Terry Pratchett - The Long Mars

‘Good work, Sherlock.’

The kid looked puzzled at that reference.

‘So who are you ?’

‘Paul Spencer Wagoner. Wagoner is my father’s name, Spencer’s my mother’s name, and Paul is my name.’

‘Good for you. Spencer, like the mayor?’

‘He’s my mother’s second cousin. That’s why we came here.’

‘So you weren’t born here? I thought you had a different accent from most.’

‘My mom came from here but my dad’s from Minnesota. I was born in Minnesota. The mayor invited us to come because we’re family. Well, my mother is. Most people come here by accident.’

‘I know.’ Although Joshua didn’t understand how. That was another mysterious thing about Happy Landings. People somehow came unstuck in the Long Earth, and just drifted here, from all over . . .

Once he’d tried to discuss this with Lobsang. ‘Maybe it’s something to do with the network of soft places. People drift and gather, like snowflakes collecting in a hollow, maybe.’

‘Yes, perhaps it’s something like that,’ Lobsang had said. ‘We know that stability is somehow a key to the Long Earth. Maybe Happy Landings is something like a potential well. And it’s clearly been operating long before Step Day, deep into the past . . .’

‘How did it fly?’

Again Joshua, exhausted from his journey, had allowed himself to get lost in his own thoughts. ‘What?’

‘The airship you came in on.’

Joshua smiled. ‘You know, it’s amazing how few people ask that. How do you think it flies?’

‘It might be full of smoke.’

‘Smoke?’

‘Smoke rises up from a fire.’

‘Hmm. That’s not a bad try. I think the smoke is actually lifted up by hot air from the fire. And the hot air rises up because it’s less dense than cold air. Some airships, balloons anyhow, are lifted by hot air. You have to have burners under the envelope. But the Mark Twain ’s envelope was full of a gas called helium. It’s less dense than ordinary air.’

‘What does “dense” mean?’

Joshua had to think. ‘It’s how much amount of stuff there is in a given space. How many molecules, I guess. Iron is more dense than wood, say. A brick-sized block of iron is heavier than a brick-sized block of wood. And wood is more dense than air.’

Paul screwed up his nose. ‘I know what molecules are. Helium is a gas.’

‘Yes.’

‘Air is a gas. Lots of gases, mixed up, I know that.’

Joshua started to feel nervous, like he was being led down a trail into a thickening forest. ‘Yes . . .’

‘I can imagine how iron is denser than wood. Do you say “denser”? I don’t know that word.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You could jam in the molecules tighter. But how does that work with gases? If the atoms are all flying around.’

‘Well, it’s something to do with the molecules moving faster when stuff is hotter . . .’ Joshua had never been one to bluff a kid. ‘I don’t know,’ he said honestly. ‘Ask your teacher.’

Paul blew a raspberry. ‘My teacher is a kind lady and all but she doesn’t know squat.’

Joshua had to laugh. ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘If you ask one question and then another she gets unhappy, and the other kids laugh at you, and she says, “Another time, Paul.” Sometimes I can’t even ask the questions – you know – I can kind of see it but I don’t have the words.’

‘That will come in time, when you grow up a bit more.’

‘I can’t wait around for that .’

‘I hope he’s not bothering you.’ The woman’s voice was soft, a little strained.

Joshua turned to see a family approaching, a man and woman about his own age, a toddler in a buggy. The kid seemed distracted; she was singing softly, looking around.

The man stuck out his hand. ‘Tom Wagoner. Pleased to meet you, Mr Valienté.’

Joshua shook. ‘Everybody knows my name, it seems.’

‘Well, you did make quite an entrance last year,’ Tom said. ‘I do hope Paul hasn’t been pestering you.’

‘No,’ Joshua said thoughtfully. ‘Just asking questions I soon realized I had no answer to.’

Tom glanced at his wife. ‘Well, that’s Paul for you. Come on, kiddo, time for supper and bed, and no more questions for the day.’

Paul submitted gracefully enough. ‘Yes, Dad.’ He took his mother’s hand.

After a couple of minutes of pleasantries, the family said goodbye. Joshua watched them go. He became aware that the little girl, introduced as Judy, had kept up her odd singing all the way through the short encounter, and now they’d stopped speaking he could hear her more clearly. It wasn’t so much a song as a string of syllables – jumbled, meaningless maybe, but he kept thinking he heard patterns in there. Complexity. Almost like the trolls’ long call, which Lobsang was determined to decode. But how the hell could a toddler be singing out a message that sounded like greetings from a space alien? Unless she was even smarter than her precocious brother.

Smart kids . That was another odd thing he was always going to remember about Happy Landings.

Enough. He had looked around for a bar, and a place to stay the night. He’d left the next day.

But he hadn’t forgotten Paul Spencer Wagoner.

And he hadn’t forgotten Happy Landings either. And, in the year 2045, he thought of it again, considering Lobsang’s suggestion that out there in the Long Earth there could be incubators of a new kind of people. What would such an incubator be like? What would it feel like?

Like Happy Landings, maybe?

ABOARD THE GALILEO the hab module was divided into three levels, and while there were common utilities, such as a galley, toilet and zero-gravity shower, and such universal essentials as closed-loop air and water recycling systems, the designers had assigned a whole level to each of the three crew to serve as his or her personal space. And in the hours and days that followed their booster firing, and their launch into interplanetary space from the Brick Moon, the wisdom of that design was impressed on Frank Wood.

The Galileo ’s motley crew wasn’t going to be a particularly sociable bunch.

Oh, they cooperated over their chores. There were shared maintenance duties: clean the dust filters, check the air balance, scrub down the walls to prevent the mould and algal infestations that tended to grow in untended corners in the absence of gravity. Sally and Willis accepted with good enough grace the work rotas Frank volunteered to draw up. They also quickly got used to the routine of meal preparation, most of it based on Russian space cuisine of decades past: there were tins of fish, meat and potatoes, dried soup and vegetable purée and fruit paste, nuts and black bread, and coffee, tea and fruit juice in bulbs . . . Some crews would have invested a lot of energy in coming up with inventive menus with those limited ingredients, Frank knew. Not the crew of the Galileo . Frank also insisted that they all kept up a routine of physical training, to offset the effects of weeks of weightlessness on their performance when they got to Mars. They had a treadmill, and elasticized frames to stress their muscles and bones. This alone occupied hours for each of them every day.

But that left plenty of spare time in each twenty-four-hour cycle – time father and daughter seemed to use, at first anyhow, to get as far from one another as possible.

Willis Linsay immediately disappeared into his own agenda of research and experimentation, using the computer gear and small laboratory he had installed on his personal deck. He seemed entirely unperturbed by being thrown into interplanetary space.