Kort Explores conundrums of the human condition

Jason wasn't surprised when the bus lurched to a sudden unexpected stop and the driver announced through the crackling distortion of the intercom, "Break down! Everybody off!" He'd already figured out from the the sounds of tortured metal radiating from the engine compartment that the bus wouldn't be going much further any time soon. He gathered up his things and joined his grandfather and the other passengers filing resignedly out onto the cracked and litter strewn sidewalk.

The road wound through green rolling hills under a cloud dotted blue sky, and Dexter almost forgot his disappointment in the midst of such natural beauty. He hadn't really been expecting much - most of the rumors he followed led to unknown artists who were unknown for a reason. But every once in awhile he found a spark of unappreciated artistic genius, and that made all the disappointments worthwhile.

Just a little pressure and the last piece slipped into place. The pride and passion of the moment stood in the center of a small circle of cleared space on a table piled high with past puzzle challenges contemptuously cast aside once their secrets had been teased from their reluctant grasp.

The sun had gone down long ago, but Roger Stine was putting in another long night chasing down last minute details. The advertisements for his new product were going to hit the street tomorrow, and he wanted to make sure everything was ready. This time was going to be the one, he was sure of it. He'd been down this road many times before and every other time had turned out to be yet another failure, but this time was going to be different.

The well worn rag with which he absentmindedly wiped the counter left as many streaks of dust as it removed, but Bob's mind was distracted by other things. His eyes swept the cluttered fix-it shop and the quiet summer sun drenched street outside the storefront window for the source of the frustratingly undefined anxiety that had been growing in the back of his mind. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was wrong with his carefully crafted world. It was as if there were a blank spot where something was missing out of the Norman Rockwell life he'd constructed for himself.

Deep Space Probe 33 streaked through the cold dark void. He'd been away for a long time and was returning. He constantly recalculated his flight path, navigating towards a lone blue planet that circled a minor sun on the outer fringes of an insignificant galaxy. But to DSP33, that lone blue planet was very important. He retrieved from his memory banks the worn and partly scrambled record of his departing. After all the thousands of replayings, the record taxed his analytical capabilities to the maximum, but he could still find the hidden bits of digital information in the static.

George Grundig leaned on the shopping cart and waited while his wife Mabel picked out a suitable cut of meat for dinner. By shifting his position, he found he could see between the large lettered specials and into the butcher shop beyond. As he watched the butcher's knife slice effortlessly through the hanging side of beef, carving off great hunks of red meat, he marveled at the sharpness of the butcher's implements. He remembered back when the windows to the butcher shop were open to public view. But people were more squeamish now, he thought to himself.

"Naw, you can keep your jumbos, with their automated everything," Harris said as he turned to face his copilot, Janis. "I'd rather pilot one of these MC 27's any day. Look, you've got small enough size, you can go anywhere with it - no hassleing with lighters at the small spaceports. And yet, you can haul enough cargo to make a decent profit. If I was in business for myself, this is the kind of ship I'd want. Crew of two can maintain it, engines are simple, good sturdy construction, and just look at that instrument panel. What a display.

Jacob Lieber awoke to the jangle of the alarm clock. Reaching over with longtime familiarity, he gently tapped the button and the racket stopped. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he squinted at the clock and saw that it said 6:18. Twenty years, he thought to himself. Twenty years that clock has been waking me up in the morning. Once or twice it goes to the shop maybe, but still, they don't make clocks like that any more.

Rorck lay with his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. He knew that as soon as he opened his eyes, he would have to start the day. And of all days, this was one he wanted to put off as long as possible. For weeks he'd watched and waited for any sign that his activities had been discovered, but so far nothing.