THE CAMBRIDGE ANNEX: THE TRILOGY

by Peter Damon

  “Yes, ‘Space Flight for All’, wasn’t it?” she asked while passing him. “Faintly humorous, even to those of us who know nothing of space,” she confessed, perhaps a little too glibly, Michael thought.

  “Something like that, and I was wondering, if it were fact and not conjecture, where hydroponics would fit in the overall scheme. The article didn’t say,” Michael noted.

  “No, it didn’t, did it?” she answered caustically, allowing him to follow her through the doors and into a corridor.

  “But people living in space would need some form of food production, wouldn’t they,” he pressed, following her down the corridor to stop beside her at a plain looking door with a security console beside it.

  “Not necessarily,” she told him, her hair fanning out slightly as she shook her head. “Kilo for kilo, there is far less weight in lifting prepared meals than in trying to source them in space,” she explained. She slid a card through a slot in the console before typing in a six digit code. The door opened and they stepped into a long and narrow laboratory, one long wall looking into a hydroponic ‘garden’ of greenery while a long bench in front of the glass window held screens, keyboards and a variety of analytical equipment.

  “That’s huge,” Michael breathed, his eyes scanning the further room as he tried assessing the size and variation of plant life in the enclosed space.

  “We’re the largest, the most diverse, and the oldest of the Closed Hydroponic Facilities,” she told him, passing him to check one of the screens. “We have more data on more plants than any of the other sites, and our monthly reports are often used by the others to calibrate their own findings,” she explained, “though they seldom admit to it.

  “We’ve defined the nutrient requirements of over 20 vegetables for their complete life cycle, as well as identifying the effects of malnutrition and over-feeding.”

  “But this isn’t just about how best to grow plants. This is about doing it in a nutrient isolated environment,” Michael breathed.

  “Sure. But our research is of much more benefit to a farmer than to a spaceman,” she agreed. “Right now, our data is being used in Somalia to create 500 hectares of grain. Rice production is up 2% across the Philippines due to our research. I could go on and on,” she told him.

  “Because there are no spacemen,” Michael suggested.

  “Because there are no spacemen, and the various space agencies use a different approach,” she agreed.

  Michael moved to the glass to stare in fascination at the rich wealth of plant life sitting next door, all of it proven to exist in total isolation from the earth’s own facilities for providing nutrition. “How many people would this support?” he wondered aloud.

  “Sixty to seventy,” she told him, her voice right at his side. Michael turned to find himself being watched. “What seeds of truth lie beneath the manure of that article, Mr Bennett?” she asked, “and when am I going to be involved?”

  April 22nd

  “Leanne!” Jake cried, and had to run to catch up with the lanky student as she navigated the busy pavement.

  “I’m late!” Leanne Adler called back, continuing her steady pace through the crowd.

  The problem with Cambridge was that it was far more than just a university town. At any time of the year the population was driven up by at least 30% by holiday makers. In summer, tourists were more common than students with the population of the town nearly doubling.

  “Look, I need your advice,” Jake told her, catching up to the taller student’s heels.

  Leanne stopped and moved out of the way of the passing pedestrians to look down at Jake in open curiosity. Long in the face and with a high forehead, when Leanne frowned, as she did then, her frown lines became her most prominent facial feature. Had it not been for her frown, her long nose, slender lips or long dark hair might have caught his attention.

  “You’re Particle Physics and Astrophysics aren’t you? What do you need me for?” she asked.

  Jake sighed and took her arm to propel them back along the busy pavement. “You’re the best Electronics Engineer I know. I want to know if I could use an old shipping container as the chassis for a communication satellite.”

  “Are you serious?” Leanne asked, recovering her arm. “I suspect the weight of one of those would be near the limits to any launch vehicle!” she told Jake with a laugh.

  “Forget the lifting bit. If it was already in space, would it be large enough?” he asked seriously.

  “Of course it would be large enough!” Leanne grinned. “Sure, you could fit a mass of equipment inside one of those. It would be far more powerful than any of the existing communications satellites. You’d have to make a few holes of course, for the cables to the dishes, and you’d need some form of gantry to support the dishes and the solar panels. But you’d never get it up there Jake, certainly not into a geosynchronous orbit,” she laughed and shook her head, then suddenly stopped to look at Jake with new interest. “This anything to do with that story in the Chronicle the other week?” she asked. “I mean, if there was a way of putting big satellites into space and you knew of it, you’d involve me, right?”

  “You don’t believe in that Chronicle story, do you?” Jake asked with an astonished expression on his face.

  “No, but I know you Astrophysics boys are over the moon at having some test put into space, and I know none of the space powers have launched recently. So how did it get up there?” Leanne asked pointedly.

  “And then, what about that piece in the Guardian the other day?” she asked.

  “Don’t know, I don’t read it,” Jake admitted.

  Leanne made a disparaging noise through her teeth and shook her head. “It published orbits and communications frequency details. I recognised the frequency. I worked on it some time back. So again, how did it get up there?” she asked.

  Jake shrugged. “So, if we wanted someone to create a satellite out of an old container, you could do it, right?” he pressed.

  “Sure,” Leanne agreed. “If weight and size aren’t problems anymore, you could make a bloody huge one with parts out of RS Components!” she laughed.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Gary parked the little Fiat his role in CUSF allowed him in the car park, a large area behind the L shaped building and warehouse, one of several on the small industrial village a few miles north of Cambridge.

  Most of the parking bays were now left empty since the Green Transport Bill had stopped all private and recreational travel in a private vehicle. He parked in a bay marked for visitors and attached the power lead into the vehicle’s socket to have the batteries charged up again, before walking the short distance to the main doors, a stiff northerly breeze making him tighten his jacket about his tall and broad shouldered, athletic frame.

  A security guard directed him through another set of doors, and he smiled at the young receptionist before telling her he had an appointment with Mr Jack Long of Long, Bridge & Sons.

  He signed the visitors’ book and spent his time looking at the various photographs of the company’s achievements before Mr Long arrived, a slender and balding man in his late forties with a receding chin and a long slender neck, an open lab coat flapping open at his sides as he stepped towards Gary, hand outstretched.

  “You were interested in our new materials?” he asked, taking Gary through to his spacious office. There was a table large enough for six and whiteboards on each of the walls, each one scrupulously scrubbed clean of corporate data.

  “Yes. I’m chair of the Cambridge University Space Flight group,” Gary explained. “We’re looking into alternatives to the current spacesuit.”

  “So you want a pressure suit, and something to stabilise temperature, would that be right?” the man asked, scratching his bald head.

  “And a shield for the ultraviolet radiation range too,” Gary told him. “We believe that the way forward may lie with a basic suit that is light and versatile enough for people to wear all day while working in d
angerous situations inside the craft, for example, and then something they add, but relatively easily, when they need to go outside. The basic suit has still got to manage outside, but only for short periods. It would be augmented by the outer ‘overcoat’ for added protection and for long stints outside,” Gary suggested, nodding his thanks to accept the mimed offer of a cup of coffee.

  “And you heard of our BV21 fabric,” Jack Long smiled, pouring the coffee from a small percolator and placing it in front of Gary before walking across to his desk. He drew a length of a dark and rubber material from the bottom drawer and laid it on the table for Gary to have a closer look.

  The material had the look and texture of rubber, but between the two outer walls were a series of tubes that ran along its length. “We actually developed it for divers in the oil exploration industry. The waters up in the arctic are exceedingly cold, so this, built as a wet suit, allows a warm liquid to be pumped through it, keeping the diver warm.”

  Gary nodded. “So you have the ability to weld panels together and create a suit?” he asked.

  Jack grinned and waved Gary to follow him. In an adjoining room was a fully fabricated suit, an inner wire frame holding it upright and gently stretched so it could be better displayed and appreciated.

  “In this application, warm liquid is fed into the suit via a link at the small of the back. We get a more even heating that way,” Mr Long explained, turning the display so Gary could see the broad bayonet linkage in the small of the back, its shape reminding Gary of the fitting on many modern camera lenses.

  “Liquid? You use heated water?” Gary asked.

  “Actually no, we don’t. We use a light cooking oil. It holds against the outside water pressure better, and retains heat for longer. Note the fingers, where the heating tubes pass over the fingers and not under them, so gripping, turning, tool carrying are not impeded,” he explained.

  “Won’t the pump needed to move the fluids around the body be heavy and bulky?” Gary asked, well aware that both NASA and CNSA used the same principle for cooling.

  Jack shook his head. “Where the B21 differs to previous solutions is that it uses the wearer’s movement to move the liquid around the suit,” he explained.

  “So body movement all on its own will move the liquid.”

  Jack nodded. “Of course, you can’t rely on someone moving all of the time, so a pump is still needed, but its size, weight, and power consumption are all much reduced.”

  Gary looked at it in awe, licking his lips as he assessed it for suitability. “I notice it still has a zipper,” he said, pointing to where it ran from the neck all the way down to the crotch. “We’d need an airtight alternative. Shame the pipes couldn’t be a smaller diameter too, to help pressure as well as reduce bulk.”

  “That had occurred to us,” Jack admitted, nodding to himself.

  “Of course, a spacesuit would need to cool, not necessarily heat,” Gary pointed out.

  Jack shrugged. “The principle remains the same. In reality the normal temperature would be ambient body temperature.”

  Gary nodded. “Although, if you could reduce the volume of liquid needed within the suit, then the volume needed to heat or cool would be that much less anyway. Would you be prepared to allow Cambridge University to assist you in the development of such a suit? Say, allow us to do the testing?” he asked.

  “I think that could be arranged,” Jack agreed.

  +++++++++++++++++

  Michael walked slowly and carefully down the private road, the houses to either side all detached, all set back to allow vans and small trucks to be parked on their drives. They were also well protected, each having low brick walls on which railings had been mounted, high railings that ended in pointed tips that looked ornamental, but made climbing over them extremely dangerous. Double gates gave access to many of the properties, all sporting intercom systems built into the brick pillars, all of them displaying CCTV security cameras.

  The taxi had left him at the edge of the estate, refusing to take him any further, and he had walked down the road expecting to find house names or numbers; something to help him find the property he wanted, but there was nothing. His tablet couldn’t find the post code and Google Map had no record of the road, let alone the pre-fabricated houses that lined it.

  He stopped and looked about him, wondering what he should do next while knowing that this alone would bring someone out from one of the properties.

  It did, a heavyset man who looked overweight but could probably fell him with just one push, his broad arms decorated with past and present loves. With him came two dogs, both looking remarkably like a breed outlawed at least two years before, and both displaying the viciousness for which they had been outlawed.

  “You lost?” he was asked while the dogs tried leaping towards him, barking in a seemingly mad frenzy.

  “I was looking for Frank Hill’s home,” Michael told the man above the constant barking, smiling disarmingly as three pairs dark brown eyes assaulted him.

  “Frankie? What you want him for then?” the man asked. “He know you, does he?”

  “No, he doesn’t know me. I wanted to talk business with him, scrap business,” Michael answered.

  The man nodded and got a hold of the collars on both dogs, one hand doing the task while the other unlocked the gate. “Come in then, and I’ll get him for you. Don’t mind the dogs,” he told Michael, “they’re tame as pussycats, these two!” he chuckled, cuffing the one that still barked.

  Michael doubted it, but the dogs weren’t allowed in the house, so Michael quickly wiped his feet before entering. He was greeted by a woman he took to be the lady of the house, and ushered into the living room.

  The carpet was champagne and the walls cream. There was a display of Delcroft Ware in a large glass cabinet, while a huge plasma TV screen hung on the far wall. On the other walls hung prints from scenic paintings, all framed in heavy gilt frames. The tables were glass topped and the sofas of pale cream leather. The open-plan room, some thirty feet long, was lit by two crystal chandeliers while smaller ones stood out from the walls.

  Michael sat uneasily on the edge of the sofa and complimented the woman on her taste. He was rewarded with a cup of tea, and the information that their names were Bert and Martha, after which they waited in silence until Frankie arrived.

  Frankie was a weasel of a man; thin to the point of being anorexic, dark hair thinning to the front but with long sideburns and a slender Mexican moustache than emphasised his narrow chin. His eyes were small, dark and inquisitive, his nose almost as hawkish as his chin. Dark and nondescript clothing gave his face an added pallor.

  “I hear you want to put some business my way?” he said, regarding Michael with a look that said it was doubtful.

  Michael carefully returned his cup to the saucer and placed them on the small glass table in front of him while he nodded. “I may have access to a whole lot of scrap metal soon; tons and tons of it. I wondered if you might be interested.”

  “Always interested in legitimate scrap,” Frankie admitted, walking about while Bert and Martha, seated across from Michael, continued to watch him without expression. “It is legit’, isn’t it? I ain’t interested in any of that sunken shit from World War one or two,” he was told.

  “This is totally legit. Owners gave up on it years ago. Might say they threw it away,” he agreed.

  “But there’s something though, isn’t there? You wouldn’t have come to me if it were all so easy now, would you?” Frankie said.

  “Yes,” Michael agreed. “There are a couple of problems actually,” he nodded. “First, although we know where all the junk is, we’re not sure how to catch it,” he admitted.

  “Catch it? Where is this stuff then?” Frankie asked, his pacing cut short to stand facing Michael.

  “That’s the second problem,” Michael admitted, and he pointed upwards. “It’s in space,” he told them.

  “He’s a fucking conman Frankie. Shall I toss him out
?” Bert asked, his lumbering body easing forward as if in readiness to launch himself from the deep leather seat.

  “What have I told you about swearing indoors, Bert Jones!” Martha told him. “Now, you just shut up and let Frank do the talking,” she added.

  Frankie nodded towards the large woman, every bit as broad as her husband even if she didn’t have his height. His attention then returned to Michael.

  “Any reason why I shouldn’t do as Bert suggests?” he asked softly.

  Michael licked his dry lips and held a hand out to begin ticking off the benefits.

  “The Americans believe there are around 1,500 objects larger than 100 kilos in weight floating in Low Earth Orbit. They believe there are over 19,000 pieces over 10 centimetres in size. Most, if not all, will give a better price as a Space Artefact than as scrap, and I suspect each piece will make a fortune if sold on Ebay. And that’s just Low Earth Orbit. If you look at the high end, Geosynchronous Orbit, then for each satellite you’ll also find a booster rocket that is now just junk floating nearby. They’ll be at least 600 of those.

  “Of course, the original owners may want their old scrap back. Some of their contents may still be secret or embarrassing if uncovered, which was fine when no one could pick them up, but very dangerous to their prior owners if they got into the wrong hands. The price on those could be a small fortune.

  “Space debris is becoming the biggest worry to those who use orbits for satellites and space stations. The very small stuff, just flecks of paint or dust, can act like sandpaper, while anything larger can go through fabric, walls, or fuel-cells. So anyone capturing the stuff would actually be seen as doing the earth a favour. You might even get a standing income from each country for doing the service.” Michael suggested.

  “Just hold on though,” Frank stopped him. “Just how we meant to get there?”

  “Ah, yes. I was hoping you’d ask me that. I have a way,” Michael grinned, “but you’re going to have to help me.”