The Other Things

by Jonathan Dransfield

  ‘Hello, Ford. Where do you want me?’ he bellowed, waving heartily as Ford gestured to the seat next to him. Standing next to Ford, the ‘Prof’ tinkled his wine glass and all eyes turned to him.

  The nerves vanished as he started his discourse. ‘Look at the screen, please. These images are from Gale Crater and they’re classified. Because, quite frankly, we couldn’t quite believe them.

  ‘First up, sedimentary rocks with iron in them. Like those formed in a warm sea on Earth, where the iron is laid down by microbes.

  Fossil 1

  ‘Of course, this is very interesting, but there’s oodles of iron on Mars, so it’s maybe from a different origin. Then this grabbed our attention. I will zoom in. Any guesses?’ He looked at Rocky Bari, the chief engineer.

  ‘A carburettor pipe?’

  Slightly taken aback, the Prof replied, ‘Well, that would be amazing!’

  ‘It’s a shell, a big shell?’ offered Dolores Tallon, the chief scientist.

  ‘Exactly! It appears to be a shell or least a piece of one.’ Then the Prof looked over his glasses. ‘However, you can be fooled by the light and pure chance, like the “Face of Mars”.

  The Face of Mars

  ‘But then we saw this…’

  A silence fell on the room as the next slide came up. On the screen was a photograph of stones, cracked and stacked.

  The Face of Mars

  Cydonia

  Mars

  40.8N 9.5W

  Length: 2km

  Age: 3.5 billion years old

  Geology: Cydonian mesa

  The central stone had two impressions; one had a distinct outline of a small figure with wings, and the second a part of a matching wing, with the rest lost where the rock had been cracked open.

  There was a collective gasp in the room.

  ‘It’s a goddamn angel, like on a Rolls Royce!’

  ‘Yes, the “Angel of Mars”, I call it. The question is…’ Philip took a long slug of white wine, then focused again on the screen. ‘The question is, what is it? This image has been shared with many palaeontologists, zoologists and geologists. We haven’t told them its provenance. Their overwhelming response was that this was once a living creature, and extraordinarily complex.’

  To quieten the resultant hubbub Philip clinked his glass again to propose a toast. ‘Here’s to the Oddity Rover, who in ten years has travelled twenty-five miles and found this! Here’s to you, because your task will be to take this discovery and find out what happened to its descendants. Here’s to those who will go there, and here’s to life on Mars!’

  Fossil 2

  ‘Before Philip leaves us, I’d like to reinforce one point,’ said Ford. ‘The Oddity Rover has no capacity to analyse things much further than the photos we have. A manned mission can travel distances and do science way, way beyond the capacity of any robot or rover, and this discovery is a game changer. Our mission is now an imperative.’

  Ford took the stage.

  As Philip left the room, Dolores and Rocky looked sideways at each other with ‘Do you believe it?’ expressions. Dolores, with her fine-boned features and sad brown eyes, nudged Rocky and whispered, ‘What do you think?’

  Rocky’s face was one that only a mother could love – a human cliff, hence ‘Rocky’. His mother had called him Ricardo. He had hands that could lift a truck, but a brain that could make it fly.

  Dolores nudged him again and winked. ‘I’ve a buddy in imaging and they’ve been really pumped up about something… If Philip Brook thinks it’s kosher, it’s no hoax.’

  She didn’t envy Rocky’s brief. She could work out a scientific programme and the mechanics, but he had to provide the hardware, which was nonexistent, and without that nothing was going to happen.

  Opposite them, Floyd and Elton, ‘the accountants’, had an even more difficult task. ‘Who made up that budget? Stanley Kubrick? It might be OK if we were filming it!’

  ‘I think that’s been done already!’ said Elton with a smile.

  He then leaned forward, drawing Floyd into the conspiracy. ‘We have to cut the research. It’s expensive, especially with that lot,’ he said, gesturing at the scientists.

  Elton added, ‘We need partnership! Use someone else’s budget and ideas. Europe’s a partner already, and what about China? They’re throwing money at space… Or India.’

  Further down the table sat Sharon. She was a planner supreme. The Mars-themed dinner was her idea – the menus and even the music were all her inspirations. She was obsessed with food and the belief that it was the glue that held a home together. But tonight she wasn’t hungry. So she picked at her rocket salad and checked her lists. Sharon had planned missions to land probes on asteroids, while her husband had trouble with the shopping list. She fired a couple of texts off home to set her mind at rest before engaging with her neighbours.

  Imran was her fellow mission planner. ‘I suspect this will be the last time we’ll relax together.’

  Sharon’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Relax? I’m too excited to be relaxed, aren’t you?’

  Imran explained that he couldn’t get excited about an impossible mission.

  Moon landing conspiracy theories claim that some or all elements of the Apollo programme and the associated moon landings were hoaxes staged by NASA.

  Sharon realised she would need to be the driver in this partnership. ‘They got to the moon in six years, and we’ve come a long way since then!’

  Imran was aware there were times when remarkable things could happen. His father had seen technology go from biplanes to jets in the decade of the Second World War, so why not?

  ‘OK, it’s just… where do we start?’

  Sharon was certain of this answer. ‘Coming home, of course. Let’s start with that?’

  ‘I suppose. We’ve been to Mars, landed there, but never tried to bring anything back yet! OK, that’s the tough bit.’ There was a brief pause while the waiters removed the plates.

  Sharon was distracted by Patrick Marshall, who was going to have to work out these practicalities. He had been listening intently. ‘As Ford said, it’s all about payload. The less we take, the less we need.’ Patrick was not just an extraordinary designer and engineer, but could skin a rabbit and light a fire without matches. He fished an ice cube from his water. ‘There’s a lot of this on Mars, so we have a supply of hydrogen and oxygen – rocket fuel.’

  Imran raised and examined his own glass of water, turning it slowly and considering the technicalities in his mind. ‘But this is a long way from being rocket fuel.’

  Patrick leaned over and chinked it with his own glass of deep-red Vieux Chateau Champs de Mars. ‘This wine’s close, though!’

  Sharon had chosen the hefty Bordeaux for its name, and now raised her glass and joined the impromptu toast. ‘OK then, that’s the first task: turning water into rocket fuel!’

  Wine and Water

  Edward Stalk was a naturally worried man. As safety and mission assurance manager, this was a distinct advantage. The effects of small cumulative events or avoidable risks were nearly always the cause of catastrophes in this field and most could have been foreseen.

  The breathing of pure oxygen in the early space programme, coupled with a minor electrical fault, caused a fire in the capsule during a launch rehearsal. Then the door mechanism took five minutes to open, meaning the astronauts Grissom, White and Chaffee, despite having expressed their fears, were doomed, not by an accident, but by lack of thought and worrying through the details.

  Astronauts, from an elite corps of test pilots, had resisted being ‘spam in a can’ and had not wished to place their trust in fully automated missions, nor in ground controllers. They insisted on being able to pilot their spacecraft, proving to be life-savers in both the Mercury and Apollo programmes. In any mission to Mars, with its twenty-minute gap in communications, self-sufficiency would be essential.

  Space flight is inherently dangerous, so why add to it by not eliminating all ‘avoidable’
risks? was Edward’s mantra. His concerns about the consumption of alcohol during what he categorised as a work meeting caused him such anxiety that he had nearly refused to attend. It was only after he had conducted an impromptu health-and-safety audit on the evening’s soirée that he could relax and participate.

  Apollo 1 Crew

  He was baffled by Sharon’s lack of appreciation when he handed her his unofficial report, just before the start of proceedings. But then Edward had never understood his fellow human beings.

  He had been single since the last millennium. Tonight he had Henrietta Crumb as a captive audience and there was something about the dark-rimmed glasses and the tweed skirt that reminded him of his mother.

  This was the mask Henrietta wore to be taken seriously in the male-orientated culture of NASA.

  Normally Edward was very quiet, but tonight his inhibitions had left him and he went into overdrive, showing off his dreary expertise to the poor woman.

  Henrietta was looking a little desperate.

  ‘Oh, Ed, you can’t hog Hen all night, you know!’ interjected Yasmin. Turning round to Henrietta, she winked. ‘He’s so much the enthusiast, he puts us all to shame!’

  Yasmin understood people. She was not an engineer or astrophysicist, and she was not concerned with budgets, timescales or rockets; her whole focus was about who was going to go to Mars. Her first question was, how do you pick their crew?

  Henrietta, as ‘Payload Investigator’, would be team leader for the crew and their equipment. She was an old hand from the shuttle programme. There was never any shortage of would-be astronauts and it always started with a process of elimination.

  ‘Well, Yasmin, we have four main physical obstacles to tackle before we can even look at their skills and abilities. The Russians have done a lot of research on this, and the length of the mission means that the lack of gravity, high doses of radiation, and boredom can wreak conflict and havoc.

  ‘We actually need a bunch of energetic couch potatoes!’ Henrietta continued with her analysis. ‘The lack of gravity could mean that the astronauts are too weak to do much on arrival, and they lose bone mass if they don’t exercise in certain ways. You lose the ability to grow your bones after your teens!’

  Yasmin was trying to take all this in when she was interrupted by the arrival of her main course, Olympus Mons eggs. ‘What about the radiation?’

  Henrietta finished her mouthful of red pepper with its hot, spicy filling before answering. She explained that in deep space and even on Mars, the environment was awash with radiation. The radiation and the bone loss were an even greater worry than rocket failure, because you couldn’t eliminate all the risks.

  ‘Here’s the thing: after adolescence your body steadily loses the ability to repair itself, and the latent damage of radiation can stay with you for life. We may have to choose an older crew who, put simply, have less time to develop cancer.’

  Yasmin smiled. ‘I could contact my dad’s champion pub quiz team. They fit all those criteria!’

  Henrietta brushed her hair from her eyes. ‘Sorry, Yasmin, no room for the beer!’

  Cutting the music with the last strains of ‘Life on Mars’ dying on the speakers, Ford then took the microphone. He got straight to the point.

  ‘The question of life! Is it unique, or as common as stardust? You’ve all been asking, can those fossils be true? If they are, it doesn’t make us less special, just the universe more so. We could have discovered something that will change humanity’s vision of itself. In the night sky, instead of seeing stars, we will see worlds teaming with life, even civilisations.’

  He took a sip of water and continued. ‘Now, if this is a fossil – is that reason enough to risk lives to examine the history of a dead planet? Maybe, maybe not. When life on Earth took off, there was no stopping it. Even in the deepest mines and oceans, in the high stratosphere, living in rocks, scalding waters and frozen wastes, life is there. If we go we must seek out the secret places, where there is still heat and water, where it may have clung on, or even blossomed. No rover will do that in our lifetimes. If we are successful, we may find something on that cold, remote red planet that will change our world.’

  A silence descended on the room as they took this in before Ford spoke again. ‘Just one more thing. We all have commitments, families, friends, ongoing projects. The next few months, and hopefully years, are going to be very busy, so put your houses in order, explain to your loved ones that this is important. Ask for their forbearance and support. For the sake of my own relationship, this weekend I’m going to finish my trailer!’

  Chapter 6

  Koma Heim

  Icelandic Road

  It was a long and dramatic drive from Reykjavik to Akureyri. Winding through the narrow plains and ancient lava fields that skirt the limbs of stratified hills and mountains, Kirsten’s view through the salt-speckled windscreen was a monochrome of charcoal blacks and icy whites, broken only by the ethereal blues and golds breaking through the grey clouds.

  Akureyri

  North Iceland

  65.4N 18.1W

  Altitude: 0ft

  Geology: Coastal town on fjord

  In the summer Kirsten would have jumped at the chance to cut across the barren wilderness of central Iceland to see the long volcanic fissure that had opened up at Bárðarbunga; even now she would have moved heaven and earth to witness it. However, she had been insanely busy helping with the recovery in the capital, and now had to get back to see Elin.

  Out here, little seemed to have changed except for the repairs to the lonely farms, and the stark mountains seemed darker and more brooding than ever. The weather had been patchy and to her relief, as she drove through the deep northern fjords, the sun broke out, illuminating the white peaks with a warm gold.

  Bárðarbunga

  South Iceland

  64.4N 17.3W

  Altitude: 1,800ft

  Geology: Subglacial volcano and subterranean system

  She needed this encouragement on the last leg of the journey. Although the short winter days were finally lengthening, night would be falling and the final rough track was treacherous in its icy slipperiness.

  The rumble of the diesel shuddered to a halt as she hauled herself out. A bundle of knitwear hurled itself across the gravel. ‘Mummia!’ screamed Elin. ‘Pu ert heima!’ The little girl was in midair as Kirsten opened her arms. A wide smile returned to Kirsten’s face as she saw the wisp of blonde hair and the deep-blue eyes look up from beneath the woolly hat. Bag in one hand and child in the other, she made the short walk to the weather-bleached wooden door. She heard her father’s familiar voice, beckoning them to come in. The smell of coffee and the constancy of the lives lived day after day in the same fields and hills told her she was home.

  She felt the stress of the last two weeks evaporate like a morning mist.

  ‘Mummy, on TV you were!’ purred Elin.

  Gunnar, Kirsten’s father, busied himself setting the table, allowing mother and daughter some precious time together. Elin was used to her mother’s absences, but the drama of the event had made her return all the more special. She settled down on Kirsten’s lap on the old wooden chair. ‘An adventure. Can we do? Please, Mummia! My holiday it is.’ Elin caught Kirsten’s eye. ‘Volcano hunting?’

  Apart from the simple household rhythms of bedtime and stories, cooking and eating, and a hundred and one mundane tasks that leave a child happy and secure, the best thing Elin liked was to accompany her mother on her trips. Any deficit in parenting was made up by the intensity of these excursions. Even a summer trip in Iceland would entail 4×4 vehicles, fording rivers, hiking and camping. They were special times and she had the added interest of helping her mother’s research.

  They would interrogate the landscape. Elin would find rocks, take measurements or be a sounding board for Kirsten’s thoughts.

  Since the drama of Eyjafjallajökull, they had been dreaming about the next adventure.

  Elin mir
rored her mother’s enthusiasm for any eruption, like a son might naturally follow his father’s football team. She was very bright for her age and had the ability to absorb facts like blotting paper.

  Eyjafjallajökull

  South Iceland

  63.4N 19.4W

  Altitude: 5,417ft

  Geology: Subglacial volcano

  Iceland is an anomaly. A cross between land and a raised seabed, it is part of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge where the tectonic plates of America and Europe away move from each other, creating new land from the molten interior. One half of the island heads west and the other east, on average 25mm per year.

  The Earth’s population has the illusion of living on a solid planet. But here Icelanders are all too aware that we all exist on a thin crust of rock floating on a sea of magma. The latest eruption had created a long crevice a mile long, where spouts of lava were bursting into the skies and across the grey wilderness.

  ‘Why not, litla elskan? It will be such fun, but I also want to rest and spend time with Grandad and Grandma.’

  On cue, the sound of a second motor could be heard and Gunnar called them back to the kitchen to receive Kirsten’s mother and sit down to eat. Kirsten’s mother, Oddny, arrived in a flurry. They sat around the large wooden table and swapped tales while savouring Gunnar’s hearty kjötsúpa. Elin sat transfixed, listening to their news. While Kirsten had been helping to mop up downtown Reykjavik, Oddny had been putting back the stained glass into the Akureyrarkirkja, removed as a precaution against the asteroid. Stifling her mirth, she explained how the MHB (Museum of Practical Jokes) had sent a mock delegation of Coventry Cathedral officials to reclaim the central panel.

  ‘They offered me a post, you know,’ recalled Kirsten.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t accept it,’ replied Oddny with a laugh.

  Every year the famous Museum of Practical Jokes invited the vain and the pompous to be their new director. If you accepted it, your name went with the others on the broom-cupboard door in the gift shop.