“Four.”
“Er-oooowww, errrr-ooooowwww!”
“Three.”
Prototype I started to shake and to shudder. There was a roaring sound, and if Laika said anything at all, the roaring was so loud that it blotted out her voice.
“Two.”
The roaring became louder and louder. Laika put her head down on the desk and put her paws over her nose, and hoped it was all going to stop very, very soon.
“One.”
Roooaaaarrrrr! went Prototype I.
“Ooooowwwwww! Er-ooooowwwww!” went Laika.
And Lucy’s voice—coming from nowhere in particular, or everywhere in general—shouted out, “Woo-hoo! We have liftoff!”
Then everything was lost in a roaring and thundering of sound as Prototype I tipped a little, shook itself, and lifted off the ground.
Vrrrrrrooooooooooooommmmmmmmmm!
When Prototype I went Vrrrrrrooooooooooooommmmmmmmmm! Lucy was finishing her dinner and was trying to explain something to her mom about space and its here, there, and everywhereness; but Lucy’s mom was not really listening very hard because she had her own problems and had her head underneath the sink, which was blocked by something or other. It wasn’t that Lucy’s mom wasn’t interested in space. Space, she thought, was a useful thing to have around. In fact, sometimes she complained that there wasn’t enough of it around and that she could do with more. Lucy found this odd, given that space was here, there, and everywhere. It seemed to Lucy that space was one of those things that there was always more of. You just had to look out of the window, or go into the garden, or go for a walk, or look up at the sky at night and be winked at by the stars, and wink back at them in turn. But Lucy’s mom’s view of space was that it was what people call a limited resource: like cookies, for example, something that there was only a certain amount of and that ran out far too soon.
“Mom,” Lucy said, “when I’ve finished dinner, do you want to come and look at Prototype I?”
“Mmm-hmmm…,” her mom said from underneath the sink.
“She’s almost finished, Mom.”
“Mmm-hmmm…”
Lucy sighed. “Mom, do you want me to help with the sink?”
There was a pause, then a clanking from under the kitchen counter, and Lucy’s mom popped her head out. Her hands were filled with bits and pieces of the underneath of the sink. Lucy’s mom smiled. “I think I’m doing all right, Lucy,” she said. “Just eat your dinner.” Then her head disappeared back under the sink again.
That was the way it was. Problems with the sink were Lucy’s mom’s business. Building space rockets was Lucy’s business. Lucy would have helped with the sink if she could, but Mom liked doing things on her own. And maybe after dinner Mom would come and look at the spacecraft and perhaps make a few suggestions—could it be painted a different color, was it pointy enough, wasn’t the logo wonky?—but they would only be suggestions, because she wouldn’t want to interfere.
“Mom,” said Lucy, “do you know how far away Alpha Centauri A is?”
“What A?” said her mom’s voice from somewhere among the pipes and plumbing.
“Alpha Centauri A,” said Lucy.
“What’s that?” her mom asked.
“It’s a star, Mom,” said Lucy, putting her knife and fork down. She was sure that she had told her mom this before.
The clanking under the sink stopped, and Lucy’s mom reappeared again. She was holding more bits and pieces of sink. “Lucy, I’m trying to fix the sink,” she said.
“If you guess how far it is, then I’ll let you finish,” said Lucy.
Lucy’s mom sighed and put down the bits and pieces of sink. “All right, then,” she said. “Maybe one hundred thousand miles?”
“Nope.” Lucy grinned.
“More?” her mom asked.
“Much more,” said Lucy.
“Umm…one hundred million miles?”
“Nope,” said Lucy again.
“I give up!” Lucy’s mom said.
“Three guesses!” said Lucy. “You have to have three guesses. It’s the law.”
“OK,” said her mom. “Ten thousand million miles?”
Lucy looked very pleased with herself. “Not even close,” she said.
“How much, then?” Lucy’s mom asked.
“Twenty-five trillion,” said Lucy. “Just a bit over.”
Her mom thought for a few seconds. “What’s a trillion?” she asked.
So Lucy picked up a pen and wrote the number out in full on a piece of paper. The number looked like this: 25,613,263,296,055.
“Wow!” said her mom.
“Twenty-five trillion six hundred and thirteen billion two hundred and sixty-three million two hundred and ninety-six thousand and fifty-five,” said Lucy proudly.
Twenty-five trillion six hundred and thirteen billion two hundred and sixty-three million two hundred and ninety-six thousand and fifty-five is a big, big number. It doesn’t seem that big when you first look at it. You can write it using only fourteen digits, and there are lots of words with that many letters. Lucy knew a few of them: “uncontrollable” (that’s what some people said Laika was); “indecipherable” (that’s what Lucy’s teachers said her handwriting was); and her favorite, “disingenuously,” which means the way you say things when the things you say aren’t quite right, or when you don’t quite mean them. When you think about it in that way, when you say the number is just made up of fourteen digits, then you find yourself thinking that twenty-five trillion six hundred and thirteen billion two hundred and sixty-three million two hundred and ninety-six thousand and fifty-five is not a very big number at all; but when you think about it in another way—for example, when you start thinking about walking that many miles—it is very, very big indeed. In fact, it is eye-wateringly big. It is so big that when you think about it for a little while, you have to sit down in a large, comfortable chair and try not to think about anything at all, just to recover. And Lucy’s mom didn’t really have time to sit in armchairs not thinking about anything at all, particularly when the sink was blocked and there was a pile of washing-up to be done.
Lucy’s mom looked at the number; but Lucy could see by the expression on her face that she wasn’t really thinking about it very hard. She wasn’t thinking about it in the way that you have to think about these things to realize how strange and wonderful they are.
“That’s a big number,” said her mom.
“You’re not thinking about it,” said Lucy.
“I’m thinking about the sink,” said her mom. Then she added, trying to take an interest, “What’s the star called?”
“Alpha Centauri A,” said Lucy.
“Oh,” said Lucy’s mom. “That’s a nice name.”
It was at this point that they heard the strange rumbling that was coming from the garden. Lucy’s mom first thought that perhaps it was a rumbling coming from the sink, and so she popped her head back between the pipes; but the rumbling didn’t seem to be coming from the pipes. It seemed to be coming from outside. She came out from under the sink again and looked at Lucy.
“Lucy,” she said, “what’s that?”
Lucy bit her lip. The rumbling got louder.
Lucy’s mom went over to the window. She could see Prototype I gleaming in the moonlight. It was shaking a little and giving off steam.
“Lucy,” said Lucy’s mom, “it’s coming from the garden.”
Lucy got up and went over to the window. Prototype I was definitely shuddering and shaking. Then a flurry of sparks came streaming out from underneath. What’s happening? thought Lucy. Then she thought of Laika. And just as she was having this thought, from underneath Prototype I there was a burst of red and gold, and a huge, great balloon of fire.
Vrrrrrrooooooooooooommmmmmmmmm!
Lucy’s mom stood with her mouth open. She wanted to say, “What’s going on?” She wanted to say, “Watch out for my garden, young lady!” She wanted to say,
“You mean that thing can fly?” She wanted to say, “How are we going to explain this to your dad?” And she wanted to say, “How on Earth…?” But because she wanted to say all these things at exactly the same time, something that is impossible, she just opened her mouth and a strange sound came out, a sound that sounded like this: “Ahhh—ohhh—hurrr…”
“Laika!” shouted Lucy. “Where’s Laika?”
Prototype I lifted itself up very gently on top of the balloon of fire for a few seconds, then—faster than you could really see it happen—it shot upward toward the tens of hundreds of thousands of winking stars.
Lucy threw open the back door and ran into the garden. The garden smelled of burned flowers and burned grass and burned earth. But Lucy wasn’t paying any attention to the garden. Instead she was looking up to the sky, where a great red-and-gold streak, with a shining silver rocket at the topmost end of it, was heading farther and farther upward. The stars continued to wink, but in a way that seemed less friendly than before. And Lucy watched as the rocket got higher and higher, until it could no longer be seen, although the red-gold streak could still be made out, tracing a line across the sky.
“Laiikaaa!” Lucy shouted. “Laaaiiiiiikaaaaaa!”
But Laika was already miles and miles away, and could not hear her.
“Laiiiiikaaaaaaa! Laaaiiiiiikaaaaaa!”
Lucy felt tears in her eyes. She stood in the burned garden and sobbed to think that she would never see Laika again.
Lucy’s mom stood in the doorway, looking at her flowers and her garden fence and her once-beautiful lawn; then she looked at Lucy, a sad little figure in the kitchen light. She sighed and stepped into the garden; and she put her arm around her daughter.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Laika will be back.” She said this to make them all feel better, but she wasn’t sure she believed it.
“But how…?” Lucy asked, looking up at her mom.
“She’ll be back,” said Lucy’s mom. And then she felt herself beginning to cry as well. “I’m sure of it,” she sniffled.
Lucy thought she didn’t sound very sure.
The two of them stood there for a long while, in the middle of the burned garden, looking up at the sky.
Laika put her paws over her eyes and whimpered as Prototype I lifted itself off the ground in a great plume of smoke and fire and determination, hovered for a few seconds above the garden, then shot upward into the air with a noisy Vrrrrrrooooooooooooommmmmmmmmm!
“Owwwwwowow!” said Laika. But there was nobody to hear her. She was alone in the spacecraft, and even if Lucy had been close enough, the roaring of the engines was so loud and so terrible that it would have drowned out Laika’s voice. In fact, Laika couldn’t even hear herself. All she could hear was the vrooming of Prototype I’s engines.
Prototype I began to accelerate, to get faster and faster; and as it accelerated, it shuddered even more.
LUCY, thought Laika.
She wanted to be with Lucy. She wanted Lucy’s arms around her neck. She wanted Lucy to tickle her tummy. She wanted to be sitting in her dog basket, thinking homey doggy thoughts.
LUCY, she thought.
Then Laika began to feel very funny indeed. She suddenly felt very heavy, as if somebody were sitting on her. She tried to lift her paws from over her eyes, but her paws were heavy, too. She tried to lift her chin from where it rested on the desk, but her chin was heavy as well. Laika, who had never experienced anything like this before in her life, started to whimper. “Errerrrrrng…,” she said.
She opened her eyes to see, in front of her, the flickering of the television screen. It seemed to be experiencing some interference, so it crackled and hummed and didn’t make any kinds of useful sounds at all. On the control panel beneath the television set, lights flashed on and off.
“Errerrrrrng…,” said Laika. “Errerrrrrng…errerrrrrng…oooowoowoo!”
The rocket was traveling even faster now. It trembled in the way that no thing on Earth should tremble. But then the rocket was no longer on Earth. In fact, with every passing second, Earth was farther and farther away. The trembling turned to shuddering, and the shuddering to shaking, and all at once there was a terribly loud BOOOOM! as Prototype I broke through the sound barrier, which meant that now it was going faster than 768 miles an hour.
It was a BOOOOM! loud enough to wake up people who were sleeping peacefully on Earth below. Loud enough to knock birds off the perches where they had gone to roost for the night. Loud enough to make cats, stalking around their territory, stop and sniff the air, their whiskers quivering. Loud enough for Lucy, far below, to look up to the sky and say to herself, “Well, I never, that must be Prototype I breaking the sound barrier,” and then to think, Poor Laika! My poor faster-than-the-speed-of-sound dog Laika! What will become of her? When will I ever see her again?
There is no denying that the speed of sound is really very fast for a dog. But Prototype I did not slow down when it reached the speed of sound. Instead, it shot away from Earth at even greater and greater speeds. One thousand miles an hour…two thousand miles an hour…five thousand miles an hour…ten thousand miles an hour…twelve thousand…fifteen thousand…Soon Prototype I was going more than twenty-five thousand miles an hour, and still it accelerated. The TV screen continued to crackle and hum, and a prerecorded voice came over the loudspeaker system. It was Lucy’s voice. “All passengers,” it said, “we are pleased to announce that we have now left the earth’s atmosphere. Enjoy your trip.”
Laika looked out of the window. The sky was filled with winking stars. Everything was so strange and different that it was as if Laika were noticing the stars for the first time. She pressed her nose to the window to see if she could smell them.
When Lucy’s dad came home, he expected to be greeted as usual by the sound of Laika’s excitable barking, but instead, as he walked up to the front door, the house seemed somehow somber and silent.
Lucy’s dad had been out all day, walking in the park and thinking, because he was a philosopher, which meant that he was a person whose job was to think about stuff. He sometimes wrote books about the things he thought about, and he also sometimes taught students how they could think about things; but mostly he just spent his time thinking interesting thoughts. Lucy’s mom, in other words, was the practical one, and her husband, Lucy’s dad, was the dreamy one. They were really very different from each other. Lucy’s mom often said that a philosopher was no good when the sink needed unblocking; but she had to admit that he was very good at thinking impractical and dreamy thoughts, and sometimes this could be useful, too. Or, even when it wasn’t useful, at least it could be interesting.
That evening when Lucy’s dad came to the door, the house seemed very dark and gloomy; and because it normally looked cheerful and happy, this made him a bit worried. He put his key in the lock more carefully than usual, pushed open the door, peeped in, and called out, “Hello!”
When Laika didn’t come bounding out to meet him—it is strange that a man who so much liked thinking about things, and a dog who didn’t do very much thinking at all, should get on so well, but that is how it was—Lucy’s dad called out, “Laika! Lucy! Darling!”
The “darling” was for his wife, Lucy’s mom. Lucy’s mom came out of the kitchen, still covered in grease from under the sink. She looked very serious.
“What’s happened?” asked Lucy’s dad.
“Laika has gone,” said Lucy’s mom.
“Gone? Where?”
“Umm…,” said Lucy’s mom.
“And Lucy?”
“She’s upstairs.”
“Oh,” said Lucy’s dad.
“There’s another thing,” said Lucy’s mom. “I think you should come and see the garden.”
So Lucy’s mom took Lucy’s dad by the hand and led him through the kitchen to the back door, and when she opened the door to the garden, Lucy’s dad saw that everything was burned to a crisp.
“Hmmm,” he said, because
that is something that philosophers say a lot.
Then he saw that Prototype I was missing.
“It’s gone,” he said.
He thought for a bit longer. You could see his brain working as he thought about the mysterious disappearance of Prototype I and the equally mysterious disappearance of Laika. “Where has it gone?” he asked.
Lucy’s mom pointed up toward the winking stars.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh…wow.” And although he was worried about Laika and about Lucy and about the garden, he found himself thinking that if his daughter had built a spacecraft that actually worked, then it was very likely that she was the cleverest daughter in the whole wide world. The thought made him smile, just for a moment. But then he thought again about Laika and about Lucy. “I’d better go and see Lucy,” he said.
Lucy’s dad went upstairs. Lucy’s bedroom was dark, the door open just a crack. There, standing by the window, was Lucy. In front of her was the telescope that her mom and dad had bought her for the previous Christmas. The telescope was made of brass. It stood on a tripod and was pointed out of the open window up toward the heavens. Lucy was peering through the telescope, her eye pressed to the eyepiece. Every so often she moved the telescope, scanning the sky, little bit by little bit. When her dad came closer, he saw that there were tears streaming down his daughter’s face. Lucy’s dad coughed to get her attention. Lucy took her eye from the eyepiece, wiped it dry with her sleeve, sniffed, shook her head sadly at her dad, and then put her eye back to the telescope and continued searching.
“Lucy,” her dad whispered.
Lucy didn’t reply.
Lucy’s dad went over to stand next to her. When he put his hand on her shoulder, he could feel the sadness of her.
“Prototype I worked,” Lucy’s dad said softly. He couldn’t help saying this with a note of pride, even though he also felt sad at the same time.
“Laika’s gone,” said Lucy.
“I know,” said Lucy’s dad.
“Mom says she’ll be back, but I…” Then Lucy pushed away the telescope and looked at her dad. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if she’ll ever come back. She went into Prototype I by mistake….She must have pressed a button….I didn’t even think it would fly….We were having dinner….Laika was still outside….She must be so lonely….”
Lucy and the Rocket Dog Page 2
