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TO CURE A COLD
By Marilyn Collier
Living under an assumed identity as a childcare attendant on this backwater planet in a primitive town called Palm Desert was rapidly losing any
appeal it might have possessed for Darla. Director Becker had assured her the Tracers would have no way of finding her as this was a designated safe planet deliberately left off the star charts.
Darla’s assigned rotation duties while a fledgling at the Embryo-Youth Center on Nordic Ten had never prepared her for acting as a medical with a
sickly male Earth child.
A thoroughly miserable Wesley Manning was hacking and turning a startling shade of red. This couldn’t be normal even for these primitive beings. She whacked him on the back, watched some sort of yellow phlegm emerge from the dry mouth, and decided it was time to use what served as a communication device on this planet. To compound matters, a foul odor now emanated from the diaper while a viscous slime crept slowly downward from his nose.
A minion answered the telephone and connected her with Mrs. Manning who listened with less than great concern to the symptoms. “Oh, just use
the vaporizer.”
“Isn’t that a little extreme?”
“Oh, no, it’s what the doctor ordered to cure cold symptoms.
You’ll find it in the laundry room closet. I know this is a burden, but the upcoming meeting is most important. There’ll be a little extra for you at the end of the month. Excuse me a moment. What, Ms. Drive? Oh, I see.”
“I’m sorry for the interruption, Darla, but I simply must go. Mr. Farnham insists everyone be on time for the meeting.
I’ll probably be a bit late this evening. These things do seem to go on forever.”
Darla replaced the now soundless device.
So, a vaporizer right in the laundry room closet. Strange, she’d never noticed it. She hadn’t realized their primitive technology could produce one. Still, they had space travel of a sort, and there were rumors of secret flight vehicles and weaponry waiting to be tested during the next little war.
A search of the closet yielded zilch. Darla moved the out-of-season coats and examined colorful boards with rounded ends, other boards with
rollers, and various throwing devises and rejected them.
The helmets were useless. They would melt under any attack, and the box that said vaporizer held a most primeval unit suitable only for the youngest of students to use during laboratory experiments dispatching the lowliest of life forms.
It had been easy to find a child care position on this world. The temporary employment agency had frowned a bit at the documents she
presented, but had assured her that her third world appearance would be no determent to a position. Darla didn’t mention it was more like a ninth world away. Her willingness to take a
position of great responsibility for very low pay was all that was necessary to secure a safe hiding place.
She rummaged in her carryall for her own vaporizer. The Model AMA, short for antimatter accelerator, was perfection. The energy level
was acute; yet, dissipated rapidly, leaving no pattern for Tracers if they were still bothering to scan for her. Tracers really didn’t care that she had assassinated the Vector of Vadok. They
merely wanted an orderly power transfer without a civil war.
She had used the Model AMA here when a band of young skinheads (this world’s word) had accosted her for her appearance.
No one had missed the miserable creatures.
She aimed at the whining, whimpering Wesley and was rewarded by a small vapor ascending and an empty spot on the bed. Even the foul smell
vanished. Mrs. Manning would be pleased with a job well done.
Marilyn Collier is Coordinator of the Desert Writers Guild of Twentynine Palms and serves on the Twentynine Palms Historical Society Board as
Docent Co-Chair, Accessions Committee Curator, and column writer for the Old Schoolhouse Journal.
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