Luther put the two reports together. ‘Do you mind if I borrow that in my speech?’
‘What speech, sir?’ quizzed Ford.
‘When I announce the mission!’ Luther continued. ‘Remember, I’m the politician – that’s what I do, and you do the science. The main report didn’t contain all the answers. When I read “The Other Things”, I laughed like a drain. Then I slept on it and realised there were strokes of genius. That Saturn V was built to go into space, not a museum, and it resolves major deficiencies of the budget and timescales. But what really got me was sending the kids.’
Sharon listened in shock. ‘What kids?’ she whispered to Ford.
He looked sheepish. ‘Oh, just an idea I threw in.’
Luther filled her in. ‘An option where precocious children carry out the mission and work with their parents. It solves your weight problem. If I put both documents together, we have a plan. Let’s train up three teams, one with two seasoned astronauts – say… “The Right Stuff”? – one with three light adults, maybe… “The Elves”, and one with six kids.’
He looked down at the smaller report. ‘We’ll have to keep this classified, though, so let’s just call them “The Other Things”. The training will go right to the wire, so there’s time to see who performs best… And by the way, as for politics, let’s make them an international team, to spread the flak if you blow them up.’
Soraya was idly polishing the windscreen of her waiting black sedan as she saw Ford and Sharon emerge from the shaded back entrance of the White House and approach the car park.
‘Hiya, fella! Oh, and you, lady. The airport again?’
‘Sure!’ replied Ford distractedly.
‘Second time around for Mr Rocket Man, must be something brewing. Hey, I saw you in the rags again – here, look.’ From under her backside she pulled out a Pure Corporation magazine. Sharon skimmed it and found a picture of Ford, looking the worse for wear, and the headline ‘Rocket Man Now Believes in Fairies!’
‘I thought you said it was tough in Italy?’ Sharon flashed her eyes at him. ‘Forget the fairies. Two questions: why’d you keep your “great idea” so secret, and did the president really give us the go-ahead?’
‘Yes, sounded like it! Look, I’m sorry about the kids idea, I just wasn’t confident in it. Lucky I put it in, though, it might have saved the day.’
Sharon leaned over to get his full attention. ‘No, Ford! I’m serious. It nearly lost the day by being left out. Next time you share these things with me, OK? We’ve got a long way to go now!’
Ford grinned. ‘Thirty million miles and back, I suppose.’
‘Nah, the airport ain’t that far. We’ll be there in half an hour,’ interjected Soraya, enthusiastically chewing her gum. ‘You going to space again, Mr Starman?’
Ford was not too keen to discuss it. ‘No, not me personally. Anyway, it’s classified.’
‘Me too – classified chauffeur. Nah, sorry, licensed! Listen, if you need someone to drive your rocket, I’m your woman!’ She swerved to avoid an approaching car. ‘If you can drive here, you can drive anywhere!’
Ford took a deep breath. ‘You’d have to have been a pilot first!’
He could see Soraya’s face light up in the rear-view mirror.
‘That’s me – first female pilot in New York – boats, not planes, though!’
‘They don’t count,’ replied Ford, relieved.
‘Nonsense, boats are far more like spaceships. The clue’s in the name!’
A pause, then: ‘OK, we’ll call you first!’
The flight back gave Ford and Sharon time enough to plan. They poured over the papers Luther had given them. They could see his extraordinary talent. He had taken their findings and turned them around overnight. The main gist was: don’t waste a minute; the next administration will kill the deal.
Luther had already laid the diplomatic groundwork to bring in other space agencies straightaway. They also needed to order the hardware, ‘steal’ the rocket, and choose and train the crews immediately. Luther had included a special presidential order for the Saturn V, and the curator’s holiday schedule.
As for the kids – there should only be one American; the rest should come from all over the globe, and particularly one from Africa.
If the mission was going to be about anything, it was about one world and a future for its children’s children.
Chapter 16
Removed for Restoration
It was the dead of night, an unusual time to visit a museum. But this was no ordinary trip. Rocky and his team had been coaxing ancient diesel engines into life since early evening and as the convoy finally left its desert home, a mist of white smoke fogged the air as it spluttered its way to the city.
The sound of rumbling trucks, amplified by the glistening tarmac, forced Rocky to bark orders over the crackling intercom. All was in place, and since getting the ‘go-ahead’, he had been working all hours to prepare for tonight’s audacious foray.
Their route had to be meticulously planned to allow the massive trailers to navigate their way without getting stuck at junctions or under bridges. Leading the pack was the massive wasp-yellow 32-wheeled crane that would do the lifting. Each trailer or triple trailer had a cradle to take its cargo. In Rocky’s breast pocket was the signed consent from the president to remove the exhibit.
The flashing lights of police patrols were at each major junction, smoothing the passage along the route. It would take four hours to accomplish their mission. Rocky felt like a thief in the night, because Milton was on holiday and had not even been consulted. This was the man whose trust Rocky had gained on his recent visits to inspect the object of tonight’s escapade, the man who had so enthusiastically helped him to examine the prize exhibit, not suspecting the subplot.
Rocky put such thoughts aside as he dropped down from the cab with the museum keys in his pocket and the codes for the alarms. In a flash they had the gigantic cargo doors open and the crane was slipping into the tight aperture, like a squeeze of yellow oil paint in reverse. The object of their desire was massive. Even the smallest third stage of the rocket, at 60 feet long, appeared daunting enough. The team held their collective breath as the first rocket was lifted, then rolled onto the trailer. Consent or not, they had decided to keep the lights off to minimise attention. In the torchlit gloom, one by one, they lifted each stage off its stand onto the waiting trailers. One false move could have caused irreparable damage to the fragile sections. Suddenly, as they gingerly moved the last 140-feet-long behemoth onto its train of three equally spaced trailers, the lights split the night.
Mr Marley, the janitor’s third assistant, had been rudely roused from his dreams by the hushed commotion. Throwing on whatever clothes he could find, he stood in awe of the sight before him. His flannel underpants and wife’s pink dressing gown did not give him an air of authority. Only his hat belied his position to challenge the proceedings. Rocky rushed over, frantically waving his ID tags.
‘It’s OK, routine maintenance. Surely you were informed?’ he blustered.
Marley slowly scrutinised the ID tags and then the letter of consent produced from Rocky’s pocket. Shaking his greying head, he just said in a low drawl, ‘This ain’t right, there’s somethin’ missing. You can’t just take them and leave nothing.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ thought Rocky. ‘We’re not going to have to knock him on the head and throw him in the trunk?’
‘They always leave a sign!’
Then Rocky got it. ‘Oh! Of course, I’ve got them in the case.’
To Marley’s relief, out came three framed signs reading, ‘This exhibit has been temporarily removed for restoration’.
There was a long pause as he took a look at the trailers and the signs. ‘OK, sir, I guess that’s fine. Make sure you close the doors properly.’
Glad to return to his bed, Marley trudged back. But then he stopped and addressed Rocky again. ‘Hey! Wait a minute. Ain’t they just been restored
?’
Rocky gave a wave. ‘This is to restore them to their original purpose.’
Then they were on the road, with the rocket that would have sent Apollo 18 to the moon. Heading straight out of town, the convoy only raised the attention of passing dogs and drunks, whose stories would never be heard or listened to.
Out on the straight highways and leading south, the darkness began to give way to an eastern glow, and small, friendly farmsteads started to appear, with the odd lamp being flicked on as ‘early birds’ rose to tend their animals. Rumbling on at 40mph, the widest convoy to ever grace these roads passed like a ghost in a forest. Rocky anxiously rode shotgun in the front wagon. Small talk with his driver Gus was perfunctory and avoided any explanation. These were guys who had shifted stuff before and knew not to ask too many questions.
Rocket Convoy
As the first rays of the rising sun kissed the tall poplars ringing the base, Rocky’s relief was palpable. They’d made it before the build-up of the heavy morning traffic. The rocket stages were deposited in launch order in the vast hangar, to be prepared for their ultimate destiny.
Rocky had a sudden moment of fear and doubt. These machines were made in the same year as Ford’s camper van. Considering their vintage, how could they possibly be suitable for a modern mission?
Then he remembered Ford’s adage: ‘When my camper breaks down, I need a spanner; when my car breaks down, I need a tow truck and a computer.’
Buzz was overjoyed about extending his break at his grandparents’ rural heaven. His mum had pleaded for at least an extra two weeks. The Boyf had done a bunk and, at the edge of sanity, she wasn’t able to look after her poor son.
He busied himself around the farm with Jane and tended the lambs with the two farmhands, Eric and Ernie. The afternoons were spent looking at the ant nests. Buzz could stay fixed in a position for hours, but even he was getting fidgety sitting on an old log.
‘Why’d you find ants so interesting, when Granf plans rocket missions?’ he asked innocently. He was fascinated by the colony, but it was like a school project compared with the grown-up stuff of rocket science.
Jane told him how she saw it. ‘Buzz, this is big science. It’s about intelligence. I’m trying to figure out if these creatures have any identity outside that of the nest. Are they even aware of living?’
Buzz was already sure. ‘It’s obvious, Granj. Dudley knows what she’s doing. I’ve watched her – she’s really smart.’
Jane ruffled his hair; he hated that. ‘Well, there’s the rub. Classically they seem too small to be able to process the information to make their own decisions and act as we observe. We’re either reading too much into it or there’s something else happening.’
Buzz was sure of his own observations. ‘What else is happening?’
Jane smiled at him. Why couldn’t his mum be like this? She was always cross.
‘It’s complicated,’ Jane pronounced.
He sat staring across the valley. ‘Everything’s complicated,’ he returned in frustration.
Jane tried harder. ‘OK, the ants’ brains appear too small to do a lot, but they do so much more. It’s like they have an extra spark! I’m sure they work on a quantum level, which is how the universe works deep down, where it’s kind of fuzzy. It allows for all sorts of possibilities. A lot people find it difficult to understand because everything’s uncertain.’
Buzz could identify with that. ‘It sounds just like home!’
The afternoon light was diminishing and the bright beacon of Venus was clearly visible. Buzz looked around at the sky, the trees, the rocks and the grass. He wore a quizzical expression, as if sniffing the air. ‘My mind’s not a machine, neither is an ant’s. I think all life has the same spark, that quantum thingy. It’s just that we have more sparks than they have.’
‘At least some of us do,’ reflected Jane. ‘Hey, we have to get back home for the president’s speech!’
There was hardly time for the kettle to boil before the radio crackled with the live broadcast by Luther Garvey.
‘I have come here today to Rice University to be on the very spot where my great predecessor made us a promise in the 1960s.
‘Let me quote. “For the eyes of the world now look into space, to the moon and to the planets beyond, and we have vowed that we shall not see it governed by a hostile flag of conquest, but by a banner of freedom and peace.” He gave this commitment. “We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organise and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too.”
‘Well, we as a nation fulfilled that promise to go to the moon, but nearly fifty years later, what about “the other things”? Sure, we have sent probes and robots to the other planets, but the dream of humanity freeing itself from the bonds of Earth has passed us by.
‘Maybe we can forgive ourselves for our lapse. To quote another great man, “The Earth is the only world known so far to harbour life… and the Earth is where we make our stand” – and maybe we’ve been too busy making our stand.
‘However, this year, two events have made us look again into space. One was evident to all, the other I will reveal today. Our space visitor, asteroid Wilson, forced us to regard the heavens with fear and trepidation, and only by God’s grace did we not follow the fate of the dinosaurs.
‘We should take it as a message not to dwell entirely on the delights or woes of our planet, but to always look for the bigger picture. Those new horizons have been focused by an extraordinary discovery.
‘Our rovers on Mars have been working beyond expectations for years. One has recently found what could be a fossil, not of some small microbe, but of a creature so highly developed, it would show that complex life was not unique to this planet. It hints at the prospect of a universe abundant with living beings.
‘I asked a young scientist the other day, why should we boldly go and investigate this thing? She said these words: “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.”
‘We would be foolish to ignore these events and get on with our humdrum lives. I believe it’s time to complete the dream and do “the other things”.
‘I have decided to send a human mission to Mars, not for America but for the world, to investigate this extraordinary discovery. What’s more, we shall do it by the end of the decade and not because it’s easy; we will do it because it is hard.’
The sputter of the flat-4 1600cc engine suddenly filled the yard.
‘Oh my goodness, it’s Ford!’ exclaimed Jane. She’d lost track of time. Ford was home early and in time to follow the speech on the VW’s radio.
Jane and Buzz danced out to greet him.
‘Well done, cariad! We’ve just heard the speech. It’s official!’
Ford’s natural enthusiasm bubbled over as he told them of the latest developments. ‘Guess what! We’ve got the rocket! Rocky liberated it.’
‘Wow!’ exclaimed Buzz. ‘A real rocket!’
Jane made them all a cup of tea. The farmhouse table creaked under the weight of sandwiches and three sets of elbows. The odd crumb fell onto the gingham tablecloth as Buzz listened intently to his grandfather – the drama at the White House and how they’d nearly lost the mission, but for his idea.
‘Does that mean I can go to Mars, Granf?’
Ford ruffled Buzz’s hair. He flashed Ford a peeved glance as he hastily rearranged it.
‘Well, someone’s going to go, but don’t hold your breath. Three teams are being evaluated, and there’s a world full of people to volunteer. We’re working with the Europeans and they’re very particular in their selection ethics.’
> ‘Just like FIFA?’ chipped in Jane.
Luther was always cautious of the mercurial CEO of the Pure Corporation, Victor Relish. Relish had at one time patronised Garvey, hoping he’d toe the line, but discovered Luther’s inconvenient independence of mind. Since then, Victor had encouraged his empire to subtly undermine Luther wherever possible.
Now anyone associated with Luther got the same treatment. Luther Garvey knew not to go toe to toe with Victor, so when they met at the reception after the announcement it was all warm smiles but cold hearts.
‘Luther, I’m surprised you haven’t come to us to do your big project. NASA is history. Surely it’s time for the private sector to run the show?’
‘My dear Victor, there are no profit margins in this, it’s purely scientific. Besides, your corporation have hardly been sympathetic.’
‘A good contract is worth a lot of sympathy,’ said Victor with a laugh. Then he added sinisterly, ‘We’ve got better people too. That man’s a buffoon.’
This annoyed Luther, as no details had been announced yet. He looked Victor wearily in the eye, considering what to say. ‘I’ve seen you play the buffoon yourself, but you’re a shrewd guy.’ After a brief pause he continued, ‘So what could you offer our mission?’
Victor took a sip of coffee.
‘All or nothing, but I don’t like to get involved with public projects – all that red tape! Anyway, I’ve the corporation to consider and we’re keeping our options open on the new presidential candidates. I think it may be time for a woman.’
Victor Relish could indeed play the buffoon. He was the epitome of the ‘self-made man’ and played the innocent commoner when it served him.
He was born to hard-working parents, but his father had died when he was young, after a lawyer in an expensive convertible knocked his father off his pushbike. The injustice of seeing how wealth was used to exonerate the careless driver made Victor determined to fight his way through life. His first break was at the age of seventeen, when he converted his scooter and installed a small pizza oven behind the driver. He could deliver and cook pizzas at the same time. By the age of twenty-four it was a worldwide franchise, Pure Pizzas. He found that with wealth came the respect he craved, and his talent for spotting a gap in the market came again when he worked on the company’s first websites. He saw the possibilities of the web for distributing news that was, like his pizzas, hot, spicy and for common tastes.
The Other Things Page 18