by Mark Roman
“Good question,” said HarVard, his avatar morphing into Rodin’s Thinker.
volunteered Dura.
Rodin’s Thinker took his fist from under his chin. “And what will you do when you’re up there?”
“What do you suppose the effect of that would be?”
“Correct. And then all the air would rush out and the humans would die.”
Dura lowered his metal head.
Ero limped forward, radiating positivity. he said, holding up a length of rubber with his good arm. He had to crank his whole body round to gauge HarVard’s reaction, his head immobile from the gaffer tape strapped around his neck.
Rodin’s Thinker gave him a benevolent look. “And when the doors opened they would die.”
The Thinker sighed. “They would need to open the doors to get to the bait. And then they would die.”
The robots stood scratching their heads.
“Perhaps you should leave the thinking to me?”
HarVard’s avatar blinked in puzzlement and turned his gaze towards the site foreman. “What?”
The Thinker gave a slow nod. “Ah, yes. I see where you’re coming from, Tude. I surmise that you’ve been watching children’s TV broadcasts from Earth?”
“And International Rescue comprise a group of puppets with rigid facial expressions?”
“Thought so. Any other ideas?”
There was a general uck-uck-ucking sound of agreement from the other robots.
More uck-uck-ucking. Dura’s ideas sounded very logical.
Encouraged by the support of his peers, Dura continued.
Uck-uck-uck murmured the nodding robots.
The Thinker stayed as still as a statue, eyes closed, waiting patiently for the flow of robot suggestions to cease. “Very good. Now can you all keep your potty ideas to yourselves? I am trying to think.”
But he was interrupted by an excited squeak from Dura. The robot was pointing up at the roof and jumping up and down on his suspension.
*
Flint spotted the group of robots and the strange statue at the base of the dome at about the same time they saw him. He gave a quick wave. Aware that his time in the low pressure was limited, and that the air trapped in the helmet would not last forever, he bounded across the flimsy polycarbonate panels of the BioDome roof towards the group below. As the roof became too steep to hold his footing he launched himself onto his large behind and began to slide. Faster and faster he went, yelling like a wild-eyed, bare-breasted warrior charging into battle, until his trajectory detached him from the roof and put him into freefall.
“WHO’S THE DADDY,” he roared as he flew, the sounds barely escaping his child-sized helmet. He landed with a bone-crunching thud smack bang in the middle of the robots.
29. One Giant Heap for Mankind
More robots had now made their way through the airlock, so there was quite a crowd gathering around the man who had fallen from the sky and now lay in a giant heap on the ground. They were buzzing with excitement. One of them even fainted, his batteries too low to cope with the increased electrical activity in his head.
Flint Dugdale was also experiencing increased activity in his head, although not all of it was electrical in nature. The fluid in his ears was beginning to boil, due to the low atmospheric pressure. His teeth were chattering uncontrollably. His face was turning blue due to insufficiency of oxygen. His tongue and eyes were bulging, and his mouth frothing. He raised his head and looked blearily at the mechanoids surrounding him, waiting for them to give him a hand and help him up. But they just stared back, fascinated.
Catching sight of the base’s entrance some twenty yards away, Dugdale summoned all his strength and commenced a slow, painful, laboured crawl towards it. The robots first moved aside to let him through, and then followed, forming a slow-moving cortege.
HarVard, seeing the guest of honour escaping without a proper welcome, reverted to conductor mode. He tapped his baton urgently on a holographic music stand and then raised it high into the air. “Ready? Two, three, four.”
The three or four robots that had managed to raise their instruments in time launched into a hurried, and not particularly well synchronized or note-perfect rendition of The Floral Dance. Luckily for Dugdale, the boiling fluid in his ears prevented him hearing any of it as he pulled himself along the sandy, rocky ground.
Dura tapped Tude’s titanium elbow as they edged along beside the human.
Dugdale had reached the airlock threshold and hauled himself into the base’s entrance hall. The first man on Mars had entered the base. A huge cheer went up from the robots that had gathered to form a surprise welcoming party. Poppers popped, small fireworks fired and confetti confettied. The ramshackle band, still playing the odd note or two, plus their conductor, ambled through the entrance and, once all were in, the two airlock doors snapped shut behind them.
Dugdale collapsed into a foetal position and, gasping for air, struggled to remove the space helmet that was now firmly stuck on his head.
“Are you all right, Commander?” enquired HarVard, noting the bubbling froth that covered the inside of Dugdale’s visor.
In the grip of suffocation, Flint frantically appealed for help, miming the action of pulling off his helmet. Some robots aped his arm-raising-and-lowering motions, taking them to be some kind of celebratory dance. The band struck up again and tried to catch the rhythm.
“We need to get his helmet off or he’ll die,” instructed HarVard.
“Just get his helmet off!”
Len signalled to two other robots to grab a leg each.
And heave they did, pulling with all their might. Len had been careful to select the two strongest robots in the room, each designed to lift and pull steel beams and who,
combined, had enough pulling power to tow the QE2 into Portsmouth harbour or even to wobble the Eiffel Tower. A scream so loud that even the helmet was unable to muffle it, issued from behind the door. With a loud pop, the scream roared into the room as the two pulling robots fell backwards in a heap several metres from the door, still holding onto Dugdale’s legs.
“What the fuppin’ Nora?” yelled Dugdale, clutching his head in his hands. “Aaaaargh!”
The robots stared silently at the screaming, yelling, swearing human, transfixed. Several of the smaller ones scurried away, squealing in fear.
Dugdale stopped screaming and sat wincing with pain, still grasping his ears. He’d suddenly remembered where he was and the significance of the occasion. He coughed, struggled to his feet and brushed himself down, wiping a hand over his face to clean it of froth, saliva and other fluids. He looked around at the startled mechanoids and astounded hologram. “Well, come on, then. Don’t just chuffin’ stand there, get t’cameras rollin’ for me ‘istoric speech.”
“Of course, Commander,” said HarVard with a glutinous smile. “The camera’s right over there.” As he pointed he morphed into a facsimile of Bob Attenborough, the lesser known of the Attenborough brothers but as brilliant a film director as Sir Richard.
Dugdale sniffed loudly and pulled a scrap of paper no bigger than a bus ticket from his back pocket.
“OK, lovey?” asked Bob Attenborough, holding a raised clapperboard. “Just be natural. Give it all you’ve got. And ... action!” The clapperboard snapped shut.
Dugdale coughed and hoiked up a large quantity of phlegm. Thinking it best not to spit it out onto the floor, given this was his historic speech and about 7 billion people would be watching, he discreetly swallowed it again. “Friends, humans, and Yorkshiremen ...” As he spoke he noticed something strange happening in his mouth; his saliva seemed to be boiling. “I, Mission Commander Flint T. Dugdale, ‘ave summat really important to say....” More boiling saliva issued forth and dribbled down his stubbled chin. His face had now turned blue and he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. His tongue seemed to have doubled in size. Then his eyes rolled and he collapsed to the floor.
The robots gazed down at him.
Flint lay on the floor, immobile.
HarVard calculated possible explanations for the commander’s prone state. “Hmm,” he said.
A small mechanical appliance, exercising a surprising degree of initiative, scuttled to retrieve the commander’s space helmet from the hallway and returned to the motionless body of Mission Commander Dugdale.
HarVard merely waved the robot away. “No, that’s a helmet. Just hang it on the German hat-stand by the entrance, please.” As HarVard pointed to the hat-stand he caught sight of the airlock door, now closed, but ...
“Someone forgot to close it when we went out, didn’t they,” he said, turning to cast an accusatory gaze round at the robots. “Hence there isn’t actually any air in here, is there.”
The robots all backed off a little, shaking their heads, protesting their innocence.
HarVard looked down at the still form on the floor. “He’s probably dead by now.”
A hush fell in the room.
Attempting to inject a note of positivity into proceedings, Ero tweeted.
HarVard was shaking his head. “They would have lost all their oxygen when this one left. They’re almost certainly dead, too.”
30. Berk and Mare
JAMES BERK: As we wait for the doors to open and the colonists to make their first steps on Mars, it’s difficult not to be proud to be British. Isn’t that right, Patrick?
SIR PATRICK MARE: Oh, absolutely, James. Isn’t it just! A truly historic moment. Marvellous to think that we British achieved it! And you know, it’s been done without fuss, without showiness, without complication.
JAMES: Er, there have been three fatalities along the way, but let’s not concern ourselves with those at the moment. Let me explain to any viewers who have just joined us. The picture we’re seeing is of the doors of the space elevator in the entrance hall of Botany Base. When the lift arrives, those doors will open and the colonists will come out one by one. I expect Mission Commander Flint Dugdale will be the first to emerge, make a speech, and then the others will follow. What do you think is going through their minds right now, Patrick?
PATRICK: Oh, I expect they’re very excited, James. Very excited, indeed. I know I would be. Ha, ha, ha. Just think, to be the first to step out on another planet. Marvellous.
JAMES: We seem to have lost sound from Botany Base at the moment, so all we’re getting are the pictures. The robots appear to be playing some musical instruments, but unfortunately we can’t hear what they’re playing. Are you concerned about the loss of sound, Patrick?
PATRICK: It might be significant. It might not be. We just don’t know.
JAMES: Ah, the picture’s switched to NAFA’s Mission Control Room in Euston. They’re watching the same pictures from Mars that we are. Remember, they take about 6 minutes to reach Earth as Mars and Earth are nearly as close as they get to one another. How do you think the NAFA controllers are feeling, Patrick?
PATRICK: At a guess: excited. I would expect they’re very, very excited, James. This is a first for them, too. Years of preparation have gone into this.
JAMES: Oh, hang on, back to Botany Base and the robots all seem to be leaving the entrance hall. They seem to be heading off somewhere. Oops, looks like one has knocked the camera over.
PATRICK: Oh, I say!
JAMES: I suppose we’ll just have to watch these historic pictures sideways. Looking across at Mission Control, I get the impression that they’re just as baffled as we are. And they’re having to watch the pictures sideways, too.
PATRICK: I’d just like to mention those robots, James. The pinnacle of British engineering, they really are. The pictures we received of Botany Base earlier today. Weren’t they marvellous! To think that machines built such a complicated set of buildings with no human intervention whatsoever. Breath-taking.
JAMES: Sorry to interrupt you, Patrick, but we’re getting some new pictures. These must be from a new camera. Can you tell where it is, Patrick?
PATRICK: Well, I’d say it’s outside the base. By George, look at that, there’s a chap on the roof! My word, James, he appears to be beating his chest and shouting something.
JAMES: Yes, I see him. Oh my God, it’s Mission Commander Flint Dugdale, if I’m not mistaken. He’s wearing ... what is he wearing? Looks like a tee-shirt, a pair of dungarees, and on his head what looks like a moped crash-helmet. What do you suppose is happening?
PATRICK: Hmm, I wonder. Space madness? There have been several instances in the past few years. There was that Chinese astronaut, in 2023. Believed he was a pregnant panda. Spent the whole mission looking for bamboo shoots and chewing the closest things he could find.
JAMES: What was that, Patrick?
PATRICK: Green wiring, James. He ate the green wiring.
JAMES: Sorry to interrupt again, Patrick, but we have some breaking news from Mars. Flint Dugdale is sliding down the roof toward the robots!
PATRICK: Yes, yes, I see him. What an incredible sight. My word, he’s landed right in the middle of them. Wait a minute, James, I think I see the unfolding story here. Look, up there, on top of the roof. The space elevator’s stuck – somehow it failed to enter the lift-shaft. The others must still be trapped inside. Perhaps the commander’s risking his life in a bid to save them.
JAMES: I think you’re right, Patrick. I must say I’ve had my reservations about the commander during this mission but this paints him in a new light.
PATRICK: Oh, my goodness,
he’s dropped like a sack of potatoes. I can’t see him for the robots. And, is that Rodin’s Thinker? What’s going on here, James?
JAMES: He’ll freeze to death if he doesn’t get to the base soon. The robots need to get him into the building. Oh, my Lord, I can hardly look.
PATRICK: I can’t see him but the robots must have realised his desperate predicament. Looks like they’re moving him toward the entrance, very slowly.
JAMES: They’ll be worried about moving him too quickly Patrick, in case of neck injury. Standard procedure when someone falls off a roof.
PATRICK: I think they’ve got him into the base but we’re out of camera range. Hold on, hold on, I’ve just heard through my earpiece from the guys at NAFA. They’re hoping to patch into an internal video feed.
Part 2
1. Heaven and Girth
Flint Dugdale awoke to find he was dead.
He was in a tunnel, heading towards a light. Someone, or something, was transporting him. Was this an angel? Strange music accompanied his journey to the afterlife. In his Earthly life Flint might have thought the sound to be a wheel-bearing in need of oiling. But here in the Other World it was ... other-worldly.
Could this really be how the Dugdale story ends? He tried to move, but his limbs were immobile. The light came closer and filled his field of view. Chuffin’ ‘eck, he thought with a gulp, I’m on’t way to meet me Maker!
Panic filled him. A litany of former misdeeds flashed through his mind. How was he going to justify them to the almighty, all-knowing, all-powerful one? He churned over a list of excuses. It weren’t me fault, cos I were: ... dropped on me ’ed as a babby ... tricked by t’Prince of Darkness ... infected by a rare tropical brain disease ... force-fed mushy peas ‘n chips.
It was no good. Any omniscient super-being worth its salt would rumble him in an instant.