Way down telescope way pt. 2

Last week I shared the genesis of my current telescope restoration project, in which I expound (in my usual verbose way) how I came into possession of a 6" Meade 645 Newtonian reflector telescope and the subsequent years of use, abuse and neglect it suffered under my ownership. Lest any of you jot this down as one of those "He'll talk a good game, but not actually do anything about it" scenarios, I offer photographic proof of my get-off-my-duffedness (note how old and fat I look in this image. Oh, the sacrifices I make for you people):



Suffice to say the tube had suffered a lot of cosmetic damage over the years, but nothing terribly serious. The felt (or rather, the pitiful remains of felt) lining the rings which hold the optical tube assembly (OTA) to the mount had actually bonded with the paint on the tube. When I opened the rings and tried to remove the OTA, the process actually peeled some chunks of paint away--as well as a 1"x2" piece of the sonotube OTA's outer layer. The depression wasn't huge, really, but it may as well have been a crater to me. I trimmed it back some and glued it into place. Ugly, yes, but hopefully all will be made right in the end.

That out of the way, I turned my attention to the disassembly of the OTA. The tube is in serious need of repainting, and probably the worst thing I could do to the optics would be to try and repaint the thing with everything in place and in danger of getting big blobs of paint on them. One of the bolt/brackets attaching the spider (the assembly which holds the secondary mirror) to the OTA snapped a few years ago during a move, so that needs to be replaced. Fortunately, the three remaining bolts unscrew easily enough and I'm able to remove the spider successfully. There's a significant amount of paint flaking and peeling from the spider, but no serious corrosion anywhere. I could probably justify replacing the spider, but its in good enough shape that this feels more like an extravagance. Below is a shot of the spider, a close-up showing the paint flaking and mounting cracks, and finally one of the secondary mirror itself. Happily, the mirror looks to be in almost perfect condition.





The focuser and spotting scope come off next, and then the primary mirror. The screws come out of the primary mirror assembly easily enough... but the mirror doesn't budge. I've never taken it out before, and it had probably remained there, unmolested since it was first installed at the Meade factory. It took a bit more muscle than I was expecting (or entirely comfortable with applying) but finally the mirror assembly popped out. I was quite happy with what I found. Other than an accumulation of dust, the mirror looks in prime condition. Other than the broken piece of the spider, the OTA components are in great condition. I mean, just look at this mirror:






So now comes the actual restoration. The inside of the tube, originally painted flat black, has become more like a dark gray over the years. I don't feel all that comfortable (or enthusiastic) about repainting the inner tube, so I ordered flocking material from Protostar. Since my 645 is a 30" tube, their "cut from the roll" option was perfect for me. The flocking came in the other day, and I laid it inside the tube for a sort of dry run. Perfect fit, with a 2" overlap at the edges. I'm feeling good about this choice.

Before I can flock it, however, I have to repaint the tube. Before I can repaint, I have to sand it down. So I set to work with 80 grit sandpaper. It was very dusty work, I can assure you.



Amazingly enough, the paint came off with considerably less effort than I expected. For the various nicks and gouges too deep to be painted over, I used carpenters wood putty to fill in the gaps, and also applied generous amounts around the wounded area I mentioned above. After letting it dry overnight, I sanded everything smooth with 220 grit paper.



Get used to the phrase "then I sanded it down..." because it's a recurring theme. Once I finished and had the putty smooth and flush, it was time to apply primer. I ran a wooden dowel through the tube, packing crumpled newspaper around it so that I could suspend the tube between two saw horses and rotate it as I painted. I sprayed on two coats of primer, and let it hang in my office to dry.



Next time, we'll discuss why two coats probably wasn't enough. But hey, live and learn, right?

MEMORY: 15

First
Previous

The Palace of Un-pic Ja’ab floated before Flavius and Parric, the honey-soaked rays of the late afternoon sun glittering across the many-faceted towers in a prismatic spray. Pale yellow lights flickered from a thousand windows as well as the promenades that ran weblike among the towers. Great loops and whorls of no discernable purpose decorated the skyline and reached far beyond the balconies and retaining walls, casting surreal shadows over the valley a thousand feet below.

Beneath the palace, running the length of the perimeter was a colossal Ketza’qua. The yellow-bronze specimen was old and reeked of power. The trusses and cables holding it in place groaned and cackled every time the serpentine body flexed, but showed no signs of breaking.

Fleet-winged, kidney-shaped wej flitted around the tail of the Ketza’qua. As huge, translucent bubbles squeezed forth from a puckered orifice of the tail, crewmen from certain wejii bathed it in billowing clouds from directed hoses. Once the vapors of the setting agent cleared, another wej darted in to gaff the rising bubble, which had taken on an iridescent sheen. The wej guided the bubble beneath the palace and released it into a concave basin. The millions of bubbles holding the Palace of Un-pic Ja’ab aloft appeared as nothing more than froth from a distance.

“I’d surely remember this place if I’d been here before,” said Flavius.

“Our previous visitings are coming through the nexial gap inside the palace,” Parric said. “You’re never seeing the outside before.”

“I’m nae sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” Flavius said, tilting his head to the side. “Are they using that beastie’s farts to keep that castle up in the sky?”

“Nothing so cruding,” Parric answered. “The Ketza’qua is a six-dimensional being. Restrainings here without feeding is making it feeding in other dimensions. The digestings of higher dimension matters is breaking it down into the simplest elements. Those sprayings are stabilizing traces of lithiums in the Ketza’qua excretions. The remainings in the bubbles are mostly hydrogens and heliums.”

Flavius shuddered. “That... that is the mingingest thing I ever laid eyes on in any lifetime.”

“Really?” Parric cocked his head at Flavius. “Most are finding the Palace of Un-pic Ja’ab a very beautifulling sight.”

“It dinnae matter how much ya shiny up the shite, lad, it’s still shite. Or farts.” Flavius snorted in disgust. “So how’re we supposed to sneak up there, anyway? I dinnae see nae ladders or skyhooks or whatever ya call them. D’ya plan on spelling us up there with your magic?”

“I don’t do magickings.”

“Then how’re we to get up there without any of them knowing we’re here?”

“We don’t. They’re already spotting us.”

Flavius looked up at the palace. Three of the wejii had broken away from the Ketza’qua and were headed directly at them. “Hoo, this is a bonny bag of shite.”

Two of the wejii veered to either side, flanking Flavius and Parric. The three-man crews rode standing in the open vehicles with a lank readiness. Silver traceries decorated their glossy turquoise armor, contrasting with their reddish-copper skin. The ivory plume of their feathered helms whipped smartly in the wind. The two crewmen on either side of the pilot each held a braided cuayab nearly an arm span in length. The braiding formed a sort of interlocked cage at the topmost end, which contained a emerald glow.

“Get yer magic ready, Parric,” Flavius said, drawing Memory. “Not the friendliest looking bunch of dobbers, are they? Ya dinnae ken they were expecting us, do ya?”

Parric twisted in his coils, keeping the three wejii in sight at all times. “Don’t be doing anything stupid.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, lad,” Flavius answered. “Let them make the first move. That’s the winning strategy, eh?”

The lead pilot made a subtle gesture. Immediately two men on the flanking wejii pointed their cuayab at the pair. Ribbons of undulating green flame spewed out. The flames arced and twisted, twining and weaving about Flavius and Parric until they were completely encaged.

Flavius slowly tilted his head toward Parric. “Right, then. What’s plan ‘B’?”

“Lesser sentients,” the commander shouted to them from the lead wej in a startlingly loud voice. “You have violated the writ of solitude in approaching Un-pic Ja’ab. Who are you and what is your business here?”

“Well, we’re old acquaintances of the Tricentennial Emperor, see,” answered Flavius. “I ken he wasn’t expecting us to drop in unannounced and all, but we was in the neighborhood--”

“They’re just uncivilized otherwhere rabble, sir,” the crewman on the right said to the pilot. “Their language is barbaric gibberish.”

Flavius shot Parric a questioning look.

“Remember when I’m Crafting a Hearing for you?” Parric said, examining the agitated cage with curiosity. “They have no Hearings. We can understanding their words, but they can’t understanding us.”

“Lesser sentients,” the commander said, this time in a voice even more bombastic than before, “since you refuse to speak in your defense, and offer no documentation to justify your presence--”

“Parric? This dinnae sound good.”

“No,” agreed Parric, “it doesn’ting.”

“--in violation of the writ of solitude, and as the thread your persons pose to Un-pic Ja’ab cannot be ascertained with any reliability in the absence the afore-mentioned testimonials and evidence, I formally sentence you to immediate execution under my authority as Commander of the Second Rank in the Eternal Militia of Un-pic Ja’ab,” the commander said. “Do the witnesses concur this is a legal order of the proper form?”

“Yes,” the other wejii crews answered in turn, pointing their cuayabs. “The sentence is legal and proper in accordance with the writ of solitude.”

“The sentence is issued and confirmed,” said the commander. “Kill them.”

Continued

Way down telescope way

Like many folks of my generation, as a child I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up. Somehow I got it into my mind that astronauts and astronomers were similar professions, although one never seemed to actually get into space. Both had an eye on the sky, and I wanted to be one or both. Even before Star Wars turned me on to science fiction in a big way, I was fascinated with space and the solar system. Telescopes were cool. Alas, I was soon to find out that to have even a remote shot at becoming either an astronaut or astronomer, I'd have to eat, drink and sleep in a world of relentless number-crunching. To say that my mathematic skills are feeble at best would be an insult to all the feeble mathematicians in the world. So that particular dream was DOA long before I even knew it was feeling sickly.

My family wasn't of a scientific inclination--for my love of space, I was pretty much on my own at home. Fortunately, I had a next door neighbor, John Story, who was a space buff and a long-time member of the Houston Astronomical Association. He had a quality refractor--I have no recollection of the make or even aperture--that he'd set up on summer nights and show me all sorts of skyward wonders. John Loessin, the adult son of one of my elementary school teachers, had one of Celestron's early 8" Schmidt-Cassegrain telescopes that he'd use for visual observing as well as astrophotography. So I had some quality scopes around me. Naturally, I had to have my own.

I don't remember the details very clearly, but the general outlines of the story are familiar ones: In 1983, at the awkward age of 13 I mowed lawns all summer and amassed the princely sum of $300 plus change in my telescope fund. This was the most money I'd ever had in my life, suffice to say. Clueless about telescopes beyond the fact that there were different kinds, they cost a lot and they made far-away things look bigger, I set off to purchase one. Fortunately, Mr. Story pointed me in the direction of Texas Nautical Supply in Houston, which was--and remains--one of the premier astronomical resources in the state.

Somehow, I talked my dad into taking me. Or rather, he probably had business to conduct in Houston and consented to have me ride along. My first impression of Texas Nautical was that of a classic natural history museum, only instead of giant dinosaur skeletons on display, they had giant telescopes. In my memory, the display floor is choked with monstrous, drool-inducing 20- and 30-inch planet-killers, although in hindsight 10' and 12" scopes are the most likely sizes populating the upper end of their wares. Still, it was might impressive to me, an ignorant teen who'd hoped to head home with a 2.5" refractor.

A refractor was my scope of choice, simply because that was the "classic" scope in media, and what I was most familiar with thanks to Mr. Story. But $300 isn't a whole lot of money where telescopes are concerned, even back in 1983. Luckily, fate intervened. The salesman, knowing full well that I was suffering from a full-blown case of aperture fever, steered me towards the scope that would give me the most bang for my buck: A used 6" reflector.



The telescope in question was a Meade 645 model produced from 1977 though 1980 or so, a wide-field, f/5 model with a 30" optical tube. It had a tracking motor and manual control worm gear on a German equatorial mount set on a massive pier. I didn't learn most of those details until much, much later. Three things penetrated my mind that day: 1) the tracking motor didn't work, 2) it was within my budget and 3) that 6" tube looked like a cannon. Aperture fever, indeed. So I bought it, with my dad spotting me $20 or so to cover the tax (a concept of which I struggled to grasp for years afterward as well, which my children today stumble over as well). The scope was mine.

This was a telescope designed for viewing deep-sky objects. Unfortunately, I never really figured that out. I observed the heck out of the moon, Jupiter, Saturn and Mars. I viewed Venus with disappointment, and searched in vain for Mercury. I looked at the Pledias fairly often, which is as close to DSO observing I ever got. I tried and failed to find the Andromeda galaxy and others. I saw the disappointing Halley's comet when it came through, low on the horizon. I got 2x and 3x Barlowes for my lenses, and even tried stacking Barlowe on Barlowe for ungodly magnification (didn't work, though). I got a T-ring and camera adapter, and hooked up my folks' Canon AE-1 to my scope. I ruined many, many rolls of film because I knew nothing about photography. Eventually I gave up because I couldn't afford to buy and process film that would invariably turn out over-exposed, under-exposed or blurred beyond recognition. I was woefully ignorant--I really, really wish I'd taken the time to learn what the setting circles on the mount did, because that would've made my DSO hunts a lot simpler--but what I lacked in understanding I made up for with enthusiasm. I had fun.

Eventually, I stopped hauling it out as much as I once did. My own ignorance was my biggest barrier, a hurdle that increased my frustration with observing. I wasn't seeing what I wanted to, but I never quite grasped the fault was with me. Eventually, I stopped getting it out at all, which is the fate of many telescopes. The last time I observed with it was when Comet Hale-Bopp swung through the skies in 1997. I packed up the scope and the Wife (we were still not that far removed from Newlywed status at that point) and drove out to Lake Belton in search of non-light-polluted skies. Afterwards, it pretty much sat undisturbed as a museum piece. Over the course of several moves, the scope got banged around and picked up a bunch of cosmetic blemishes. A few years ago, one of the acorn nuts securing the bolt attached to the secondary mirror spider snapped off. Benign neglect had taken its toll.

I'm not certain of the specifics, but sometime in the past year with my growing interest in photography and acquisition of a Canon XTi DSLR my interest in astronomy was rekindled. The impressive quality and flexibility of DSLRs in taking astrophotography is, no doubt, a major contributor to this interest. In any event, a switch flipped sometime in the past month and "Someday I'll get around to fixing up that old telescope" became "I'm fixing up that old telescope now." Work has commenced, sweat has been perspired and money has been burned through at an alarming rate. And you, gentle readers, will get to follow this restoration every step of the way.

Lost Books, Part VIII: Who?

Who? is a fine novel by Algis Budrys, now also lost to us.

I only met Budrys once, at my first Worldcon in 1987. He was a judge for the Writers of the Future contest, and I mentioned to him that the glossy certificates handed out to the runners-up (I'd just won my first), while pretty, didn't tell us what we'd done right or wrong. After that, the stories I sent to the contest always came back with a few lines of helpful feedback.

As editor of Tomorrow, he treated writers with courtesy and was always prompt to reply (I used to say that Tomorrow and Century were the only magazines named after their response times, though that was a slight exaggeration. Budrys was fast, but his rejections still took the usual two weeks to arrive by airmail). The world is poorer now that he's gone.

Who? was last reprinted in 2000, and there are still some new (or as-new) copies listed on bookfinder.com, so it's not as lost as say, Margaret Tabor's Eclipse, which deals with a similar theme in a very different way (and which I'll discuss in a later column). Who? tells the story of Lucas Martino, an American physicist badly injured in a laboratory explosion while doing weapons research. Russian medics reach him before the Americans do, and the man they had over has a metal head (with a human brain inside) and a prosthetic arm. Dental records, retinal scans, voiceprints... none of these can be relied on, and DNA profiling had not yet been discovered. The cyborg's only identifying features are the fingerprints on one arm, which has obviously been sewn on - but is it re-attached, or transplanted? Is this man Martino, or is he a Russian infiltrator who's been very well briefed on Martino's life?

The cyborg attempts to prove that he is, indeed, Martino, but the Americans are understandably reluctant to let him near a lab again, or even to ask him questions about Martino's work that might tell the Soviets too much. An agent is assigned to discover who the cyborg really is, and finds the task incredibly frustrating. It's a good blend of cold war espionage story, mystery novel, and science fiction, which occasionally touches on the question of what is it that makes us who we are.

Separated at Birth?

The front page of this morning's NY Times offers up a wonderful anachronism that mixes memories of Ron Burgundy-esque evening news in the 1970s with the postmodern semiotes of the GWOT: a courtroom sketch artist has been admitted to Gitmo to record the ongoing "courtroom" proceedings. With KSM front and center, no doubt getting ready to launch into one of his Shatnerian comparisons of himself to George Washington.


[pic: Khalid Sheikh Mohammed (right) at his arraignment, with Walid bin Attash.]

Which makes me wonder which of the great television defense lawyers is going to be pictured gesticulating dramatically to the imaginary jury. I bet he will look a lot like Raymond Burr.

And, which makes me wonder if it is a mere accident the logistical mastermind behind the September 11 attacks is a dead ringer for EC Comics and Mad Magazine impresario William Gaines.



With a little Gandalf the Grey mixed in, natch. Maybe a little magic moth is preparing to alight on the window of his tropical cell.



You be the judge.

MEMORY: 14

First
Previous

"You bastard." Flavius' voice was a low growl. "You let them kill me twenty-seven times?"

"Firstly, 'letting' is not even closing to the right word," said Parric, holding up one finger. "Secondly, if you try hitting me again, I'll be hurting you this time."

"But, twenty-seven times, Parric! I ken they were nae me, nae me me at any rate. But I'm holding this sword, and I feel all of these memories and thoughts. I ken they were me, living the same life as me, being the same person. That damn well makes it personal for me."

Parric gave him an impatient stare.

"Right then. Yer right. Ya taught me everything I know about parallel cosms and how they can just as easily be exactly alike--but not quite--as they can be exactly different. There's nae a body what knows better than ya. But can ya give a man a little leeway for a change? Half an hour ago I was readying myself to slaughter English and now I've got a couple lifetimes' worth of memories swirling in my head, half of 'em what I cannae make heads nor tails of yet."

Parric nodded. "Your normal state, in other wordings."

"Yer nae as funny as ya think ya are." Flavius paused, running his hand through his hair. "I need to ken who, Parric. Who's the minging sheepshagger what sent them eight-legged beasties-- what'd ya call them?"

"Moironteau."

"Uh-huh. Well, whoever sent them beasties to kill me. I'll give 'em a row to remember, enough to make up for killing me twenty-seven times, and then some."

"I'm not knowing who is behinding this--"

"We go wherever those beasties are from!"

"They've undergone changings. Their home cosms are poisonings to us--"

Flavius threw his arms up in disgust.

"--but I am having this." Parric reached among his pouches and pulled forth... nothing.

Flavius blinked, then leaned closer, peering intently at the space right above Parric's splayed wing fingers. The air shimmered, then it was gone. Flavius squinted, but the shimmer didn't return. Annoyed, he glanced at Parric and the shimmer appeared at the edge of his peripheral vision. He tried looking at it again, but it squiggled again to nothing. Deliberately, Flavius looked away, and the elusive glimpse returned. His perspective shifted, and the shimmer became a shape.

Parric held a miniature moironteau. An invisible miniature moironteau. No, invisible wasn't right. Its edges were clearly defined, as long as he didn't look directly at it. It was more an absence, a void where a miniature moironteau would be if there were one present. The very thought made his head hurt.

"Ya caught yerself one of the sheepshagger's beasties. A wee one at that," Flavius said. "I dinnae know they came in assorted sizes."

"This is only parting of one. The moironteau are existing in five dimensions. That's how they are climbing through the sky after us."

"I'd noticed that. Handy trick."

"This is the fifth parting. I'm trapping one in a dimensional pocket back at the battlefield. That is making it easy to Crafting this part away from it."

"So when ya say ya used yer sorcery--"

"I am not a sorcering."

"Fine, then. Crafted away this wee fifth dimensional part from that beastie--"

"It's not pleasanting for the moironteau," Parric said. "It's not deading, but is probably wishing it is."

Flavius nodded. "Good. So what do we do with it now?"

"We're taking it to Knowicent, eventualling. She's already identifying its home cosm, so with this she should be telling us which cosm cluster these engineerings are coming from."

"And then we pop in and slaughter the lot of 'em. Good plan. Simple and direct." Flavius looked up at the violet sky. "I dinnae suppose this is a part of Tradefare what I never seen before, is it?"

"We can't be going back to Tradefare, at least not righting away," Parric said. "Whoever is killing you--and trying to kill me--knows too muching about us. If they're still wanting us deading, they'll be ambushing us there."

"So we're hiding out." Flavius looked around the mountains, spreading his arms wide. "Where are we, then?"

"I'm thinking the western branch of the Ixch'up Mountains. But I'm not certaining. Geography is not my strongest suiting."

Flavius shook his head in ignorance.

Parric sighed. "We're in the second cosm of the Eternal Dominion of the Tricentennial Emperor."

Flavius' mouth fell open. "Ya crazy bastard. Your Tricentennial Emperor's the one what killed me two weeks back and started this madness!"

"We're needing a most unlikely place to be hiding. This is seeming more unlikely than most." Parric shrugged. "And there's a chancing--doubtingful, but still a chancing--that the Emperor is behind your killings. Other than the one, I'm meaning. If so, we're best dealing with him sooner rather than latering."

"And then we pop in and slaughter the lot of 'em. Good plan. Simple and direct." Flavius grinned. "'Cept, of course, for the Empress. We've got unfinished business, she and I."

Continued

Bicycling in Texas

Well, almost.

Sick puppy that I am, all I can here is Herb Alpert's Mexican Road Race.