The Other Things

by Jonathan Dransfield

  He wrinkled his brow when he saw a flaw. ‘You’ll need a damned stable orbit, for one, and how long will we be stuck there?’

  ‘Give us a break, man! I’m working the problem!’

  Ford sat up and peered over his reading glasses at the now silent engineer. ‘That’s not crazy, that’s a plan! It’s cool!’ Then, with a slight shake of the head, he added, ‘There’s one thing missing. Where the hell do you get your Saturn V?’

  ‘Don’t you listen? I told you. Milton! The Samsonian!’

  Ford looked puzzled. Rocky enlightened him: ‘I don’t mean the model.’

  Yasmin cut in; after all, she’d been there with Rocky and Milton and Ford had gone home before their tour. ‘No, he’s got a very big rocket. Never seen a bigger one!’

  Ford looked deep into Yasmin’s wide eyes. ‘What? Where’s it hiding?’

  ‘Nowhere. It’s on display! You missed it, because you went home early.’

  Ford thought about the last time he had visited the Samsonian as a proper tourist, with Armstrong, his son. ‘You can’t mean that old heap that’s been rotting outside for all those years?’

  Now it was Rocky’s turn to clap his hands. ‘Like your camper van?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with my camper van. I’ve restored it!’ declared Ford with hurt pride.

  ‘So has Milton!’

  ‘OK, so it’s been given a lick of paint, but it’s still just an exhibit.’

  ‘You obviously don’t know Milton. He’s an obsessive. When he restores something, he doesn’t do half measures – it’s back to the original flight condition! Yasmin was there. That’s when I bought the models.’

  Yasmin joined in. ‘We nearly missed our plane. I thought you were getting those for your kids.’ With a frown she continued, ‘Didn’t Milt say it was a national monument? That means it’s kinda protected!’

  Rocky wasn’t to be put off. ‘Maybe, but if the president has declared it a national monument, he can “un-declare” it. This is his project, after all.’

  Ford scratched his nose. ‘Milton won’t let you take it! There’s no way he’ll agree.’

  Rocky fumbled with a piece of paper from his top pocket. ‘Don’t need to. I’ve got his holiday dates! Anyway, he’ll understand – he’s a rocket man. Look. This beauty was made to go to the moon, not stay in Houston. With a few parachutes, we can recover most of it anyway – really enhance its value. The first Martian rocket!’

  Ford was impressed. ‘So I can throw your letter in the bin?’

  As Ford returned to his office, he felt tired. That prospect of losing Rocky had been unnerving. Without his ace engineer, there was no project.

  ‘Good grief,’ he thought, ‘I have to deal with Stephen again.’ His heart sank. He had to give him another dressing-down, but he hardly had the energy.

  Entering the office, Stephen was already sitting in Ford’s chair and reading a newspaper with a supercilious smirk.

  Stephen gave the paper a shake and laid it on the desk. He greeted Ford. ‘In the news again?’

  Slightly confused, Ford read the open pages. ‘What? This is ridiculous. I never said that! And that’s a flaming lie!’

  Stephen just couldn’t help himself. ‘At least you’re not blaming it on me!’

  On the gossip pages of the Pasadena Globe was an archive photo of Ford with the headline ‘Blame it on God!’ As was typical of the Pure Corporation’s papers style, the roving reporters who by chance had encountered Ford at the country club finally realised they had the makings of a scurrilous piece of journalism.

  It claimed Ford and his previous team were living it up at NASA’s expense, to celebrate their role in the Wilson operation. Rather than applauding their discovery, the paper was on a witch hunt.

  It was grinding out a point that the world should have been warned about all the effects of the ‘Big Bang’ and been informed earlier. For them, the ‘witch’ was Luther Garvey, and Ford was one of his ‘familiars’ and therefore fair game. Ford’s throwaway line about an ‘act of God’ had been taken literally.

  Ford was just taking all this in when he was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He let it go to voicemail.

  He scoured the paper, then listened to the message. ‘You will burn in hell!’ was the short recording.

  Stephen had just caught the gist of it. Gesturing to the newspaper, he happily informed Ford, ‘It came out yesterday, and word’s got round. They were at the gate today. You know, “Antichrist” or “You will be damned!” placards. The local news stations were there too.’

  ‘What! When did this happen?’ Ford was now apoplectic.

  ‘During the meeting, but our “spooks” have dealt with it.’

  This didn’t reassure Ford. ‘What did they do? Baton charge them? Use tear gas?’

  Stephen held his palms up. ‘Don’t worry, our guys are quite subtle. They photo-ID them, download their data and have a word with the ringleaders.’

  ‘Data?’ Ford quizzed.

  ‘There’s always something. They just give them a glimpse of it – a recent text to a lover, a dirty download, a dodgy bank receipt or a late tax return. It never fails.’ Stephen circled the desk. ‘I’m sorry about this morning, but now there’s even more reason for security and you’ll find that these guys have their uses. By the way, I’ve asked them to look out for you when you leave.’

  Ford lowered himself slowly into the seat of his hired car, then eased the pedal and pulled out through the gate. A flash of the lights of not one, but three parked cars burst through the dusk behind him, and he had the distinct feeling that he was being followed. He took a swift right turn, but they followed like links on a chain. Easing his foot off the accelerator, he quickly glanced behind him. The ad hoc caravan was still there, keeping pace and following his twisting route. Putting his foot down again, he felt the car bottom out on one of the crests of the hilly roads.

  After the fourth turn and the third hill Ford had enough. He was an ex-fighter pilot, for heaven’s sake! He accelerated, leaving them in his dust before he hit the next crest. With wheels lifting off the ground, he stabbed on the brake pedal and pulled hard right on the wheel. The screeching car skidded round in a cloud of rubberised smoke. Easing his foot off, he allowed the momentum of the car to settle it backward into a vacant parking slot by the gates of a hacienda-style mansion. He killed the lights, just as the first vehicle breasted the hill and shot past. Having lost its quarry, the driver slammed on the brakes, only for the next car to roar over the summit. There was a screech of metal, followed by a hiss of released steam as it shunted the first vehicle’s rear. The last one glided to a halt parallel to Ford. ‘Better slip away back down the hill,’ advised the shades-wearing figure. ‘We’ll sort this out.’

  The neighbours emerged to view the argument in the street. From the first vehicle, a rusty-red pick-up with ‘You have been judged!’ emblazoned on the side, emerged a bear of a bearded man and a slight, long-nosed woman. Both wore matching T-shirts with ‘Jesus saves’ and ‘God invests’ printed on their fronts. In the other car were the cub reporters from the local rag. It’s one thing taking the name of the Lord in vain, but smashing into your pick-up is unforgivable. The press, rather than observing the news, were now in the thick of it. As the argument boiled over, Walt Slammer of Homeland Security joined the throng. Boy, was he going to enjoy sorting this one out.

  Ford had hardly settled into his room at the ‘Gulag’ when there was a knock on the door. It opened a little and Sharon’s immaculate face peered round. ‘I hear there was a spot of bother at the gate today. Wanna talk?’

  The rooms were big enough to work and entertain in.

  ‘Sure, and you’ll only have heard half of it. I was going to have a Scotch. Want to join me?’

  Sharon was in her tracksuit. He’d never seen her without make-up or a hair out of place. Pouring a stiff drink in the toothpaste tumblers, he recounted the journey home, his incomprehension as to why he was being targeted, and, triu
mphantly, how he’d outwitted his pursuers.

  ‘Oh, it’s either politics or just bad luck – or maybe Stephen,’ said Sharon. ‘He’s the kind of guy who attracts flies! Let’s forget him. There’s bigger issues.’

  He was slightly uncomfortable about having the younger woman in his room. ‘Well, that’s one big issue. Apart from the hardware, how do we find the crew?’

  Sharon smiled. She was unflappable. ‘We’ve made lots of progress. We now know who we need: two or three ageing super-humans.’

  Sharon took a sip of her dram and smiled at Ford. ‘As you know, the thing about rocket science is, it’s not that difficult, just very complicated and conflicting. We’ve got some great new astronauts – multitalented, male and female – but they’re all in their twenties and thirties and after puberty the body starts to lose its ability to repair itself, so their long-term risks are not good.’

  Sharon was referring to the health and radiation risks, which turn a possibility of cancer and bone loss in an older crew into a probability in a younger one, due to the simple fact that they were going to live longer after the mission. ‘The “more mature” group, you know, the over-fifties, are rather “old school”.’

  Ford laughed. ‘Yeah, like me!’

  ‘You wouldn’t be a bad candidate, actually, but you’re the coach, not a player. Anyway, I’m sure there’s a solution. We’ll just have to widen our net or think laterally. The problem is, the weight is so crucial, everything’s at its absolute limits, even when sending two.’

  Ford reiterated his mantra. ‘Remember, it’s all about the science. It’s easy to get lost in the mechanics and… we’re not doing it for the politicians.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that! Another shot, then it’s time for bed. It’s a long day tomorrow and time is not on our side.’

  Pouring Sharon a small one, he tentatively revealed his dilemma about the planetary conference. He’d made the commitment long ago and Jane, who’d made enough sacrifices anyway, was so very keen, but how could it not jeopardise the report?

  Sharon stroked his hand. ‘No worries, we’ll cope. That’s why we need a crew of six to go to Mars. We’re a team. We can cover for each other.’ And then, as an idle after-thought, she added, ‘You can’t send Stephen, can you?’

  Chapter 11

  Italy

  Caradoc

  Jane was in her thirties when she discovered the true Italy.

  The Welsh character has been forged by a tenacious people maintaining an independent spirit, despite recurrent waves of invasion. The Romans were the first. As a child she’d been hauled up Caer Caradoc, a beautiful mountain and a natural fortress. In that spot, after years of hard resistance under their leader Caradoc, the Welsh had made their last stand.

  Caer Caradoc

  Shropshire, England

  52.5N 2.6W

  Altitude: 1,506ft

  Geology: Extinct volcano

  Hot and sweaty and no lover of educational trips, a twelve-year-old Jane had stood on the ramparts and was surprisingly moved by its underlying intensity – its natural grandeur combined with the knowledge that here the history of her nation had been changed forever.

  Dreamlike she was transformed into one of the brave, braided defenders, facing down the ordered ranks of the iron-clad Roman fighting machine.

  Did the rocks below her feet record the misery of the day? Had the rain washed out every speck of blood? As the fantasy was about to overwhelm her with flashing swords and hails of imaginary arrows, her musings were brought short by Bethan’s call. ‘Jane! Come on down, we’ll miss the coach.’

  So it was that she had hence viewed Italy, like perfidious Albion, as a source of invasion and disruption. She was yet to realise that on that day her nation and even her very existence had been cast in the form she now held so dear.

  The defeated Caradoc was taken to Rome for execution. Facing his nemesis, the Emperor Claudius, he displayed such integrity that he was pardoned and was able to enjoy the rest of his days as Caractacus, a Roman citizen. Living in the splendour of Rome, he often wondered why this sophisticated state had been so obsessed with stealing the tents and sheep of his simple nation.

  For Jane, a weekend break in Rome led to a surprise enchantment with Italy. Instead of the remnants of a terrible imperial power, she found a nation, not unlike her own, with a strong sense of community, an enthusiasm for singing, a passionate love of sport, and better weather.

  She also found a philosophy that matched her own temperament. A trip to Herculaneum had introduced her to the work of Philodemus and Epicurus. She’d rejected the chapel of her childhood, which promised joy in the hereafter, but only after sacrifice in real life. The Epicurean philosophy was to attain a happy and tranquil life through self-sufficiency and friendship, which, coupled with the sunshine and good food, made so much more sense.

  Later she had discovered Epicurus’s genius for scientific conjecture, freeing her own creativity from deterministic thought. There was something that moved her in the ruins of Pompeii, frozen in time by the forces of the restless planet. Confident lives and their deaths, caught unawares in their everyday existence, sharing a common thread of humanity and imparting a sense of frailty about a person’s own existence. She had often worried what these people would have thought about gaining an immortality in such a public death. Their body casts displayed their vulnerability among the ancient ruins around them. Would it have given them any consolation that their sacrifice had imparted a unique insight into their lost world?

  Jane had not been back to Italy for ages and had been desperate to share it with Ford for years. Then, to her joy, the offer of the paid trip to the conference had come up. Her offer to write the paper was done purely to keep the excursion alive and now she was sitting in front of her computer and beginning to struggle. She felt quite relieved when the dog came in whimpering and yelping, moving between her and the door, a sure sign that he needed attention and a walk.

  ‘Come on, Macks, let’s go up to the ridge.’ She smiled. ‘It’s as if he understands me!’ she whispered to herself.

  Macks was animated and knew that a walk was now a certainty. His canine brain had limited capacity for language other than his own species’ limited yelps and barks, but he knew just by the way Jane’s body moved that it was going to be a decent walk. The trees were fresh with new growth and the grass was a vivid green. The dog kept pace most of the time, only stopping to mark a fence or a tree. The escarpment was mostly wooded and the walk was like travelling through a long verdant tube. Only on the ridge itself did the vista open over the valley below. Today Jane did not pause or stop and by the time she arrived at the back door, her mind was clear and the dog was happy. Back in the study, she clicked ‘Contacts’. One of the first on the list was Alim Azim.

  Stuck on a rock shelf, Alim had been chipping away on an unpromising formation just below the famous Burgess Shale in British Columbia. He’d stopped to eat a late packed lunch, unpeeling an egg in the same way he would reveal an ammonite. He was surprised when his phone started vibrating, and it took him a few seconds to place Jane. ‘Oh yes, Ford’s wife. Of course, we met last year.’

  ‘Can you give me some advice?’

  Holding the phone in one hand and the egg in the other, Alim wondered what advice he could give to someone with whom he’d had only the briefest of connections. Jane started to explain her predicament. Alim lodged the phone between his shoulder and his ear. Balancing the egg, he slowly took a slice of ready-buttered bread from the bag. Attentively listening to Jane and attempting to prepare the egg sandwich, he noticed a stray piece of shell. He tried to remove it by rubbing it with his nose. His efforts caused the phone to drop and, clutching at it, he ended up dropping both phone and egg.

  Jane, in the middle of asking why evolution might have been faster on Mars, heard a muffled, ‘Oh, bloody hell!’

  There was a pause and then Alim’s voice came back. ‘It’s a bit like my lunch – catastrophes happen and bring dr
amatic change. I’ve lost my bloody egg and am left with just the lettuce and tomato. What kind of sandwich is that? In other words, things can remain very stable until something upsets the status quo. Each time this happens, there’s an advance – eggs were one of them! Mars, being so much smaller than Earth, may have accelerated through change much quicker.’ Alim paused for thought. ‘We are, of course, making the assumption that everything has stopped on Mars. I’ve seen the ‘Angel’, but not put a date on it.’

  As a biologist, Jane had always been surprised how most of our ‘evolutionary action’ had happened so late. The human line has been in existence for the briefest snippet, 200,000 years; ants a great deal longer, 140 million years; insects, 400 million years. But ‘life’ has existed for about 4 billion years. Ten times longer! Thankfully early life hadn’t the capacity to get bored.

  This period was Alim’s forte. He loved bashing around in the lower rocks to find the smallest and most insignificant remains. Other palaeontologists literally looked down on him, as he was always at the bottom of the cliff or the incline, dodging the falling rocks and debris from his colleagues above.

  Alim was brimming with excitement. He found the prospect of the Mars fossils fascinating. He’d actually lain awake at night, trying to work it out. He had a lot to share with Jane, as she vigorously took notes. She was charmed by Alim’s patient explanation and his obvious attention to detail, and was very impressed that he remembered that Ford had a grandson called Buzz and a dog called Macks.

  Although she felt at ease with this strange character, she was surprised when he asked her a personal question.

  ‘Jane, what was the last big change in your life?’

  She didn’t have to think. ‘Meeting Ford.’

  ‘And it changed everything?’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  ‘Well, there you go. That’s how things really happen! Random event, big change. There must have been quite a lot of them on Mars.’