'Right. Okay. Now, maybe there's a god listening. Maybe even the God. If so, you'll know I'm something of an agnostic. Nothing personal, you understand. I mean. You got your work cut out, right? You made one heck of a Universe to take care of. But, I figure I gotta say a few words. Commander Ashley Phillips, Science Officer, Elizabeth Mauler and Captain Donna Sanders were good people, you know? Yeah. Sure you do. They didn't deserve to come all the way out here just to...Well, it's true. Shouldn't have happened. And like that kid what's his name. Farley. Just a kid. A wannabe astronaut. A space cadet. I mean, what's that all about? He didn't deserve to...Maybe he made it. I hope he made it. The world needs kids like Farley. Look. I'm not blaming you. Shit. The ship was man made. The war or whatever the hell is going on is man made.' He wiped tears away. 'Right. For a start, I wanna say thanks for sparing me and Monkley. We don't deserve special treatment. At least I don't. Monkley is such a great creature. At least here he can be more like a proper chimp. I guess that's about all I gotta say. You got my friends off the ship, now. Look after them. Thanks.'
He stood and stared at the grave, his heart heavy, his future in the lap of the God he had just reached out to. Monkley walked over to him and took Foreman's hand, and then jumped up into his arms. Together they stared in silent contemplation. In some small way, ghosts had been laid to rest.
Chapter 8
Foreman had tried to keep active, not thinking about all the things going on. He was also trying to stop thinking about the dope. He was barely holding it together, that much he knew. By nature, he was a strong minded individual, positive in outlook, optimistic and reasonably resourceful. But like many, there was only so much he could take. In a short space of time, he had flown millions of miles in a cramped spaceship, crashed and survived, lost three good colleagues and friends, and discovered that in his absence, his home planet was once again in self destruct mode. He couldn't even begin to speculate about the fate of his friends and family on Earth. That was a bit much for anyone.
He attacked the overgrown marijuana crop with a machete, clearing the plants to grow unencumbered to reach their maximum potential. Monkley got stuck in, carrying the loose stuff away to the compost heap. After a couple of hours, Foreman was satisfied the dope would be just dandy.
'I could kill for a beer, Pal. But I've been thinking. All this fruit. I should be able to make some kinda booze from it. My old dad used to brew all sorts of rot-gut in his den at the back of the house. Wine, vodka, beer. If he wasn't making it, he was drinking it. He sold enough off to pay for everything he drank. Mom always looked down her nose at him, but she could put it away when she was in a mood to. Time for a smoke, pal.'
Before he went to retrieve his dried stash of dope, he decided such a momentous occasion was deserving of being special. He found two tarpaulin from the tool shed. Cutting lengths of rope, he made hammocks between tree trunks, close to the waterfall. He had learned to work the computerised music gizmo, so the whole base became filled with sound. Just background noise.
Satisfied the dope had dried sufficiently, he found a clean storage jar. Poking a hole in the lid, he jammed a short piece of hose into it. Crumbling a handful of dried dope into the jar, he fashioned a spill which he lit and let the flame lick the dope. When it was smouldering, he replaced the lid and took it to the hammocks. Climbing onto it, he lay back. Following his lead, Monkley did the same.
'Okay. Here goes.' he put the end of the hose in his mouth and drew in the smoke, deep into his lungs. 'Damn!' he said with a spluttering coughing fit. 'That is awesome.'
Monkley sniffed the air. He began clapping his hands and slapping his chest.
'Oh, pal. I really don't think...'
Monkley had other ideas. He stood up on the hammock, swaying precariously, clapping his hands and chest slapping.
'Oh, what the hell. I reckon you deserve a blast.'
Monkley put the hose in his mouth and breathed in. Slowly, as Foreman had done, he let the smoke out. 'Happy.' He took another hit.
'Okay. Pass it over.'
Monkley handed the jar back. Foreman smoked for a couple of minutes, and then let Monkley have another blast.
'Haaaaapy.'
Foreman chuckled. 'Okay, pal. Just lay back and chill out.'
Monkley stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, legs crossed. He had a strangely dreamy look about his face. Foreman smoked for a few more minutes, letting the mellow feelings envelop him. As his mind relaxed, he put the jar safely to one side. A lot of the tension was finally leaving him. The pair were soon snoring in a deep and peaceful sleep.
Chapter 9
They had slept for hours. Monkley woke first, jumping onto Foreman's chest.
'What? Oh. You're awake, so you think I should be awake. I guess you're right. Boy. I don't know about you, but I needed that.' Natural sunlight streaked through the translucent roof of the base. 'I have no idea what time it is, but it's day outside. Right now, I'm feeling like a tourist who went on holiday and never left the resort. How about you and I taking a spin in the horseless carriage and have a look around?'
'Fun?' Monkley only understood one word in ten, but Foreman's new upbeat mood sounded promising. 'Play?'
'Sort of play. Yeah. Come on.'
Monkley had to wear his own space suit, because it was the only one small enough. Foreman found a new one, and fitted full oxygen packs to both suits. The controls on the buggy were basic forwards and reverse, a steering wheel, and a brake pedal. That was it. Closing the inner airlock door, Foreman opened the outer door and drove out. He stopped as soon as he was clear of the airlock.
'Monkley. Go close the door, will you?'
Monkley jumped down, hit the button to close the door and jumped back in his seat. Casting a ridiculously long shadow, Olympus Mons stretched out into the Martian sky, the end disappearing into the red dust laden atmosphere. Immediately in front of the base main airlock doors was a ramp, constructed to drive the buggy up the side of the crater to the plateau above without the risk of rolling over in the soft iron rich sand. Foreman took that route, the six wheels sending red dust clouds up behind them. After a steady three hundred yard climb, they rocked over the lip of the crater. Once on the plateau, Foreman stopped. Before them for as far as the horizon, the desolate beauty of the red planet.
Deciding not to stray far in unfamiliar territory, with its landscape of gentle undulations, Foreman followed the rim of the crater. It looked like a sunny day in the Nevada desert, but he knew that the cold would kill them instantly, with just the thermal insulation and temperature control unit of their suits stopping that from happening. And if that didn't get them, the CO 2 would finish them off. As they drove around the crater, Foreman's mood became more sombre with each mile. It took nearly two hours to circumnavigate the crater and return to the ramp. Before driving down the slope, Foreman took in the bleak and lifeless planet.
With a sigh, his true situation struck him hard. He was the only human on the planet. If the unthinkable had happened on Earth, he could literally be the last man ever. With that sombre thought, he drove at a steady speed down the ramp, Monkley jumping out to open the airlock, waiting as Foreman drove inside before closing the outer doors, and opening the inner airlock doors. Once safely inside, Foreman removed his helmet and suit. Monkley did the same.
'It's official, pal. At least for the time being, it's just you and me.'
Monkley looked up at him, his huge soft brown eyes with a wisdom and understanding belying his chimpanzee features. The GenMop was a clone from a tiny family of other GenMops. Now he too was perhaps the last of his kind. It was entirely possible neither of them would ever see another of their own kind until the day they died.
'Hungry,' said Monkley, disappearing into the jungle.
Foreman watched him go, wondering if the little guy could only see the deep sadness of their situation when he looked up at the human. It was obviously easier to think of bananas rather than think of himself as being one life away from e
xtinction. Foreman stripped naked, filled the jar with fresh dope, slipped into the small pool and endeavoured to obliterate the dark despondent thoughts from his mind.
Chapter 10
Foreman stared at the radio. He'd figured out the controls. What he hadn't figured out was how he was going to summon up the courage to turn it on and try to communicate with Earth. If he didn't try, a part of his brain could pretend everything was still okay. That maybe nations had said “sorry' to each other and kissed and made up. He remembered his old man. After some pressure from Mom, he had retired from the air-force and settled for a desk job in the city. After the adventurous life as a fighter pilot, one day was now a repeat of the previous one and he would die a little more each day. Every Saturday, he would buy a lottery ticket but he never watched the live draw. Instead, he would take off for his den, play solo darts while he drank his grog, and listen to the sports on the radio, while mom would watch the Saturday movie, and eat chocolate.
But, on Sunday morning, he would check the lotto results, screw up the yellow ticket and throw it in the waste paper basket, usually with a muttered oath or two. One Sunday morning, young Andrew Foreman had watched the ritual for the thousandth time, the well practised shot into the basket followed by the swear words, followed by Mom's knowing “I told you” smile.
'Dad. Why don't you ever check the results on Saturday night?'
His dad smiled. 'Because, Son, for a whole night, I can dream I won. Just for a few damn hours, I could be a millionaire. And I could be. It could just as well be me as some other shmuck.'
Sitting in front of the radio, for the first time, Foreman truly understood what his father meant. If he didn't turn on the radio and listen to the irritating static, it could be that everything was okay. He could imagine that at the other end was a cadet like Farley, who would be laughing and saying, 'Thank God that spot of bother is all over. Hey, Mr Foreman. We got a rescue ship on its way to get you home. Just hang in there and you'll be home in no time.'
It could be just like that. Like his dad dreaming for a whole night he could be the next big winner, Foreman thought that if he didn't turn on the radio, then everything on Earth was still peachy. Only flicking that switch would make the horror all real. That was still too much reality to accept, right then. He would hang on to hope, to the illusion, for one more night. He left the room and the auto light turned itself off.
Chapter 11
For something to do, Monkley took care of the laundry. For a moment, he watched the sheets and clothes spin gently in the machine. Wearing clothes had been natural to him, never knowing anything different. But since taking up permanent residence in the base, shedding the unnecessary garments, he had no clothes to wash. He wondered why Andy still wore clothes. It was never cold inside the base. People were the most peculiar animals, sometimes. He liked Andy. Life had always been fun with Andy. Games. Stories. He liked it when Andy told him stories. Happy. Monkley happy.
He left the washing and looked for Andy. He found him at the compost heap, turning it over with a spade.
'Hi, pal. Keeping busy?'
'Story. Happy.'
'What, now?'
Monkley jumped up and down and did a back flip. 'Story, Happy.'
'Okay. Give me a minute.'
He squatted at the large pool side, splashed water over his face and cupped his hands to take a drink. Then he sat and Monkley joined him, wrapping his arm around him.
'Story. Yeah. It's been a while. Right. There once was a funny little guy called Monkley.'
Monkley clapped his hands and whooped. He loved stories about himself the most.
'And Monkley wanted a banana.'
'Banana.'
'A big banana. This big.' He stretched his arms wide.
'Banana big.'
'Very big. So big banana...'
'Banana big.'
'So big, Monkley couldn't carry it.'
'Monkley. Monkley.'
'Right. And a big banana. And Monkley...'
'Monkley.'
'He couldn't carry the banana, it was so big.'
'Big banana.'
'So, Monkley ate the big banana.'
'Oooh! Banana.'
'Yes.'
Monkley stretched his arms wide. 'Banana big.'
'Big banana.'
'Oooh!'
To Monkley, that was a great story. It had two of his favourite things in it. Himself, and a banana. Now, that's a story. He clapped his hands in appreciation. 'Happy.' With bananas on his mind, Monkley ran off into the jungle.
'Some people are easily pleased,' said Foreman.
Before he soaked in the small pool, Foreman checked on his “wine”. In a bucket with a mixture of fruit juices, turning into several pints of fermenting something. He had found a box of yeast for baking bread. Not the most ideal, true, but with luck, it would transform the brew into something drinkable. The bubbles rising to the surface were a positive sign something magical was going on. Covering the bucket up, it was time for his nightly smoke and dip in the small pool.
Chapter 12
Foreman stared in the mirror. It wasn't pretty. He had shaving foam all over his ten day beard. He hadn't brushed his hair in a week. His eyes and the rest of his face seemed suddenly much older than his thirty eight years. thirty eight was the new twenty eight, right? Even with the dope he wasn't sleeping too good. Without the razor touching his face, he washed off the foam. It was time to face his demon.
On his way to the communications room, he passed Monkley carrying clean laundry. He took his duties very seriously. It gave him purpose.
'Good morning, Monkley.'
'Morning, Andy.'
'I'm going to try the radio again.'
Monkley seemed to consider the implications of that. He nodded, and then hurried off to Foreman's room. Foreman had barely got seated in front of the radio, when Monkley joined him, jumping up onto the bench.
'I just want you to know, if we can't contact anyone, it isn't the end of the world. Damn. I wish I hadn't said that. No. Foreman. Focus. What I mean is, Monkley, we have to stay positive. I'll keep trying every day until we get somebody. In the meantime, we need to make sure the base is functioning as it should be. For one thing, I noticed the waterfall has slowed down. It could mean clogged filters or something. That's my priority for today. Apart from the radio, that is. Right. Here goes.' He flicked the switch. 'This is Andrew Foreman. This is Andrew Foreman. Is anybody getting this?' He looked at Monkley. 'Now. We don't need to get too concerned if we don't hear back right away. I remember in one of our training sessions, radio contact can prove iffy. What I just sent them can take anywhere between four and twenty one minutes to get there. Then, assuming we have a contact at the other end, it will take at least the same time to hear back.'
'Oooh!'
'Exactly. Now, when we got hold of Farley, it was only a few minutes delay. Assuming things haven't changed that much since then, we still have to wait a little while for the reply. In the meantime, I'll just keep going.'
'Oooh!'
'Andrew Foreman calling Earth. Andrew Foreman calling Earth. Anyone awake down there? Just to let you guys know, the base seems to be performing well. I am here with Monkley the GenMoP, and between us we will do all we can to survive and look after the place. Everything seems to be working well, but I think the waterfall filtration system is becoming clogged. I have no idea where the filters are or how to fix them, so this could be fun. If anyone has any advice, I'd be pleased to hear it.' He repeated the message another three times. Then he stopped and waited.
'Monkley. I'll stay here while you go get me a coffee. Off you go, pal.'
Monkley jumped down and ran out the room, Foreman folded his arms and stared at the radio, willing somebody, anybody, to reply. He was still waiting when Monkley returned with a coffee for him and juice for himself. An hour later, they still hadn't heard back.
'I guess that's it for now. Just remember. No reply doesn't mean the
end of...It doesn't mean anything. Come on.'
The waterfall was running at about half the flow-rate it had been when he had first seen it, just two weeks before. At that rate of decline, it would be stopped completely in another two weeks. Although aesthetically designed, it was one of the most functional parts of the base. The continuous circulation of the treated water ensured stagnation didn't set in. If he couldn't fix it, he doubted if they would survive a month.
Cupping his hand, he tasted it, directly from the waterfall. It tasted good. 'Monkley. In the maintenance room, there's a P H meter. We used it the other day. Remember it?'
Monkley scurried off and returned with the meter.
'Good, Monkley.' Foreman turned it on and placed the tip of the probe in the running water. 'Six point seven. Now, I might be just a veterinarian, but I do have some scientific knowledge. Pure water is about seven. The lower the reading, the more acidic it is. Drinking water is okay between, say, six point five and about eight point five. So what we have here, is well within safe limits.'
'Ooooh!'
'Right. What does concern me, is the water flow rate. It has slowed down considerably in the last couple of weeks. This means the system is getting blocked up. Probably a filter somewhere. I have to find the filter, and either replace it, or clean it out.'
Along the wall of the base, starting from the back of the mound of the waterfall, was a pipe made of Luxotral, about the diameter of Foreman's arm. This took a sharp right angled turn behind the jungle. There was a narrow path between the jungle and the wall and Foreman followed the pipe with Monkley behind him. As expected, it continued past the marijuana crop, and took another right turn. Another few yards brought them to the water treatment unit. It was housed in a dedicated three sided structure, with the wall of the base being the fourth wall. The structure was around thirty feet high. There was a warning on the door.
'Caution. Rubberised suits must be worn during maintenance. Incoming water highly acidic.'
'Oooh!'
'We've been warned, pal.' Foreman opened the door and a light came on. On the back wall, a schematic drawing of the plant simplified things. Foreman studied it, glancing at the plan and the plant. 'Right. Inlet water comes through the wall of the base, here. It is then neutralised by adding sodium carbonate. Now, the incoming water is just to top up the reservoir. Every drop is recycled. Most of the water vapour in the air waters the trees and plants. You and I consume around fifty pints a day. At a guess, the treatment plant is topping up at around two hundred pints each day.'