I would miss her.
But I couldn’t be angry at her.
I bent over and brushed my lips against her cheek. I didn’t feel anything, but her eyes fluttered a little and she sighed and then went back to sleep.
“Be happy,” I said to my beautiful wife. “You deserve it.”
Then I turned away.
“Get me out of here.” I stepped toward the door. “I got some new ships to fly.”
A moment later I was back in space.
Back where I belonged.
THE STINK OF REALITY by Irene Radford
Dr. Wallace Beebee, PhD, associate professor of biophysics at Vasco da Gama U, swept the paraphernalia atop his wife Evelyn’s dresser into a shoebox. Deodorant, perfume, hairspray, cosmetics, anything with a fragrance. When the box was full he moved into the adjacent bathroom and collected shampoos, soaps, his own shaving cream and aftershave, the candle on the toilet tank. When a second box was full he slapped the lid on it, secured it with a rubber band, and took them both to the laundry room at the opposite end of their ranch-style rental home on the campus fringes.
“The Explorers of VDGU? A bunch of bullshit. Haven’t had an original idea in fifty years,” Wallace grumbled. He’d been on faculty three years, always being promised tenure the next semester, then the next, and the next, always denied because his ideas were just a little too revolutionary. Grants controlled by the university went to projects that kept corporate America happy and conservative, not to strange new inventions worthy of science fiction novels.
Every research grant Wallace applied for ended up in the hands of a more senior faculty member.
How could he and Evelyn ever hope to afford children living on the pittance the university paid untenured-and therefore disposable-professors?
Into another box, he loaded all of the cleaning supplies beneath the bathroom sink. “I’ll show them something that will keep corporate America happy!”
Max, the family corgi, followed his every step, sniffing each item with extreme interest. But then the dog lived through his nose.
That’s what had given Wallace the idea. The dog’s nose ruled his impulses. If it didn’t have a smell, the dog wasn’t interested.
Wallace now knew how to give the world every smell they ever dreamed of. That meant it had to come out of the television. TV ruled America ’s desires. Corporate America ruled Americans through their TV advertising, creating “needful” things where no need existed.
Wallace needed tenure. Only creating the next needful thing would get him that.
People forgot that memory was more closely tied to scent than any other of the five senses. Long before he was through with corporate America, they’d know his name and remember it.
Finally, he ejected the dog from the bedroom too. He closed the door firmly against intrusion. Then he showered with an unscented soap and donned a fresh jogging suit that had air-dried on a line in the back-yard. He couldn’t allow any stray odors to confuse his experiment.
Later, when he knew it worked, he’d verify everything in a sterilized lab. Until then, the invention was his and his alone, carefully pieced together from a discarded and outdated mass spectrometer and a sniffer he’d purchased with his own money from the state crime lab, again outdated. He had to come up with a better name for that device.
His next generation of Beebevision would be smaller and more sensitive. When he had grant money and grad students to collect data.
Finally, all was ready. Cautiously, he made the last connection between his invention, a black cube about ten inches on each side, and the television that dominated one corner of the bedroom. The wires slid into place easily. He tightened the screws.
Holding his breath, he fed the special DVD into the player, turned everything on, and sat in his favorite recliner-carefully vacuumed earlier.
A deep organ note played and a lily of the valley logo blossomed on the screen. He’d borrowed the lily from a design on Evelyn’s favorite perfume, changing it just enough to keep from violating copyright. He’d also added radiating lines indicating the flower’s fragrance.
“Welcome to Fully Sensory Theatery. A Wallace Beebee Production,” intoned a husky alto voice, Evelyn, of course.
Her PhD was in medieval history. Physics didn’t interest her. Nothing interested her except her own discipline. He’d make history come alive for her as it never had before: through her nose.
The scene on the TV shifted to a meadow filled with spring wildflowers. A delicate floral scent wafted to Wallace from the mesh face of the black cube.
He smiled. “It’s working,” he whispered.
Then the scene changed again; a hot desert wind that smelled of dust, sage, and mint accompanied the pictures of Smith Rock in central Oregon. Next, another scene, a beautiful woman (Evelyn) dancing lightly in the moonlight. Her phenomenal perfume made his heart beat faster and his hormones soar.
Then the dog scratched at the door, whined plaintively, and farted.
“OK, OK, I’ll walk you now before you crap on the floor.”
Wallace went about his evening chores and put the bedroom back to rights, whistling a happy tune and smiling hugely.
“My, aren’t you in a good mood!” Evelyn exclaimed when he kissed her soundly upon going to bed that night.
His smile continued well into the next morning. As Wallace walked to his first class he sniffed the scent of freshly mown grass and bright spring flowers with new appreciation. He detected hints of gasoline from the mower and oil in the fertilizer spread among the flowers. That nearly destroyed his happy mood. He might have to find a way to filter his gadget. He wasn’t sure how. Yet.
Two weeks later, Wallace attached his little black cube, reduced to four inches on each side, to a different television. This one sat in the university conference room habituated by the tenure committee. Or “God” as most untenured professors referred to it. Life or death in the academic community rested in the TC’s hands.
Wallace made his careful presentation, then switched off the DVD at the end of the third scene, careful not to let the fourth begin. He wanted to hold that one in reserve for emergencies.
“As you can see, and smell, ladies and gentlemen, this new invention has tremendous commercial as well as academic potential.” He then read Evelyn’s notes about how she would use it to bring history alive.
“Frivolous,” Dr. Pretentious declared.
“Impractical,” chimed in Dr. Beta.
“Demeaning,” finished Dr. Shallow.
“Is biophysics even a recognized discipline at other universities?” Dr. Pretentious asked rhetorically.
And that was the crux of the matter for the TC. Never making a decision until they knew it would be applauded by other universities, never hiring anyone who didn’t have at least two other offers, denying tenure to any but the most staid and conservative candidates.
“Tenure denied.” If Dr. Pretentious had a gavel, the old fart would have pounded it. Instead he gathered up his thick file on Wallace Beebee and retreated.
Wallace hit the play button on the remote. Pictures of Max, fresh from the bath and still stinking of wet dog fur, filled the television screen. He wiggled and yipped and farted, then dropped a big dump right in front of the camera programmed to pickup every hydrocarbon in the air.
“Well, I never!” Dr. Shallow declared. She held a lace-edged hanky to her nose and literally ran out of the room.
“Hmm, Max got into the garbage again. He smells a little like coffee grounds and egg shells.”
Wallace stayed on at VDGU for another year. His applications to other universities were rejected or stalled in committee. He didn’t have enough publication credits. He didn’t have enough experience in academia. His work was too controversial.