The Other Things

by Jonathan Dransfield

  Rocky had barricaded himself in his office. He was utterly rational and straight down the line, but also a tenacious problem solver. No way was he going to let this one get away.

  The statue of Mars had aroused the scrapper in him. The glimmer of a chance offered by the solid rocket boosters was now firing his ambition and he was following his instincts.

  With his gift shop goodies he could get straight on it and cut out months of painful computer modelling. The sweet odour of glue permeated the room as he worked away. As well as the plastic components within the boxes he’d raided the kitchen to augment his collection.

  He worked with little concern for the finer points of the craft, discarding unwanted components and improvising with others. Three unfinished space shuttles had been tossed aside.

  Rockets consist mostly of concentric tubes, linked by short cones. Festoons of clingfilm, paper towers and silver foil littered the desk as he adapted their cardboard cores. After hours of frenetic cutting and gluing, there in the middle of the devastated room stood two model rockets. The first one was squat, just over a foot tall, with six solid rocket boosters set around a central lattice; a short tube with the familiar conical shape of a re-entry vehicle sat on top. Towering beside it, at over 2 feet high, was an instantly recognisable form.

  While Rocky worked away, Stephen was with the accountants, working out the cost benefits of the multinational involvement. He grabbed Ford by the arm as he passed by the office. ‘You’ll need to get even more partners on board if they haven’t found a rocket. I can bring in the Pure Corporation. They worked on the drones with us.’

  Ford knew that Pure already used drones to spy on celebrities and had ambitious commercial space ambitions. However, he disliked these large corporations and how they could devastate social enterprises and feared that all the higher motivations would be left behind in the wake of shareholders’ profits. Ford suggested that they should leave their powder dry and see what Rocky came up with.

  Stephen gave him a disparaging look. ‘Don’t hold your breath!’

  But rather than the figure of desperation he feared to see, by the time Ford tapped on the office door, Rocky was animated. Perhaps it was all that glue, but he was convinced he had the problem solved. ‘Ford!’ he exclaimed, blocking the doorway. ‘I’ve cracked it! Get the meeting room ready!’

  On a continent far, far away, two young brothers had already been toiling on their own project. It is never easy being an orphan and times had been particularly hard for these boys for most of their lives.

  Zulu and Bheki in Workshop

  The only consolation was that they were not alone. Sadly there were plenty of orphans in Zimbabwe and, as orphanages go, at least their home had a community spirit and kind-hearted people running it.

  They slumped exhausted on the dirt floor in opposite corners of the rusting iron-clad workshop.

  Zulu was proud of their contraption – almost as proud as he was of his little brother, who never ceased to amaze and annoy him in equal measure.

  Bheki was examining his knees when an oily rag came flying and attached itself to his face. ‘Go check the weather, little frog!’ his big brother signed demonstrably at him.

  He reluctantly dragged himself into the evening air. The first three stars of the night blinked in the glowing sky. The air was cooling and a taste of red dust lingered on. He sensed a breeze kicking up. ‘Hey, Zulu! The wind is coming.’

  With Zulu’s hand on his shoulder they watched how the vanes fluttered and slowly moved. The hand gripped Bheki as the rotor swung into the gathering breeze. The vanes were moving freely and the lights of the workshop flickered and grew steadier as the current flowed. ‘The little frog’s a genius!’ shouted Zulu as he whirled Bheki round the yard.

  Zulu had done much of the hard graft, especially sorting through the heaps of scrap from which they had made their turbine, but this had been Bheki’s idea and design. Hours of patient study at the Rhodes Library had paid off. Across the yard they heard the patter of Mr Herman’s sandals. ‘Fantastisch, jongens! That’s just amazing! Is it running those lights?’ He pointed towards the shed.

  ‘Yes, Mr Herman, that’s the power of the wind!’

  Mr Herman did a little jig. ‘We must get the children to see this!’

  Later that evening Zulu realised one drawback of their wonderful invention. ‘Ach! It’s real noisy!’

  Of course he knew this would mean nothing to his brother. Bheki hadn’t even heard the sound of Wilson as it rolled over Africa, but he had felt it deep in his chest. While everyone else strained their ears, he had taken an even deeper breath to discern it.

  Despite the noise, Zulu slept like a log, their efforts rewarding him with a leaden sleep. The next morning Bheki struggled to rouse him.

  Zulu slowly dragged his discordant clothes to him and dressed while still beneath the blanket. Sensing Mr Herman was about to enter the room, he sprang from his bunk, fully clothed and ready for action.

  A meagre breakfast was all they had to sustain them for the coming day. Bheki had been excused from class to help his brother.

  The testing and connecting had to be done with care. Their salvaged batteries sat in serried ranks, waiting to be charged. If they weren’t set up correctly, precious power would be wasted. Finally it was complete, and the two boys stood back in the hope that the electrons were flowing. Then Zulu hastily signed, ‘Time for class! I’m going up the hill.’

  In the rising morning heat the hot crystalline surface was difficult to walk on, even for his hardened feet. This was his land and the delicately curved igneous batholith, with its great skull shapes of rock, defined their surroundings. Granite landscapes are found throughout the world, but there was something particular about the balancing stones, the bulbous outcrops and fluorescent lichens that set the Matopos Hills apart. The red earth, blue sky and green thorn bush created a rich frame around the canvas of these dark-grey natural sculptures.

  On top of these rocks was laid out the extent of his world. He’d been allowed no further than Bulawayo. He was almost grown up and the sands of time were running out on his stay at the orphanage. He often came up here at night to escape his small world. The clear air and velvet darkness gave Zulu an unmatched view into the cosmos. He’d take Bheki here and they’d dream about the lands beyond the horizon and the wonders of the zodiac above. Bheki would spot the satellites and, as they passed, both of them would marvel at the evidence of a modern world far beyond their simple lives.

  Bulawayo

  Zimbabwe

  20.1S 28.3E

  Altitude: 4,455ft

  Geology: Highveld plain

  It was Zulu’s small obsession, this realm beyond. The less he experienced it, the more he wanted it, but the more it scared him.

  He would latch on to visitors and, rather than begging for dollars, he scrounged emails. Bheki was his clerk, firing off missives at the library. They had written to tourists, priests and government officials, and kept the best replies in a precious file. Pride of place was a letter from his own president, who’d replied that their email had been received and would be responded to in due course; it even had an official logo.

  At first the boys relied on visitors they could pester, but, amazingly, as word of their contraptions had leaked out, the world started to ask about them. The wind turbine was not the first thing they had made.

  Their first project was the playground with seesaws and roundabouts from axles and old tractor wheels. Then came a mobile phone-charging station and a small income for the boys. As well as the engineering, their homespun farming techniques were a testament to Bheki’s inventiveness. Their inverted plastic bottles, like a field of topless hourglasses, not only collected rain and dew for the young shoots, but also acted as mini greenhouses. The boys glowed with pride when they wandered through their towering corn.

  Normally Zulu would have left at 16, but with Bheki still young, he’d been allowed to remain.

  Their next project w
as to harness a turbine to granite stones and grind the corn. To them, milling corn by wind power was a novel and amazing invention.

  Zulu saw the sun was getting close to its zenith and decided he had to move. The small stones scattered as he landed on the ground. Watching out for the thorns, he worked his way down and back along the dusty path to the school. He still attended the lessons that would help him in the future. He was very excited because this was their exchange session with their twinned school in Baton Rouge, USA.

  Zulu and Bheki on Hill

  Mr Herman initially worried that it would upset the children to be exposed to the wealth and complexities of Western life; he was wrong. They loved it, and this applied to both sides of the equation. The African children sent letters and drawings, whose nondigital format had to be carefully explained to the Americans. In return they emailed short films.

  Zulu settled in next to Bheki. The performances by the American children often had the kids in stitches, especially when a nerdy kid called Buzz attempted a stumbling rap called ‘Ma and The Boyf’. For once, their own world seemed sane and normal, and they were fleetingly glad that they didn’t have parents.

  The door was locked and a small crowd was waiting impatiently outside room 501. The difference between waiting for a train and being late for one is all you need to understand Einstein’s theory of relativity.

  Rocky was nervous and as he frantically shuffled chairs around, he had a terrible vision of deckchairs and a floating life belt. Was this a crazy idea? Could they ever pull it off? Wiping the beads of sweat off his brow, he plumbed the depth of a lifetime’s experience, reflecting that he’d never started an enterprise with all the answers.

  With a broad apologetic grin, he opened the door and invited his colleagues in to a miniature ‘theatre in the round’. In the centre were two objects shrouded in thin black cloth.

  His audience were sitting spread out like the numbers on a clock.

  He wasn’t a great speaker and paced the room like an expectant father. He spoke in bullet points, counterposing the enormity of the task with possible outcomes.

  ‘Can anyone supply the large rockets needed? No.

  ‘Do we have the time to develop them? No.

  ‘Can we construct the mission in orbit like the ISS? No, it would take years.

  ‘Should we go home now? Not yet.’

  Rocky then turned to Ford. ‘I came back from Paris with no answers, to find Milton had them after all. This most demanding of missions is led by a man who drives a fifty-year-old van. Well! At least he won’t think I’m crazy.’

  He took a sip of water. Then he pulled the cloth off the first mystery object.

  On an occasional table, about a foot high, was a strange-looking rocket. It consisted of six rockets set around a lattice, made of glue-filled drinking straws, which cradled a lander made from an energy drink. He’d carefully glued on three legs from a model lunar module and attached six gas canisters from a soda syphon around the can’s girth with rubber bands. It all culminated in a hand-made cone and a pencil.

  Model Rockets

  The rockets had been cannibalised from the space shuttle kits bought at the Samsonian and were a perfect representation of the six solid rocket boosters offered by Milton. He worked round the model, tapping each of the lower three rockets. ‘These blast us into orbit and fall back to Earth to be returned to good old Milt.’ The rubber bands twanged as he slid them off, leaving the upper three still strapped around the cylinder.

  ‘This is the mainframe, the Mars lander, sleeping quarters, command module and escape tower.’ He then tapped the remaining three rockets. ‘These bad boys then kick us out of orbit to Mars itself.’

  Stephen gave a little cough and the attention moved on from Rocky. Holding his hand half aloft, he waited for a second to increase the impact. ‘So you’ve sent an energy drink to Mars! Where’s the rest of it?’

  The engineer with newly acquired French lifted the second cloth. ‘Voilà!’

  The room around him was deathly quiet as they took it in. Then, slightly apologetically, Rocky said, ‘I found this in the Samsonian.’

  He had revealed the second rocket. It was a perfect model of a Saturn V, also from the gift shop, but with the top section substituted with two tall peppercorn containers. At the apex were another Apollo command module and an escape rocket. A piece of black cardboard connected the spice containers to the lower rocket.

  A whisper from the back disturbed him. ‘Where’s the salt?’

  Standing back, he could see it looked absurd, but he knew it all made sense.

  Before he could regain the audience, Elton and Floyd interrupted. The accountants weren’t renowned for their gaiety; sarcasm was their forte.

  ‘Are we going to Arrakis?’ piped up Floyd. The reference to the spice planet was lost on most of the room, except Edward.

  Arrakis (aka Dune)

  Fictional planet

  Star system: Canopus

  Geology: Planetary Desert – Spice deposits

  Rocky had lost his flow and a nervous laugh reflected around the walls. He was now on a countdown to an explosion of red-faced rage.

  Ford stood up and stretched out his arms, like a hovering falcon. ‘Listen, this is serious. Rocky’s been halfway round the planet and returned with a proposition. I asked him to think outside the box.’

  Yasmin was feeling Rocky’s distress.

  Stephen sensed the stage was set to pick things apart. ‘Toy box, I say! You’re offering us six secondhand boosters and a vehicle that’s been out of production for nearly 50 years. You can’t be serious! This is a joke!’

  It was too much for the old chief engineer. He carefully placed the black cloths back over the models and, gesturing in the direction of his doubters, fired off an expletive, turned on his heel and stormed out.

  ‘Nut screws up and bolts!’ said Floyd with a snigger.

  The echo from the slamming door had hardly dissipated when everyone except Yasmin was sent back to their tasks.

  ‘Stephen, my office at five!’ Ford barked out. ‘Yasmin, please find Rocky and bring him to me.’

  As the afternoon sun cast its warm light on his desk, Ford picked up his worn book of Dr Beaton’s Guide to Project Management and turned to ‘Personnel and Team Conflict’.

  There was a knock on the door and in came Yasmin and Rocky, who slammed an envelope down on the desktop. ‘Lateral thinking, my ass. Put me on a desert island and I’ll build you a raft – a speed boat with a workshop – but I won’t have a bunch of lardy bums laughing at me while I do it.’ It was obviously a resignation letter, and Ford closed the book on the chapter ‘Empathy’.

  ‘What do they know? They know nothing. I’ve seen caravan parks with more imagination! Personally, I’m fascinated! Come on, for God’s sake, man, show us your plan again.’ He gently ushered him back towards the presentation room.

  Rocky shrugged it off. ‘I don’t see the point. It’s a crazy idea! Stuff ’em, I’m off.’

  ‘Listen, man! I’ll tell you if it’s crazy.’ Ford was desperate. ‘Look, weird can be wonderful.’

  He’d managed to guide Rocky to the shrouded shapes. Ford made them a coffee.

  ‘Come on, we’re on your side.’

  Removing the covers again, Rocky went through the whole launch and docking sequence, demonstrating with the models how the Saturn V with the maintenance crew, main quarters, supplies and return rocket would take off and get into low Earth orbit. Then the second ‘booster’ rocket containing the actual Mars crew, the lander and solid rocket burners would join the first in orbit and dock.

  He detached each stage, as would happen during the rocket’s flight. On board would be the technical crew who would help prepare the mission. He took off the command module capsule and put it in his breast pocket, then inserted the rest into the tubular space frame of the second rocket. They nested together perfectly.

  Space-walking from the capsule, the maintenance crew would make all th
e attachments and connections to prepare the ensemble for the outbound journey. They would then return to Earth in their re-entry capsule, leaving the intrepid Martian astronauts to prepare for their journey.

  Rocky ran through it again in case they’d missed something. At the head of the Mars rocket were the command module and the other re-entry capsule for their return to Earth. Behind it were the lander and sleeping quarters. Next came the living quarters and stores, and then the return rocket and three boosters. Holding it all together was a lattice of rings.

  He walked to the window and pointed the contraption towards the wooded hilltops that surrounded the valley to the east. A full moon was rising above the rim of the ridge. Pretending to propel it at the glowing orb, Rocky explained.

  ‘If we shoot this to the moon, it will slingshot and speed towards Mars double quick.’ He stripped off the last of the pencil-like forms. ‘We jettison these boosters and I reckon we’ll get them there in eight months.’

  He held up his index finger. ‘Big issue, though – even with a diddly-squat payload we can’t take enough fuel to get back off the surface.’

  Ford, having had his hopes raised, felt them dashed on the rocks. ‘Listen, fella, this ain’t no one-way mission.’

  Rocky gave a wicked smile. ‘Yep! Of course we need to refuel and – guess what? – we can do it on the surface.’

  Yasmin’s delicate eyebrows turned quizzical. ‘What if it doesn’t work? You’re stuck!’

  Suddenly Rocky’s face transformed with a knowing smile. ‘Exactamundo! We send a probe down there first! There’s ice just under the surface. With the right bit of kit we can make hydrogen and oxygen. The crew can sit in orbit until they know it’s working.’

  ‘What if the refuelling fails? How do we get them back?’

  ‘Ah! Remember Apollo 13? They used the rockets and fuel from their lander to get them home, and likewise we can use the fuel for landing on Mars to bring them back to Earth if we can’t make it down.’

  Ford needed to think. He sat down and examined his hands as if counting sheep. Yasmin sensed him working through the stages.