The Explorers Club
No. CXXXVIII - The disputed first flight over the North Pole, by Richard Byrd (1888-1957) and Floyd Bennett (1890-1928) in the Fokker F.VII Josephine Ford, 9 May 1926.








Prelude to Project PANDORA
My pursuit of The Most Dangerous Game is teetering on the edge of descending into farce. I spent several hours composing, typing, and editing last night's "Prelude to Project PANDORA" post, and when I awoke this morning I was a bundle of nerves. All else is unnecessary prologue, the lecture we share arrived and I was prepared. A few timely observations, my preferred method of jocularity, had her and everyone else within earshot in stitches before the professor began, and several times during the lecture I caught her, as happens every class, stealing a few glances in my direction. All was in readiness. As lecture ended, I paused to speak to our professor while The Most Dangerous Game was finishing the afternoon's quiz, determined not to let this chance slip through my fingers. She finished and joined in the bull session, along with several other students. After some minutes, the professor took her, followed by the only other distaff student present, leaving me with The Most Dangerous Game and two fellows who stubbornly resisted my telepathic commands to "Scram!" At last we all drifted out of the lecture room, the two fellows finally going on their way, and The Most Dangerous Game ducking into the ladies' W.C. I ducked into the gents' W.C. for only a second and was out again lickety-split. I occupied myself with some fliers on a nearby wall and awaited The Most Dangerous Game's appearance.

But then the most baleful thing happened: nothing. After some minutes, a dreadful thought crossed my mind, I might have missed her while I was in the water closet. But how? For her to have exited before me and disappeared from sight down a hallway that's lengthy in both directions, she must have made the fastest pit stop in history. I had missed her… or she was still in there. Confound it, what could I do? It seemed somehow wrong to be waiting outside the W.C. when she didn't know I was waiting for her. I began to fear I was waiting in ambush. I had missed her or I was lurking in hallways, skulking about waiting for her; honestly, I preferred the first option. My presence just down the hall from the ladies' room seemed less and less acceptable, not that I could even be sure she was even still in there. By Lucifer's beard! I was trapped between the Devil and the deep blue sea. I could not defend my continued loitering in the hall, not and remain within the bounds of propriety. Woe is me, I sulked back to Lumi with an abundant lack of all deliberate speed, fostering the absurd hope that somehow she'd appear behind me and I could reasonably pull up and wait for her, though I knew with Gospel certainty that this was not to be. Another chance had slipped through my fingers like smoke.



What now? My least favorite part of the space program is what happened to the Space Shuttle Endeavour last month, the repeated scrubbing of planned launches and the helpless waiting for the next launch window. Such is my frustration that I am toying with the idea of asking her over the telephone, though I strongly feel that these things should be done face to face. I should have two opportunities next week, or rather one and a half. The first (the half) will be our final exam on Monday; I am habitually the slowest exam taker in almost all my classes, pausing frequently to ensure I've read the most challenging questions correctly and summoning up from the recesses of the mind several unconventional ideas with which to infuse my answers. (This deliberate pace no doubt contributes to my exemplary marks.) The odds that The Most Dangerous Game will still be around when I finish up are remote. Next Wednesday, 19 August, there is a meeting of a club to which we both belong, completely coincidentally; such a meeting was where I first spied her, being enchanted by her beauty and intrigued by her laugh before we ever had Labor Economics together. That will be my chance.

My thanks to all who commented for their well-wishes, and I apologize if the melodrama of this affair has caused you any consternation.

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Albert King, "Born Under a Bad Sign" via iTunes (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary:

"If it wasn't for bad luck,
You know I wouldn't have no luck at all."

CARLO
MONTE
CARLO