by Peter Damon
“We’d need to review their proposed solutions, but any items meeting our criteria would receive the Cambridge University, Rolle College badge of excellence, an endorsement from our group,” Doctor Cannon explained.
“You may want to involve Gary Clarke in that too,” Michael suggested. “He’s begun helping Cheryl Hall in sales and business development. He and Cheryl are beginning to make a formidable team,” he told them with a shrewd smile.
+++++++++++++
“Michael,” Professor Lovell called, catching Michael’s attention as he made his way back to the Range Rover after the meeting.
Michael stopped to smile towards the Pro-Vice-Chancellor. “Professor, what can I do for you?” he asked politely.
The professor moved closer, an envelope held discretely against his waist where his body and the flaps of his jacket would hide it from all but Michael.
Michael, well versed in the clandestine movement of written material from one person to another, embraced the professor in what would be seen as a gesture of close friendship, allowing the transfer without anyone from seeing it.
“Be careful, Michael,” the professor told him before strolling back to the building.
+++++++++++++
There was another trip Michael had to make, and for the first time in months, he felt a little more comfortable knowing he was surrounded by armed police as he suffered the East End traffic to get to the large car-park afforded the offices of the Guardian Newspaper.
Stepping from the black Range Rover, Michael phoned the number from memory and looked up towards the top floor of the building, guessing Oliver Cole would be there, somewhere.
“Michael? That you?” Oliver answered.
“It is. I once offered you a story bigger than the last,” he reminded his friend and one-time colleague. “I’m guessing I don’t need to ask if you’re still interested.”
“You shafted me, you son-of-a-bitch!” Oliver answered angrily. “What you gave me was a pile of shit!”
“Needs must, but you did a marvellous job, old friend. And I’m being honest now. It’s time I re-paid you. Come on, let’s go for a drive, and I’ll explain,” he promised.
Oliver Cole still looked angry as he appeared from the building a full twenty minutes later, his unkempt straw blond hair partially obscuring his watery blue eyes. He pointedly ignored Michael’s offered hand and got into the car.
“Bit up-market for you, isn’t it?” he asked, looking at the plush leather interior of the vehicle as Michael climbed back behind the wheel. “What you doing nowadays, to get a car like this and the Green ticket to be able to use it?” he asked.
Michael grinned as, having already converted the instruments and checked the air-seal, he pushed the accelerator downwards and watched his friend’s face as they shot into the air.
To give him his due, Oliver didn’t cry out, although he did stiffen, his eyes becoming round and large as he watched the streets and buildings of London recede beneath him.
“You’re part of the Rolle College,” he gasped as the clouds began to impede his view. He turned to look at Michael, who grinned and nodded.
“We need a Media Officer,” Michael explained after allowing his friend to gaze without interruption as they ascended towards space.
“What are you, then?” Oliver asked, his body beginning to tense once more as the car reached the upper edges of the atmosphere and began heading out into space. Changes in the view had slowed, even though their speed had increased. It had taken them just six minutes.
“I’m the head,” Michael told him, “and I need someone I can fully trust, someone who can battle the other media outlets, who can get our message across, who can garner support for us.”
Oliver gazed outside as they moved by degrees from the light of the atmosphere to the black of space, the sound of the air on the outside of the vehicle dying by the same degree until they appeared motionless and silent in space, the earth a massive curve to one side of them, the slow movement of the weather system giving it a beauty few experiencing it on the ground would have appreciated.
“You don’t need me, mate. You need a few hundred of these to give people a twenty minute ride,” he murmured, the bright curve of the earth reflected in his eyes. “Beats those rides Branson provides,” he suggested.
Michael smiled and nodded. “It would be a worthy job too, just to see people’s expressions,” he confessed, “but we’re up here to do so much more, and we can’t do it on our own. We haven’t left the earth; we’ve extended the earth, but we need to show that to everyone.”
Oliver stared out of the window, continuing to gaze on the magnificent sight the large windows of the Range Rover afforded them. He pointed downwards as he recognised the eastern shores of the Mediterranean.
“You’ve got telescopes on the outside of the ARC,” he pointed out, tapping the glass towards that volatile area of the world.
Michael shook his head. “And I’ve been warned off by very senior people within the UK government. If we want to continue our partnership with the only earth-based country that supports us, then we stay clear of involving ourselves in anything to do with the situation in Turkey and Syria,” he explained.
“Shame,” Oliver murmured and fell silent once more, only nodding when Michael drew his attention to the ARC as they approached it from the port side.
“It’s huge!” Oliver breathed, watching it grow and grow.
Michael followed his heads-up display and drew the Range Rover towards the rear of the ship, where the large doors that were even then opening to receive him. Bright lights lit the interior, sharp points of light on the floor creating a moving chevron for him to follow. The roller doors to an interior garage were open and Michael followed the directional lights on the floor to park within it, the doors closing behind him to allow air to fill the smaller space.
“Gravity?” Oliver asked, surprised to feel it still as they got out of the car.
“Of course,” Michael beamed. “Come along. Let me show you around.”
They made their way from the stern to the stem of the ship, visiting the offices, the suites, the laboratories, warehouse, the gym facilities, hydroponics, restaurant, and lounge rooms, finishing the tour at the large meeting room where Oliver could look into the control-room through the glass wall.
“You and the Cambridge students did all this?” Oliver asked. “In just months?”
“We had help. South Korean university of Busan was, and still is, helping us,” Michael explained.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” Oliver murmured. “You’ll have to write a book.”
“I’m going to be too busy,” Michael shook his head. “But you could write it. You’d have access to all the key players here,” he pointed out.
Oliver licked his lips and looked about him.
“Well?” Michael asked.
“I can hardly say no, now, can I?” Oliver nodded.
+++++++++++++
Michael sat down and took the envelope from under the waistband of his trousers to stare at it for a few moments. He then ripped it open to unfold the two sheets of paper that were within, scanning them briefly to make sense of the details they held.
“What’s that you’ve got?” Heather asked, passing him to fill two cups with tea.
“It looks to be details concerning ownership of the ARC,” Michael told her, becoming engrossed in the detail.
“Really? I thought we were part of Cambridge University,” she told him, putting his cup down beside him.
Michael sipped the tea and shook his head while savouring the brew. “No. In fact, we’re not even British,” he told her with a lopsided grin, and put the papers away again.
July 15th.
Frank Hill frowned at his ghostly image in the glass partition as he waited for the others to arrive. The thin man had shaven off his long sideburns and the Mexican moustache he had worn for fifteen odd years. They had served to soften the hard and angular planes of his long
face and he missed them. Unfortunately, he had found that facial hair and space travel didn’t really go together.
Juliet had suggested that the loss of facial hair had removed the mask that hid the true him. He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not, but then Juliet just confused him, full-stop.
Gary Clarke arrived and held the door open for Jake and Matt to follow him in, the pair arguing over a piece of music. They smiled when they saw him and reached out to shake hands.
“Not seen you for a while,” Matt noted as he helped himself to a bottle of water.
“Been busy trying to select what vehicles we should use,” Frank admitted. A team of a dozen English travellers, now novice spacemen, were still in one of the garages, building yet another version for testing before the end of the day.
“Well, this will be of interest to you,” Jake told the ex-gypsy, and tapped at his tablet until the screen on the wall woke up and showed a diagram of the earth, moon, and a small dot to represent the ARC.
“The moon is roughly 400,000 kilometres from earth. It actually moves between 362,000 and 405,000, but don’t worry about it,” Gary told him.
Frank shrugged. “Why should I worry about it?” he asked.
“Because we want you to go there,” Jake told him, grinning broadly.
“Go there?” Frankie asked, his weasel-like face darting between the three Cambridge students in an effort to tell if they were pulling his leg or not. “What for?” he asked.
“Water,” Matt told him, sipping at his own while Jake toyed with his tablet once more. The screen image began to move, and a small red dot left that of the ARC to begin moving to the moon.
“What we propose, is that we take one of your vehicles and land in the southern pole in order to find surface water,” Gary explained.
“All earth research points to there being water on the surface, but it’s going to be in the permanently shaded areas, where the sun has never shone,” he continued.
Frank looked again at each of the students. “You want me to go to the moon and find you water,” he repeated. “Why aren’t you just getting it from earth?” he asked. “It’s got to be easier, and faster.”
“It would be, but you’ve seen all the news programs, haven’t you? Earth doesn’t like us at the moment, so going down to get stuff just makes us look worse,” Gary explained.
“So Michael suggested we find water elsewhere, and the moon is the closest source,” Matt explained.
“400,000 kilometres. How long will that take? A week? Ten days?” Frank asked, trying to remember how long it had taken the Americans, back in the late 1960s, early 70s when the Apollo programme had been functioning.
“Four hours each way,” Gary answered with a grin.
“Four hours, is that all? You sure?” he asked. He was pretty sure the Americans had taken days to get to the moon.
“You’ll be using a 2 kilowatt power source generated by batteries developed in Singapore. They’ll provide the power to enable you to travel at 100,000 kilometres an hour,” Jake explained.
“And these will fit in the type of vehicle we’re testing now?” Frankie asked, imagining the size of a 2 kilowatt battery.
“No problem,” Jake assured him.
“Once at the moon,” and Jake changed the image on the screen, “you’ll pick out the largest shaded area around, and check it out for water. We’ll need a few samples. Just break some off with a hammer and stick it into the large thermos we’ll provide.
“If you don’t find water at your first location, just lift a mile or two from the surface and look for another dark area to investigate,” Gary explained.
“And that’s it; easy as that?” Frankie asked, not actually believing it. Even Michael hadn’t been so glib, the first time they had met.
“There will be three of you on the trip,” Gary told him. “You, Matt, and your choice of third.”
“I’ll take Paddy,” Frankie said without hesitation. With the exception of Maddy, he was the most competent of the travellers at handling space, and he had other reasons for not wanting Maddy with him. “When?” he asked, knowing he’d need to sort out his problem with Madeline quite shortly.
“No immediate rush. We’re recycling around 90% of our water at the moment, so we have supplies for at least three months,” Gary explained.
“I don’t think I wanted to know that,” Frankie murmured, watching Matt take another sip of water.
“Then you probably don’t want to know what happens to the solid waste,” Jake laughed.
“They’re teasing you, Frank. Solid waste is compacted into a large ball and fired out towards earth so it burns up as it hits the atmosphere,” Matt told the grey-faced gypsy.
“We think the remaining gases left by the burn are helping to repair the Ozone Layer,” Gary told him, and the three students started howling with laughter, tears streaming from their eyes while Frank watched them in disbelief.
July 16th.
Peter had warned him the previous day that there would be a new spacesuit to test. Frankie tried recalling how many versions they had used, and gave up. He was only thankful he didn’t have to foot the bill. Michael had once admitted to the cost of each suit being in the region of one million Euros. Even if that did include the resilient face-mask and the high-tech back-pack, it was still a tremendous amount of money.
The suit looked much like the last he reflected, pulling it on and stretching. Some of the versions felt different, or were slightly lighter, thinner or harder than their predecessor, but this one looked and felt about the same.
“We’re going to want to test the new function on this one, so if you can come down to the docking bay about 10 am,” Peter had requested.
Frankie arrived to find that Peter was with one of the twins.
“Thomas may have come up with a new way for you to move about while weightless,” Peter told him with a grin.
Thomas held up a short cylinder that looked like a rubber grip from the handlebars of a child’s bicycle.
“What do I do with this?” he asked, taking it from the student to feel its weight in his hand.
“It’s linked to your suit by wireless. Your suit has our chemical embedded in it, so when you point this towards where you want to go, and squeeze it, it will take you there,” Thomas explained.
“Really?” Frankie asked, raising his arm.
“Hold on!” Thomas cautioned. “The harder you grip it, the faster you go, and you’ll feel inertia too, so you’ll know when you’re changing speed or direction. To stop, just stop squeezing it.”
“How fast can I go?”
“About as fast as a running man,” Thomas explained. “That way, if you knock into something, it shouldn’t kill you.”
“How long will it run for?”
“This one is a trial and runs on a replaceable battery, so only about an hour. The final version will have a rechargeable battery fed from a unit on your belt so, in theory, you just have to stop and wait a few minutes for it to charge again before you continue.”
Frankie nodded and lifted his arm. Pointing the handle towards a gantry he began to gently press the yielding rubber grip, and gasped as he felt himself lifted and pushed towards it. He stopped squeezing, and he stopped moving forward and began to fall. He squeezed it again to stop himself just above the floor, then released it to drop the last foot onto the deck.
He turned to thank Thomas, and found the twin had already left. Peter shrugged and smiled somewhat sadly. “I think they’re preoccupied with problems in the chemical. But neither of them are all that friendly, even at the best of times,” he confessed.
+++++++++++++++
Vasyl Pushnoy suggested Yulia Dubinin accompany him on his next meeting with Emily. It was to take place at the Queens Head Inn in Maldon. Vasyl had ordered a table for the three of them, and a rare opportunity to try the oysters for which the area was renowned.
The July day was bright and warm, and Maldon was packed with visitors. Emily was
flushed with the attention Vasyl lavished upon her, guiding her to the choice table beside the large window that overlooked the quayside where the old sail barges lined up tourists. He introduced Yulia to her as an agent interested in buying anything that could be attributed to the ARC, and proceeded to ply her with alcohol.
The dinner went smoothly. Yulia played her role well, with just the right degree of interest. Emily opened up during the meal, the drink taking the edge off her nervousness.
Towards the end of the meal she mentioned the important trip Paddy had been chosen to participate in. “Frankie asked for him personally,” she told them, nodding her head in approval. “Wouldn’t take any of the others. ‘I want Paddy’, he said.”
“Something special, is it?” Vasyl asked, sipping his own glass of wine, a delicate white wine that complemented the small oysters from that region.
“Special? He and Frankie are only going to the moon, ain’t they,” she told them, beaming with pride. “I always told Paddy, ‘play your cards right, son’, I told him.”
“To the moon!” Yulia gasped. “My word! What a task. Does he receive some extra pay for such a trip; a bonus perhaps? I mean, he needs to earn a living, surely?”
“No! Frankie asks, and the rest of ‘em do. You don’t argue with Frank Hill, I can tell you,” Emily told them, surprised to find her glass empty once more.
Vasyl filled it for her. “Julie, wouldn’t any of your clients be interest in a piece of the moon?” he asked.
“I should think so!” Yulia agreed. “What, do you think Paddy would be able to obtain any?” she asked in astonishment.
Emily cleared the fog from her mind to look at the eagerness on Julie’s features. “How much is it worth then, a piece of the moon?” she asked.
“Oh, 100 Euros per gram, I wouldn’t wonder,” Yulia suggested.
Emily licked her lips and thought of the money that a kilo of moon soil would bring them.
“Of course, this is only if Paddy can do it without upsetting the likes of Frank hill,” he explained. “I mean, I can well understand Frank wanting a share of the profit too,” he murmured.