But the satnav said, “Yes, this is right. Stop worrying.” Now that’s what I call an impressive level of interactivity.
Then we saw it. Beyond the tents and over to the left, the Possibility Building. It really was big. And red. Like a huge unopened present. I was trying to imagine what was inside, which is probably why the car drifted slightly off the side of the track, which is probably what led to the sirens and flashing lights going off all over the place and Florida shouting, “Stop! Stop!” I did stop. I stopped surprisingly completely. When we looked up there were two policemen coming toward us with guns.
“Well, game over,” said Florida. “They are going to ask to see your license. They’ll find out you’re not a grown-up and they’ll send us home.”
Her theory was much more optimistic than mine. My theory was that they were going to shoot us.
The police in fact bowed to us, got on their radios, talked in Chinese for a while, then bowed again and one of them said, “Honored guests?” in English.
“Yes,” said Florida, “honored guests. That’s us.”
Then he did this mime which I think meant, Follow-us-in-your-car-even-though-you-blatantly-can’t-drive. And they led us all the way to the Possibility Building car park. This was the best thing ever according to Florida, because it was a police escort and even Madonna doesn’t get a police escort.
“That’s because Madonna doesn’t have a dad like yours,” I said.
Dr. Drax was waiting for us with the other kids and dads. She asked if we were ready to see the biggest thrill ride in the world ever.
I said, “Yes!” slightly too loud and too excited to be truly dadly.
“Then let’s go,” said Dr. Drax.
The Possibility Building is so big that sometimes there are proper rain clouds floating around inside it. A room with its own weather. I can tell you all that now. But I didn’t notice any of this at the time. I didn’t notice it because I was too busy looking at Infinity Park’s main attraction, the World’s Biggest Thrill Ride, the ride I’d been waiting to see all this time: the Rocket. In front of me. And above me. Way, way, way above me. Because the Rocket goes all the way past the interior clouds, to the roof.
And the reason this ride is called the Rocket is that it is a rocket.
A real rocket.
A blue rocket.
A massive rocket.
Of the going-to-space kind.
It was so massive that at first we couldn’t tell it was a rocket. It looked like a wall of metal pipes and panels. We couldn’t take it in. We all looked up and then looked down, as though we were a bunch of scanners trying to upload an image. Samson Two seemed to have the fastest processor. “It’s a rocket,” he said.
“Yes.” Dr. Drax smiled. “It’s my rocket.”
How good is that sentence? “It’s my rocket,” like “It’s my lunch box,” or something.
“Of course we have been making rockets here in China since Feng Jishen invented the first one in the year 970 AD. At first they were used to fire arrows. They had names like Swarm of Bees or Five Leaping Tigers. But my rocket has a different purpose. It’s called the Infinite Possibility. And…” she said, turning to the kids, “I’m giving it to you. I’d like you children to think of it as a present. From my generation to yours. I’m not going to ride in it. But you are.”
“When you say ride in it,” said Samson One, “do you mean, ride in it…to space?”
“Yes. The biggest thrill ride of all time is a ride to space. I’m sorry to have been so secretive about this. It was only because…it’s a secret. And we want to keep it that way. Any questions?”
Monsieur Martinet said, “You want to send our children to space?”
“For just a few hours. The rocket will pop up to space, do a simple little job and then pop down again.” She made it sound like an elevator. “As thrill rides go, it’s the ultimate.”
Everyone agreed.
Dr. Drax went on, “Most thrill rides have a height requirement. This one will need a bit more—you’ll have to pass some medicals and you’ll need to train.”
“We’re going to be astronauts,” said Samson Two.
“In fact, here in China the word is ‘taikonaut.’ Yes, you are all going to be taikonauts, with parental permission, of course.”
All the kids looked round at their dads for permission. I even looked round for mine. Then I remembered that mine wasn’t there. I was the dad this time.
Dr. Drax turned to the children again and said, “I called the rocket a present, but it’s more a kind of apology. You see, I believe my generation has all but destroyed this pretty blue planet. I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m not then the only hope for humankind might be for us to start again somewhere else. Just because we’ve destroyed the Earth, that doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. There are millions and millions of stars in the universe. There are probably even millions of planets like this one. Every bit as good as this one. It’s just a matter of finding one.
“If we’re going to do that, we are going to have to make some long journeys, journeys that might take years. And if a journey is going to take years, you’d better have a young crew. So that they’ll still be strong and useful when they arrive. And that is what Infinity Park is all about. I want it to be a place that will inspire young people like you to want to work in space. In fact, if they come to the park, some of them will be able to go to space, just for a little while. This is the prototype. You will be the first. The first children in space.” Then she said, “Any questions?”
Florida’s hand shot up. “Does that mean we’re going to be famous?” she said.
“Maybe. But not yet. As I said, this mission is a secret—our little secret.”
“How famous?”
“Well…world famous, I suppose. Maybe. As long as everything goes to plan.”
Florida was bouncing on the balls of her feet with sheer happiness. She put her hand up again.
“Florida?”
“I love this color,” said Florida, pointing at the rocket.
“What do you call it?”
“I call it blue,” said Dr. Drax. “I think most people do.”
“But there’s blue and blue. This is a lovely shade.”
“Perhaps we could call it Rocket Blue. Next question?”
The next question was from Samson Two. “Could we call it Ballistic Blue? Ballistics is the science of rockets, and Ballistic Blue has a nice alliterative quality.”
“Very nice,” smiled Dr. Drax. “Next question?”
Hasan said, “That’s a lot of paint. Did the supplier offer you a good discount for placing such a large order?”
“Does anyone have any questions that are not about the paintwork?” said Dr. Drax.
No one did. “In that case, one of our engineers will now show the children around the rocket while we grown-ups get down to the paperwork. Rather a lot of forms to fill in for this trip, I’m afraid. Surprisingly difficult to get insured for a flight into space. Even though this one is extremely safe. Completely safe. Almost.”
You could see that Dr. Drax was disappointed, that she thought the children had sort of missed the point, going on about the paint like that. But that’s what kids do when big things come up. We focus on the little things. Like the kids sleeping in this rocket now. They’re not dreaming about planet Earth. They’re dreaming about their own little bedrooms.
I had a different reaction to the rocket. I wasn’t interested in the paint. I had one thought. One big, damp thought. Namely:
I AM NOT GOING TO SPACE.
The children are having the thrill ride of the century. And we—the grown-ups—are going to sit around and watch and maybe video them or something.
“Come along, children,” smiled Dr. Drax as the kids all climbed on to the escalator platform at the side of the rocket.
I said, “But we can see round the rocket too, can’t we?”
“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Drax smiled. “I want the chi
ldren to get used to being together without their daddies. After all, they won’t have their daddies in space.”
That’s right.
Because…
I am not going to space.
Florida Kirby is going to space.
That is exactly the wrong way round. It’s supposed to be more fun being a grown-up. That’s why I swapped being a kid for being a dad. What’s the point in forfeiting your childhood if all you get for it is filling in forms?
I Am the Space Daddy
When I realized I’d gone all the way to the Gobi Desert just to watch Florida Kirby going to space I felt like I’d died. Not died as in real life. But died as in a game—when you’re running along nicely on Level Forty, having all sorts of Level Forty–type adventures, and bleep, you’re dead with no spare lives, and you have to go right back to the beginning, and go through all the boring bits all over again.
While Florida and the other kids were looking around a real rocket, we dads had to sit down and fill in forms. Forms full of questions about our children. I can’t believe how much parents are supposed to know about their kids. Like their date of birth, for instance. In fact I was all right with that one because I still had Florida’s passport so I just copied her birthday out of that.
“Oh dear,” said Dr. Drax. “Here’s a daddy who doesn’t know his own daughter’s birthday.”
“I know Samson Two’s birthday,” said Samson One, “and one day the world will know it too. It will be a national holiday in our country.”
“I do sometimes forget Max’s,” said Monsieur Martinet, “but he is too well brought up to say so.”
The birthday question turned out to be the easy one. There were questions about vaccinations, allergies and what childhood illnesses she’d had. I did remember that she’d been off school a lot in Year Six, but I couldn’t remember why.
All the other dads were ticking things off and filling things in. I tried to see what Max’s dad was writing so I could copy, but he caught me looking and put his hand over his forms so I couldn’t see. Childhood illnesses. I couldn’t think of one childhood illness. Except that when Florida was talking about celebrities earlier she’d mentioned chronic something. I thought if I wrote “chronic” it would help me remember the other word. That was it—chronic obesity.
Dr. Drax was looking over my shoulder. She said, “Chronic obesity? Are you sure?”
Then luckily I remembered that “obesity” means “fat.” I said, “Not chronic obesity, sorry.” I crossed out “obesity” and put “arthritis.” It looked quite convincing written down.
Dr. Drax sniffed quite hard, then took the form off me and looked at it. “I see under vaccinations, you’ve ticked yellow fever and malaria.”
I’d ticked quite a few to be on the safe side.
“Oh, and dengue fever. Has Florida traveled a lot?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Think so?”
“I mean, I think she has because she has. She’s been to Florida. Hence the name. And…we all went to Enchantment Land in Southport in Year Six. I mean, when she was in Year Six.”
“Southport in England?”
“Yes.”
“Only you don’t normally need vaccinations if you’re traveling within England.”
“Not normally, no,” I said. “But I say…why take the risk? You can’t be too careful—that’s the Digby family motto.”
After the paperwork, it got worse. We played golf.
Golf! The other dads couldn’t have been more excited if you’d given them invisibility cloaks.
Golf while Florida was looking around a rocket.
Golf while she was getting ready to be a taikonaut.
Golf.
Golf. If you think Monopoly is boring, you should try golf. If you were playing golf inside World of Warcraft, what skills would you need? Running skills? No. Sword skills? No. Cunning? No. Wisdom? You are joking. The object of the “game” is to put a ball in a hole. Tidying-up skills, that’s what you’d need. Tidying-up skills and a lot of time on your hands. A game? I suppose it feels like a game if you are actually one of the undead.
We pootled around this golf course in two electric buggies while they all talked about their averages and handicaps, and told stories about times when they’d put other little balls in different little holes.
“I taught Samson Two to play golf some years ago,” said Samson One as we lined up to take our first shots. “Such a practical way to learn about the interaction of physical forces and so on. For instance, if I use a driver to tee off…” A driver is one of those golf sticks for hitting the ball with—apparently they’ve got different names, like wedge and iron and stuff. Anyway, Samson One teed off with a driver and explained about how the parabola of the ball in flight was related to the swing of the driver as he hit the ball—I wasn’t really listening. I just hit the ball as hard as I could. It flew down the grass. I shouted, “Yes!!!!”
The others just stared at me, and Monsieur Martinet said, “Why are you so happy?”
“I hit it loads farther than him. I’m winning.”
Samson One laughed. “But you’ve hit it too far. It’s gone past the hole and into the rough.”
I had sort of assumed that the point of the game was to hit the ball as far as you could. I hadn’t known about the holes.
“Extraordinary,” said Monsieur Martinet, “that one could reach adulthood without knowing how golf is played.”
I said, “Yeah, but do you know how World of Warcraft is played? I bet you don’t.”
Monsieur Martinet sort of squinted, then said, “Golf is a game that teaches many of the qualities needed for success—for instance, decision making and attention to detail. Computer games, on the contrary, are for idiots.”
“Or teenagers,” said Eddie Xanadu.
I realized I’d said the wrong thing. I tried to recover a bit of ground by saying, “Let’s see if you do better then.” I’m not sure how dadly that sounded, to be honest.
The others all got their ball onto the flat bit of grass round the hole. I had to get mine out of the long grass. Dr. Drax came with me and told me I should chip the ball with a niblick. I was quite excited by that suggestion. I thought a niblick might be some slim pond-dwelling goblin, which is what it sounds like. Disappointingly, it’s just another golf stick.
It does work though. It knocked the ball straight up into the air and it plopped down on the green bit. “Well done,” said Dr. Drax. “There’s no feeling on Earth as satisfying as dropping the ball down just so like that.”
“Maybe not on Earth. I bet there are some much better feelings in space though.”
“Yes,” she said. “You’ve certainly given your daughter a great opportunity.”
Yes, I’ve given Florida a great opportunity. And I’ve given myself a niblick.
The other dads were all lined up ready to tee off again. Samson One drove his ball down the fairway in another lovely parabola. I kept hold of my niblick.
“Oh, you can’t tee off with a niblick,” smiled Dr. Drax.
“I’m not teeing off.” I chipped the ball into the back of the golf buggy.
“Now look what you’ve done,” snarled Monsieur Martinet.
“I’ve done,” I said, “a stroke of genius. When you drive up onto the green in the buggy, my ball will go to the green in the back of the buggy. And I’ll just chip it out again.”
“You can’t do that! You can’t send your ball round the golf course in a car.”
“Why not?”
“The rules. Golf has rules. Lots of rules. That’s the beauty of the game.”
Samson One said, “Logic says he can. If we think of the golf buggy as a hazard? Well then, balls do go into hazards. Sand traps and ponds and so on.”
When you say “hazard” to normal people they think of ice on the road, or fog, or sudden invasions of Night Elves. Golfers think you mean sand. Or a puddle with a duck in it.
“Hazards,” said Monsieur Mar
tinet, “do not get up and take the balls right up to the hole, do they?”
“No. But you can’t interfere with a hazard. And if this hazard happens to be heading to the green, then the ball will have to go with it.”
You could tell that Monsieur Martinet was unhappy about this by the way he started waving his five iron round his head and yelling about how childish I was.
“I’m childish?! I’m not the one getting all stressed out about a game.” Honestly, grown-ups talk about teenagers spending too much time online and taking games too seriously. A game of golf seems to take about three years, and they talk about it like the next stroke is going to save the world.
“Yes, childish. What kind of father are you? No wonder your daughter is so complicated when you have so little regard for rules!”
I looked at him. He really thought he was a Level Forty monster and I was some sort of Level Seven baby warrior who’d run away if he snarled at me. But I had my mental elixir. I let it fill my brain and then I Engaged. “You think you’re a good dad? What kind of parent lets his child go off into space while he plays golf?”
Monsieur Martinet looked a bit confused when I said that. And so did the other dads. Until Dr. Drax said, “Aren’t you doing exactly that, Mr. Digby?”
Well, yes, I was but I knew that my dad would never do that. Let alone my mom. I said, “In my school—my child’s school—when they go on a trip, a responsible parent goes with them. Even if it’s only to the museum or the art gallery. In the New Strand Shopping Center, you’re not even allowed to go into the candy shop without an accompanying adult. Why aren’t you doing that here?”
“You mean you’d like to go to space with the children?” asked Dr. Drax.
“Yes. Yes, of course I would!”
“But…”
They were all staring at me. Monsieur Martinet rolled his eyes and muttered, “Of course he should be with the children. He is a child. Tall, but a child.”
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