Out of the Frying Pan by Marian Allen
The heat was extreme, dry and so intense it almost numbed us. Did you ever put your hand too close to the surface of a skillet, trying to test how hot it was? Was it ever so hot you didn't even fe
el it right away, your skin switching sensation off while your brain tried to figure out what had gone so inexplicably wrong?
It was that kind of heat: stunning. Mrs. Bissa and I ran palms over our bald heads, then showed our hands to each other, grimacing. Perspiration wicked away instantly, leaving behind a coating of salty grease.
Strangers at the beginning of the show, Bissa and I had outlasted and outcooked all the other women.
The actual air pressure, 92 times that of Earth, and the heat, nearly 1,000 degrees, were mostly offset by the ship's insulation and our distance from the surface of the planet, but the controls were set to continually ramp down. Every second, the pressure was a tiny bit stronger and the heat was a tiny bit worse.
Doesn't matter how hot it is: water won't boil with air pressure that high. It takes instinct and science to cook in those conditions, especially when the conditions constantly change.
A beep in my ear implant told me it was time for my private communication. I tapped the side of my head and Bissa nodded, busy with prepping her dish.
I closed myself into the comm capsule, which was just enough cooler than the rest of the satellite to make it a haven, make the other areas that much more hellish.
The monitor only goes one way. Why should the show pay for someone to interview us, when they can provide a list of pre-written questions for us to choose from and pretend we're being asked on the spot?
"I don't know what that Bissa bitch thinks she's doing. I mean, parsley? Really? We're way beyond garnish here."
I switched position. "Sure, I'm going to win! I'm Annika! Like I've said from the first: Annika wins!" I'm wearing as next to nothing as modesty allows, but I know the studio will splice in footage of my fans in their "Annika wins!" t-shirts. The show is behind that, of course. Marketing is king, after all.
"Bissa's a sad old woman. You know how cold-blooded seniors are; the heat probably feels good to her."
They were piping this to her as I said it. When her turn came, they would play what she said about me straight into my ear.
All too soon, the one-comm was over, and I left the capsule for the scorching kitchen area.
Mrs. Bissa wiped her hands and, with grim impassivity, moved to take her turn at the monitor. We slammed shoulders as we passed and had some harsh words and a shoving match. Did some name calling.
I could hardly keep a straight face. Today was the final episode: the pay-off. The cameras were always on us, but a muttered word here and there, a quick note on parchment paper, a gesture, a nod.... Today, we would throw away the contest, work as a team, and pull off a triumph of culinary science.
Why compete, when we could do so much better together?
Women are from Venus.
el it right away, your skin switching sensation off while your brain tried to figure out what had gone so inexplicably wrong?It was that kind of heat: stunning. Mrs. Bissa and I ran palms over our bald heads, then showed our hands to each other, grimacing. Perspiration wicked away instantly, leaving behind a coating of salty grease.
Strangers at the beginning of the show, Bissa and I had outlasted and outcooked all the other women.
The actual air pressure, 92 times that of Earth, and the heat, nearly 1,000 degrees, were mostly offset by the ship's insulation and our distance from the surface of the planet, but the controls were set to continually ramp down. Every second, the pressure was a tiny bit stronger and the heat was a tiny bit worse.
Doesn't matter how hot it is: water won't boil with air pressure that high. It takes instinct and science to cook in those conditions, especially when the conditions constantly change.
A beep in my ear implant told me it was time for my private communication. I tapped the side of my head and Bissa nodded, busy with prepping her dish.
I closed myself into the comm capsule, which was just enough cooler than the rest of the satellite to make it a haven, make the other areas that much more hellish.
The monitor only goes one way. Why should the show pay for someone to interview us, when they can provide a list of pre-written questions for us to choose from and pretend we're being asked on the spot?
"I don't know what that Bissa bitch thinks she's doing. I mean, parsley? Really? We're way beyond garnish here."
I switched position. "Sure, I'm going to win! I'm Annika! Like I've said from the first: Annika wins!" I'm wearing as next to nothing as modesty allows, but I know the studio will splice in footage of my fans in their "Annika wins!" t-shirts. The show is behind that, of course. Marketing is king, after all.
"Bissa's a sad old woman. You know how cold-blooded seniors are; the heat probably feels good to her."
They were piping this to her as I said it. When her turn came, they would play what she said about me straight into my ear.
All too soon, the one-comm was over, and I left the capsule for the scorching kitchen area.
Mrs. Bissa wiped her hands and, with grim impassivity, moved to take her turn at the monitor. We slammed shoulders as we passed and had some harsh words and a shoving match. Did some name calling.
I could hardly keep a straight face. Today was the final episode: the pay-off. The cameras were always on us, but a muttered word here and there, a quick note on parchment paper, a gesture, a nod.... Today, we would throw away the contest, work as a team, and pull off a triumph of culinary science.
Why compete, when we could do so much better together?
Women are from Venus.
