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Triumph in the Desert [MultiFormat]
eBook by Bud Webster
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eBook Category: Science Fiction
eBook Description: In which Mr. Pritchert's origins are revealed, and a journey is begun.
eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Analog Science Fiction and Fact, 2003
Fictionwise Release Date: March 2006
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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [285 KB], eReader (PDB) [46 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [34 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [31 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [88 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [103 KB], hiebook (KML) [136 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [60 KB], iSilo (PDB) [28 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [36 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [63 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [49 KB]
Words: 10427
Reading time: 29-41 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
 
"We learn right off that the Triumph in question is, in fact, a motorcycle of that brand. Hudge (great name!) is sixteen years old (although he seems more like thirty) and on his own. He's he's left home to escape the altercations with his father who wants him to grow up and run the textile company. Thing is, Hudge is a gifted mechanic and would rather be repairing looms than pushing paper. So, it's 1958 and Hudge is off to see the world. He finds himself at a space convention in the desert. UFO enthusiasts of all sorts have gathered to trade stories, experiences, and proof. Hudge wants to believe, but his materialist instincts find the proofs woefully transparent frauds, and the stories even more ludicrous. Time and time again, he shows himself to be either an extraordinarily precocious and sensible young man, or a man twice his age, in disguise. Webster writes with impressive confidence and clarity: the details of the space conference, the motorcycle, the desert, and the late fifties work together quite well to evoke the time, place, and the rather mournful tenor of a young man separated from his family. The heart of the story, however, lacks conflict. At the space conference, Hudge befriends an older man in need of some repairs to his motorcycle, and we quickly ascertain that there is mystery to this fellow. We get a few glimpses behind the scenes, but this mystery does not feel like the purpose of the story: the loving attention to detail is entirely on the character of Hudge, his situation, and his reaction to lack of scientific rigor at the conference. But even these, despite a few minor altercations, are mostly static observation, rather than narrative or thematic tension. Not every story needs conflict, of course, but towards the end of what would have been a charming little mood piece, infused with a love of the pulp tradition, insight into the culture of fandom, this piece flies apart in all directions, leaving everything wildly unresolved. And then the editors inform us that it is a prelude to a pair of stories published in 1994. Argh!"--Bluejack
"'Triumph in the Desert' is a rather touching novelette by Bud Webster, and the latest of his 'Bubba Pritchert' stories. Two earlier stories appeared in Analog back in July 1994 and June 1996, but this one is the earliest in the sequence chronologically. It's set in 1958, and focuses on Bubba (then known as "Hudge") as a fifteen year-old who has run away from an unhappy relationship with his father by doing a Jack Kerouac and getting 'on the road'. His destination is a 'Giant Space Rock Convention', a huge get-together of thousands of UFO nuts and other assorted crackpots and crazies (my idea of a nightmare) way out in the middle of the Mojave Desert. He befriends another motorcyclist, an elderly Dutchman, and they strike up a close relationship. Pieter, the Dutchman, is quite taken by Hudge's intelligence, level-headedness, skepticism and unwillingness to accept the bulk of 'evidence' in favour of the existence of UFOs without question (unlike the vast majority of other 'true believers'). Hudge doesn't believe in most of that crap, but has come to the convention searching for 'the truth'. Is there really any life out there? He really wants to believe, but needs real proof. But Pieter isn't quite what he seems. He's got a few friends who tend to drop in quietly for late-night visits, and who aren't quite... human. They're searching for new human candidates to make contact with, and they're very choosy. Pieter is one of their previous contacts, and is at the convention in the hope of finding others. And young Hudge seems to fit the bill perfectly. Hudge and Pieter say their goodbyes at the end of the convention, but Pieter and his friends have already decided to keep close tabs on the young future recruit, and also provide a spectacular 'display' to reinforce his faltering faith in ever finding evidence of life 'out there'.
"There's some nice character interaction in this story, particularly between Hudge and Pieter, and a really touching sequence between them when Hudge has just learned of the death of his little sister (I had a lump in my throat when reading this). I also thought the title was a neat touch, as Hudge's motorcycle is a Triumph. But the main thrust of this tale is 'belief', the desperate need for people to believe in something better than what we see around us, and true believers so desperate to believe in something else that they'll believe in anything, and with an incredible willful ignorance and total unwillingness to examine the 'evidence' with any sort of real scientific rigour or critical eye. The scene with the two imbeciles who swear they've both been to Venus, with each screaming at the other and denouncing them as liars and frauds is particularly pathetic. Of course you also get the usual flocks of fraudsters and con-men, the hoards of liars, cheats, charlatans and rip-off artists who always seem to appear at such gigs to take advantage of the gullible 'true believers' and deprive them of their money. The scene in which Hudge blows open the scam of the fraudster salesman with his 'UFO detectors' is a perfect illustration of the cynical greed of these vultures, and the unbelievably mindless stupidity of most of their victims. There's a sucker born every minute, and there's always someone waiting to take advantage of them. Overall this is an excellent story, examining an important aspect of human nature. It's a very 'human' piece for Analog, and just goes to show that even a magazine that publishes 'rivets' SF can give us stories with nice characterisation and human touches."--Phil Friel, Tangent Online
"THIS WAY TO THE 1958 GIANT ROCK SPACE CONVENTION," the sign shouted in badly stenciled letters (the "S" in "SPACE" was backwards) with an arrow pointing up. It was painted on Masonite and nailed to a stake stuck deep in the sand next to Route 247.
Hudge planted his feet on either side of the big motorcycle, its engine purring quietly despite the desert heat, and pushed his goggles up on his forehead.
"Yeah, well, which way's up?" he muttered to himself. It wouldn't matter, more than likely, since a space convention couldn't be but just so hard to find out here. "I guess I just look for the Giant Rock. Hey, you!" he called to a lizard sunning itself on a stone. "Any idea where this Giant Rock might be?" Startled, the lizard leapt away with a flick of its tail. "Stupid question, I guess," the boy continued. "Most of the rocks around here are giant, far as you're concerned."
A loud blatting in the sky above and behind him caught his attention; a small, high-wing aircraft dropped over a ridge, engine straining as it fought the rising air currents to the desert floor. Since this Space Convention was being held at an airstrip, Hudge adjusted his direction accordingly.
Moments later, he was staring over the ridge at the desert below. "Holy cow!" he said under his breath. It was, in fact, a very big rock, easily 70 feet high and covering several thousand square feet.
It's hard to judge distance in the desert, but it looked like he still had a few more miles to go before he reached the site. He could see cars, trucks, silvery trailers that looked like something out of a Flash Gordon serial, and dozens of aircraft of every sort: Pipers, like the one that had passed over-head; low-wing Aeroncas; bi-planes that could have been either Boeing Steermans or Waco UPF7s, and ... what the heck? Was that an autogyro?
Hudge shook his head wryly. What kind of idiot would fly one of those in the desert in June? It was bad enough taking a motorcycle through this heat, much less something that would shake like Jell-O if you sneezed. There were even a few other motorcycles down there, although he was too far away to see what they were. Settling his denim jacket on his shoulders, he steered the bike over the ridge.
Edgar Allan Poe Hudgins Pritchert--"Hudge" to his friends--was in the middle of the Mojave Desert a few weeks shy of his sixteenth birthday. He'd come a long way in three months, and not just in miles; three months ago, he'd still been in Virginia. Three months ago, he'd been a sophomore at Martinsville High. Three months ago, he'd still lived in his father's house, still had a family, still had a future. Now, all he had left was a beat-to-crap motorcycle and a worn Boy Scout backpack that bulged and creaked where it sat strapped to the back seat.
He stretched his legs on either side of the bike, digging the heels of his engineer boots into the sand to keep him steady as he rolled down the ridge. He steered for the parking lot on the far side of the air-strip, trying to divide his attention between his path and the spectacle below him.
There were thousands of people milling around or standing in small groups down here. He could see a platform set up against the Rock, loudspeakers on either side, and not far from the parking lot, folks were huddled around tables loaded with he-didn't-know-what-all.
As he got to the parking lot, the ground smoothed out, and he could move more confidently. Station wagons seemed to predominate, but he saw a few roadsters and coupes as well. There was even a Crosley that had to have belonged to the autogyro pilot's idiot brother. He shook his head. He didn't want to think about what ramming the desert roads was like in that thing. Crosley may have made pretty good refrigerators, and that squat, ugly little car may have been the closest thing America had to the German Volkswagen, but the fact was that Crosley didn't have Porsche working for them. Crosleys and autogyros, he thought to himself. Fringe element or not, he'd expected these folks to have more sense.
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