The two boys were wondering what on earth he could be talking about.
‘Zulu, I know your greatest fear was leaving Bheki. Well, I’ve some sad news. I’m losing both of you!’
The boys looked at each other. ‘What have we done? Why are you sending us both away?’
‘I’m not doing the sending. I’ve told you to be careful with your wishes, as they sometimes come true. You’re off to the USA!’
The votive offerings of olive oil and salt at the Temple of Mars had worked their magic. Enza had laid them on the small altar in the ruins. An email had just invited Enza and her mother for evaluation in the States. Giulio was putting a brave face on it. He’d been rejected. Someone had to run the restaurant and with the season ending he’d cope. Anyway, they’d soon be back.
Ford saw Buzz’s name on the long list of applicants. Buzz had not mentioned it, in case Ford would have said no. Henrietta assured him that it had gone through according to due process.
Mo and his father were also called, much to Alim’s alarm.
It was a bright morning with a slight scent of autumn in the air, as the light streamed through the vertical windows of the hangar door.
An apprehensive crowd had gathered in the vastness of the testing facilities. Whether novices or old stagers, there was no one here who didn’t feel a frisson of anticipation.
To the left were the clean-cut men and women from the astronauts’ pool, then a badly dressed group of scientists. In the centre was a smart Chinese contingent, and to the right a host of ‘can’t quite believe I’m here’ Alumni applicants.
Yasmin took the stage, and with a large electronic blackboard, she explained the formula for the next week. The first hurdle was designed to weed out those unable to withstand the rigours of space flight and isolation. They could call themselves only by their allocated number, and could leave at any time, sworn to secrecy, with the promise of a cash reward when the mission started. ‘What goes on in the hangar stays in the hangar!’
Across the crowded room, Buzz was excited to see his friends Elin and Enza standing with their mothers. They rushed through to meet him.
‘Buzz, we all made it!’ they screamed.
Buzz looked at the other 237 people there.
‘There’s a whole heap of people here,’ he whispered to Enza.
She was wide-eyed with excitement. ‘What they going to do with us?’
‘Granf told me it’s all physical at first. They throw us about a lot!’
Elin was intrigued. ‘Wow, other kids there are, and oldies. One, his cigarette he had to put out!’
There was a maelstrom of activity where they had to change into their designated white, blue or red overalls.
Coming back into the hall, they were taken in mixed groups of six to a field of forty airstream trailers.
The flat dirt parking lot resembled a scene from Mars, as the stainless-steel streamlined shapes gleamed in the sun against the red desert earth.
Elin walked with her mother, her spirit of adventure melting as she eyed their fellow applicants. Each trailer or ‘pod’ had a black tent outside where the applicants were blindfolded before being called for the tests.
The pod interiors were white plastic with blackout windows. There was a cramped WC and padded benches where they’d live, eat and sleep for the next seven days. By each door was a large red button that they could press at any time if they wanted to go home.
By the end of the first morning at least 10 people had opted to push the red button.
In the pod the seats were arranged to face each other. Elin and her mother sat impassively in their blue overalls, and before they could introduce themselves, even by their numbers, the intercom crackled. ‘Candidate numbers 68 and 69, please make your way to the airlock.’
Everyone hurriedly checked their badges and two slight middle-aged women got up and hurried out without speaking. Nobody dared talk, until a grey-haired man proffered a hand.
‘I’m not a man, but a number. Seven!’ Laughing, he pointed to his red overalls. ‘I’m from the astronaut corps!’
Kirsten laughed herself. ‘We’re 123 and 124 – scientists.’
He took a long look at Elin. ‘They must start them young in…?’
‘Iceland,’ answered the girl proudly.
He moved to one of the vacant seats. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t see many coming back. I’ve done this before!’
‘Good, there’s room for my elf,’ Elin said, beaming. They chatted with Number 7, and he was regaling them with tales of the space station.
Numbers 68 and 69 never returned. Number 7 was called and returned looking green-faced.
The monotony wore on until finally Kirsten and Elin were called. Blindfolded, they left the trailer for the great hangar.
Elin brimmed with excitement as she removed the blindfold. They were in a large circular room with a lattice-like structure in the middle. This looked better than anything at Disneyland. ‘Mummia, it’s fantastic, and no height restrictions!’
The technician explained the procedure and Elin and Kirsten were strapped in at opposite ends of the vast armature. ‘Just hit the button when it gets too much. Don’t worry, everyone does it. It goes to 20G!’
The lights grew dim as they started spinning, and they were pressed back in their seats like they would be in a sports car.
Pleasant at first, it built up speed, and Kirsten felt uncomfortable, head pressed onto the chair. The room was tumbling past faster and faster.
Centrifuge
Astronauts and pilots endure forces above anything encountered in everyday life. Standing = 1G; taking off in a rocket = 3G: effectively three times as heavy – equivalent to the most extreme funfair rides. An untrained individual will black out between 4G and 6G. The centrifuge trains individuals to withstand these forces.
A grey haze clouded her vision as she fought against hitting the stop button. Kirsten gritted her teeth as her lips stretched. ‘I can’t let Elin down!’
‘Wheeeeee!’ Elin was shouting, almost immune to the forces thrown upon her. ‘Hraðar, hraðar!’ she hollered. Faster, faster! The bright swirling spotlights merely added to the fun for her.
Just before Kirsten passed out, eyes bulging, saliva dribbling around her cheeks, she hit the button. They helped her to the chairs by the door, where many took their chance to escape, especially after hearing the request that they swap ends for the second run. ‘Yndislegt, Mummia!’ Elin came skipping over. ‘Another go we have. Did you enjoy it?’
Kirsten hadn’t felt so ill since a Jannith with her college friends.
Mo was mortified when the technicians came to get them. His old man was already skulking in the ‘airlock’ having a crafty cigarette. Alim swiftly extinguished it with his heel. He dived back inside, waving his hands through the air. Mo couldn’t believe his irresponsibility. ‘Dad, you’re so embarrassing!’
They were taken to Room 2. In the middle sat a contraption looking like a cross between an electric chair and a pneumatic drill. On the arm rests were a series of coloured buttons, and on the panel opposite a console of coloured lights. The chair had heavy straps, resembling blood pressure cuffs.
Mo was first. Every part of him was strapped down.
Mo’s only movement was in his hands, which could just reach all the buttons. He had to recall the colours and press the buttons to match the lights.
The run started and Mo’s deft fingers hit the correct buttons almost instantly.
Then the chair beneath him started to move, first like a bumpy road, then intensifying until he felt like a biscuit tin in a rockfall. As the shaking built up, so did the flashing, and his fingers fought to co-ordinate with his darting eyes.
His quick reactions and young stomach matched the challenge and he only missed a couple of hits.
Watching his son in this instrument of torture filled Alim with great trepidation and a need for the gents. How was he going to get through this hell? He recalled another hell he’d endur
ed. Caught in the teeth of an Antarctic blizzard while chipping out metamorphic rocks, he’d kept up his spirits by singing.
Juddering Machine
Tests and trains pilots, especially helicopter pilots, to operate in conditions of extreme vibration. The vibrations of a rocket travelling into orbit, or during re-entry, are extreme.
As the machine wound up and became a gizzard-stretching judder, Mo couldn’t believe his ears when his father’s voice rose above the clatter.
‘The morning breaks my heart…’ – lights flashed and Alim’s fingers hit the buttons – ‘… you’re shaking me apart…’ – red, blue, red, green – ‘…Winter snowfall, winter snowfall is no blanket for my bed…’ It was the only song to which Alim knew all the words, and the louder he sang, the less he thought of his wobbling belly, juddering teeth and loosening bowels. ‘… summer sun is long dead…’
The machine finished its inquisition and, exhausted and desperate to escape, Alim stumbled back to discover to his surprise that he’d almost matched Mo’s score.
For the two orphans, it was already like being on Mars compared with home.
‘I’m not going in there!’ Zulu signed to Bheki, staring into the ice-blue waters. Nestled in an echo-filled hall, a tank designed for practising space walks spread out before them.
‘You’ll make a great hippo,’ Bheki signed.
‘We can’t swim!’ Zulu mouthed.
‘You don’t need to swim on Mars!’
The attendants interrupted, ‘Please get into the spacesuits.’
The boys were lowered to join the awaiting frogmen and were shown the tasks ahead. They were left suspended in the blue void, in eerie silence except for the wheeze of the oxygen.
As the bubbles subsided, they peered out into a world of minimalist abstraction. Being non-swimmers was an advantage for them. Breaststroke didn’t work in the cosmos. They had two handheld thrusters and a small squirt of the triggers set them off in the generally desired direction. There were a number of semi-floating platforms tethered to the depths. They felt their suits tauten as they descended, the intercoms giving them instructions.
The Weightless Tank has been continuously used to train astronauts to carry out repairs and operations during space walks. There is no resistance in space, so the trainees have to learn to work in an environment where every action taken has an opposite reaction, and none of the normal earthly resistance can be relied upon.
Bheki at first felt frozen and confused, but his brother’s signals calmed him.
They were children of the granite of their homeland and had seldom been freed from its earthly bounds; now the heavy weight of their lives was lifted from their shoulders for the first time.
Bheki felt the exhilaration of this freedom and his heart raced as he followed Zulu. Many had already failed there, either dropping components, shooting past the modules or unable to communicate visually. These two boys were completely used to working in harmony and silence.
Compared with making things from a scrapyard, it was easy to fix the parts in the locations on the large tubular structure. But this void was unnerving. The timeless, dimensionless abstraction tempted the mind to wander and the imagination to fill the emptiness.
Zulu was always aware of danger behind a thicket or an outcrop of rocks. But here he felt the threat in every direction he wasn’t looking. On land it was only behind him, here also above and below.
His anxiety was rising when he peered into the deep and saw shadowy monsters coming towards them. He was engulfed in a rush of bubbles as a smooth black form grasped his shoulder. Convinced that the creature’s teeth would rip open his suit, he fought off the unfortunate frogman who’d come to guide him back.
When the boys walked to their pod, the sun was hanging red in the sky. As they trod the churned earth, they saw that the numbers of trailers had been reduced by half.
On entering, they saw three new faces staring at them. They took their seats with downcast eyes and sat dumbly, swinging their legs. Of their original group, only the feisty American woman remained and she alone shared a smile with them. The silence was deafening and Zulu was relieved when she eventually nudged him. ‘Hey! How’d it go? I’ve not done this since my days on the barge!’ Her accent was strange.
‘Kugona!’
She recognised his accent though. ‘Hey, you from Africa – brother? Pa’s from Zanzibar!’
‘We’re from Zimbabwe. This is my brother, he’s called “Number 2”!’ Zulu smirked and gave Bheki a shove. The boy’s face stretched with a smile that would disarm a dik-dik. ‘We went swimming!’
It was a strange night for everyone: airline-style meals, squeezing into the bathrooms and sleeping uncomfortably. It was a mini-test of the claustrophobia they’d endure if selected. There was a trickle of escapees throughout the night, diminishing the numbers still further.
The dawn’s golden hue cast itself on the silver camp, unseen by the inmates in their shuttered pods. Only Alim witnessed the break of day as he stole into his smoking chamber.
To heighten the sense of uncertainty, they were kept waiting until the afternoon. Those who have endured years in captivity, from Cervantes to Mandela, have all learned that patience is essential to survive a long confinement.
Enza shared her iPod with her mother. By lunchtime she’d been driven to the edge of reason by Giustino Biebero and was desperate to be called to their next test.
The relief was short-lived for Elisabetta. This equipment looked like an ancient celestial orb. There was a series of pivoted rings, with a seat in the centre. They allowed the body to spin on three axes. Enza stood in glee. ‘Mama, you go first – fantastico!’
Elisabetta had survived the centrifuge, but this was three dimensions.
Enza was shocked. She was used to seeing her mother take everything in her stride. ‘I’ll show her how to do it!’
She rushed forward to the waiting bench. As the machine started to move, her body slowly revolved forward. She kept her eyes open as the lights streamed in, trailing blazing streaks, as the machine accelerated and weaved continuously. The stretch and twist exhilarated her. For her young body, unblemished by alcohol, tobacco or any other substances, it was a brush with the thrill of intoxication as she felt the rush of blood to her head and toes.
The complete feeling of abandonment brought a sense of well-being she had never experienced before.
By the time Enza had finished, Elisabetta was sitting with her head between her hands. ‘I can’t do it, piccola!’ She started sobbing. ‘I’ve let you down.’
Enza desperately tried to reassure her. ‘But it’s fun, Mama!’
Elisabetta howled. ‘I can’t do it! We’ll have to go home!’ Two of the assistants started guiding her to the door. She broke away and turned back. ‘What about Enza?’
‘Oh, she did very well!’
The tap of someone walking determinedly resounded along the empty corridors of the JPL, followed by the crash of opening double doors and an angry knock. Then the raging rocket man burst in.
‘Oh, hi, Milton! How’s it going?’ was the shame-faced chief engineer’s weak response.
‘It’s gone, goddammit, that’s how it’s flaming going! You’re behind this, you dishonest, despicable, deceiving creep! All this “Oh, Milton, we’re so interested in your rocket” and all that bilious bull! To think I offered you sons-of-bitches part of my collection and wasted my precious time helping your pathetic pursuits!’
Ford raised a hand.
‘No! You dare stop me!’ screamed Milton. ‘You come over in the dead of night and steal the pride of America, the heart of the museum, my joy and the focus of all my energies for as long as I can goddamn think.’
Pointing his index finger at Rocky, he spat, ‘And you, you have the disgraceful, despicable disrespect to take it when I’m on a well-earned holiday, without a word, consultation or even a nod to the most basic conservation principles, and leave behind a goddamn note! A flaming note! Removed for r
estoration!’
There was no stopping the man.
‘I have never experienced such bare-faced, lowdown, turpitudinous cheek.’ Milton took a deep breath. ‘Removed for restoration… removed for restoration… restoration for freakin’ what?’
Ford had only one word of defence: ‘Flight!’
The red face turned to Ford. ‘Flight! Whaddya mean, flight?’
Ford looked down at his feet. ‘It’s like this, Milton. When we saw what an obsessive… no… immaculate job you had made of the restoration, we realised you had solved our problem. There was a ready-made rocket waiting to take our mission to space, and we just felt that after all the dedication you had put in… you kinda might have objected…’
‘What, you gonna fly that thing?’
‘Yep.’
‘You mean you’re going to fly my baby?’
‘Yes, Milt.’
‘You’re going to set her free?’
‘Sure.’
‘Like Elsa?’
Rocky interjected. ‘More like Free Willy.’
Milton stared indignantly. ‘I don’t watch films like that!’ Turning to Ford, he asked, ‘You actually mean you’re going to fly her?’
‘Yes, Milton, she’s going to take us to Mars!’
The anger flooded again over Milton’s face. ‘You cretins, stupid baboons, untrusting rats! Why didn’t you just ask? The years I’ve slaved over that beauty, the unappreciated sweat, for what? For a load of dumb, gum-chewing kids to gawp and take selfies with. “Generation Stupid” casting their banal, thoughtless lives onto a self-indulgent post on Alumni, where the peak of achievement is 100 likes.
‘Fly that magnificent bird – why didn’t you say?’
‘We didn’t think you’d agree.’
‘Hell, yes! That’s what she was made for, not to slumber in a museum.’
There was a pause for reflection.
‘Besides, if we can retrieve any of the stages she’ll really have historic value. Not just the rocket that never made it to the moon.’
Milton joined the team.
In the editorial conference of Pure Media’s Daily Planet, another heated debate was under way. Victor was laying it on the line.
The Other Things Page 20