Dr. Rudolph Baralesk
Department of Physics
Dear Dr. Baralesk,
Subject: The Mad Hatsman
I was astute in my worries of a trans-oceanic trip. Though I am now safely grounded in foreign lands, I am discontented from an excessively adventurous flight. It was not my plan to dispatch another telegram so eagerly, but I believe my journey has already provided another suitable digest. It’s difficult for me to consider that my early days of such a lengthy epic have already provided such turmoil; it is both exuberating and dispiriting. Let me now do my best to sufficiently recount the proximal occurrences.
Our departure was rigidly on schedule. The great ship Magnamanon soared into the heavens of a dying sun, with no worries weighing on her magnificent hull. Most of the crew was in high spirits, as I provided suggestions of exotic delights at our port of departure. A few of the men were slightly wary though, as they held glances at variable armaments that were loaded aboard. I promptly made note of these traitorous thugs in preparation for a seaward evacuation.
The vessel ran magnificently, Rudolph. It is majesty in itself to take seating in this docked ship. Her gilded innards, draped with gorgeous velvets, would bring joy to a monarch’s heart. No gauge’s arrows slump lazily, no valve speaks softly, no gears gnaw heedlessly, no dial goes unblinking – the ship is alive with the era of machine. The steam-work piping pulses with the beat of a metal heart. It’s truly eerie in the most scientific of fashions. I spent the duration of early flight in awe of the great ship Magnamanon’s decency as a lady.
As I took my commanding throne, placed before the Great Silver Pipe Organ of Theory, I felt a strange sway in the environment’s gravity. I took my leave to seek out the piloting officers. Indeed, we had been grasped by a strange aerial pattern of a west northwestward draw. The bridge crew seemed satisfied that such an event was not bothersome and I did not protest, as I was heavy with absinthe by this time. I left the pilot’s quarters with decent care and made my way back to the commander’s vault.
My dainty legwork was ruined by the unexpected cacophony of klaxons. I hurriedly staggered to the control system vault, through the reddened corridors, to find that the ship had suffered a mysterious electrical malfunction. The technicians had no words of assurance as they aimlessly punched dials and threw their limbs about. The ship had seemingly discharged a great deal of energy, cracking the hyper-photon vacuum sphere, dislodging the crystalline energy rudders, and confounding the eletro-sextant. Obviously said Rudolph, we had lost the ability to steer our magnificent airship.
A dreary strain of curiosity drove me to wander off into the starboard observation deck. I found myself staring into a starless sky. I thought it strange that all the plentiful of monstrous, cosmic furnaces were taking a leave on such a non-obfuscated night. A terrific flash of lightning jerked me out of my moronic daze, as I realized the unlit sky was blackened by a tempest of horrific might. The ship’s indolent state was assuring this atmospheric monstrosity’s gain. In retrospect, I realize that would have been able to avoid the following if I had then considered unpacking my weather machine.
Without the passing of more than a minute, it seemed, the great ship was pulled into the gaping maw of that abhorrent vortex. No crewmember was prepared for such a dissatisfactory event, and quite a bedlam was presented. I took this opportunity to locate those men I had previously taken note and indicate a proper route of evacuation for their safety. I whimsically herded them into a private cargo hold I had designed for such a purpose – indeed; it’s visual presentations were that of a detachable escape vessel. The ship rocked furiously as the strength of heaven’s beast primed. This only aided my purpose, as the corrupt lackeys sped their collection into the hold. They must have thought me a hero. As these several, vacuous souls were finally corralled into the chamber; I sealed the bulkhead behind and initiated the protocol evacuation drill. Not a second passed before the bodies of the vultures were crushed and incinerated by a cleverly designed hyperbaric furnace pod. The whole thing looked rather silly.
Now, dear Rudolph, this is where things become a trifle queer. I extended the hold’s bay doors to purge the great ship Magnamanon of such putrid ashes. I took the time to watch the scattered, charred remains waltz about as they descended into the unseen pitch. I was simply dazzled at the amount of matter that was residual from these servers of the Great Deceiver. Unfortunately, there must have been a hasty construction of this bulkhead that I was situated behind – apparently the pressurized incineration had loosened its bearings. The hatch was torn off and sucked into the darkness below. The pull threw me off of my footing and I lashed about, attempting to stabilize my descent. I was rather lucky, as a hydraulic piston had positioned itself to protect me from a perilous departure. As this point, however, I was driven to look into the lightlessness below. A halcyon funnel opened to the uneasily near seas below.
Dear Rudolph, what I felt as I beheld a mystery beyond man’s understanding cannot be explained with words. However, I have derived an appropriate equation to convey my deep sentiments on the subject:
Qn = (1/4πε0)(QaQG/Zk)( p0U1/3) / 1.661*10-27kg
- Where Qa is the threshold at which Quizbium concedes to stress levels of 9.332j1/4 or greater, and QG is Quizbium’s constant (refer to local text if this mathematical brilliance is not at mind’s grasp, though I am sure you have it terrifically memorized.)
I am sure that you are able to now fathom the emotions that welled within me. What I saw, Rudolph, is no easy thing for me to recount. I will do my best, however, to record such a thing for the purpose of science. Though I was laden with heavy matters of thought, fear of peril, and tad delirious from Arsenic injections, I know that my concentrations were lucid enough to do my memory justice.
I bore a banded, telescopic monocle atop my forehead. As I tumbled about, the vision piece had forced itself over my oculus – an unfortunate coincidence, as I would have rather not beheld that which I did. In that hazy maelstrom, I was able to decipher a small craft: a vessel no larger than an elemental boron reaction tube shell casing. It hardly moved in the stirring waters, so strange was the stoic stance of this raft. To my horror, I was able to visualize a man on board. Bear with me, Rudolph, as this is providing to be more difficult than I had considered. The man, he was wearing very strange clothing, for what I could tell. Something of a light-clothed tunic, with short sleeves, on his torso. Shabby looking trousers – only half-complete with shins exposed, nothing like standard pantaloons. The most apparently strange unit of apparel that this figure donned was a bizarre headpiece. This headpiece looked so awfully contorted; something that would certainly have made Euclid weep. It appeared as an inverted bucket, with wide brims, equally extending in a radial fashion from the ascending central cylinder. I can only come to term with referring to it as a bucket-hat.
As I stared down at the man, standing peacefully in the midst of such an abomination of weather, he stared back up at me. Rudolph, I do not understand any of this, but I have seen it all. It seemed as if eons passed while we stared at one another, rectifying our differences in light of the Great and Wise. The man then made a gesture that I cannot ever hope to see again. He extended his arm, upwards into the heavens, to produce a vector aimed at myself, and my great ship Magnamanon. I apologize for this visualization Rudolph, but it’s entirely necessary that an account of this be made. His hand stayed in fist-fashion, wrist extending to the heavens. Suddenly, and without a proper emanation, the man extended his middle digit: entirely, rigid and forthright. At this point I almost leaped from the safety of the piston to a desired death, as this man had bestowed such a bizarre salute to me that I could not fathom from what unearthly knowledge he had conjured such wicked contortions. I do not understand what this man could have been trying to tell me with his unknown signal.
It was ironic what followed. Perhaps it was some greater force that was offended by this man’s unforgiving transfer of archaic symbolism, as the man was suddenly swept under a vast monolith of water. I stayed there for a while to see if the man would reappear from the frothy swirls. Alas, Rudolph, no sign of this man or his tiny craft was seen again. The man’s peril, suitably enough, put my thoughts at ease as I was able to make my way back into the ship’s corridor.
The great tempest seemed to leave with sufficient haste after my profound experience with the Mad Hatsman. The storm’s passing allowed for a quick repair of the great ship’s systems. The rest of the journey, over that vast and deadly ocean, was rather boring. I am unresolved with my convictions on this situation. It will take me sometime to sort out my theorized conclusions. I believe I will be taking a decent rest in this port town before I continue my push for understanding.
P.S. I have indeed misappropriated the Silver Pipe Organ of Theory. Tell Chuckles that I strapped it to my steamed autotransit and rode it off of a bridge construct. Though he’s the keeper of Theory, he’s extremely gullible when it comes to stories of fatality.
Prof. O. Quizbium