Unforgettable journey to other planets
Venera Harrison
A team of scientists consisting of Yulia Danilin from Roscosmos and Dr Tulu-Manchi Capri from Nepal detects a signal from the Voyager spacecraft coming from Earth on a space transmission frequency. They set out to find the source. The signal creates a natural anomaly that causes scientists and a few random people to meet in the Himalayas. French military man Jean-Pierre Biro, American teacher Debby Glandfield, and British tourist David Conel. They are all fleeing bad weather and meet a mysterious hermit.
Venera Harrison
Unforgettable journey to other planets
Part 1 – Chapter 1
David stood in the elevator booth and looked at the changing numbers – “7, 6, 5”. He had just given the keys to the owner of the apartment, and he was very anxious. He wanted to feel like all the doors were now open in front of him, but even the elevator doors wouldn’t let him out. When he received the money for the bed he had sold this morning, he felt only dread. The only thought running through his head was “No, no, don’t do that. What am I going to do now?” Of course, he had a plan. He agreed with his father that he would stay with him for the time and decide what he would do next. The elevator doors opened.
David sold everything he had. What was left was a backpack and the things that fit into it: a cell phone and charger, documents, and credit cards. Of clothes and shoes: his favorite Crocs, two shorts, jeans, three T-shirts and one sweater. Socks? They were holey, so he threw them away. He threw out a lot of other things, too. Some he was tired of, others seemed like reminders of someone else’s life. It’s both easy and scary when all your luggage fits in a bag behind your back and in your jeans pockets. He took the train to Stretford, where his father lived and where he had lived his childhood and youth. But still he felt this unquenchable anxiety.
For all the things he had accumulated over the previous years, he had made a lot of money. The TV and the X-box were not the most expensive items. It was the junk that brought him the most money. For example, the night stand he’d carried around for the past six years in all his rented apartments brought in 80 pounds. A collection of Olympic badges, which were covered in a layer of dust, brought in more than a hundred. The man who bought them said it was a very good investment.
David was on his way to his father’s house and had a premonition that he would have to answer the question he had been asking himself, “What’s next?”
*
“What’s next?” child interrogated the teacher while standing at the blackboard.
The sun shone softly through the windows of Miss Deborah Glandfield’s history class at Westover Magnet School. It was a sunny day at Stamford. All the children shifted their gaze from the speaker to the teacher.
“Yes, go on,” she encouraged him, nodding her head. “What happened next?”
“Then,” the boy opened his eyes wide, “first governor of Plymouth Colony proposed a celebration,” and fell silent again.
“Why?” the teacher wondered, raising her eyebrows.
“Well,” the boy looked at the class. “They wanted to thank the earth and God for surviving.”
The teacher smiled and added:
“And they also wanted to thank the Indians who were open to outsiders and taught them how to survive on the land. Yes?” the teacher winked.
Debby stood by her desk and looked at the boy at the blackboard, completely immersed in his report. He was embarrassed to stand in front of the whole class and the portraits of America’s founding fathers. Debby tried to encourage him. She was proud that he was overcoming himself.
“Well, that, too, of course,” the boy smiled.
*
“Of course. I’ll add this information and show it to you for confirmation,” going through the papers, said Jean-Pierre. “Tomorrow morning we can send everything to Interpol and the others.”
He stood next to his patron’s desk and looked carefully at the notes on the sheets. He was completely focused on not forgetting edits. The man tucked the documents into a folder and headed to the door of the French external security directorate chief’s office. It was raining outside the window on Boulevard Mortier, and it was late evening.
“Thank you, Jean-Pierre,” the patron said with approval, looking at the concentration of his assistant.
*
“Well, thank you!” Yulia grudgingly said to herself as she read the email, sitting in the subway car. “Another business trip! Could just write an instruction, call. Don't they have better things to do: not to launch rockets to the Moon and Mars, they just bullshit me with these telescopes around the world. And it would be nice if they sent me somewhere to rest, but there and back again. Plus, ‘there’ in this case means to the middle of nowhere.”
She began typing “Moscow–Kathmandu distance” into her browser’s search bar.
“I want to live, I want sea and sun and lots of money. I’m sick of it!” she raised her head and looked angrily at the tired people sitting next to her. “And not to go to Nepal to set up an automatic space monitoring system based on infrared and magnetic analysis, with support for dynamic orientation correction,” Yulia thought, mimicking the text of the letter.
She looked at her smartphone screen, it said “4,886 kilometers.”
“M-m-m,” Yulia moaned, “I want something real.”
She opened the email from HR again. Her business trip would last five days, and the tickets were already booked.
“Well, okay,” she shook her head and closed the mail.
Part 1 – Chapter 2
“Hi, it’s me,” the young man shouted from the threshold, closing the door behind him.
“Hi, David,” a woman’s voice said from the kitchen, “Dad’s still at work, come on in.”
David’s father and stepmother live in a small house in Stratford, near Manchester. The father works at the soccer stadium and the stepmother is a part-time bookkeeper.
David left his backpack in the living room and went into the kitchen. A pleasant smell wafted in from there. Joan was making a vegetable stew and roasting two large pieces of meat. Surely both pieces were destined for only one person – David’s father.
“Joan, hello,” David said as he entered the kitchen.
The stepmother turned to the doorway and smiled very warmly. She wiped her hands with the kitchen towel and hugged David tightly. She knows how to hug in a special way. David calls it a ‘proud hug’ – a little longer than a welcoming hug and a little warmer than a friendly one.
“How pretty you are,” she covered her eyes.
Joan stroked David’s shoulder, looked sympathetically at his thin face and over his frail body.
“Dad said you’ve moved out of the apartment. Will you move your things here for now? I cleared out the closet in your room. How are you? You quit your job, too? And that girl?” she paused, but she seemed to have a dozen other things to say.
She spluttered her hands in the air, which meant in her language "asks me for my tactlessness," and went to the stove.
“Stuff in the living room. I have only a backpack,” David smiled.
“Whoa! Fire or psychological breakdown?” stirring the stew, the stepmother asked.
“Psychological fire,” David laughed and sat down at the table.
Joan poured the lemonade and the conversation flowed as if six months before they had not seen each other had never happened. She began to talk about her work, to ask how things were going in London, and many other things. So they talked for about an hour. David sat on a chair and watched Joan walk around the kitchen, adding spices to the dishes and stirring them.
There wasn’t much space in the kitchen, but to David it was an important place from his childhood, and there were many stories associated with every corner of it. He looked at the pantry shelf where the cookies were always kept and remembered how he couldn’t reach them even with a chair. Now it was easy for him.
“Hi, Da-vid,” his father shouted out the window, stretching his son’s name.
He waved at him and made his way into the house. He walked into the kitchen with David’s backpack, holding it in his outstretched hand like something dirty and bad smelling.
“Some bum left all his belongings in our living room,” he laughed and set the backpack on the floor.
Father, or as the rest of the world calls him, Spencer Conel always joked a little harshly, but everyone at home was used to judging a joke without relativity to themselves. So David and Joan smiled.
Spencer hugged his skinny son in compare to him:
“Okay, the hug was warm enough, I’ll cancel the evening salute to your arrival.”
Joan escorted him out to change and began to put food on plates. And yes, both steaks were meant for one person. They sat down to dinner.
“What next, son?” Spencer finally decided to ask, sawing his piece of meat. “Will you stay with us for a while? Maybe I’ll find out at work…”
“Spence,” Joan looked at him meaningfully, “when you come home from work tired, do I ask you what you’re doing?”
“That’s all right, Joan,” David smiled. “Yes, Dad, I’ll stay with you for a couple of weeks, and then I’ll go somewhere to rest. I think I need someplace windier to clear my head.”
Joan was glad David was joking.
“You know, David,” said father thoughtfully, “don’t listen to anybody. In the end, you can’t blame anyone.”
The table was quiet and peaceful. Like six months ago and always before.
Part 1 – Chapter 3
Miss Deborah Glandfield sat in her teacher’s seat, looking out at the empty classroom. She had the feeling that it was empty inside her and that the classroom was full of things: funny memories of children, portraits and quotes of famous Americans. She shifted her eyes to the portrait of Abraham Lincoln and the pieces of paper pinned beneath it. For two weeks now, pupils had been bringing the 16th president’s quotes to class at her request and sticking them on the wadepaper below his portrait.
“The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time,” read the most prominent quote.
Miss Glandfield called herself ‘Miss Glandfield’ only when she imagined herself next to the children at school or in her imagined audience with the great men of the past. “Mr. Washington, this is Miss Glandfield. The one who selflessly teaches history to the children at Westover Magnet School,” Debby imagined. And Mr. President looked at her approvingly, letting everyone around her know that she was making a real important deal.
She looked at her watch, rose from her chair, and went to the principal’s office. The boys, who had been watching her from the hallway through the window the whole time she had been looking around her classroom sadly, jumped out of chairs and ran away.
Debby went to the principal’s office and heard only a few words instead of the long tirade she had expected.
“Debby,” he smiled briefly, “have a nice rest. I’ve signed all papers; they’re in the office.”
Debby felt that everything was working out just fine, but she couldn’t be happy. She hadn’t counted on this outcome.
“Thank you, Sam,” she nodded.
But he was already dialing someone’s number on the phone, and just held up his thumb in approval. Debby went out into the reception area and walked over to the receptionist’s desk. The secretary asked her to sign the papers.
“Have a good rest, Debby,” the girl said.
“Thank you,” Debby replied confused and mechanically.
Then she looked intently at the girl’s smiling face and thought, “And why do I always think something bad is going to happen?” She smiled back, her blue eyes sparkled, and she walked out of the principal’s office.
In a couple of minutes Miss Glandfield was already sitting in her office, waiting for the next class, writing the good news about a vacation to her friend in Japan. Debby had known Sango for ten years, since college. They had been best friends during that time. Debby had been in Tokyo twice to visit Sango, but this time was supposed to be special. Sango is getting married. The future Mrs. Hatoyama visited Debby three times after college. In total, only five visits in ten years, but their friendship was strong. They constantly wrote to each other and shared everything on their hearts.
In her letters, Debby always called her friend Carol. They both loved the play on words and meanings. Sango means coral in Japanese. It turned out that Sango had two names, one for Japan and one for the United States. This tradition began in college.
Debby typed the words on the keyboard:
“Carol, hi!
My boss let me fly out for two weeks to see you. I’m very happy about that. Although, you know, it’s like I didn’t expect it to work out. So I could go to you in the middle of the academic year.
I checked the tickets. I’ll change planes in Paris, go to the Louvre, bring you something from there.
