About This and This's That - Chapter 3

Space-travel, for the amateurs, is an interesting affair. For the more seasoned
travelers, however, they recognize the true essence of the word 'travel' as being simply
getting from Point A to Point B. If you think two hours in a very mediocre traffic-jam is
dreary, how could you imagine the sheer terror of living in a glorified sardine-can for weeks
or possibly YEARS! For the station-dwellers on earth-orbit, the whole deal is just a 'glabluggar'.

Regardless of all the time wasted during transit (no matter how relative time gets by the end),
getting to Point B provides a sense of satisfaction. For the dwellers mentioned above, they are
pretty much caught in the pointless, endless, circling around earth. And, when you think of
how boring life can get on earth, one wonders how getting a lil bit removed from earth (in orbit) can be anymore exciting (especially when the nice sceneries you know are all reduced to indistinguished smears. Some say the fun comes in the form of microgravity (which makes
absolute hell of the everyday habit of 'going to the washroom'), which is understandable. Some
say it's the food, which is not understandable at all. All in all, 50% of the excitement in a neatly executed trip is packaged in the anticipation for that trip. That certainly applies to space-travel, when you are numbering off the ways your rocket can... dare I say, blow up right in your face.
 

For now, a mediocre man called Cargo Hold was strapped on a chair, which was in turn strapped (or rather, bolted) to the floor of a rocket. Yes, his name was Cargo Hold, a middle aged confused soul who had the intellect and money (heirloom) to get him a place in this rocket.

He had a mike near his mouth that was ill positioned in such a way as to find its way on his tongue if he wasn't careful enough to urge it down to his chin. He tried to blew into the mike, succeeded, and heard wind static over his headphones. Intriguing. Highly intriguing- at least compared to sitting five hours in this uncomfortable couch, doing virtually nothing. Well, maybe not nothing, at least not for the entire five hours. The first hour had been pretty unnerving as he contemplated the ways which his rocket might blow up, and the chances of each scenario's happening.

The chances were quite high. Because this was a very rickety rocket, and rickety rockets don't fly good, no matter how much alliteration fun the two words made.

Mission control -also known to him as the "Traveling Agent"- had guaranteed a delay-free trip, but as soon as he saw the sea-side cumulonimbus coming over the launchpad's sky through his capsule's port (no, him seeing through port, not cloud floating through port- though they can use the air-cond ducts), he knew a delay was inevitable. And soon enough, it did rain.

The reason Cargo Hold (wouldn't it be so much easier just to call him Bob?) was in this space-capsule, waiting patiently for the rain to pass and the mission-control staff to come back from lunch for his launch is because he was bored- bored of everyday life, to be precise. So he thought a little ride out to Mars, which would transit at the International Space Station for transfer into a bigger ship, would cheer him up, or at least give him more options, or make him feel satisfied that all else were as bored as him.

For his six other crewmate to Mars, Cargo Hold's presence was a pain. But they had to tolerate him because the agency tolerate him, because without his ample amount of "donation" to the cause, such a flight would have been mere fancies.