Humano Morphs #4

  Air Morph One: Ready For Takeoff

  Chapter One

  I gazed longingly at my poster of Mount Rushmore, sighed, grabbed my book bag, and headed out the door, moaning all the way.

  My seventh grade class was going on a science field trip.

  I love Mount Rushmore. I hate science. Science, if you want my opinion, really stinks. Big time. Plus, it's like really, really boring.

  Mount Rushmore, in case you didn't know, is a mountain in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The heads of four U.S. presidents have been carved right into the cliff. Each head is sixty feet high, or about as tall as ten of my dads would be if each one were standing on the head of the dad below.

  In other words, they're huge.

  I know, because I've seen them in person. I bugged my parents so much they finally took me. Six times.

  And why not? South Dakota is the next state north of Nebraska, so it's not that far. It's not as if I was bugging them to take me to Disney World or some other place in Florida.

  Florida is about a zillion miles from Nebraska. It's so far that, if you drove, you could start the trip when you were a kid and not wind up getting there until you were a teenager. Or maybe even an adult.

  Your parents would be positively ancient.

  Besides, I don't want to go to Disney World. I know, I know — I'm a little unusual. "Quite odd, actually," is how my friend Freddy puts it.

  But then Freddy is a little unusual himself. He likes science, for one thing.

  Anyway, as I was saying, I love Mount Rush-more. The presidents carved into the mountainside are George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt.

  I hope that one day they'll make room for one more.

  Me.

  Because I'm going to be president sooner or later. Presidents don't need to know science.

  We've had generals as presidents, and lawyers and farmers and even a movie actor. You know how many biologists have been president? None. Zee-ro.

  I glanced once more at my poster of Mount

  Rushmore, with the great stone presidential heads lit with the rosy glow of sunset, sighed again and headed out to meet my fate — a dumb old science field trip.

  I didn't realize it then — I had no way of knowing — but this field trip would change my life, and come pretty darn close to ending it.

  Chapter Two

  There are some things you should know before you read any more of my story.

  First of all, it's true. Every word. Believe me, there is no way I could make something like this up. They say that truth is stranger than fiction, and now I know they're right.

  Second, I suppose I ought to introduce myself. My name is Melvin.

  I'm not going to tell you my last name, because then some people would read this book and make fun of me. They wouldn't believe that this all really happened, and they'd call me a nut.

  No one needs that. At least I don't.

  It's like when people see UFOs and then tell the authorities. Everybody calls them crazy.

  Just imagine that you had seen a flying saucer glowing in the night sky as plain as the moon, and you knew for a fact that you had seen it and that you weren't crazy. Then when you walked down the street, people rolled their eyes and pointed at their heads and made circling motions.

  Well, this story is a lot stranger than if I had just seen a plain old ordinary flying saucer. And I just don't need that kind of abuse.

  Atkinson, Nebraska, is a small town. It's not like a big city, like Detroit or Los Angeles, where you can lose yourself in a crowd. You could take the entire population of Atkinson and you wouldn't even fill a football stadium.

  Heck, you would barely even fill a barbershop.

  So if I said something that sounded crazy, even though it was really the truth, everyone in town would make fun of me. There would be no escaping it. I couldn't move to a new block or go to a new school and start fresh.

  Still, what happened to me is important. People need to know about it. That's why I'm writing this down but leaving out my last name. Atkinson, Nebraska, is a small town, but about twenty people here are named Melvin. It may be the most popular first name in town.

  Atkinson sits on the banks of the Elkhorn River. Actually, when it floods, Atkinson sits under the surface of the Elkhorn River, which is darned inconvenient. All of us have to leave our homes and sleep on the floor of the high school gymnasium.

  That has only happened once since I've been alive. But the old-timers who gather at Melvin's Barbershop on Main Street (I told you there are a lot of people here named Melvin) always talk about all the times Atkinson has flooded in the past. They like to point to stains on the sides of buildings and tell you that this is how high the water rose in 1927.

  That was the year the Mississippi River had a terrible flood that forced a million people out of their homes. You couldn't fit that many people in our high school gymnasium, I can tell you that.

  The way I understand it, the waters of the Mississippi River that year backed up into the Missouri River.

  Then the waters of the Missouri backed up into the Platte River, and the waters of the Platte backed up into the Elkhorn River, and the waters of the Elk-horn backed up into Melvin's Barbershop.

  A guy named Herbert Hoover handled the emergency for the federal government, and he did such a good job of it that he got elected president the very next year.

  I know a lot about the presidents.

  The year it flooded when I was alive, I remember a lot of dogs stuck on the roofs of houses, howling their heads off. They were scared and it was sad.

  I would have liked to have handled the flood

  emergency that year so I could have gotten elected president the next year, but I was too young to handle the emergency — and too young to be president, too.

  You have to be thirty-five to get elected president.

  I think that takes away from the democratic rights of voters. If everybody in the country wants to vote for a twelve-year-old kid for president, they ought to be able to. That's their choice. They're allowed to vote for total idiots, aren't they?

  To rule kids out is discrimination, in my opinion.

  This particular day, though, my views on the Constitution of the United States were not particularly relevant. I had a science field trip to take. While I know a lot about the presidents, I know darn little about science.

  The only thing I know about it is that, judging from the kids who are good at it, studying science must give you zits. Lots of them.

  Chapter Three

  The white cement walls of the Nacirema Dairy Production and Research Center loomed before us.

  Mrs. Ziggernaut, our seventh grade science teacher whom everyone called Mrs. Ziggersnot, had brought us to see a cow milking factory.

  Oh, joy.

  Everyone in Atkinson has seen a cow milked. Actually, everyone in Atkinson has probably milked a cow

  personally, now that I think about it.

  But Mrs. Ziggersnot said this brand new dairy factory was a state-of-the-art place, using the latest scientific methods, and it was worth seeing.

  "OK, now we've seen it," I muttered to my friend Freddy as we piled out of the school bus. "Can we leave now?"

  "Come on, Melvin," Freddy said. "This is going to be really neat — to anyone with an open mind, that is."

  I gave him a punch in the shoulder. Freddy was my best friend, even if he did like science.

  He and I had known each other since first grade. People say we usually choose friends who are similar to us. You know, birds of a feather flock together.

  Well, that wasn't true of Freddy and me. We were different in lots of ways. I was always trying — and failing — to convince him that the presidents were very interesting.

  He was always trying — and failing — to convince me that science is simply fascinating.

  I was kind of an extrovert. I talked and joked a lot. I liked to be the center of attention.

  Freddy was kind of an introvert. He didn't say much, and he didn't joke that much either, though he kidded around with me sometimes. He rarely took center stage, preferring to observe things quietly from the sidelines.

  I'm white. I have blond hair, with a cowlick that sticks up on the back of my head, and I get freckles in the summer.

  Freddy is an Omaha Indian. He has dark skin, piercing brown eyes, and black hair done into a long braid. He was also one of the rare exceptions to the science-gives-you-zits rule.

  But I suppose we had some similarities, even if they weren't apparent on the surface.

  We were both pretty bright. I did well in social studies and English, and coasted along in my other classes. Freddy did well in science and math, and coasted along in the rest.

  The main thing, I think, is that we were both honest. With Freddy, you always knew where you stood. I liked that. He always knew where I stood, too. Neither one of us played games, like being nice to people we were really angry with, or anything like that.

  And we were both pretty forgiving. We'd get mad at each other, but we'd get over it. When the argument was done, it was over for good. Neither one of us held grudges.

  "Yeah, right," I said to him as we stood by the bus. "This will be really neat. A scientific milking factory."

  He gave me a shove, and I pretended I was going to punch him again.

  "Boys! Boys!" Mrs. Ziggersn ot called out, which I thought was kind of a ridiculous thing to say. I felt like replying, "Yes, indeed we are, Mrs. Zigger-naut! How did you ever guess?"

  But I kept quiet, which was probably a good thing for me.

  Mrs. Ziggersnot kept trying to get us to line up two-by-two, like little soldiers on parade. We kept ignoring her. Finally she gave up and led us up to the double glass doors of the huge cement building.

  The doors were locked, bolted fast.

  Chapter Four

  The Nacirema Dairy Production and Research Center stood white and massive right on the banks of the Elkhorn River. Sun glinted off the surface of the water as it flowed behind the factory, winking and twinkling in the reflected blue of the sky.

  Wide fields spread on either side of the dairy center. I supposed that was where the cows grazed when they weren't inside getting scientifically milked.

  The whole area was surrounded by a huge wire fence. Our bus driver had been required to show a special pass when we entered the gate.

  I remembered when construction workers had swarmed into the area to build the factory. I went down to try to get a look a couple of times, but they wouldn't allow anyone near. I guess it was a safety regulation; maybe they were afraid of getting sued if someone got hurt and wasn't wearing a hard-hat.

  It surprised me that they were building the place so close to the river, I figured that was because

  they were all from out of town. They hadn't heard the stories the old-timers tell at Melvin's Barbershop, or seen them point to the old water marks from the floods of long ago.

  But, I thought, hey, if the place floods — or, I should say, when the place floods — they'll find out soon enough. There will be a lot of panicked cows, I thought, though I couldn't imagine cows managing to climb onto the roof the way all the dogs had.

  Some kids ahead of me were yanking on the doors. "Hey, Mrs. Ziggernaut, it's locked!" they shouted.

  No one called her Mrs. Ziggersnot to her face.

  "Can we leave now?" I muttered to Freddy.

  He just looked at me and rolled his eyes.

  It turned out that Mrs. Ziggersnot had known the doors would be locked. She walked to the front of the line, said "Boys! Boys! Stop pulling!" and pressed a button beside the doors.

  A tinny-sounding voice blared though a speaker. "Identify yourself, please," it said.

  "Um-hmmm-hmmh," Mrs. Ziggernaut said, clearing her throat importantly. She adjusted her spectacles and felt to see that her hair bun was neatly in place, as she always did on official occasions. "This is Mrs.

  Clara M. Ziggernaut with her seventh-grade science class from Elkhorn Middle School. We have, um-hmmm-hmmh, an appointment."

  The doors buzzed electronically, and I heard the click of the lock opening. Mrs. Ziggernaut pulled one of the doors open and we filed in.

  The first thing I noticed was how incredibly thick the walls of this place were. I looked as I passed through the doors, and I was astonished. They had to be three feet thick. Were they afraid the cows were going to stage a breakout?

  The next thing I noticed was how clean and white and sterile this place looked. I had expected something a little more barn-like, with a hint of cow dung on the floor and a hint of cow stink in the air.

  The only thing I smelled was disinfectant.

  We stood in the lobby, which was deserted. I saw no people, no desks, no reception area, no pictures on the wall.

  Soon, however, I heard a clicking coming down a hallway. A woman in a white blouse and a tight black skirt emerged. She wore quite a bit of make-up and her lipstick was very red. The clicking was from her high heels; her skirt was so tight she could only take little bitty baby steps.

  "Welcome," she said, and she smiled without looking happy. "We're delighted you came to tour the Nacirema Dairy Production and Research Center today. We trust your tour will be both informative and pleasant."

  She spoke every word in the same tone. Her voice didn't rise and fall the way normal people's voices do.

  Freddy looked at me, leaned close to my ear, and whispered, "Is this woman a robot or what?"

  "No," I whispered back. "Just a former flight attendant."

  Our guide announced that her name was Jane Smith, and that we were to follow her, and that on no account were we to get separated from her and go off exploring on our own.

  Then she whirled around and clicked off down the long white hallway. We tromped along behind.

  Soon we reached a closed set of double doors. On one side, I noticed a round hole in the wall that was filled with a reddish glow.

  "This is Checkpoint One," said Jane Smith. "Before proceeding further, all of you will have your fingerprints electronically scanned and digitally recorded."

  Chapter Five

  Freddy wrinkled his forehead. He always does that when he's thinking really hard.

  "This makes no sense," he said. "Absolutely no sense at all."

  "That's science for you," I replied cheerfully. "None of it makes any sense."

  One by one, each of us stepped up and put his hand in the hole in the wall. When it was my turn, my entire hand was bathed with the red glow. After about two seconds, a voice came out of the wall saying,

  "Please state name and address."

  I did that and two seconds later the voice announced, "Prints recorded." It was time for the next person to take his turn.

  Freddy was still wrinkling his forehead. His deep brown eyes looked troubled. He really likes to understand things, and it bothers him a lot when he can't figure things out.

  Finally he raised his hand. "Miss Smith?" he asked.

  She looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

  "I was just wondering ma'am," he said. "Why do you have such heavy security at a dairy plant?"

  Miss Smith stared at Freddy for about five seconds, as if she were trying to bore a hole in his forehead with her eyes.

  Finally she said, "Perhaps you have heard of mad cow disease. It ravaged dairy herds in Europe, particularly in the British Isles. Thousands of cows had to be destroyed to prevent the disease from spreading further."

  Freddy nodded. "I read about it," he said. "It can be spread from cows to humans, and it causes a deadly brain disease in people."

  "That is correct," Miss Smith said. "And not only can the disease be spread from cows to humans, it can also be spread from humans to cows. If any cows in this facility should happen to come down with mad cow disease, we will be able to track down the source. We will have a computerized record of the name, address and fingerprints of every person who has ever visited."

  She paused, and a smug little smile crossed her lips.

  "That is just one of the many scientific innovations at this fine facility," she said. "Now, if you'll just follow me..."

  Chapter Six

  When I think back on that fateful visit to the Nacirema Dairy Production and Research Center, three things stand out in my mind above all others.

  One is the absence of people. The second is the incredible sound in the milking center. And the third is what I saw out the window of the milking center, a sight I will never forget.

  It amazed me to realize that almost no human beings worked there. When we passed through the doors after being fingerprinted, I did see a couple of people in a glass booth full of control panels and lights and knobs and switches. It looked like an air traffic control tower.

  Miss Smith explained that the people in the glass booth controlled the doors, and the flow of milk from the cows to the pasteurization center and from there to the homogenization chamber.

  They controlled the temperature of the milk — normally quite cold, but hot when it was being pasteurized to kill bacteria — to within a tenth of a degree Fahrenheit. They controlled the amount of food each cow received each day to within a tenth of an ounce.

  I did see a couple of other people down a hallway wearing bulky white space suits. Miss Smith explained that it was important to keep the milk in a completely sterile environment after it was pasteurized. Any bacteria, she said, would lead to fermentation — in other words, the milk would go sour before it reached the stores.

  When we reached the doors leading into the milking center, Miss Smith spoke into an intercom, and one of the people in the glass booth pressed a button.

 

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