10. THE BALLOONIST

THE CASE OF MERCURY RISING, 10

“A body? A human body?” gasped Angelina, and as I heard those words I did the only thing I could do, and passed out. It could be awkward, but it was the way I was and I’d do almost anything to change things. But the shadow of nothing swamped my consciousness and I slipped back onto the bunk.

I was probably only out of communication for a few seconds, but that was long enough for me to miss the computer’s confirmation of its original statement. And as I sat woozily up and refocussed on the notion that there might be a body floating in the vast waste of space that stretched out forever all around us, I realised that Angelina had climbed out of bed and was making for the stairs, and I, groggily, joined her

Then, “how human?” I asked, weakly as I negotiated the top step.

“As human as you two are, but deceased,” replied the computer, in that voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once, following us down the stairs and simultaneously greeting us at the bottom.

“How can that be?” I spluttered, “and what do we do about it?”

“Avoid it,” came the reply, “the corpse is deceased, has no life functions whatsoever, and has probably been in this region of space in a decaying orbit round the Earth for several years.”

“Years?” I interjected, “how on Earth might it have got here?”

“I have no information,” came the reply, “but I am focussing an external camera on it. Attend to the monitor.”

The monitor, which had been on continuously since we had first ordered it, changed its orientation until it picked out the outline of a figure floating, arms outstretched, in the emptiness of the dreadful void, clearly human but with only the mute backdrop of distant stars for company. Then it zoomed in and we could see the figure quite clearly enclosed in some kind of protective suit.

As he lay there as if on an ethereal bed, slowly turning, his face, behind a misted mask came round to face us, and it was clearly visible and equally clearly human.

“Mercury Rising, can you locate a man called Archer Dunstable on your memory whatever-it-is?” I asked.

“Affirmative,” came the instant reply, then after a second or two, “I have the record. Archer Dunstable, high altitude balloonist went missing, presumed dead, after an experiment with a hydrogen balloon. It is assumed something went wrong and he plunged back to Earth, but as no trace of him has been found it was then assumed that he fell into an ocean and remained undiscovered.”

“Does it say what his experiment entailed?” asked Angelina, frowning.

“Affirmative...”

“I wish you’d say yes rather than affirmative,” I said, slightly irritably.

“Affirm … yes,” came the reply, “and his experiment involved him using a jet-pack to propel him into an orbit higher than the balloon could achieve, from which he would make a record breaking parachute descent back to Earth,” said the computer, “the attempt and assumed subsequent failure were widely publicised in the international press.”

“I remember,” I said after a moment’s thought, “I thought he was a silly idiot back then, tempting providence as he was! It was my opinion that he was asking for trouble using a jet pack so close to what was most likely an inflammable parachute. But looking at the poor devil there it seems he didn’t use the ‘chute because it looks to be still in its case on his back.”

“He must have gone higher than he thought possible and actually made it into orbit,” suggested Angelina. “Remind me never to try a prank like that!”

“I wouldn’t let you anywhere near a hydrogen balloon!” I told her.

“Bossy boots!” she told me.

I stared at the figure on the monitor. It must have been the best part of a decade since this man had made his attempt at a record breaking altitude parachute drop, and he will have been dead for that long, yet there was no sign of decomposition on a face that was merely grey and with skin stretched tightly across it.

“It’s a lesson for us all,” I murmured, “that we’re all subject to universal laws and we break them at our peril. It’s just as well there’s no air in space or he will have rotted completely away by now.

“He had a cylinder of air,” pointed out Angelina, “but it won’t have lasted him long and it still makes you a bossy boots!”

“Mercury Rising, are we safe from the body? We won’t collide with it and end up hurtling back to Earth ourselves, will we?” I asked.

“It has already been avoided,” replied the disembodied computer, “and we are on course for the moon, which we will pass closely by and then take the long route to Venus so that we can approach Mercury in its shadow rather than expose us to what could be dangerous levels of radiation from the sun.”

“You say the long route?” asked Angelina, frowning, “what does that mean, and why does it have to be long?”

I guess there was an almost superior note in the computer’s carefully modulated reply.

“Both Venus and Mercury have orbits around the sun,” it told us, and I’m sure I detected a hint of pomposity in it, “and at the moment Venus is far out on the other side of the sun. Therefore we must aim for where it will be when we get there, and from there carefully move towards Mercury’s orbit, trying to keep in that planet’s shadow for as long as possible. It is all calculated and not as simple as it sounds.”

“It didn’t sound simple to me,” muttered Angelina, and she turned to me. “Well, bossy boots, I see you’re still in your undies and I’m still tired. It must be the air on this vehicle. How about escorting me back up those stairs and letting me get another forty winks, and if you’re a good boy and serve me well I’ll see what I can rustle up for dinner?”

I knew what she meant by forty winks and it didn’t have much to do with winking.

“Mercury Rising, do you monitor us when we’re resting?” I asked. I’d suddenly had an uncomfortable feeling that a hidden lens to a secret camera might be watching us when we slept and, of course, during the time when we’re in bed together and far from being asleep.

The computer gave a chortling sound as it replied, “of course I do, to ensure your safety,” it said, “but if you really require privacy you’ve only got to ask for it.”

“Okay then,” I said as I mounted the stairs behind the love of my life, “Mercury Rising, privacy please, while we’re in bed.”

The computer actually groaned. It was clearly learning something about human conversations as it observed us. “And I was so looking forward to a lesson in anthropomorphic relationships,” it said, rather insolently I thought, but I didn’t comment.

“Naughty computer,” giggled Angelina, “come on, bossy boots, I’ve got something I want to show you.”

And she reached our tiny bunk bed before me, but it didn’t take long for me to snuggle in next to her.

“And maybe you’ve got something you want to show me,” she added.

“Odd about that Archer Dunstable though,” I murmured as we snuggled as close to each other as was humanly possible. “I wonder what constellation he’s in? Could it be Sagittarius?”

She punched me, and that just had to be that.

© Peter Rogerson, 22.02.20