roving around looking for specimens and samples and stuff."

"Now listen son," the supervisor sighed. "We work for NASA. We've got back up systems for our back up systems on

'everything' that we design and build... comprende vu?"

"Yes... sir," he tried as he fingered around inside the collar of his top-buttoned, white starched shirt. The pens, mechanical

pencils and other superfluous sundries he had in his official NASA pocket protector stuck out like a multi-colored row of little

silly short sleeve shirt short range missiles.

"Okay then," from the rotund, now hands on Michelin-like love-handle hips supervisor. He looked down and inside at the

gerbil-like brown eyes of the be-spsectacled tiny tim technician. "I worked on the mobile mechanics and transport sub systems

of this multi-million dollar Mars robotic rover myself son," he paused briefly to let that sink in. "Do you follow me?"

"Well sir, certainly I do, but at this stage... I'm not to terribly sure that there's anything we can do. But if you can help us out or

make a suggestion maybe we--"

"I know that we put a replacement tire... a 'spare', on the very top of that rover's rear samples storage compartment!" he rudely

cut in."

"A spare tire? But who... I mean the rover is autonomous... there's nobody to... I mean--"

"You just fix it mister," the portly supervisor cut tiny tim off in his mid disbelief. "I haven't got the time for this silly little shit.

I've got an important, high level meeting with some of the NASA top brains and big wigs upstairs."

"But--"

"Get it done. That's an order."

The supervisor rotated round like a small, blue, portly polyester moon and walked off shaking his pink artillery shell shaped head.

"Why do I always' have to think of everything around here?" he bellowed as he walked off in disgust.

___ The End ___