Now Murphy was a spacer; a miner, nothing more.
A bit of human jetsam lost in night's Plutonian shore.
Until he found that asteroid, and entered into lore;
Him and 40 kilotons of high grade ore.
He'd manned his tiny ship alone, a year or maybe more.
A flea among the asteroids; homeless, starving, poor.
Each rock with only traces of what he searched 'em for.
Hunting for his holy grail of high grade ore.
The radar caught his vector, heading for L4.
With delta-V a little high, but fusion drive full bore.
"Cap'n Murphy callin' in this day of August 4.
'A claimin' 40 kilotons of high grade ore."
The base assayer radioed, "You've heard the rules before.
Your claim's no good until you land that worthless hunk of ore.
And then I'll have to analyze its purity before
You own that 40 kilotons of high grade ore."
"Jesus, what you burning there?", the port controller swore.
"There's colors there in your exhaust I've never seen before".
"Just gum'ment forms", said Murphy, "and rulebooks by the score".
"To help me trim this delta-V, that's all I kept 'em for".
"Murphy, there's a lawyer here, from Cheatham, Ripp, and Gore.
He says your bills are way behind, a year or maybe more."
"Jes' stand him on me landin' pad, I'll pay him off for sure.
And drop him 40 kilotons of high grade ore."
The radar station checked the course, then checked it even more.
It seemed that Murphy'd land a thousand yards below the floor.
The operator called it in, then headed out the door.
"I'll take my last vacation day, that's what I saved it for!".
"Veer off, ya goddam lunatic!", the base commander swore.
"That rock'll smash a hole in us a mile wide or more!"
"Now don't you worry", Murphy said, "I've done this thing before.
It's only 40 kilotons of high grade ore."
And then the fusion drive waxed bright, full thrust or maybe more.
The tiny ship, it floated down; the rock, it towered o'er
Straining every rivet with a load like Atlas bore.
To stop that 40 kilotons of high grade ore.
The falling mountain slowed, then crawled, then gently kissed the floor.
The fusion drive ran out of fuel in just a second more.
And as the engines died away, the scale of Smelter 4
Was reading 40 kilotons of high grade ore.
A mob raced to the landing pit, there must have been a score
To cheer the god, or curse the fool who'd shown them all death's door.
They found no man, they found no ship; an engine, little more
Beneath that 40 kilotons of high grade ore.
The cold equations do not lie, nor cheat like some old whore.
He knew them better than his wife (who'd left the year before).
Murphy didn't have the fuel to make the dock secure
While pushing 40 kilotons of high grade ore.
A fusion drive burns anything; that's what they use 'em for.
So piece by piece, his ship he fed the grim reactor core.
And when it all was not enough, he entered through that door
To stop his 40 kilotons of high grade ore.
The assay team reported something odd about this ore.
They saw where Murphy'd tried to cut; that hadn't worked for sure.
They tried to chisel, burn, and blast, and finally they tore
A bit off 40 kilotons of high grade ore.
The chief assayer checked it out, and tallied up the score.
The density was very high; few elements are more.
Its hue, its malleability; its carats -- 24!
My God, it's 40 kilotons of pure gold ore!
No one has yet discovered just where he found that ore.
But Murphy's gold put us in space; a million men and more.
The future of the human race; now it is secure.
Thanks to a lonely miner and his high grade ore.
Illustration by Emily St. Marie Art. You can find more ESMA art or request prints on Facebook at Emily St. Marie Art
I wrote this after reading a book of verse by Robert Service. He wrote many vivid tales of the hardy miners of the Klondike gold rush in the Yukon; classics like "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and "The Shooting of Dan McGrew". Look 'em up -- they're great!
If you think the idea of a rock that valuable is just fantasy, NASA has already discovered the Psyche asteroid, which appears to be made entirely of metals, and whose value is literally thousands of times greater than the entire world economy. How many others do you suppose are out there?
Lee A. Hart
A poem by Lee A. Hart, © 1984-2021 by Lee A. Hart. Created 3/6/2012. Last updated 8/11/2021.
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