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Welcome to the 42nd edition of Safe For Work. We begin with safety news, a new episode of the podcast focusing on smart technology, and a new short story inspired by wind power.
In Safety News
The intersection of science fiction, gaming, software, and industrial operations is attracting millions of fans to play Factorio.
Lucyd Eyewear released safety glasses that allow you to interact with ChatGPT while wearing them
Harm from workplace injuries extends beyond the people hurt in an accident to the entire company
Tilting
Matt Cantor
A glance out the window-- just an instinct, a little tingle-- and sure enough--
“Oh.”
A sigh-- not as frustrated as it could be. There have been worse timings. There have been worse days for this.
“He’s back.”
Whose turn is it? The technicians all discuss, trying to remember-- it’s been a few months.
“Harold?” supposes Philip-- but no--
“It wasn’t me last time, but I did the time before that,” says Harold. “I think last time it was Alicia?”
“It must be,” agrees Susanne. “It wasn’t any of us last time, or else we would have remembered it being us last time, and Alicia is off this week for that wedding in Cabo, so she’s the only one not here to remember it being her. The question then becomes--”
“Whatever, I’ll do it.”-- Philip really doesn’t mind all that much. He glances towards Harold-- “Extra half-hour for lunch afterwards?”-- seems like a fair enough trade.
“Sure. Go for it.”
Plus he gets out of the rest of this meeting. Philip leaves his clipboard on the conference-table and steps out into the hallway. He can hear the shouts now, coming closer-- still muffled, but there they are. “...thou bleak and unbearable…”
He does a little roll of his shoulders as he makes his way down the hallway towards the back-door of the control-center-- out to the wind-farm’s little parking-lot. He rolls his shoulders and he cracks his knuckles, and he stretches out his legs as he does a little jog ahead, one and then the other. There really have been worse timings. He hasn’t had too big a breakfast. He’s not getting over a cold, or anything. To be honest, he could even use the exercise.
Stepping out into the parking-lot, the shouts become a bit more distinctive-- “...base and debauched!”-- and so does the steady thrum-thrum-thrum of all the great white turbines, looming like lilies on their great stalks, spinning around and around and around-- thrum-thrum-thrum. Philip undoes his blue-and-white polka-dot necktie and tucks it into the pocket of his khakis-- where else is he supposed to keep it? Certainly not around his neck-- that’s just asking for trouble. “Industrial Engineering,” he murmurs to himself as he jogs across the parking-lot, to the back-far corner-- past the station-wagons and pickup-trucks-- past his own little green hatchback with the dent in the fender and the bumper-sticker that reads “I’m a real windbag!” and the little ID-placard in the windshield that tells the security-guard at the gate that it’s okay to let him in every morning-- “Eight years… two-hundred-thousand-dollars in tuition… Masters in Industrial Engineering…”-- all those hours in classes… not entirely useless, of course. Ninety-five-percent of the time, those sorts of things that he was doing in those classes are the same sorts of things he’s doing here at this job-- and it doesn’t pay all that badly, either-- he’s making his way through that debt at a steady clip. He really can’t complain, can he?
All it is is that he just sort of wishes that his courses had included a little more…
A little more what, exactly?
“A holy endeavor is now to begin! And virtue shall triumph at last!”
Philip reaches the small stables the company built at the edge of the parking-lot. Where else, really? Parking for the cars, parking for the two horses on standby-- it makes sense, enough. One white, one a lovely chestnut-- Philip picks the chestnut horse today-- “Hey, Oliver.”
He gives it a gentle stroke on the mane-- a playful scratch below the snout-- and then, just for the sake of fairness, a playful scratch behind one of the ears of the other horse--
“You’re up next time, Gertrude. Keep it sharp.”
He saddles Oliver without any real trouble-- he’s gotten good at it over the past year-and-a-half, he has no trouble anymore getting the reins properly strung up, either. But he just sort of wishes…
Well, it would have been nice if his Masters courses had included a bit more in the realm of equestrianism.
Philip selects a lance and shield from the wall. A little dented, like his fender is a little dented, a little crooked, like his teeth are a little crooked-- just a little-- after the last time he fell off Oliver. A few classes in equestrianism really would have gone a long way, he tells himself, as he mounts the saddle and gently guides his horse out of the stable-gates, onto the rolling meadows and hills where the windmills have all been built.
His eyes scan the gorgeous green landscape. Where exactly…?
Ah. There. “I shall slay you here and now, you accursed giant! Your evil shall be ended this day, today!!-- I swear it!!”
The mad old man with his own crooked lance and his own dented shield. Riding on his own horse-- every bit as gray and bony as himself, trot-trot-trotting along towards Unit 3C-9, great white blades slowly spinning like mighty arms winding up for a punch, thrum-thrum-thrum. The man’s helmet catches the sunlight, and for just a moment, Philip has to squint against the glare-- for just a moment, he sees a dazzling knight on a might horse, unstoppable, riding off to face evil-- for just a moment-- and then the glare passes, and the man is just wearing a brass washbasin on his head. Philip gives a sigh-- not as frustrated as he could be, but…
But, and but, and but…
He sets off Oliver at a stiff cantor towards the man. Just a part of life-- just a part of working in the wind-industry. He raises his shield. He raises his lance. He spurs Oliver into a full gallop-- he has to reach Unit 3C-9 at least before the man scratches the base of the tower; he won’t be able to do any real damage, but those scratches are always such a bother to get out.
Philip is grinning, in spite of himself.
“Have at thee!” he cries out. That extra half-hour for lunch is going to be nice.
See you next week as we explore humour in sci-fi technology.
Stay safe.
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