The Other Things

by Jonathan Dransfield

  The visitors, who were mightily relieved to gain a guide whom they could outrun, were left in Bheki’s tender care and Zulu made his way to the low ochre-coloured huts of the main compound.

  He flung the odd rock into the bush to abate his anxieties.

  ‘Zulu, mijn jongeman. It’s been eight years since a sad, young boy entered this office with his baby brother in his arms.’

  Zulu couldn’t stand the tension and Mr Herman’s obvious discomfort. ‘Are you sending me away?’

  ‘Well… it’s not simple, but it is time to join the big, wide world. You’re eighteen now and that’s two more years than we’re supposed to allow.’

  Zulu knew there was no welcoming ‘big, wide world’ out there – only the prospect of unemployment, tough living or at best life as a servant in some post-colonial household. ‘I’ve more chance of touching the stars than joining the big, wide world! Ach! Who’s going to look out for Bheki?’

  ‘Oh… Bheki’ll be OK. He’s deaf, but he has extraordinary talents, as have you! If you can’t touch the stars, we’ll find a way for you on this earth.’

  Zulu shivered. ‘But… I have no family except this. Everyone has family and you are cutting me off! The outside world might offer me work, but who will care for me? Where can I run to when things don’t work out?’

  A tear started to roll down his dark cheek. He swiftly brushed it off. He was trying to be a man, but the scared little boy still leaked out of his eyes and he knew that Mr Herman was no Daddy. The only man who had that gift was lost when Zulu was very young. Zulu took a deep breath. ‘OK, what can I do?’

  Mr Herman looked at his notes. He had been in this position so many times before. ‘I want to help you study. But we have limited funds – perhaps we can ask those contacts to help? Let’s get Bheki on to the emails and make a plan. What about that Welsh woman?’

  The grey London skies did not dull the pungent aromas and the smell of baking bread pervading the restaurant. Mo was trying to get his father’s attention against the cacophony of raised voices and busy waiters. This was a Formica-table version of heaven for the boy. Salt lassi, fresh bread, hot kebabs and his father’s attention.

  ‘How was Ramadan for you, my lad?’

  ‘Boring! What about you, Daddy?’

  ‘Oh, very difficult. I’ve been at the conference, so fasting was damned impossible. I did miss breakfast twice, to keep my hand in,’ he said, helping himself to a morsel of spiced lamb and green minty yoghurt. ‘Guess what I’ve got in my pocket? A reward for your school results!’

  Mo loved surprises so drummed his hands on the table vigorously.

  Alim waved two tickets in the air. ‘The Oval this afternoon. T20 match – it’ll be fun.’

  Mo even enjoyed the long bus ride to the ground, and they had barely taken their seats before Mo was enthusiastically waving his ‘6’ card as the third ball arced into the roaring crowd.

  Alim wafted away the smoke of a clandestine cigarette and sipped his beer, waiting for a lull in the match in order to talk seriously.

  ‘Hydration break? What the heck’s that!’ complained Alim as the players took ‘drinks’. This gave him a golden opportunity to talk. ‘I spoke to the school, and they’re happy to give you extra holiday, as they’re still mopping up after the floods. I’m off to the States to help NASA with their “interpretations”. Would you like to come and see some real space rockets and the “Big Country”?’

  Heading west at 40,000 feet, Jane was sleeping and Buzz was playing on his tablet. Ford was catching up on the reports sent by Sharon. The science and engineering teams had come up with some radical ideas. He was so excited, he nearly woke up Jane; then the words ‘why’, ‘nerdy’ and ‘don’t you ever’ came to mind.

  The teams proposed a series of generators, dropped onto the surface, which would push heated probes deep into the ground. This would melt the subsurface ice and produce steam to generate the electricity needed to split the condensed steam into oxygen and hydrogen. Tiny compressors would pump the gases into cylinders, to provide the fuel to get off the planet.

  Ford admired several hand-drawn illustrations showing the ‘modules’. Six would be sufficient, and they were light enough to be delivered to the surface in the conventional gas bags used to land the smaller rovers.

  A big issue was to land them close enough to the mothership. If they bounced over a wide landing ground, the whole mission time might be taken up with retrieving them or, worse, it might leave the astronauts stranded.

  How could they achieve a totally stable orbit to be delivered with absolute precision? In addition, they could only estimate the ground conditions, so if any generators crashed or didn’t find water ice, the crew could get stranded. These were questions that needed to be answered and Ford’s rested mind was back to a well-honed sharpness.

  He stared out of the window, working out a way to achieve a stable orbit. Ford still retained his joy of flight, and always insisted on a window seat. The dark night skies were pierced by the intense moonlight that caught the clouds below, like a never-ending carpet of lamb’s wool.

  Craning his neck, Ford saw the moon, almost full. He recalled the times it had guided him home on long night flights. Knowing the time, he could use the moon to check his orientation. ‘Totally predictable,’ he thought. The moon’s orbit was known to the very millimetre.

  ‘Of course!’ came a flash of brilliance. ‘Why not use Phobos, Mars’ largest moon? We know its orbit precisely!’

  The orbits of the moons are known accurately enough for the Mars rovers to photograph their eclipses of the sun. They are too small to cover its disc and the moons look like potato-shaped blemishes, rather than the Earth’s fantastic spectacle. A lunar eclipse of the sun from the Earth is a beautiful and transcendental experience, as the mechanics of the cosmos unfold before the fortunate observer. It is also one of the most extraordinary sights in the whole universe.

  The width of the moon appears to be the same as the sun’s when seen from Earth. This can allow a view of not only the sun’s atmosphere and tiny red solar flares, but also the exquisite ring of diamonds, created as the edges of the sun are seen through the moon’s hills and valleys.

  Eclipse

  The process takes at least an hour, with the light diminishing and temperature dropping, and whirling birds preparing to roost.

  The sun is so brilliant that only at the final second can the black disc of the moon be seen to cover the sun exactly, like a bullet hole in the fabric of the sky. The world stands still for no more than a few brief minutes, but the experience will last a lifetime.

  Suddenly a number of solutions crashed into place in Ford’s mind. If the astronauts landed on Phobos first, they would have a completely stable place from which to launch the components of the mission with absolute precision.

  The homecoming rocket stages could remain on the tiny moon, waiting securely for the returning crew. They could even stay on the tiny satellite until the fuel generators were working.

  ‘Wow!’ he thought. ‘That would be an amazing double.’ Mars’ moons were probably captured asteroids, so they’d be the first astronauts to land not only on another planet, but also on an asteroid.

  Even if the landing on Mars had to be aborted, there’d be some wonderful scientific discoveries to be made on Phobos they’d be able to take home. If they pulled the whole thing off, it would be two missions for the price of one!

  Phobos

  Ford was very pleased with himself and ordered a large glass of red wine, and a cola for Buzz. ‘How’s it going, kiddo?’ He poked the engrossed child. Buzz was playing a game that only kids seemed to excel at. Ford had tried it himself, but got stuck on level three; Buzz was on level nine.

  Phobos – Son of Mars

  Largest of Mars’ moons

  Size: irregular, 27 x 22 x 18km

  Orbit: approx.

  9,375km

  Orbital speed:

  2.14km/s

  Geology: Congl
omerate of rocks and ice

  He leaned fondly against the still-snoozing Jane, and mused on the problem of the crew’s weight, thinking again of their al fresco meal in the shadow of Vesuvius. ‘Send us, we can do it!’ That’s what they’d said.

  His mind to wandered down that train of thought and he considered himself at that age.

  ‘Hell, I would have loved to go. We’d expected to see whole families in space in the twenty-first century, watching Lost in Space and all.’ Then, ‘Mmm, families… Clever as they are, these kids ain’t alone in their precociousness. They work with their mothers or fathers, or me in Buzz’s case. Maybe… they’d be like little avatars.’ A potato crisp melted on his tongue, until he washed it down with another sip of heady red wine.

  ‘An expert crew on the ground, controlling their little “mini-me”s in space.’ With a guttural spasm he choked on the next sip as he remembered Armstrong. ‘I couldn’t ever control him in my own yard!’

  Stephen’s feet pounded down the gravel paths as the glaucous pines gave way to the mellow hues of oaks and chestnuts. His steps beat out his thoughts, his mind churning over his schemes. The more he worked with the project team, the more he wanted to get out of LA.

  He had hoped that scientists and engineers would be logical, but this lot were totally unpredictable. All this ‘thinking outside the box’ and jokes about Schrödinger drove him insane. His only allies seemed to be the accountants; at least they shared his jaded view of the world.

  The sooner he could put this stupidity to bed, the sooner he would be back to doing ‘real work’. While Ford had been in Italy, Stephen had been playing ‘Mr Nice Guy’, getting to know his colleagues’ work and ideas. Now Ford was back, he was working out how to debunk them. The old trick of inflating the costs was welcomed by his own little cohort and quite defensible, as projects like these usually went wildly over budget.

  Stephen had warmed to the scheme of using the Saturn V from the Samsonian, convinced – it being a ‘national treasure’ – it was a convenient blind alley. He revelled in the fact that even the ‘boffins’ were scornful about what a skeleton crew could achieve.

  As he pushed himself on the final stretch into headquarters, he decided to send in his own report to the president.

  Sharon and Imran had put together the tightest mission plan they had ever made. There were still unresolved issues and they were glad to have Ford back with refreshed vigour.

  The president’s schedule dictated they’d need to have the astronauts trained and equipment ready in eighteen months. As they planned to assemble elements in Earth’s orbit, two crews would be required: one for the mission and a second to help with construction.

  The two rockets needed to take off almost simultaneously and the mission would blast out of orbit on the great curved arc for eight months to bring them into the welcoming gravitational pull of Mars.

  On approach a long rocket ‘burn’ would brake them into orbit. Then they’d launch their fuel generators onto the planet’s surface, leaving them in orbit for two weeks while they confirmed that everything was working; if it wasn’t, they’d still have sufficient fuel in the lander to return to Earth.

  If everything went well, the lander would attempt a completely new method to reach the surface of Mars. The landing would need to be extraordinarily precise, right in the centre of the fuel cells. The crew would be on the surface for four months. From the base they’d have a radius of 150 miles to explore. On their return they’d blast off to join their mothership waiting high above.

  Then a return journey of another eight months before splashing down to a hero’s welcome.

  That was the best plan they could come up with, and it was far from perfect.

  Landing on Phobos came as a gift from heaven. As a keen golfer, Sharon knew the difference between holing from a bunker or the green.

  Yet three brooding issues still cast their shadows.

  One – the budget. Stephen was keeping his team’s cards so close to his chest, they had no idea what he’d be reporting.

  Two – health and safety. They were in the hands of ‘mission killer’ Edward Stalk to approve their assessments. Safety was paramount and he was totally independent in his judgement.

  Three – justification. The scientific objectives were crucial and still far from being resolved.

  Chapter 15

  The Presentation

  A fly buzzed lazily around the Oval Office. Luther Garvey was exhausted. He’d just entertained the Chinese ambassador before a meeting with the chiefs of staff of the armed forces. Watching its descent towards the fruit bowl, he growled, ‘How d’you get past security?’

  It seemed an age since Ford’s capers around that big carpet, and tomorrow they were to present the conclusions of his ‘pet project’ in person. He’d asked for the report up front and to his surprise there were three in his in-tray. The main report was a weighty tome with a picture stuck on it and blue text. There was also an unsolicited report from Stephen Dyer, beautifully produced on exquisite paper. The third was an addendum by Ford, called ‘The Other Things’. This contained all the other solutions that the team had come up with. These ideas ranged from sound ideas, such as storing the mission’s water and waste in an external skin around it to limit the damage from cosmic rays, to criminal – stealing the Saturn V from the Samsonian – and crazy – the ‘mini-me’ crew.

  Luther skimmed the main report. ‘Great attempt, but no cigar,’ he whispered to himself.

  Stephen’s finely embossed work looked like a funeral announcement. Skipping over it, he started to read ‘The Other Things’.

  The concept of a ‘wee-wrapped’ spaceship tickled Luther. Stealing a rocket from the museum had him in stitches. Then he read with astonishment about the kindergarten crew and heaved with suppressed laughter.

  Belle heard the grunting sound over the intercom. In panic she dashed to the cabinet on the wall and burst into the room, wielding the two pads of the emergency defibrillator, to find her patient sobbing hysterically into his ‘Stars and Stripes’ handkerchief.

  She rushed over. ‘Are you OK, Mr President?’

  Luther dabbed away the tears, and with a grin as broad as the Mississippi said, ‘Never been better, Belle.’

  Ford and Sharon arrived early for their presentation. They were surprised to find Stephen there and full of himself. ‘You do know the president and I go back a long way? He wants to see me first.’

  Belle came in and took Stephen into the inner sanctum.

  Stephen entered the office and took out a copy of his report.

  ‘Thank you, Stephen, I’ve already seen that. Please sit,’ said Luther. ‘I read a lot of reports, but tell me in your own words about these misgivings.’

  Stephen explained how the project wasn’t credible and the team had been stumbling around, cooking up dumb ideas to cover up the fact that it was ill-conceived, and he wasn’t going to put his name to it. Most of all, he was the only one honest enough to say so. Only his team had been realistic in their costing and the project was going to be way over budget.

  Luther thumbed through the thick, textured paper of Stephen’s report. Then he assured him that it was useful to have a second opinion.

  ‘If this falls flat on its face, I guess you are keen to get back to Washington, Stephen?’

  For a moment Stephen’s hopes rose. ‘Yes, sir!’

  Standing up, Luther shook his hand. ‘Time to let the other guys make their pitch. They’ve come a long way.’ As Stephen was leaving, the president gave a little cough. ‘By the way, I didn’t get here by being too realistic. It can get in the way of your dreams. Your budget is good – just what I’d anticipated.’

  Sharon was in awe as she entered the room. No secret doors this time. She soon fell to earth. Without pleasantries, or even an offer of coffee, a stern-faced Luther cut to the chase. ‘No need for presentations. I’ve read the reports.’

  ‘Reports?’ Sharon was confused.

  Luther
picked up the main report. ‘I asked for a plan to get us to Mars and back, but this doesn’t slice the salami.’ He then held up the addendum. ‘Why the “Other Things” thing? I asked for one report!’

  Ford shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘I put all our crazy ideas in there. Some were untested and others politically difficult…’

  Luther retorted, ‘Do you think politics is more difficult than science and engineering?’

  ‘Erm…’ Ford answered cogently.

  ‘You’re both boffins. Can you tell me what Niels Bohr said about difficult problems?’

  Niels Bohr

  1885–1962

  Danish physicist and philosopher, received the Nobel Prize in Physics for his foundational contribution to the understanding of atomic structure and quantum theory.

  Sharon came to the rescue. ‘“Your theory is crazy, but it’s not crazy enough to be true”?’

  A smile broke over Luther’s face. ‘Oh, I like that! My quote was “Every great and deep difficulty bears in itself its own solution. It forces us to change our thinking in order to find it”, but that will do fine!’

  He picked up Stephen’s clandestine report. ‘There’s also a doubter in your ranks with a very convincing case to abandon the whole idea. Can you give me one good reason why not?’

  Luther was content to wait as a myriad of thoughts went through Ford and Sharon’s minds as they struggled find the compelling answer.

  Slowly Sharon took a good look at the famous room, in case it was her last opportunity. She closed her eyes and spoke.

  ‘This office is like a myth, but now I’m here, I can see it’s real! I believe by existing we make the universe a more tangible place. Without life, what’s the point? If we find life on Mars, it’s obviously part of the fabric of everything, not just special to Earth!’