Page 20 of Carmine

“What were your expectations of volcanology?” I asked, bewildered.

“Chasing active volcanoes, not unproved theories,” he replied.

“Yeah, you won’t go far in your career. You’ll be a scut boy for life,” I said. Mr Doom and Gloom looked completely insulted.

“Beg your pardon?” he sneered. “You don’t own a college degree, let alone a doctorate.”

“Dude, I play ball and earn more in one month than you do in ten years. I’ve also opened a school for talented, underprivileged kids. Kids who are so fucking clever but overlooked because their parents don’t have money. Don’t judge my lifestyle without seeing what I do. You can sneer because you attended college and university, but you’re a scut boy running round, taking temperatures and nothing else.

“You’ll never amount to anything more because your mind is shut to possibilities. Everyone said conquering space was a fool’s dream until we did. Walking on the moon was a pipe dream until Armstrong. Man could not fly until we did. Closed-minded individuals like yourself hinder progress by failing to actualise ideas or concepts. You’ll never be more than what you are right now.”

“Laccoliths don’t erupt!” Mr Doom and Gloom sneered.

“Yeah, and man couldn’t beat the Mariana Trench, and yet a submersible recently did. Shut up, Scut Boy.” I smirked in return. Mr Doom and Gloom had a new name.

The slight bubbling of the pond drew my attention. Shit, I’d seen that before. I sniffed the air and almost gagged.

“There’s activity,” I said, gazing at the water.

“How the fuck would you know, you dumb jock?”

Ignoring him, I grabbed the radio. “Base, this is team five. We have movement here.”

Before I could depress the button, Scut Boy screamed at me. “You’re a fucking jock. How do you know what to look for? Your brain’s in your pants!”

Finger still on the send button, I immediately retorted, “Because asshole, that pond is starting to produce bubbles, there’s no reason for it to. And if you sniff the air, it’s vile. A sign of hydrochloric acid, the scent I remember from school and oh shit—” I tackled Scut Boy and rolled him away.

Scut Boy shoved me off him as we both sat up and stared at the pond. The water began to bubble more as the radio squawked frantically.

“I’m here, Doc. It’s bubbling like crazy, and the smell is thickening. And there’s a yellowish colour. Crap!” I yelled as a geyser of water shot in the air.

Scut Boy screamed and scrambled to his feet and ran.

Bemused, I glowered after him and moved some distance away.

“The camera is recording, and it has caught two geysers. I’m putting on the breathing gear,” I reported as the smell grew stronger. The hell I was risking my lungs.

One of the doctors replied that they were close and heading towards me. Cautiously, I sat and recorded everything from a safe distance. Scut Boy was long gone. I think his career was now dead. After fifteen minutes, Dr Dune appeared, wearing her own breathing apparatus.

“Please keep yours on while I check the air content,” she ordered and unpacked a case.

“Not a problem.”

“Where did Dr Dickens go?”

“Scut Boy? Idiot saw the first geyser and ran screaming that way,” I answered, pointing. “The camera caught everything.”

Amusement flashed in Dr Dune’s eyes. “Scut Boy? A little rude, don’t you think?”

“Come on, Doc, he wasn’t going to have a stellar career.”

“I can’t disagree. Although in the video’s playback, Dr Dicken’s dereliction of duty will be noted and recorded.” Dr Dune grinned. “What a shame for one of Dr Flight’s most diligent pupils. We’ll fly him home later.”

I picked up on what Dr Dune wasn’t saying. Dr Flight had assigned some of his toadies to disprove what Molly had theorised about. Instead, a toady had been sent running because he wasn’t ready to deal with the truth.

“Dr Flight believes in the textbook and has a closed mind to anything outside his experience. Which isn’t substantial, I’m afraid to say. Dr Balfour-Cherlyn had more field experience in her seven years than he did in thirty,” Dr Dune added.

“Were you there the day they laughed her out?” I asked.

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