The Other Things

by Jonathan Dransfield

  ‘We’re blowin’ away, bruv,’ came through the canvas. ‘We’ve lost our pegs and the tent’s blown down. It’s wild.’

  Elin tried the zip. The opening crack revealed the shivering form of Mo. Beyond him were the boys, struggling like flies in a nylon web. Streams of snow were flying parallel to the ground.

  In a still, small voice of calm, Elin commanded, ‘Come on, get dressed.’ They emerged with a flailing of limbs and gathered up the strewn backpacks while the boys freed themselves.

  They salvaged as much as they could carry to the hut.

  It was 3am when they forced the door shut against the wind’s nipping fingers. Then tripped over a snoring figure on the floor.

  Felix woke with a grunt. His tent had also collapsed around him.

  As daylight lifted the mirk, the women, who’d survived the tempest, joined them for breakfast. A disaster – blown away on day three! On Mars they’d be dead.

  As the wind abated they heard the distant sound of air-cooled engines toiling over the rocky roads. Magnus was in his jeep, heading a convoy of the self-driven camper vans.

  With him was a square-jawed guy, Virgil.

  ‘Your new buddy!’ said Soraya.

  Thingvellir

  National park and canyon

  South Iceland

  63.2N 21.0W

  Area: 92km2

  Geology: Crest of Mid-Atlantic Ridge

  Felix nodded and gave him a man hug. Magnus regretfully announced the trail closed and that they’d be pulling out to the more sheltered climate of enchanted Thingvellir.

  Enza nibbled her nails as she watched the roaring waters surge past, fording yet another swollen river. If she didn’t bite them they’d be 4 feet long by her mother’s age!

  The continental plates of Europe and America also spread at the same rate. Each time you cut your nails it represents how far New York has moved from London in the same period.

  The Earth’s skin is a dynamic patchwork like the leather segments of a football, but not stitched together. They float on a vast ball of liquid rock whose convective currents drive the plates in a perpetual dance as they spread and disappear under each other, vying for space on a limited globe.

  Thingvellir is an exposed section of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a jagged crack stretching from the Arctic to the Antarctic. The fissured landscape is the Earth’s new skin, emanating from the mantle deep below. As it spreads, the pressure pushes all the way to the west coast of America, where the Pacific Plate grates against its North American counterpart. Periodically it releases this energy in catastrophic earthquakes.

  Fractures dominate Thingvellir’s landscape as the earth cracks like parched lips under a desert sun. There’s a narrow canyon running north from the Thingvillavatn, where in the middle of its jumbled rocky bottom you can walk between the edge of Europe one side and America on the other.

  Thingvillavatn

  Lake

  South Iceland

  63.1N 21.1W

  Depth: 114m

  Area: 84km2

  Geology: Rift valley lake

  It had been achingly frustrating to leave the trail, but when they arrived and gathered together, they sensed the energy of this extraordinary place and a shelter from the storm.

  They started the next hike by dropping into the narrow canyon. On a wrinkled ledge of basalt, Elin told her friends about the wonders of plate tectonics.

  Buzz stood astride the two continents, straining his legs.

  He wondered if his little shove, like the wings of a butterfly, might tip some balance to create a rumble in Los Angeles where he knew his Granf was working at the JPL.

  Chapter 21

  Preparation

  Guarding the Farm

  The crockery faintly tinkled as Ford poured the coffee.

  ‘They say it’s not long before the Big One! At least there’s no earthquakes on Mars!’ he joked as he passed Stephen a cup.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Stephen quizzed.

  ‘Because they’d be Marsquakes!’

  Stephen gave a pained smile and showed off his limited knowledge of the planet. ‘That’s not very funny. Anyway, there’s no plate tectonics either?’

  Ford had speculated about this. ‘Yes, it must be due to the size of the planet. What do you think?’

  With Stephen’s repertoire of Martian geology almost exhausted he replied, ‘I think I’ll have two sugars.’ Then dredging deep, ‘OK, so why does Mars have such massive volcanoes then?’

  It seemed obvious to Ford. ‘With no tectonic plates the volcanoes stay put and just grow, rather than creating a chain of islands like Hawaii.’ He enjoyed talking science, Stephen didn’t.

  They hadn’t talked for some time. Stephen Dyer had been away. Convinced the project would fail, he’d taken all his leave well before its inevitable demise.

  Plate Tectonics

  A scientific theory accepted since the 1960s with the discovery of sea floor spreading.

  The lithosphere or Earth’s crust is made up of seven large plates which move around up to 4 inches per year. There are volcanoes and ocean ridges where they spread and subduction zones where they slide under each other, causing earthquakes and ocean trenches.

  The Big One – Expected large earthquake in Los Angeles area.

  ‘I know that this nonsense will soon be consigned to the dustbin of history, but I was wrong on one thing.’

  Ford ran his fingers through his hair, amazed at this admission.

  ‘Unmanned drones were one thing, but that Saturn V is something else. Rocky’s Hutzpah is on another level.’ His thin lips twitched at the corners into a knowing smile. ‘If by some miracle it does go ahead I hope that ‘The Other Things’ are still in contention.’

  Ford couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Well, you’ve changed your tune.’

  Dyer gave a strange laugh. ‘Not really, I just hate kids, so you’re welcome to blow them up in that second-hand rocket!’

  It was the first time Ford had heard Stephen laugh – a sort of high-pitched sneer.

  ‘You’ve been in the press again, at least your wife has!’ Stephen had a newspaper with him showing Ford’s front door and a flying tool bag in midair, beneath a headline, ‘Mad Scientist’s Mad Wife!’

  The wife of crazy scientist Ford Harris, who upset all the world’s religions by calling them ‘primitive’, showed an unfortunate telecom guy how to ‘move on’…

  Ford’s face flushed as his anger rose. ‘It’s goddamn ridiculous. We think the press were trying to bug the place. Who’d be interested in us anyway?’

  Stephen gave a contemptuous look. ‘You’re so naive. The real world is made of opposites. In my other work, it’s the “Good Guys” or the “Bad Guys”. To the press you are either celebrities or nonentities, and they’ll build you up just to knock you down.’

  Ford shuffled in his seat, frustrated at the sheer iniquity of it all. ‘Why pick on me? I’ve never been famous, I just do my job!’

  Stephen crossed his arms. ‘Yes, but you work for the man they want to knock down, so you’re in the crosshairs.’ He tried to think how to explain it better. ‘Look, I’ve been dealing with the “Bad Guys”. The drug barons and crooks are one thing, they think they’re above the law. The fanatics think they are the law, secure in their own self-righteousness.’

  He made that strange laugh again. ‘You can’t argue with a Hellfire missile, though; I’m sure their last thoughts are, “It’s so unfair!”… Look at this.’

  He took out his phone and pressed an app with CIA on it. He took a picture of Ford and shared the screen. Information was streaming in: his name, relationships, internet usage, even the films he watched.

  Then Stephen pushed the status button and ‘LOW RISK’ came up.

  ‘Well, at least you won’t be sending me a missile.’ Ford laughed nervously.

  Stephen narrowed his eyes and told him straight, ‘These are just algorithms. The press have a different set and you’re definitely a target.’
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  ‘But I’m a scientist, I deal in facts!’

  Stephen gave that look again. ‘They don’t like facts, just opinions.’

  Ford got up. He had very little time for Stephen’s ‘Real World’.

  ‘But you’re the president’s man, why don’t they get at you?’

  Stephen looked very self-satisfied. ‘I work for the administration, not the president, and I keep my head down and don’t say dumb things at conferences… My vacation made me realise that I don’t fit in here, policing you lot. I’ve now decided to concentrate on the project’s hardware, in particular the lander. I like rockets and what’s more, when it all goes wrong I can blame the Chinese…’

  “‘I’ve now decided”! Bloody cheek!’ thought Ford, then realised it was really a great idea.

  ‘You’ll have to work in China.’ To which Stephen nodded.

  ‘Oh joy!’ thought Ford.

  They left it at that. Stephen was going to be far away and out of mind.

  Ford called Jane. ‘That man! I’ll kick him out too, if he comes here, telling us we’re naive.’

  There was a crackle on the line. ‘How’s Buzz?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Good. I spoke to Magnus. He’s having a real adventure. He’s actually getting on with the other kids. Poor Eugene’s had an accident, though, he fell through an ice bridge.’

  ‘How’s Bheki? He’s a sweetie.’ Jane had taken to the boy.

  Ford laughed. ‘Freezing. It’s a real shock to his system! He’s gonna enjoy the desert more… Look, be careful, honey.’

  Jane still seethed with indignation. ‘It’s not fair, cariad, these guys try to bug the place, tell their lies and now everyone knows where we live!’ She took a breath. ‘And the dog’s been sick, messing up the bloody yard.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s all we need! Is he OK?’

  Jane sighed, ‘Yeah, just getting old – a fate awaiting us all!’

  ‘I’ll stay out of the yard when my time comes! Any luck with the landing sites?’

  Photos of Mars were now cluttering Jane’s desk. ‘The Moreux crater looks interesting, or have you seen the Micoud crater? My God, it looks like the entrance to hell! Deep, dark and mysterious.’

  Micoud Crater

  49.5N 11.eE

  Acidalia Planitia – Mars

  52 miles wide

  Crater with underground vents

  ‘Just like you, honey!’

  ‘The entrance to hell?’

  Ford scanned the paper Stephen had left.

  ‘Listen, honey, I’ll contact security.’

  He didn’t need to. After putting the phone down he had a call.

  ‘Manny Black here, Homeland Security. We’re concerned about your press exposure. There’s a flutter in the ether about the mission too. We’d like to post a presence on your farm, sir.’

  Ford felt sick. ‘What do you mean, flutter in the ether?’

  Manny cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, it’s a sign of the times. Anything this symbolic will draw attention, and these security breaches don’t help. Mr Dyer knows the score. Anyway, no more press releases and no personal details, especially about the candidates.’

  Ford was vexed. ‘What do I say to my damned wife? Honey, you’re a target!’ There was a pause on the line.

  ‘No, I’d couch it like – we’re all targets and with this security, you’re less so.’

  Ford was unimpressed. ‘She’s not stupid, you know.’

  The discreet protection arrived in a large black sedan and Darko Flanelli emerged in a black tie, white shirt and charcoal suit.

  The dog was out of sorts and in no mood to welcome visitors.

  It snapped at Darko’s ankles as he retreated back to the car and honked the horn.

  The commotion brought Jane striding across the yard and she shielded her protector from the dog as she guided him into the house.

  ‘Scared of dogs, are we? Mack’s a softy compared with the old farm in Corwen.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, dogs are my Achilles heel, and I think it just nipped it!’

  ‘Take those sunglasses off and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  She dabbed the spots of blood off his ankle and applied a plaster.

  ‘I hope you’ve got something more casual – this is a farm, not a night club!’

  Twenty minutes later Darko was on duty in one of Ford’s lumberjack shirts and a pair of jeans. Jane found him an axe and told him to get busy chopping wood as the lumber pile had a commanding view.

  As dusk fell two figures crept onto a low ridge overlooking the farm. Moving stealthily, they dodged between the boulders to gain the best vantage point. Both were dressed in black with matching balaclavas. They’d been here before, but last time in a telecoms van.

  A familiar waft of ripe manure drifted over them as they settled behind a lonely shrub.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ whispered ‘Mr Lemon’.

  ‘Getting the camera ready!’

  ‘Phew! I thought it was a gun!’

  ‘Well, I got some good shots last time, unlike your mess up. You clown!’

  ‘Hey, I’ve done the ground work now.’

  ‘Lemon’ explained how he’d laid bait to sedate the dog and already recced the farm to find Jane always kept her study window slightly open. He pulled out a jemmy and demonstrated his technique. ‘I’m going to nip in and set the bug in their broadband.’

  ‘Not in those white sneakers – they’ll spot you a mile off!’

  ‘Hey, I’ll take the risk. There’s no way I’ll wear black ones, my friend!’

  The photographer carefully surveyed the scene with binoculars.

  ‘Oh hell! The old man’s back. He’s chopping wood. How you going to get in now? AND the dog’s still charging around the back yard. It’s having a crap. What kind of sedative did you give it?’

  ‘Laxosomething, some of Grandpa’s pills. He always takes them after dinner, he says he can’t sleep without them.’

  ‘Oh my God! They’ll be laxatives to stop him pooping himself in his sleep! My gran’s the same!’

  The whispering stopped abruptly as a distant rumble grabbed their attention and a convoy of pick-ups billowed dust along the winding farm track. In the half-light the would-be intruders watched as they pulled up, and a score of morbidly obese protesters unloaded placards from the opened backs of the vehicles.

  ‘Hey, this is our night after all!’ whooped the photographer as he pulled the trigger on the massive night camera.

  ‘… and my distraction bang on cue!’ beamed ‘Mr Lemon’ as he grabbed his kit.

  Jane’s feelings of violation in the unwanted security presence had given way to her humane instincts. Darko now looked like a young Ford as he left the house with the axe, and when he asked if he could leave his meagre rations in the fridge, she decided cooking a proper ‘tea’ would be the right thing to do. She would make a pie. She was dusting the counter with flour when the commotion outside stopped her dead and she clumsily dropped the bag of flour with a soft thump on the red terracotta tiles. As she opened the front door she could see Darko, axe still in hand, running to the gate as a chanting crowd pressed against the fence. Their garish banners shrieked the messages, ‘GOD HATES YOU’, ‘GOD HATES GARVEY’ and ‘YOUR SIN NOT GOD’S’.

  She’d not seen anything like this since her Sunday school in Corwen. She hurried back through the house and into the yard and let the dog through the side gate to give Darko some support. Macks rushed off and, ignoring Darko, headed straight for the crowd before relieving himself in front of their leading figure.

  With Jane’s attention firmly fixed on the commotion, a dark-clad figure worked his way unseen towards the yard. Jane rushed back to the front veranda as the crowd were shaking the fence and lighting torches.

  The burning brands and visceral chanting created a chilling atavistic air as she watched Darko’s silhouette holding the crowd at bay like Horatius on the bridge. She dialled 911 and called for help.

  At
the rear, ‘Mr Lemon’ didn’t even need his jemmy. Jane had left the back door open and she didn’t hear his soft footsteps slip through the kitchen to place the bug. He only needed a minute to swap the filter on the internet connection once he’d found the router.

  Suddenly Jane remembered Ford’s advice and darted back in the house to turn on the floodlights. The intruder sought refuge in her study when he heard Jane run to the hall cupboard. The whole farm lit up in a tungsten glare as she flipped the switches. There was a sudden gasp outside, then a click and total darkness. She’d blown the main fuse.

  In the temporary lull outside and the silence darkness brings, she thought she heard a slight scraping of furniture beyond the kitchen. By the light of her phone she crept down the hall and on the floor were a second set of tell-tale floury footprints that headed for the study. She was terrified. They must have broken through and were in the house! She picked up the trail from the kitchen as well as her rolling pin. With a quavering voice she shouted down the hall.

  ‘Who is it? Get out of my house. I’ve called the police!’

  In the white beam she saw that her study door was ajar. She always left it shut. The footprints vanished beyond the threshold and an unpleasant smell was in the air. At the sound of Jane’s voice ‘Lemon’ was frantically packing away his tools. He’d found the router and set the bug and the window was his escape route. Jane heard the rising sash repeatedly hit the security restraints with bruising thuds.

  ‘Get out of my house!’ she screamed again, not yet daring to cross the threshold.

  The intruder’s only escape was blocked. He’d tried to squeeze through the opening left after the mangled restraints had jammed the sash but to his dismay he found it too small and, disaster, his raised white sneakers had picked up a generous helping of dog doo in its designer treads. He couldn’t cope with marks or even creases on them.

  After an interminable wait Jane dared to enter the room; with all that banging and splitting of wood surely the imposter had made their escape. She surveyed the scene as the narrow beam flitted around, immediately noticing her desk had been shifted and the nasty smell hung in the air. The door to the old closet where she kept her records was also ajar. Creeping forward she put her ear to the opening. Was that breathing she could hear above her own booming heartbeat? Jane yanked the door open, rolling pin raised high. Nothing… apart from the serried ranks of her research papers caught in the beam. She froze as she felt a soft pressure on her ankle and a hairy presence wind between her lower calves. She jerked her leg away, then a soft mew brought recognition. It was her old red tomcat.