Masa Harina Man
Masa Harina Man
John Albert Robinson
One day, the gods reached down and lifted Miguel Angel Rodriguez from a happy obscurity.
The transformation was not without controversy, however.
Some time earlier, in the offices of Personnel and Recruitment, Western Hemisphere, Moon Project Authority, less divine heads were in conference:
"Why this guy? He's a nobody." The Co-auditor for Recruitment operations, or, as he put it, "The good-looking half of a two-headed monster" brushed non-existent lint off his expensively tailored suit.
The other Co-auditor offered a mild rebuke.
"That attitude would not seem to be consistent with this program."
He was dressed plainly in overalls and considered himself to be "The sympathetic and down-to-earth half of the two-headed monster".
Like Roman consuls, between the two of them they determined the destinies of anyone in the western hemisphere whose ambitions included working for the Moon Project.
Theoretically, they each had veto power over the other but many years of fruitful collaboration had made such contretemps rare.
"Excuse me. I misspoke. What I meant was...." 'Good-looking' began.
"What you perhaps meant was that he doesn't have an advanced degree and did not come through the usual channels. No?"
"More or less. But advanced degrees prove capacity and determination, qualities the Project certainly demands. As for the usual channels, heh, they have served us well so far." He nodded in the direction of a wall map showing the rapidly developing colony of Tranquility City. As they watched, the map updated itself: the final outfitting of the residential dome was completed and all floors were ready for habitation.
"True," 'Down-to-Earth' continued, "but what is the essence? What are we really after? I would say, smart people who can adapt themselves to the Moon environment and get those things done which we need to have done. You know as well as I do that many of our well-educated applicants have proven to be...disappointing. Propped up by the system, unable to innovate and adapt on their own. We need better markers than mere routine achievement."
"And you think you have found such markers in this man?"
"I believe I have. He does have a degree, in fact, in agronomy, which would seem to be relevant."
"Growing crops? Very much so. Go on."
"He only has a bachelor's degree but he was very well thought of among his professors, according to my spies. He could easily have gone on to graduate school."
"Why didn't he?"
"Masa Harina." 'Down-to-earth' pronounced it with careful precision, correctly obliterating the 'H'.
"Excuse me? Was that a sneeze or a hiccup?" 'Good-looking' gestured at the tissue-box.
"Neither. I repeat: Masa Harina. It is an ancient, and in many places, a very well-known substance. Simply put, it is corn flour."
"Then why don't you say 'corn flour'. It would save time."
"Time is not of the essence. Allow me to continue."
"You have the floor."
"Masa Harina is corn flour produced in a particular way. Tortillas are made out of it. Genuine, delicious, Mexican tortillas.'
"And tortillas are needed on the Moon?"
"Food is needed on the Moon and people who care about it. This man has spent a decade of his life tracking down countless ancient varieties of corn and the traditional methods for turning it into Masa Harina. He is really a species of self-made scholar. A modern Gregor Mendel of corn, if you will."
"Go on. There must be something else. I can feel it."
"You know me too well. If that was all, indeed, I might have put him down as an interesting and admirable person and moved on to a more compelling candidate. But here is the thing: we surreptitiously tested him for emotional stability...."
"You authorized a field test? Rather free with the budget aren't you?"
"I had a hunch. Anyway, it came back that this guy has a natural ability or instinct or what have you for, well, for putting out fires, in a sense."
"What do you mean?"
"We sent in agents to stir up mild conflict among his neighbors. Nothing dangerous. Just the sort of petty infighting that can be the bane of any small community."
"Seems risky. What did you find?"
"We had the cooperation of the local authorities. Well, what we found was that this guy is a natural psychologist! He has a way of cajoling people back into good humor when they have lost it. He'll talk to this person and talk to that person until everyone involved has calmed down and, well, found their center again."
"Sounds a bit new-agey to me."
"I assure you it is good, pragmatic science. We had observers of the highest quality right there on the ground."
"Which gets us back to expensive. But, I admit, he sounds like a good prospect. So, when does he leave for the Moon?"
"He is already there."
"I thought time was not...."
"Well, sometimes it is. Lunch?"
Miguel was disoriented.
Less than 24 hours earlier he had been happily ensconced in his home-made lab, doing the patient breeding and cross-breeding research that he loved, trying to retrace the steps that his ancient ancestors had taken in developing corn, not to mention the wonderful Masa Harina derived from it. He had had no worries, loved his work, was valued in the community, and certainly had had no intention of leaving.
And then some charming and soft-spoken man in country-clothing had whispered a few things into his ear and Miguel Angel Rodriguez found himself signing his name to a six month Letter of Intent. Quickly he was issued a "Fastest Available Means" voucher and, 12 hours after lift-off, he was struggling to walk in one-sixth the proper gravity!
He was embarrassed to recall the vainglorious images the gently insistent stranger had planted in his mind. He recalled the words once more:
"Just imagine, Miguel - may I call you Miguel? - thousands of years of patient breeding by your ancestors. The pinnacle of Meso-American agricultural genius, taking root and bearing fruit on the same Moon your ancestors worshiped as a god! And you could be the vehicle for this."
Miguel blushed again when he thought of it. That's what I get for having an ego, he thought.
He glanced again at the Letter of Intent. "Revocable at any time by either party."
Well, he thought, this may be a short trip. The Moon! What was I thinking?
To be continued.