‘It’s not for me to dictate editorial policy, but what’s the point of owning a newspaper if it doesn’t support the corporation? We have interests in space and I don’t like big government, and especially not this mission.’
‘But, sir, editorial freedom is a horse that pulls a cartload of responsibilities. I have it framed on the wall!’
This was how Victor wanted it. ‘Yes, responsibilities to me!’
By day three, the testing and isolation had taken their toll and a large proportion of the Alumni cadre had voted with their feet.
The prospect of being locked up for two years in a celestial caravan had hit home. Yasmin addressed the diminished crowd gathered in the hangar. ‘Till now, everyone has gone home of their own volition. Well done for sticking it out so far. Now it’s time to put a few parameters in place to sort the cats from the dogs.
‘First we’re going to take some blood samples.’
Three would-be astronauts fainted and were helped out.
Enza was confused and isolated. She nervously looked around the great edifice and caught the eye of a slight black-haired girl.
Chao-xing was trying to stay focused, but couldn’t ignore the sad-eyed girl. She gave Enza a discreet smile. When they were asked to line up in designated groups, Enza sneaked in behind Chao-xing.
Living in a tourist spot like Pompeii, she had no problems introducing herself to strangers. ‘Hi,’ she said tentatively, ‘is that your mama?’
‘Oh, my mom. Yes, she a pilot. Why you on your own?’
‘Mama couldn’t stand being thrown around. She spends her time in the ground, not above it!’
‘Why you still here, then?’
‘We’d never actually gone together and they didn’t tell me to leave or perhaps I just didn’t press the button.’ Then she remembered the ‘Trumpers’. ‘And… I’ve got skills and I’m little… and I loved the rides.’
‘Oh, me too. They ask for good parent–child teamwork. Mom is biologist as well as pilot. She study effects of flight. She teach me everything. We all “only child” in China, so we have strong bond!’
Enza thought of her skills again. ‘Me too. I’m artistic and can cook, and I help my mama with her work.’
Chao-xing grinned. ‘Oh I cook too. I love noodles!’
‘Amo pasta!’ replied Enza, thrilled to find common ground. Marco Polo would have been delighted.
The girls were each called through. They were measured and weighed; then their reactions, eyesight and hearing were tested. Bone mass, BMI, blood tests and finally a whole-body MRI scan finished the intense examination. It took all day and was exhausting.
Bheki and Zulu waited in line. It had been one big adventure and even the pods were luxurious compared with the orphanage.
However, this medical examination brought back the intense memories of the terrible day they had arrived at the orphanage, when they were prodded and poked as if they were cattle. They’d only encountered stethoscopes and an ageing X-ray machine before. To see the workings of your body being reconstructed before your eyes was as magical as the diagnosis given by the spiritual doctor in the village.
It only reinforced Zulu’s respect for her. He thought of the times she’d helped with the problems with the livestock or crops. He aired his thoughts.
Amadlozi
African mythological figures of the Zulu people. They are the ancestors of the Zulu, and can be summoned for assistance.
‘This is how the amadlozi do it, brother. Their energy flows through you to find out the illness. SRI scan – spiritual resonance imaging!’
He beat an imaginary drum frantically and shook his head to the shamanic beat, before descending into hysterical laughter. ‘They need machines to do it instead!’
Elin and her mother had survived the ordeal intact. Unlike most adults, Kirsten had relished the physical testing, and the hours in the pods were no worse than the winter darkness on the edge of the Arctic.
Until then Elin had been proud of her mother’s performance, then blew it at the medicals. They were supposed to present in their underwear.
‘Ekki, Móðir,’ Elin screamed. Kirsten had totally stripped off. ‘A swimming pool this isn’t! So embarrassing are you!’
Buzz had never been to the doctor’s on his own. Even his mother would fuss over him when he was ill. During his medical evaluation he was sullen and listless until he saw the big MRI machine.
‘Wow, that’s cool!’ His scan was delayed until the assistants had completely described the theory and its workings. ‘You’re gonna model me in the computer? Shame it can’t run around and fight!’
Mo was surprised he heard his father announce that he only smoked and drank socially.
‘Well, I don’t do it antisocially,’ said his father with a grin.
When all the remaining candidates had returned to collapse wearily in their pods, the evaluation team got to work.
Yasmin, Henrietta and Sharon drank coffee and ate cookies as they reviewed the process. Of the original 240 applicants, there were 119 left.
Waiting for a quorum, they chatted, swapping stories about the events so far – the guy who kept stealing out for a cigarette; the pluckiness of the little girl left without her mother.
Then Yasmin told them about the two African boys. ‘When they had the hearing test, the brother tried to cover for the little one. He stood on a chair, looking over the screen, and mimed the answers.’
‘Well, there’s two we can cross off for a start,’ said Henrietta, voicing her presumption.
‘No, the kid was so good at lip-reading, all the staff were fooled until the big one fell off the chair!’
The computer weeded out those who were too heavy or unhealthy and had struggled with the physical tests.
Alim survived by the skin of his roll-up.
The computer had chosen most of the astronaut corps and Chinese cadre and, surprisingly, most of the children.
Then there were those on the borderline – mostly scientists and Alumni candidates to be weeded out further. ‘We are going to have to get this lot down to the final 50,’ said Sharon.
Edward Stalk objected. ‘You can’t get rid of all the specialists. It’s not their fault they are unfit and untrained. You need to balance the odds. And you need to choose 48, not 50.’
He went on to explain his theory of numbers. Twelves are more useful than tens – they are more easily divided, like selling cakes. Twelves were the original digital (finger) counting system. Shepherds would count their sheep by touching the segments of each finger with the tip of their thumb with one hand, then each dozen with the other, rather than counting to 10 using each finger. He excitedly demonstrated how they could count to 144 with only 10 fingers, then looked round for the astonished faces.
Henrietta was rummaging in her handbag.
Sharon was writing an email on her phone.
Yasmin broke away from her daydream of shopping in Paris and brightly smiled. ‘Whatever… Time to get on. We’ll be here till midnight if we don’t watch it.’
Sharon refocused on the task. She might have missed all the number theory, but the salient point of the filters had hit home. ‘OK, we’ll put in another factor then – they have to have more than one skill!’
They re-ran the program and there was movement between the groups. ‘See, the one who took her clothes off is now in the top group!’
‘She deserves an extra two marks for that alone!’ said Edward, beaming, then wilted under the focus of three pairs of laser eyes. ‘Sorry, bad joke!’
After about an hour they had boiled the numbers down to 48.
Enza was disappointed not to go back to the same pod as her new friend. She worried about her mama. She sang softly to her iPod to take her mind off her loneliness.
‘I’m lost in the big country, and there’s no highway to you,
I’m lost in the big country, and there’s no highway to you,
Just wander down the lonely streets, hoping to come
through,
I’m lost in the big country.’
‘Hey, that’s Giustino! He’s cool!’
Enza looked to the side and there was a slight woman about the same age as her mother. Enza studied the dark eyes and smooth, tanned face. She felt sure she’d seen her before. ‘You look familiar, are you famous?’ she asked sheepishly.
‘Yeah, I’m famous for being me!’
Enza smiled. ‘So am I, sono quello che sono! Like to listen?’ She handed over one of the earphones and they both sat swinging their legs in harmony to the music.
Soon the tannoy was calling individuals to the airlock until they were alone, with only the tsch-tsch-tsch of the music playing in the background.
‘Listen, I love this bit… My heart breaks like a wave across the sea… My heart breaks like a wave across the sea.’
The woman gave a crooked smile. Then a faraway look entered her eyes.
‘That’s where my heart is!’
Enza laughed for the first time since her mama had left. ‘You’re funny!’
The woman offered a high five to the little girl. Smack!
‘Better funny than sad! Hey, we’re the only ones left?’
That night they were alone together in the pod, not knowing their fate. It wasn’t until late next morning that they were finally called.
They hadn’t disclosed their names, but shared life stories. Enza’s was short. She knew it had only just begun, yet it was a lifetime for her.
She adored her companion’s tales of Zanzibar and New York, the tug boats and the taxis. This woman had done and seen so much. In return, Enza told stories of other people’s lives in the Roman city. Most of all she told her about Lavinia, and what she’d hoped had happened to her.
In the next pod along, another group had been trying to sleep. After a terrible night Alim stirred groggily and shuffled to ease his aching neck. Just being confined in the pods was a test for an individual’s endurance. Blood was left splattered on the walls of the Russian space station after a fist fight between cosmonauts. The cramped conditions could amplify personal differences exponentially.
Although the caravans dated back to the 1960s, they’d been fitted to have the sort of airline seats you can never comfortably sleep in. ‘Bloody ridiculous!’ he commented to himself.
‘What do you mean, bloody ridiculous?’ a grey-faced astronaut snapped in a mocking faux accent.
‘They’ve got Victorian chairs in my club that you can snooze in all afternoon with absolute comfort.’
The picture of Alim snoozing in a London club was too much. ‘Do you snore and fart there too?’
Alim was affronted. ‘I beg your pardon, old man, I never snore!’
Mo stifled a snort.
‘Listen, Limey, you’ve kept me awake all night, so just shut it and stop shuffling!’
Alim had been called many things in his life, but never a ‘Limey’.
‘I take exception to that, old man.’ Then he muttered, ‘Buffoon.’
The pain of a sharp elbow in his ribs jolted Alim upright. After three nights in these cramped conditions, his neighbour had lost it.
‘My goodness, it’s just like Thursday prep!’ His reaction came straight from his youth. In an action akin to his favourite cricket shot, the hook, he cranked his arms high and, swinging left, administered his own sharp elbow jab to his foe’s temple.
‘Oh, no!’ moaned Mo, head in hands. He couldn’t believe it – his dad was taking on an astronaut and the temporarily dazed figure was a real tough, chisel-jawed cookie.
‘He’s going to kill my dad!’ Mo reacted in terror. Quick as a ferret, he bounded over and latched onto the astronaut’s right arm that was about to be unleashed on Alim’s jaw.
In fear for his son, Alim followed and plonked himself on the struggling astronaut’s lap, grasping the man’s left hand. They thought they had him pinioned but, with a yelp, a row of teeth had latched onto Alim’s back.
He stamped his heel on the astronaut’s vulnerable toe; the teeth disengaged with a scream of pain, but spurred the giant on to writhe free.
Chinese astronauts opposite couldn’t believe their eyes and sprang to the rescue.
Leonard Wong leaped forward and squeezed the shoulder of the thrashing figure, who quivered and went limp. A long face peered out under the dark fringe.
‘Great nimoy!’ cheered his companion, applauding the deft martial arts move. Leonard was not only a Chinese astronaut, but a black belt in Vulcitsu.
When they were summoned by their minders, they left the figure unconscious in the pod. ‘Having a lie-in, old girl,’ Alim said to the technician with a grin.
Chapter 19
The Hard Work Starts
Milton surveyed his ‘stolen’ rocket. ‘She’s a beauty.’ Even though they’d scratched the immaculate black and white paintwork.
‘Where should we start?’ asked Rocky. Milton was standing by the first stage, dwarfed by the five colossal rocket engines.
‘Phew-ey, there’s a question. The body’s good, but the engines? We patched them up but never tested them.’ He thought for a while. ‘I spent a long time on that wiring, but I couldn’t trust it. Fly by wire, it’ll save tons of copper.’ They made the long walk to the sharp end where the command module and lander had been.
‘What about the payload?’
Milton made a mental calculation. ‘She’ll take quite a bit…We put Skylab in one of these, so that’s your weight limit – 77 tons. Phew! There’s a lot to pack in, though. The rest will have to go with the other rocket. Hey! There’s a whole heap of designing to be done.’
Rocky slapped him on the back. ‘That’s the fun bit! Glad to have you on board, Milt.’
‘Steady, Rocky. I’ve not quite forgiven you yet!’
Dolores, Patrick and Imran were sweating over thorny problems. The three Ls: living, landing and leaving.
Living. With the crew in space for eight months, on the surface for four and eight months back, keeping them breathing, fed and healthy in the harshest of environments was going to be an extraordinary challenge.
Landing. Putting the mission on the surface was difficult, because there was so much more weight than ever before. They had to come up with something radical. For instance, Mars has one hundredth the air pressure of Earth to slow any entering body down, and it’s only slightly helped by having half the gravity. In a nutshell it’s fifty times more difficult landing on Mars than returning to our own planet.
Leaving. All the rovers have been on a one-way trip. This mission had to get back home. Apollo returned from the moon, but on Mars the gravity is five times more, and this time they also had to get the bigger crew home. It would need something more substantial than the lunar module.
‘Where to start, compadres?’ With that, Dolores started the meeting.
Imran made the first pitch for the landing. ‘Dump as much on the surface first, then land the crew. Leave the mothership in orbit for coming home. They can take off in their pants if necessary.’
Ford’s idea of landing on Phobos was like the base camp on Everest – a stable platform to fire things onto the planet and a car park for the return rocket. They agreed to divide the landings into three operations.
First, the fuel generators. ‘The solution’s got to be the underground ice. It’s all over the place,’ Dolores explained. The ice could be metres down and the probes would have to be drilled into the ground to reach it. The idea they devised was elegant. Plutonium in the probes would get very hot and melt the ice, producing steam. Then the steam would build up until it was released through a valve within the hollow shaft. It would force its way through a turbine to generate electricity. Then by cooling into salty water, an electrolyte, the electricity could split it into oxygen and hydrogen. The gases would be collected by separate balloons, ready for use.
They considered mini-drilling rigs until Dolores worked frantically with her calculator. ‘Damn, we need eight of them!’ She looked at the photo of the
Curiosity Rover on the wall. ‘We’ve not got the room.’
Ford had been dealing with admin and needed a break. He’d hoped to join the team once he’d finished. The staff room was empty, but the aroma of coffee lingered on. He poured himself a cup and casually picked up the darts that were given to the project team, as a joke about staying on target. Ford had first played darts in Jane’s Welsh local. He always found a few ‘arrows’ therapeutic. When the team burst into the room, he was on 80.
‘I’ll show them,’ he thought. Thud – another triple. ‘One hundred and twenty!’ he announced.
Patrick had seen the dart hit the board as if in slow motion. The tip sinking into the red fibre, huddling close enough to the two other darts to make a soft chink as it came to rest. Inspired, he ran to hug him. ‘You’re amazing, Ford. You’ve cracked it!’
Ford felt flattered, but… ‘Actually, 180 would be amazing.’
‘Let me have a go!’ Patrick snatched the darts from him and concentrated on the bullseye. A nice, tight group around the magpie proved his revelation. He cracked the problem and poured his coffee with a sense of great satisfaction.
‘We don’t need drills, we need penetrators – a set of darts. With the speed they’ll hit the ground, they’ll smash down to the ice and bingo! Look how deep the darts go into the board!’
Imran was making some tea. ‘Won’t they just break up?’
Patrick smiled. ‘Barnes Wallis devised a spinning earthquake bomb. It’d burrow down deep before exploding. Still intact.’
They briefed Ford on their deliberations and Patrick sketched out a rudimentary design. The main body was just like a dart. The heated tip and thickened shaft formed the turbine chamber and electrolyte bath; the flights held three folded balloons. These would deploy to slow the dart to the optimum speed and fill to store the gas later.
Ford gave Patrick a hearty pat on the back and mimicked Jane’s father’s distinctive growl. ‘Good arrows, boyo!’
‘That’s what Phobos gives you – a stable oche.’
The Other Things Page 21