Cosmic

  I pointed it out to the others. It took them a moment, but they all saw it in the end. And while they were looking, they all pressed against me, like I really was their dad.

  It’s very frightening, traveling along with this massive blackness next to you. It looks like a hole and it’s hard not to believe that you’re going to fall into it. We all stood looking at the forward edge of the crescent, because somehow that helped us remember that we would pass out of this darkness in the end.

  Then suddenly, the edge started to glow—just a little at first—but getting brighter all the time.

  “It must be the sun,” said Florida.

  But by the time she had finished saying this, we could all see what was causing the brightness. And it wasn’t the sun.

  It was the Earth.

  The first time we’d seen it since we left orbit.

  It was the size of a golf ball and too blue to be true.

  Obviously we’d none of us ever seen the world from this angle. But we’d all seen pictures and now it looked just like that. Our Earth. Our home.

  Then, in an instant, it changed shape. It went from a flat disc to a ball. It seemed to go pop, like if you’ve ever had a badge and squeezed it in on itself, then let it pop back to shape. And then there it was, not a photograph anymore, our planet—and we were heading toward it.

  I’d always wanted to see the world. And now I was—all in one go.

  Doing the Dadly Thing

  There’s something about the way the Earth just sits there in the middle of all that blackness, with nothing holding it up, that makes you worry about it. I kept thinking that if I looked away it might just fall. I was so busy keeping the planet up that I completely forgot about Samson Two until he suddenly said, “Okay, well, we could go now.”

  “Go where?”

  “If we burn one of the engines for eleven minutes, that will push us out of the moon’s orbit and shoot us off toward the Earth.”

  I said, “We don’t have engines. This is a solar-powered Dandelion.”

  Samson Two was flicking through the manual. “We have two retros and two thrusters. For burning out of orbits and for backing out of trouble. We could use them now or—”

  “Or what?” Go to Tesco?

  “Or…we could go round the moon one more time.”

  “Why would we want to do that?”

  Samson Two looked up from the manual. “If we stayed in orbit but dropped down to a lower altitude, of say sixty-eight miles, that would give us greater velocity, so we’d leave orbit faster. Then, if my calculations are right, Earth would be some ten thousand miles nearer by the time we’d been round again, so we wouldn’t have so far to go. So by adding the extra speed, and the shorter distance, we wouldn’t lose much time by going round and we would be on a more beneficial flight path. They really are good, these logarithmic tables.”

  So we did another lap of the moon.

  The first time, because of the angle and the shadow and so on we’d barely seen the lunar surface. This time, as we passed only sixty-eight miles above it, we felt as if we could see every boulder and rock. I got the spotter’s guide down from behind the sun visor and pointed out the famous bits—the Sea of Tranquility, where Neil Armstong made his giant leap (Samson Two snorted at this), the Fra Mauro formation, where Apollo 13 had been meant to land, and the Sea of Storms, where Alan Bean camped. I said, “You know someone who has walked down there. That bit there, see?”

  “Ridiculous,” said Samson Two.

  “There’s no footage of it because he broke the TV camera,” said Florida.

  “How convenient,” said Samson Two.

  “He was the fourth man to walk on the moon. The third was his friend Peter Conrad. And you know what Alan said? He said part of him never came back. He said he wakes up in the night sometimes and thinks he’s back there. And sometimes when something big is happening at home, he feels like he’s watching it from up here. Like the Alan Bean you met on Earth is an avatar in a game and the real Alan Bean—the one controlling him—is up here.”

  I looked back at the others. They’d gone so quiet I thought they must be really impressed, but they were all playing on their Wristations.

  When we were back on the dark side of the moon again we all had the same feeling of nervousness and dread we’d had the first time. We watched the edge of that curved absence where we knew the moon was, waiting for something to appear. And then something did.

  Earth again. Home.

  “Okay, are we ready for the burn?”

  “Twenty-nine minutes to go, according to me,” said Samson Two. “If we burn the engines for eleven minutes, we will be on our way home.”

  “How do we know you’re right?” said Max.

  “I have never been wrong before,” shrugged Samson Two.

  “Not about math.”

  “And if you are wrong, what happens?”

  “Well, it would be unlikely that we would miss Earth’s gravitational field completely, but we might get caught in a very wide orbit. Too far out for us to reenter safely. We’d become a satellite of Earth, I suppose. Like a lot of space debris. Or a comet. Maybe if a comet went by we might get caught in its gravitational field and—”

  “Stop talking!” yelled Max. “Can’t you see you’re scaring us to death?”

  “It’s only a simulation,” said Samson Two.

  The worrying prospect of being dragged around the solar system forever on the back end of a comet was what motivated my genius idea. I said, “Max, give me your Wristation.”

  “What for? You have your own.”

  “Yes, but mine has Professional Golfer on it. Yours has Orbiter IV. And somewhere in the menus there must be a free-trajectory flight simulation. If we play it using the specifications for the Dandelion—which are all here on the inside cover of the manual—then we’ll be able to find out if our figures are right or not. If we play it in parallel with our real trip, then we can choose ‘burn engines’ and if it says, ‘Good call,’ we know we’re okay and we can burn engines, and if it says, ‘Uh-oh, you’re dead—’”

  “Then we’re dead.”

  “Only in the simulation. In real life we don’t do anything till we get top marks in the simulation.”

  “That,” said Samson Two, “is genius.”

  “Not genius.” Florida beamed at me. “Just Gifted and Talented.”

  So Samson Two set up the Wristation and played Orbiter IV, and I copied every move he made, dropping the Dandelion down to just the right altitude, holding her steady, getting her ready for the burn.

  I told Max to prepare. “You can start the burn.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “What?! But you and Hasan fought each other for this job.”

  “Let Hasan do it then. I don’t want to go back there.”

  “Back where?”

  He pointed to Earth.

  “Earth? Come on. How can you not want to go back to Earth?”

  “It’s better here.”

  “How is it better here? This is deep space.”

  But before he could answer, Hasan said, “It is better here.”

  And even Samson Two said, “It’s an unexpectedly enjoyable simulation. I really enjoy the weightlessness effects.”

  “I like playing,” said Hasan. “I like the hide-and-seek and rock, paper, scissors. I like laughing about weeing….”

  “It’s good here,” said Max, “because there’s only us. No one telling us to win, or smile, or study or earn money.”

  “Or shooting at us,” said Hasan.

  “What about my dad? He’s a grown-up,” said Florida loyally.

  “But he’s not like other grown-ups,” said Samson Two.

  “He’s different. I don’t know why.”

  I really wanted to tell him. I wanted to say, “I’m a child too.” But I didn’t. I did the dadly thing. I let him go on believing.

  And I took them round the moon again. And again. Round and round. As if the moon w
as a fairground ride.

  And now I’m here in this command module all on my own. Where are the others? I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you because I’m feeling really proud of us all. I’ll tell you even though you’re never going to believe me. I know that even if we do get back alive, Dr. Drax is going to deny everything—plus we’ve signed forms promising to keep the whole thing secret.

  The only way anyone will hear this recording and know what we’ve done is if we all die on reentry but this phone is somehow recovered from the wreckage.

  If that happens, I think I’d quite like my dad to know what we did.

  Because the thing is, the others are down there, on the moon.

  Logic Says…

  After our third lunar orbit, they still didn’t want to go back to Earth.

  I said, “Look, we’ll have to go back in the end.”

  “Why? We’ve got food. We’ve got lots of food,” said Hasan.

  “But not a lifetime’s supply. Anyway, Earth is your home. You have to go back.” I was thinking about the Little Stars drama club, proper food, Mom and Dad.

  “When we get back,” said Florida quietly just to me, “I won’t have a dad.”

  I looked at them all. “You can’t spend your life up here.”

  The moment I said it I remembered Alan saying that in a way he had spent his life up here. That his memories of the moon were so bright and vivid that the things he did on Earth seemed gray by comparison. And I thought how completely cosmic it would be if I could fix that for them. If I could make it so that part of them was always up here. So that when they were back on Earth and their dads were yelling and pushing them on, they could just tune out and come back up here, where—in their brightest memories—they would always be kids.

  I got Samson Two to run a simulation on Orbiter IV. Basically, the Dandelion can’t land anywhere. It’s supposed to stay in space until it falls apart. But the command module is designed to touch down in the desert. And Dr. Drax’s health-and-safety policy—Massive Overprovision—means that there’s two of everything—two sets of retro-engines, two sets of parachutes, twice as much fuel as you’d need. The only thing there wasn’t two of was the heat shield. But then that was there to protect you entering Earth’s atmosphere and you wouldn’t need that for a lunar descent because there isn’t any atmosphere.

  “Logic says it’s possible,” said Samson Two. “Of course, if you used half the fuel, you wouldn’t have any spare. It’s a calculated risk.”

  He seemed cool about it. But then he did think that the whole thing was a simulation.

  We projected the Wristation simulation onto the wall so that we could all watch the command module floating down toward the moon, then plopping down onto the lunar surface in a shower of dust.

  Seeing it happen on the wall made you feel as though it had already happened in some way.

  Florida said, “Can we really do that? Let’s do it. Let’s do it. Let’s do it now.”

  “The simulation is based on a two-hour schedule,” said Samson Two. “It would be feasible for the duration of one orbit. We’d have to redock with the Dandelion and use that to get back to Earth’s orbit.”

  “Could you redock?”

  “Well, the command module and the Dandelion are stuck together now. If we can unstick them, we should be able to restick them. But…someone would have to stay on board the Dandelion to guide it in.”

  “Just like they did on the Apollos,” said Florida.

  “Allegedly,” said Samson Two.

  She said, “Well, that should be you then, Samson Two. Because you don’t think there’s anything out there anyway.”

  “I’d be very interested to see how far the simulation goes,” said Samson Two.

  I said, “I’ll stay. I can spend the time you’re down there practicing the redocking procedure on the Wristation. I’ll be genius at it by the time you come back.”

  Max was worried. He said, “There should be an adult down there to supervise.”

  I said, “No, the adult should be up here, keeping the place nice for when you get home. You don’t want a grown-up down there spoiling things. It should be kids only. With the dust and everything, it’ll be like a giant sandpit.”

  “It’s a crazy idea,” said Hasan.

  Florida was beginning to scowl.

  I said, “But you’ve come all this way. A quarter of a million miles. Surely it would be really crazy not to go the last sixty-eight. And Max, this is your chance to press the green button. And Florida, you’ll like it when you get there.”

  So I packed them off into the command module with their helmets and their space snacks, and some drinks, as though they were going to the beach. Florida was the last through the hatch. As she closed it, I said, “Hey, before you go, take these. Tell me what it’s like, waterfighting on the moon.” I gave her a few of the little rocket-shaped bottles of water.

  They climbed into the command module, sealed the hatch behind them and pressed the green button. I felt the whole Dandelion sort of jump backward. Like it had hit a wall. It took a few minutes, but in the end it stabilized and, when it did, someone spoke to me! The unmistakable voice of Keira Knightley said, “Hi. We realize you had a choice of attractions today and we’d like to thank you for choosing the Dandelion.”

  I nearly jumped out of my spray-on suit.

  It turned out that separating from the command module activated the Welcome System, so all these safety announcements played and then Pirates of the Caribbean started running on a plasma screen in the wall.

  I watched it for a bit, but to be honest I preferred watching the stars through the window. And then the Dandelion moved on to the dark side again and the picture sort of digitized, froze, then vanished.

  This was my fifth time round the back of the moon. I was in a lower orbit now so I suppose in a way I wasn’t as far away as I had been the other times, but it felt farther.

  A lot farther.

  Because I was alone.

  Everyone else, I mean everyone else—the other kids, Mom, Dad, Dr. Drax, the entire populations of China and America and Africa and Russia, children, grown-ups, old people, people shopping, eating, sleeping, being born, dying, even people who’ve been dead for hundreds of years like Tutankhamen—they were all Somewhere Else. I was the only human being on the far side of the moon.

  Each time we’d gone round before, we’d spent the whole time looking at the blank space where the moon was. This time I looked out. And there were the stars. There’s no point trying to describe them. It would be like trying to describe the molecules of oxygen you’re breathing. There are too many of them.

  The space between Earth and moon, that’s space. Because it’s a space between things. But on the other side of the moon, that’s not space. I’m not between anything. This is the universe. I feel like I’m seeing it all, every bit of it. And it is big.

  There are more stars than there are people. Billions, Alan had said, and millions of them might have planets just as good as ours. Ever since I can remember, I’ve felt too big. But now I felt small. Too small. Too small to count. Every star is massive, but there are so many of them. How could anyone care about one star when there are so many spare? And what if stars were small? What if all the stars were just atoms in something even bigger? What if stars were just pixels? And Earth was less than a pixel? What does that make us? And what does that make me? Not even dust. I felt tiny. For the first time in my life I felt too small.

  The Dandelion was filling up with light. The stars were getting just a bit dimmer. Like someone was drawing a curtain over them. But I knew what was behind the curtain now. Behind the curtain was everything, and I was nothing. What was the point in even trying to find the others? What was the point in anything? I felt my hand grip the wheel. But I didn’t know which way to turn it. How could anything I did make a difference? And if I asked for help, who would hear me?

  Then my phone pinged. I had a text: “Welcome to DraxUniversal, the first truly unive
rsal network.”

  And just after that it rang.

  I answered it. A voice said, “Liam, where are you, son?” It was my dad.

  “Well, I’m…Is this you, Dad?”

  “Of course it’s me. I’ve been ringing you for days. Ever since you rang us. Your mom was worried about you. She thought you sounded upset. And she was worried that they were letting you stay up so late. Where are you, by the way? This is a great signal.”

  “It’s a new network.”

  I was still looking back toward the massive empty universe. But I was talking to my dad and suddenly everything was different. My dad’s voice was real. The stars were just…decoration.

  “Are you okay? Because if you’re not, I’ll come and pick you up.”

  “I’m okay. Anyway, it’s a bit far.”

  “Doesn’t matter how far it is. I’m your dad. If you want me to pick you up, just say so.”

  I was going to say something but then he said, “Did you see the match last night? I think they’re developing a real attitude problem. They go one–nil down and they just fall to pieces. Did you find that St. Christopher, by the way?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Don’t forget to bring it home. My dad gave it to me. He’s not a saint anymore, St. Christopher, but anyway…he’s looked after me. You know the story, don’t you?”

  I did. St. Christopher was some kind of giant super-hero who used to carry travelers across a river, and one day this toddler turned up and asked him to carry him. St. Christopher popped him on his shoulders and carried him, but the toddler kept getting heavier and heavier and heavier until St. Christopher nearly drowned. It turned out the toddler was Jesus, so when St. Christopher was carrying him, he was carrying, well, the world. It was a story about gravity really.

  “I bet it’s nice in the Lake District this morning. I bet you’ve got a nice view, eh? What can you see?”

  I said, “I’ve got a great view.” I could see the Earth. And lovely as the stars had been, the Earth was…you could see it was special. It was bright blue, for one thing. For some reason—maybe it was because I was getting tired of being weightless—I thought about gravity. And how good gravity is. Not just because it keeps you on the ground. Even though that is good. I mean, I’ve loved being weightless, but it’s like living on cotton candy. In the end you want potatoes. But it wasn’t that.