The Other Things

by Jonathan Dransfield

  Stephen Dyer, on the other hand, was brimming with unexpected triumph as he boarded the white-and-silver Boeing. What a couple of days it had been! His frustration in having his phone calls and emails ignored had been overturned by unexpected missives from Victor Relish and then the White House. Victor’s news organs had been vicious in their condemnation of the sending of ‘The Other Things’ and here on a plate was his opportunity to terminate the mission. Stephen was the obvious executioner.

  Victor had already been relishing the prospect of meeting Peggy and receiving accolades for his vigorous support of her campaign and discussing future media relationships with the administration. So he was intrigued to be invited to join her in a pre-meeting before the showdown with Luther and Ford. It was Victor’s suggestion that Stephen Dyer also join them. Basking in his moment of vindication, Stephen had laid out the failings of the mission and its proponents. Victor joined in with his zealous pitch for the commercialisation of space exploration. Peggy felt she was among kindred spirits and made her first presidential decision.

  ‘There’s nothing in this mission for me. If it’s a success, Luther’ll get the glory and if it’s a disaster, I’ll have to pick up the pieces.’

  The mauve lipstick cracked a little and she gave Stephen an encouraging smile. ‘OK, Mr Dyer. I’m going to put you in charge of aborting this tomfoolery.’ In a reversal of Luther’s peace initiatives, she added, ‘Then you can have your old job back!’

  Stephen’s flight was not delayed, and his sleek airliner cut through the stratosphere at such a pace that although he had two hours of briefing with his new masters following Ford’s departure, his aeroplane landed in the slot just behind Ford’s vintage crate.

  The yellow taxi that took Ford to the space centre was rusting and beaten up, but it sped through the night with a comforting wallow around each corner or dip in the road.

  On arriving, Ford hurriedly pressed his card against the barrier but crashed his legs into the glass when it didn’t open. He tried again but to no avail.

  Pedro Santo was engrossed on his cellphone when he saw Ford’s predicament. Leaving the security kiosk, he rushed out to help. ‘Meester Harris, let me help.’ He held Ford’s card against the sensor with the same result. ‘Let me check.’

  He returned from his kiosk with an apologetic shake of the head. ‘Eets been cancelled, my friend.’

  ‘Can you let me through, Pedro?’ appealed an anxious Ford. Pedro Santo had been in security and gatekeeping as long as he cared to remember and was well versed in the cardinal law: ‘Rules are rules.’ However familiar the individual or urgent the reason for their passage, if the card didn’t work or the dress code was not conformed to, then ‘they shall not pass!’

  All argument was futile and after ten minutes of increasingly tetchy discussion, Ford had to simply give up. One hundred yards away was a twenty-four-hour burger joint where he could refresh his body and mind and call Jane. As he trod the cracked sidewalk a smart new yellow cab flashed past, spreading its dust far and wide.

  Stephen Dyer paid the driver and boldly strode into the centre flashing his card at the sensor. Bump! Just like with Ford, the glass barrier remained obstinate. This was going to be a busy night for Pedro. He bustled out, checked Stephen’s card and returned to his office. Stephen stood there impatiently drumming his fingers on the top of the stainless-steel gate housing until Pedro returned. ‘I am very sorry, Mr Dyer, but this is your old card. I print you a new one.’

  Stephen bristled. ‘This is ridiculous. Do you know who I am?’

  He looked at the card and checked Stephen’s features. ‘You are Stephen Dyer.’

  ‘Yes, of course, that’s darn obvious. I’m the new boss! So let me through!’

  There is nothing more enlivening to a door man than a stroppy customer. Like a noose that tightens the more you struggle, the angrier Stephen got, the more adamant Pedro became. ‘Eets more than the very value of my job. I don’t care if you have the authority of the president. You can’t pass without a card.’

  ‘But I do have the authority of the president, you fool!’ Stephen delved in his case and brought out his treasured letter of appointment.

  ‘Did she give you a card?’ Pedro quizzed impassively.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Stephen hammered his fist against the housing.

  ‘Well, you will have to wait until I print you a new one. Have you a photograph?’

  Stephen’s face went a shade of red yet to be named. He sped off to the photo booth. When he returned, Pedro had company. Edward Stalk, the health-and-safety co-ordinator, had joined them. Stephen had arrived at the centre with precious little time to organise the return of all the astronauts. This would involve the maintenance crew docking with ‘The Other Things’ capsule and the transfer of one of the children to swap with Eugene who would then disengage their descent capsule and pilot the young crew on their journey back to Earth. The clock was ticking and Stephen was growing more and more impatient to get on with it.

  ‘OK, here’s the photo – now get on with it.’ Pedro left for his office and Edward awkwardly shook Stephen by the hand.

  ‘Hello, Mr Dyer, I’m going to take you through the safety training.’

  ‘Don’t be goddamn stupid, Stalk! I have done that already!’

  ‘Mr Dyer, you know the regime. Safety first on everything. All new employees have to do this. Usually, I do this in the working day and am already making an exception for you. Would you prefer to wait?’

  Pedro returned with the precious card and Edward took charge of it until the training had been completed.

  Enza’s mind was adjusting to the lack of gravity, difficult for such a ‘down to earth’ girl. Struggling with her first proper job in space, she was not used to ingredients wandering off randomly as she prepared their first meal. Bheki loved it, free from the bonds of Earth. Like a sprite, he tumbled as he fetched and carried sachets and bottles of hot water while Enza prepared the fresh elements.

  The pasta and tomato sauce was pre-made, but the salad was to be fresh. As she worked, her frown of frustration turned into a smile of amusement, watching each newly cut slice of cucumber bounce off the surface in a line of floating green discs. Tearing at the green leaves, she delighted in the novelty of them rebounding off each other as she cast them into the bowl. Toying with the idea of just trendily calling it a ‘deconstructed salad’, she finally discovered that when she added the olive-oil-based vinaigrette, the leaves clumped together into a recognisable entity. She christened it her ‘gravity dressing’.

  She and Bheki revelled in setting the table, or lack of it! They very carefully positioned bowls and cutlery floating on an imaginary plane in the centre of the quarters. Except for the salad bowl, which they positioned upside down hovering above the rest. Elin was so impressed she glided in to take a closer look, just clipping the first bowl, which cannoned off the next. The chain reaction sent their meals spinning to the circular walls and bouncing back to the middle, before bouncing out again.

  Eugene, Soraya and Su-lin did not relish their last meal in space, sucking on tubes of nourishing pastes before they set their own course for home.

  In Ford’s absence at mission control, Sharon was in command. Ford had managed to call her from the burger joint. Her blood was boiling at his news of the tumultuous events in Washington. She had had no official orders and was steadfast and determined that until Stephen’s arrival, she had no brief to change any plans whatsoever and took on a stoic ‘business as usual’ approach to the threatening circumstances.

  Edward sat Stephen down on the demonstration chair. ‘No, no, no. Lower yourself gently, using your arms.’

  Stephen stood up, pushing it angrily away. ‘I know how to sit on a goddamn chair. Get on with it!’

  Edward took a deep, patient breath. ‘Do you recognise these?’ He placed before Stephen two yellow self-standing signs, one with ‘Trip Hazard!’ and another with ‘Caution – Slippery Surfaces!’

  ‘
What the f— This is stupid… One warns you of a trip hazard and one of slippery surfaces.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Dyer, full marks for that. And where might you find them?’

  ‘In the maintenance cupboard!’

  Edward thought for a while. ‘Not the conventional answer, but accurate. OK.’

  ‘Can I go now?’ pressed Stephen, trying to snatch the security card.

  With a wag of his finger Edward placed the vital card in his back pocket. ‘Oh no, there are many more risks to be taken account of. We’ll skip the mouse and keyboard posture training. That’s optional, but the paper training, of course, is compulsory.’

  ‘Paper training?’ An incredulous Stephen almost shouted.

  ‘Oh yes, you won’t believe how many paper cuts we have to deal with.’ Edward took out a packaged ream of printer paper and fastidiously showed Stephen how to unwrap it and fan the paper to prepare it for an imaginary machine.

  ‘Are we going to do toilet training? Tying shoe laces? Crossing the road?’ Stephen asked facetiously.

  Edward looked at his list. ‘No, that’s reserved for the legal department.’

  Sharon’s mind was racing as she studied the screens and serried ranks before her. ‘Almost there,’ she thought.

  She gave the command, ‘Eugene, start descent procedure – check!’

  At that moment Stephen Dyer, card in hand, burst into the room.

  ‘Retrorockets fire! Check,’ came Eugene’s dry voice over the speakers.

  ‘Re-entry procedures commenced – check,’ answered the mission planner.

  ‘Yaw 180 – check.’

  ‘Yaw completed and stable – check.’

  ‘Roll 30 – check,’ came another order.

  ‘Roll completed – check.’

  Stephen barged a startled Sharon from her position. ‘I’m taking charge!’

  Sharon turned, hands on hips and fixed him with a vexed stare. ‘Taking over what, Mr Dyer?’

  Stephen cocked his head and rolled on his heels. ‘Ford’s post. What’s the status?’

  Sharon remained in place. ‘Where are your credentials?’

  Stephen thrust the president’s letter at her. She read it carefully.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ hissed Stephen. ‘What’s the status?’

  With an air of weary resignation, she turned and slowly wandered over to one of the mission planners and, after a long discussion, returned.

  ‘The Mars crew are ready to embark and the re-entry is underway for the maintenance capsule, Mr Dyer.’

  ‘Sheeeit!’ Stephen whispered to himself.

  Stephen picked up Sharon’s water glass from the desk top, and chinking it with his stainless-steel pen, he gained the attention of the room. ‘I’m your new commander. Mr Harris has been retired. I’m here to bring the crews back. The mission is being aborted.’

  The was a discontented hubbub within the ranks and a few catcalls.

  ‘Silence! Let me reiterate: THE MISSION IS OVER! Order Eugene to take the capsule back up to the main rocket and dock.’

  ‘But, sir…’ protested Rocky, the chief engineer.

  Stephen whirled around. ‘Just do it, man, or you can go home too!’

  What an adventure it had been for Soraya. From the girl steering a motorboat in Zanzibar to piloting a spacecraft. Her mind raced as she tried to relax in her straps. There was nothing to do now but cross her fingers and experience the second most exhilarating and frightening ride of her life. Through the ice-crystal fringes of the toughened glass, she watched the main rocket slowly spin, glide away from them and diminish as they descended towards the upper fringes of the atmosphere.

  Soon would come the natural braking, followed by the increased juddering and buffeting of the building air pressure and streams of hot ionised gas of the searing bow wave. Bracing herself, she became aware of Eugene’s raised voice over the intercom.

  ‘Negative! Houston, can’t do! Check.’ She tuned into the conversation.

  Stephen’s flat voice responded. ‘Commander, return to the main ship, that’s an order! Check.’

  She saw Eugene turn to Su-lin and put his gloved finger to his head with the universal ‘crazy’ gesture. ‘This is a capsule, not a rocket. We are in the descent phase with no means of return – check.’

  Stephen’s black polo-necked form paced the floor in frustration. He wheeled around to Edward Stalk, who had followed him into the room. ‘This is your fault, Stalk. Get out, you’re fired!’

  This unprecedented sacking of the mission-safety planner caused confusion among the mission planners and technicians, and there was much whispering and scratching of heads.

  His initial plan thwarted, Stephen finally calmed down and set his mind to work out what to do next. He appealed in more conciliatory tones to Chief Engineer Rocky for advice on plan B.

  Unaware of events, with excited smiles and a few farewell tears, the children waved from the portholes at the diminishing maintenance capsule as it disappeared into the glare of the Earth and the impossibly thin veneer of glowing atmosphere which sustains all terrestrial life. As they one by one withdrew their straining eyes, it began to dawn on them they were finally all alone and would be for the best part of the next two years. That spell was broken when the sheer excitement of their adventure overtook them. Gaily chatting and joking, they were suddenly brought to book by the detached voice of mission control.

  ‘Would the crew make their way to the capsule and buckle up?’

  This was it!

  Nervously they filed into the tubular link through to the sleeping quarters, where they donned their suits, before following Buzz into the command capsule itself. The tail-end Charlie would be Bheki, charged with locking the hatches. Buzz, like a whippet, shot ahead into the capsule and settled in his seat with eager anticipation. Despite this there was something bothering Buzz. He had not heard the comforting voice of Granf for two days and he desperately needed to say his farewells before the ‘big burn’.

  ‘Houston, can I speak to my Granf, please? Check,’ he requested as soon as he had plugged in his intercom.

  ‘Who the hell’s Granf?’ demanded Stephen.

  ‘His granddad, you know… Ford,’ whispered Rocky.

  ‘Tell him Ford’s ill!’ replied Stephen.

  Rocky leaned back and took a long hard look at Stephen. ‘Tell him yourself, you’re the boss! Anyway, I need a comfort break.’

  Rocky got up defiantly, exiting the room and leaving Stephen to deal with it. Stephen reluctantly decided to tell the truth.

  ‘Mr Harris… has been let go. I’m boss now. I’ll send your regards – check.’

  The strange euphemism of ‘letting someone go’ had never entered Buzz’s vocabulary. Had he been tied up? Put in prison? What the flip could have happened? He was confused.

  ‘What? Why? Check.’

  There was no avoiding the issue and Stephen decided it was time to show his authority. ‘He’s been dismissed, and I’ve taken over. The mission’s off, on the orders of the new president herself! Unfortunately, the maintenance crew have left so we’re going to bring you home remotely. You’re going to stay in your capsule and we’ll detach it from the rest of the spaceship and you’ll re-enter, as you’ve been trained. So, get everyone strapped in – check.’

  It was like cancelling a trip to Disney World. Buzz was stunned but defiant. He unstrapped his buckles and shot like a diving seal down the connecting tube to his friends. Wide-eyed with indignation he told them the terrible news.

  The voice came again. ‘Enough chatting! Back to the capsule!’

  The children gathered, floating in a rough circle. A loquacious babble erupted in several different languages, but they all said more or less the same thing: ‘It’s not fair!’

  They ignored the increasingly stern tannoy giving out repeated orders. In a slight dip in the hubbub, Bheki could be seen shaking his head.

  ‘Jeez! Eich!’ he cursed with earnest sentiments. Catching his friends’ atten
tion Bheki looked at them with a flickering light in his eye and a conspiratorial grin. ‘Let’s make a plan,’ he signed.

  Bheki had taught ‘The Other Things’ this visual language during the many ‘otherwise bored out of your brain’ hours in selection and training. He lifted his finger to his lips and signed, ‘Here’s my plan. Do what they ask but don’t buckle up.’

  Obediently they followed the orders to take up their seats in the capsule. A light was winking in the gloom of the cabin. ‘Seat belts undone!’ The same light flashed on the monitors in Houston. ‘Seat belts undone!’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ complained the new controller. ‘Do what you’re told, you cretins! I order you to buckle up! Check.’

  Yasmin was looking mortified. She sidled up to Stephen and dropped a word in his ear. ‘This is going out live!’

  Buying time, Buzz retorted, ‘We’re working the problem, Houston – check.’ He then signed to Bheki, ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘Cheeky little…!’ Stephen cursed under his breath. With a dismissive wave, he turned to Rocky who had returned to his station.

  ‘Get control of the craft and bring it down! If they don’t buckle up they can take the consequences.’

  With one eye to the watching millions, Stephen decided to address the mini-astronauts in kinder tones. ‘Now, children, be good little space cadets and do what you’re told – check.’

  Bheki signed to the other five, ‘No, no, no, no, no!’

  Bheki signed to Xing, ‘OK, take control, we’ll go for the big burn.’

  Xing flicked the switches and for a moment she had control but they were immediately overridden by the technicians below. Mo immediately understood what he had to do and gave them all a sign.

  ‘Stop messing about – check,’ commanded Stephen.

  Elin took over. ‘We are very sorry, Mr Stephen, we didn’t mean to be difficult, it’s just really disappointing. We’re buckling up now! Check.’

  As she did this she leaned over and had a word in Mo’s ear, appearing to spell something out.

  Finally satisfied with their compliance, Stephen puffed out his chest and strutted around, before hustling Rocky with an open-palmed pushing gesture of his right hand. ‘OK… now, just get on with it!’