Q. R. Zedd, A5A, world’s greatest Dxer, was relaxing in his hamshack recently and tuning all bands, all modes, all frequencies, as usual. A handful of the faithful from his local radio club, the world’s greatest (of course), were sitting around watching in admiration and hoping to pick up a few tips on how to get nearer the DXCC Honor Roll, which Zedd leads as always.
It was an inspiring scene. There sat Zedd, feet on the edge of his circular operating desk, looking relaxed and debonair in his Oklahoma State sweats, his Boomer Sooner cap and his Rome Olympics sweater, casually working countries on CW with both hands, talking to an old pal in XU (or maybe it was Ardmore) on 160 meters (using the VOX-operated boom mike stuck to his forehead with a rubber suction cup), keeping an eye on the moonbounce operation and the OSCAR transmitter, and obviously listening for new calls on his other hf scanners and the bank of VHF gear arayed between his operating arena and the bleachers along the south wall where we all sat.
The holder of the country’s only 1×1 callsign was still wearing his black armbands in recognition of the bad stuff perpetrated recently by the NCAA. He looked a little tired, his handsome visage sagging slightly, after his whirlwind visit to Dallas, where he lent his expertise to the Cowboys’ staff planning next year’s personnel and strategy.
The great man brightened visibly, however, as his beloved son Zepp tottered into the room, shoeing a plastic toy lawnmower and jabbering a mile a minute on his tiny, back-mounted UHF rig. I think he was working a remote link into a 15-meter transmitter being monitored by Zedd as control operator, because he was talking to Poland. But Zepp passed the Advanced Class test at 14 months of age, so maybe he didn’t need supervision.
“Da-da!” Zepp gurgled. “Oochie schoochie dewey plah-play!”
“Right, son,” Zedd snapped. “Now pay attention to your business there and work that UA station that’s calling you.”
About this time, one of Zedd’s automatic scanning monitors — maybe on a 20-meter rig — lit up like the Lloyd Noble scoreboard when Billy’s boys are playing at home.
Zedd signed with two Russians, a Brit, a couple of Fiji islanders and everybody in Southeast Asia. “I recognize that call!” he said with a glare of concentration, flipping switches to rotate a 10-over-10 at 800 feet.
Then Zedd keyed a mike: “UA1AAAAA, this is A5A, over!”
Back came a familiar voice, about 90 over 9: “A5A this is UAIAAAAA, Name here is Boris Badenov, you Yankee imperialist swine, in case your brain is more dead and you cannot remember greatest DXer in world, hah haft! Zipp, Zapper, whatever your name, you are usual about three and three, I repeat, three and three, but I put you in log as five and nine, give you a thrill Over!”
Zedd sighed and tripped the VOX: “Howdy, Boris, you old skunk. This is Zedd. You’re getting in here okay, about the same signal strength as my neighbor’s bug light a couple miles down the road, and your readability ain’t quite as good, but I’ll log you as five and nine also, old chum, and if you want a QSL, you just send me two green stamps and a SASE and I’ll take it up with my manager. Over.”
“Zither, Zong – whatever is your name – if you want QSL from greatest hero of Red Army radio club, you send ten IRCs care Box 88, Moscow, maybe you get card in about twenty years, da?”
“Boris, old pal, old buddy, old sock, I sure would like to have your card, uh-haw. Who is the control operator there making sure you don’t screw up the knobs? Over!”
“A5A, this UA1AAAAA for ID. Ziff, Zagger whatever – how does it feel, being second-class operator behind greatest radio sportsman, myself Boris Badenov, hero of whole Soviet Union and everyplace radio waves have propagated so far, hah?”
“UA1AAAAA, this is A5A. Well, Boris, old bean, your signal went up a little that time and I could almost make out what you’re saying there. Hey, do you have the address of your big boss over there? I want to let him know we’ve made this heroic effort to make out what that garbage station of yours is putting out. Maybe he’ll want to give me a medal for working so hard to further glassblower, or whatever that stuff is he’s been pushing, you know, about us getting along better and all.”
“Zaggernaut, this is Badenov returning. Your signal mostly lost in racket from hated American Woodpecker. Hey, Yankee dog, I read in Pravda how your favorite teams are cheat and low-lifers and put on probation long time by your decadent NCAA, da? How you like not seeing your teams on TV, and they can’t go to no bowl games long time, hah? I think is very funny, Zapper, your teams all get caught being cheat! Ha ha ha! Over!”
Zedd covered his boom mike so the VOX would not key, His face had darkened with rage and pain. “This is hitting below the belt. Insults to me and my family and my station — and even to the South Canadian Amateur Radio Society — I can handle. But this is really a low blow. This is dastardly.”
Zedd uncovered the mike. “Okay, Boris, I didn’t get any of that. You’ve faded into the QRM. Take care, buddy, and seven-three. This is the world’s greatest, Q. R. Zedd, from Honor Roll Ranch in the heart of the wishbone country. UA1AAAAA, this is A5A. So long.”
The audio came back so strong that lampshades rattled in the hamshack and KD5IT’s eyeglasses cracked, much to his consternation and loss of professorial dignity:
“Zibblehoffer, this Badenovl You don’t cut me off you capitalist, oink! I want tell you more about how I laugh when I hear about Sooner and Cowboy penalties! I laugh in your face over this cheat, da? You want know how great hero of Soviet Socialist Republics spread word on your teams being criminals? Hey, I —”
Badenov’s voice got no farther. With a cry of outrage, Zedd had cut the audio and swung around to the master console for his antenna farm. With his knee, he simultaneously sent power to his No. 1 linear.
The BIG linear.
The one south of the house.
In its own separate building with 16 acres of floor space.
The room lights got brown. The earth trembled as monster motors began to turn antenna arrays far overhead. Needles on panels centered. Computers smoked.
“No, Mr. Zedd, no!” cried WU5W, near a swoon of terror and consternation. “Not the BIG linear! Not at full power! Not into the stacked eighties and the four-mile rhombic!”
Alas, it was too late. Tormented beyond human endurance, Zedd not only had full power at his fingertips — and the uncanny precision of his entire antenna farm at his disposal — but he was clearly twiddling the knobs that tilted his arrays for the best bounce off the ionosphere.
At the moment he keyed his mike, bluish lightning played blindingly beyond the windows of the ranch house. There was a sound like no one had ever heard — a high, wailing, screaming sound. Tortured electrons.
Into the mike, Zedd said, “Boo!”
We are told that the fireball that descended on Badenov’s antenna farm was terrible in its intensity. Badenov had just had time to jump into an asbestos suit. He survived.
Whether he learned his lesson –that even a man of Zedd’s saintlike patience can be pushed too far –remains to be seen.
The moral of the story is clear. Don’t make fun of someone whose team is on probation. Some of them don’t see anything funny about it at all, at all.
— KU5B