by Rhys Hughes
Castor Jenkins is proud of the fact that he was the man who made the mission happen, but he’s bitter that he hasn’t received greater recognition for his amazing achievement. When he’s in a bitter mood, the only way to cheer him up is to buy him a beer. The same is true when he’s in a lager mood. If you mention the word ‘proof’ he’ll think you’re offering him whisky. But sometimes he’ll soften and tell the entire story in a sober fashion.
And when he does tell it, this is how it goes:
* * * *
It started in the pub while Castor was lecturing his friends on philosophy, history, semiotics, chemistry, ballistics, phenomenology, geography, cybernetics, geology, psychology, algebra, apiology, sociology, epistemology, oneirology, needlework and physics, among other topics. Somehow the subject of the speed of light had come up. Castor declared that it wasn’t so difficult a barrier to break and that he knew exactly how to do it.
“The speed of light is an absolute limit!” protested Paddy Deluxe.
“A theoretical maximum,” confirmed Frothing Harris.
“Not so!” cried Castor. “Listen carefully, because last night I discovered a way of travelling even faster. I was lying in bed awake, I couldn’t sleep because of the fog outside my window. Some people don’t like cats howling, others despise noisy neighbours, a few detest the opening of fridge doors downstairs during searches for early hours cheese. I’m not like them. What stops me from getting to sleep is fog. I regard its clamminess as a personal insult, its tendrils as a form of bullying and its dispersal patterns as mean and uncouth.
“In the distance a fog horn roared like the mating cry of a plesiosaurus (such a cliché but so accurate!) and I began pondering the methods used throughout history to warn passing ships away from rocks. Foghorn is one technique; lighthouse is another. So then I started thinking about revolving lamps and giant lenses and it occurred to me that the secret to faster than light travel might have something to do with the sweep of lighthouse beams.”
“Which travel at the speed of light,” frowned Paddy Deluxe.
“No more, no less,” added Frothing Harris.
“Not the actual beams,” cried Castor, “but their sweep. I want you to imagine a lighthouse with an extremely powerful lamp. This lamp turns on its axis, throwing out light in the process. Imagine that it completes one revolution every ten seconds. At a distance of one mile, the beam draws a circle 6.28 miles in circumference, and thus the speed of the sweep is approximately 2260 miles per hour. At a distance of one hundred miles, the circle has a circumference of 628 miles and the speed of the sweep has increased to almost a quarter of a million miles per hour. At a distance of a million miles, the circumference is 6,283,180 miles and the speed of the sweep is no less than 2,261,944,800 mph.”
“And the velocity of light is?” queried Frothing Harris.
Paddy Deluxe answered, “186,282 miles per second.”
“Which is equal to 670,615,200 mph,” smiled Castor, “or more than three times slower than the sweep of a million mile long beam. And one million miles isn’t so far. The moon lies at a distance of 238,854 miles from Earth. The other planets of the solar system, to say nothing of the stars and galaxies, are considerably further. If you were hanging on the end of a million mile long beam, you’d be whizzing through space faster than a photon.”
Paddy and Harris exchanged a look of astonishment.
Castor took full advantage. “That’s right. At that point, the sweep has exceeded the speed of light. I know what you’re going to say. A sweep is not a real thing, it’s an optical illusion, a psychological connection, an observer’s convention that bears no relation to the movement of actual photons. That might be true, but I don’t see why even an illusory principle can’t be used as the motive force for an interstellar vessel of some description. I believe that the dawn of a radical new era in space exploration is within our grasp.”
“The practicalities will surely be daunting!” cried Paddy.
“And the expenses crippling!” blurted Harris.
At this moment, the man sitting on the next table turned his head and lifted the brim of his hat so that his face became visible. He had been sitting there quietly all along, unobtrusive and meek, but with twitching muscles in the fingers of his long hands. Now he made himself known in a forthright manner. He licked his lips and fixed Castor with a stare so wide and arid that his yellow eyes resembled the beds of evaporated seas. Then he said:
“Pardon me for interrupting, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I’m a stranger to this town and my home is a distant city with customs that might seem eccentric to you. Therefore forgive me if I say anything that seems rude or odd or viciously grandiose. I am one of the cleverest and most resourceful men you are ever likely to meet, a devious manipulator of objects and people, a cunning and ruthless schemer, a twisted egotist of inordinate wealth and malice. May I join you at your own table for a minute?”
“He seems a reasonable fellow,” remarked Castor to his friends, and turning to the stranger cried, “Why not?”
The man pulled up a chair. “I am infatuated with the moon, I love anything to do with her, she is the finest thing in the sky! Her highly comminuted and impact gardened surficial layer is charming, her occasional outgassing of radon, potassium and polonium is divine, and her lack of a bipolar magnetic field, with all magnetic activity centred in the crust, is sweet and innocent to a degree rarely encountered anywhere else in this modern age!”
“Her dimples are nice,” conceded Castor.
“I prefer the moon and moony things,” continued the stranger, “to everything else in existence, even to the taste of Forgetfulness Honey. As the moon’s biggest fan, I have dedicated my fortune and intellect to creating a shrine to her; and in fact the city where I come from was founded by myself, and is ruled by myself, for the sole purpose of allowing me to spend my time mooning around beneath the moon. I am actually a sort of mad dictator.”
“What does Forgetfulness Honey taste like?” asked Castor.
“I don’t rightly remember,” was the reply, “but it’s very nice. Anyway, not only am I a dictator, I’m also an inventor, and the majority of my inventions are utterly ridiculous, for instance the living plates and bowls complete with arms and legs that I manufactured last year. But despite my genius and wealth I’ve never been able to create a vehicle capable of taking me to the moon, which is my dearest wish. If I heard you correctly, you have a plan for a new kind of propulsion unit based on lighthouse beams. You also mentioned the moon. I am the man who can fund your scheme. Look no further!”
Paddy and Harris waited for Castor’s reaction.
Castor smirked and said, “That’s a kind offer, but I think you underestimate my ambitions. The moon is far too close for what I have in mind. My faster than light drive is worthy of a proper mission, a voyage to one of the zodiac constellations! I must decline your help with apologies.”
The stranger stood in a sudden fury, turned on his heel and stamped towards the door, looking back over his shoulder with a grotesque leer. “Buffoon! You’ll regret obstructing my lunar machinations!”
Then he stormed out, slamming the door as he went.
“What a dreadful man,” sniffed Paddy.
“The world is full of crazed despots!” lamented Harris.
Castor gave an airy wave. “We don’t need a sponsor. It is within our means to build a spaceship by adapting existing technology at very low cost. Consider this conundrum: if lighthouse beams hold the secret to breaking the light speed barrier why don’t lighthouses go flying into space? Why doesn’t the lighthouse at the end of Porthcawl pier shoot off towards the furthest reaches of the universe? The drive unit is in place; there is sufficient fuel for a mission. Something else is missing, perhaps one very simple element.”
“A navigation system?” suggested Paddy.
“Life support?” chimed in Harris.
Castor shook his head. “Simpler than those. A timetable. Tha
t’s what I believe is missing. After all, I doubt something as complex as an interstellar craft would be anything other than automatic. We won’t be required to pilot the thing, merely act as passengers, so it’s just a question of knowing when the next flight is due to take place, and the only way to be absolutely sure is to take matters into our own hands. I require a sheet of paper and a pencil.”
These items were provided and Castor scribbled the words Earth to Gemini Express, Departing 18:30 on the paper. He studied it carefully and glanced at the clock on the wall over the bar. “The next flight is in ten minutes. We’d better hurry. Leave your drinks and follow me!”
“Are we really going into space?” cried Harris.
“Yes indeed.” Castor led the way outside and along the esplanade. The sea was rough and the tide was high and big waves broke over the railings, while the wind flung beer coloured globules of spray at the white bulk of the Grand Pavilion. They managed to reach the pier without getting too wet. Then they picked their way to the lighthouse at the end. Castor circled the edifice searching for a means of entry. There appeared to be none. Beating the sides with his fists achieved nothing but bruises. He stood back and pondered.
“A spacecraft is an advanced piece of technology. It surely wouldn’t be entered through a normal door. Maybe there’s a voice-operated portal of some kind? That’s more in keeping with what I know about futuristic devices. Let me try. I command you to open and let us inside!”
A previously invisible hatch in the side of the lighthouse slid back silently and Castor stepped through without hesitation, gingerly followed by his less confident friends. The hatch instantly closed behind them and the three explorers of the void stood pressed tightly together in the narrow space. There was hardly enough room to breathe or shift weight from one foot to another. Frothing Harris discovered that his mouth was muffled by Paddy’s left armpit, but he still managed to question the standards of these travelling arrangements.
“Isn’t it supposed to be bigger on the inside than the outside?”
“You’re confusing reality with fantasy,” explained Castor. “This is an authentic interstellar spaceship, not a science fiction prop. It seems to be fully automatic, just as I imagined, without a single control for us to play with, so I guess we just stand here and wait to reach our destination.”
“Why Gemini?” wondered Paddy.
“The two main stars of that constellation are Castor and Pollux. Naturally I’d like to visit a star that shares my name. Who wouldn’t? But there’s another reason. I have a twin brother called Pollux, so my family connection with Gemini is deeper than you might suspect. My brother looks like me, he’s a perfect double, but he’s the exact opposite in character.”
“You mean he always tells the truth?” quipped Harris.
Castor ignored this remark and attempted to scratch his nose. The air inside the lighthouse began to grow stale. “Shame there aren’t any portholes. Wouldn’t it be marvellous to view the passing parsecs of infinite space outside our window! All those glorious nebulae and pulsars!”
“When will we be setting off?” complained Paddy.
“We’re already on our way,” answered Castor. “Don’t expect any feelings of acceleration. This isn’t a motorbike but a sophisticated star-cruiser and it doesn’t obey the laws of provincial motion.”
“Rather too high-falutin’ for me,” grumbled Harris. “How long will the journey take? What if we asphyxiate first?”
“We’re already there!” announced Castor. “We crossed a distance of fifty light years in the blink of an eye. Imagine!”
“But what sort of eye?” whispered Paddy. “Anything at all might be waiting for us outside. I don’t care to be eaten; I haven’t had my own supper yet. I wish I never allowed you to talk me into this.”
“Are we on the surface of a planet?” asked Harris.
“One way to find out!” Castor declared.
He ordered the invisible hatch to open. Smoothly it did so. With a whistle of appreciation, he stepped out slowly on the alien ground and stretched his cramped limbs. “I’m the first human being to stand on a world orbiting a distant star. I deserve eternal fame for this act!” Then he grew suddenly morose and snorted, “But they won’t give it to me.”
“Who won’t?” asked Paddy and Harris.
“The newspapers and television stations back home, the Welsh establishment, the Taffia6, you know who I mean!”
“Is the atmosphere breathable?”
Castor inhaled deeply. “Eminently so! Come and join me.”
“The place is inhabited!”
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Castor strode off towards a collection of buildings that fronted an agitated sea.
“It looks a lot like Porthcawl,” grumbled Paddy.
Harris squinted and pointed. “Doesn’t that building over there bear a curious resemblance to the Grand Pavilion?”
“And the esplanade is identical!”
“I don’t think we’ve actually gone anywhere,” said Harris.
Castor stopped in his tracks. Then he turned a fierce glare on his two friends, shook his head in melodramatic despair, clutched the railings tightly and looked out over the waves while chewing his lower lip. “Tell me, if you please,” he said coldly, “what colour is the sea?”
There was a long silence before Paddy answered meekly, “Orange.”
“And the colour of the sky?”
“Also orange,” mumbled Harris, “with an unusual sun in it, four suns in fact. Is Castor a quadruple star system?”
“It is. Now take a look at the building you describe as bearing a resemblance to the Grand Pavilion. Would you please give me an estimate of its height. An error margin of 10% is acceptable.”
“Between three and four thousand feet...”
“And a description of the material from which it has been constructed?”
“Green crystal! A single giant emerald!”
Castor nodded and set off once again. Paddy and Harris struggled to keep up with him. There was no doubt in their minds now that they really were on another planet, but the pseudo-familiarity of their surroundings was still troubling them. It was Paddy who blurted out:
“The coincidence seems too implausible!”
Castor had softened. He slowed his pace and spoke with a smile, “Maybe not. It might be that the basic design of Porthcawl is a fundamental constant throughout the universe. For example, nitrogen exists on Earth and in fact makes up 78% of our atmosphere and is found in amino acids and all living tissues. Nitrogen also exists on Mars, albeit in much smaller quantities. Does that mean that Earth and Mars are the same place? No! It’s simply that nitrogen is an element common to both, a shared possession. And so it might be with our hometown. The Grand Pavilion could be an inevitable structure.”
“We accept that. We have no other choice.”
Castor said, “Why don’t we go and get some chips? I can smell the delicious aroma of potatoes and frying fat!”
“Is that wise? Alien food might be toxic.”
“Call yourselves pioneers, adventurers?” mocked Castor. “Bah! I should have gone to the moon with that mad despot, at least he had vision and courage! What will the historians say about this? That Paddy Deluxe and Frothing Harris were like trembling kittens in the shadow of the great Castor Jenkins? Is that what you really want? Be men just for once!”
“I suppose I could do with some chips,” muttered Paddy.
“Just a small packet,” sighed Harris.
They found a chip shop not very far away and Castor stroked his chin. “Maybe it’ll be best if I go in alone. The inhabitants might be hostile. I can also learn some of the local customs for later.”
Paddy and Harris stood outside and watched the proceedings through the grimy window. Castor was communicating with the man behind the counter by means of a flurry of hand signals, none of which Paddy or Harris understood. Within a few minutes Castor emerged with three packets of chips. They were surpris
ed that he had paid for all of them, but he winked and revealed that on this planet the standard currency was earwax.
“I’ve had rank deposits building up in both my ears for years, so now I can be considered a rich man,” he said.
They devoured the chips, which were just as soggy and cool as the Welsh kind, and then stood aimlessly while a frown deepened on Castor’s forehead. He glanced in the direction of the lighthouse.
“I think we should go now,” he urged.
“So soon?” cried Paddy. “What’s the trouble?”
“Well the timetable I created didn’t specify a return time. What if the spacecraft leaves without us? Do you want to be stranded here? What’s the point of becoming martyrs to the cause of the Welsh Space Program? Life is too important to throw away in such a careless fashion. Who cares what the historians say? We can always return tomorrow or next week!”
Something in Castor’s tone made Paddy and Harris feel a tinge of panic. They hurried back along the esplanade, and now the suns had set and it was twilight and the constellations were becoming visible.
Castor pointed at a faint star, “More proof, if any doubts linger. That is Polaris, the North Star, but it’s in the south!”
Paddy and Harris said nothing. Working out the positions of stars while orbiting a star that wasn’t the sun was too complex. Easier to take his word instead. When they reached the lighthouse, they slid open the hatch with a voice command and squeezed into the stuffy darkness.
“Not a moment too soon!” announced Castor.
“Are we off?” blabbered Harris.
“Yes indeed. In fact we’re already back. The real Porthcawl lies outside. Before we step out and return to our old way of life, let me confess something that has made me feel a bit sad. This voyage of ours has changed everything. We’ll never be able to talk in quite the same way as before, the experience was too futuristic. Even language will have to alter to help us assimilate the adventure and that’s a change I have mixed feelings about.
“Consider what it means now for us to ‘turn on our left sides’ or ‘fly out of the kitchen’. Before the voyage, the first phrase meant we were shifting position in bed; the second meant we had to leave the kitchen in a hurry. Now the first means we’ve just flipped a row of switches on the left sides of our bodies; and the second means that we are mounted on hover-scooters. The domestic no longer exists as it once did. It has become interstellar!”