Cyrus Song (Act 1) for typewriter



To coincide with Blue Planet Live this week on the BBC, I’m giving Cyrus Song away for free. In the first episode, the BBC programme asked the question: Why do whales seek out contact with humans? The question is especially poignant given our abuse of their species in the past, hunting them almost to extinction. Are they forgiving, do they need our help, or do they just want to tell us something? I must conclude, all three, proving they’re better than us.

I wrote a book about what happened when some humans talked to the animals. I want people to read it, because it contains answers about how we could work with the animals to save the home we all share. With humanity so fractured and in need of a unifying cause, saving our planet has to be top of the list. We need to ensure there’s a future in which we can debate the rest.

The eBook is normally the price of a good coffee (the paperback is ยฃ8.99, and I can sign it on request), but this week I’m giving it away in the hope that more people hear the sound of our planet and start a conversation.

I self-published the novel, as the majority of writers do in the democratised publishing world, where agents and mainstream publishers scour the self-published market, and where they’ve previously discovered many now famous writers (see this Huffington Post article).

I was also in a hurry to get Cyrus Song out, and I realised a third party might want me to trim the book from its current 412 pages (standard paperback size). By my own admission, the book takes a while to get going, which I felt was necessary, but which requires patience from a readership and faith in a fringe writer.

I’ve written before of how I make my books available for free in other ways, by allowing them to be included on library lending registers when I self-publish, because I realise that a book is a financial commitment greater to some than others. And what I’ve written often, is that I’m not a writer for the money, because there’s very little of it. I’m much more about sharing what I do with as many people as possible, so that they might gain something and talk about it with others. Then again, I’m a writer who needs to live and eat, so I hope that those who can, do buy my books.

Lately I’ve been reading Cyrus Song to a friend, who finds reading difficult. As I’ve read my book to her, I’ve witnessed her become spellbound, and she’s said how she’d love more people to read the book, simply because she wants to talk about it, which is what I want the most: For people to talk about this book.

Described by a book critic as “An extraordinary juggling act“, this is the beginning…


2 little things

Two little things

This perfectly plausible story begins very unexpectedly, with a decimal point. As with many stories, this one involves something being out of place. In this case, that was a decimal point.

I’d left my desk to make some coffee, and as I came back into the study, I thought I saw something move on the sheet of paper in my typewriter. I was writing a little fantasy science fiction story for a magazine and I’d hit a bit of a block near the beginning, so I’d taken a break. It’s funny how things work in fiction sometimes and having that little pause was what I needed to start the story properly.

Before I continued writing, I re-read the little I’d already typed: something wasn’t right. I checked my research notes, wondering if I’d misinterpreted something but nothing sprang out. I looked back up at the paper in the typewriter and that’s when I noticed a decimal point had moved. I looked more closely and my original decimal point was still where I’d put it, so this other one had just appeared. Then it moved again: The one which had simply materialised, walked across the page. It didn’t have discernible legs but it moved nonetheless.

I picked up my magnifying glass from the side table to get a closer look at this little moving thing. It wasn’t a powerful magnifier: a full stop on a sheet of paper became the size of a grain of sand. Even at that low magnification, I could see that the little round thing had a dull silver metallic sheen. It was like the little silverfish things I used to find in the bath, but round and very much smaller. I moved the magnifying glass in and out, to try to get the best clarity and I noticed that this little circular thing cast a minute shadow. So it was supported by something; perhaps it did have legs.

For a whole minute, I just looked at the thing and wondered what on earth it could be. Then the intrigue doubled, as another little silverfish thing rushed in from stage left under the glass. Then the two just sat there, about an inch apart. Were they about to mate? Were they rivals, sizing one another up? What were they? They remained motionless and so did I.

How long was I going to sit there, looking at two whatever-they-were? I wasn’t going to find out much else with my little magnifying glass. Even if one of them had popped out a hand to wave at me, I wouldn’t have seen it. So what was I to do? Brush them aside as inconsequential and forget about them? Squash them? Put them outside? The next part required some precision planning and application. The two little creatures, things, or whatever they were, were at the top of the sheet of paper, above the impression cylinder of my typewriter. If I was going to catch them, I’d need to support the paper from behind, while placing a receptacle over them.

I spend most of my waking hours at the typewriter, so I like to keep as much as I can within easy reach of my writing desk. It was fortuitous that I’d had conjunctivitis, and an eye bath proved to be the perfect dome to place over this little infant colony of mine. I slid them gently, under the dome to the edge of the sheet and onto a drink coaster. Then I turned the whole thing over and tapped the coaster, so that the full stops dropped into the eye bath. Finally, I put cling film over the top and wondered what to do next; who to phone who might not think me a crank.

Let’s assume that I’m not acquainted with anyone in any of the specialist fields one might require in such a situation. Because I’m not. So I took my newly acquired pets to a vet.

Not having any pets besides my two punctuation marks, I wasn’t registered with a vet. I didn’t want to register with a vet any more than I wanted a potentially dangerous full stop and a comma. I didn’t know what I had and I didn’t even know if it was a vet I needed. And so it was that I ended up at the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals (PDSA) in New Cross.

As a first time customer, I had to fill out a form: My name, address, contact number and so on; and pet’s name. And whether the pet is a pedigree breed. The PDSA will treat one pedigree animal per human client. I couldn’t decide between my two, so I declared them both non-pedigree. Cross breed or mixed? Not applicable? Names: Dot and Dash. Because they were both small and one was more active than the other. I was quite pleased with that.

I took a seat in the waiting area with some pets and their owners. There was a large pit bull cross breed opposite us and he had a dog. I imagined them as small as Dot and Dash: Someone could place a dome over them and take them away, to find out exactly what species they were. I allowed myself an inner smile as a ray of sunshine broke into the room and I imagined studying them under a magnifying glass. I’d have to focus the light just right for the best view. Who’d have known that spontaneous combustion was so common at that magnification? But my mind was wandering.

There was a rather attractive young lady called Cat. Appropriately enough, Catherine’s owner was a cat: a ginger tom called Blue: I liked that. I really hoped no-one would ask me anything at all. But Cat asked me what I had. Well, I couldn’t be sure but I was certain they hadn’t jumped off of me: That’s why I was at the vet’s and not the doctor’s. I looked down at Dot and Dash, wondering how I’d approach this. Soon, we were called to a room:

“Mr Fry.” A lady’s voice. Dash was on the move again in all directions, while Dot seemed to be exploring the perimeter of their container. “Mr Fry,โ€ the lady called again. That’s me.

“Oh, yes. That’s me.”

“I’m Doctor Jones. But you can call me Hannah.”

Hannah: What a lovely name for such an attractive young lady. It was lovely because it was a palindrome and because it belonged to Doctor Hannah Jones. She was small and pretty, with red hair. The best palindrome is Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas: It has no merit in logic but whoever thought it up deserves recognition in a book of some sort.

“Hannah.” I said. “That’s a nice name.”

“Thanks. I got it for my birthday. And I don’t have any sisters. So, what have you brought along to show me?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that.”

Doctor Jones’ bedside manner was very relaxing and she put me at ease, as she seemed to take a genuine interest in what I’d brought along to show her. She had one of those adjustable magnifying lamps above an examination table, in a little room just off of the corridor from the waiting room. The scene which that presented was the kind of thing to give a science fiction writer an idea: As Doctor Jones pulled the lamp over the two subjects, it was like a great mother ship shining a light into a dome, brought to Earth and containing alien species.

Doctor Jones moved the light around, just as I had my magnifying glass before, without the light. Then she said the oddest thing: “I don’t think these are animals.”

“I’m sorry. So what are they?”

“Until I get a closer look, I don’t know. But they look and behave as though at least one of them might be mechanical.” I said the first thing which came to mind:

“What?” Then the next thing: “Why are they here?”

“Because you brought them here? Where did you find them?”

“They sort of appeared in the middle of a story I was working on. I’m a writer you see?”

“Well, you came to the right place. Follow me.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the lab.”

The lab was some distance away, through a long, bending and uneventful corridor. We walked at a fairly leisurely pace and I half wondered if there might be a film crew following us, but when I looked behind, there were no cameras or fluffy mic. I walked behind Doctor Jones. The corridor was quite narrow, and I wanted to leave room for anyone who might be coming the other way. But no-one passed.

I looked down at the two things in my eye bath, knowing they must be there, even though I couldn’t see them at that distance. Mechanical? Nano machines?

Glancing up at Doctor Jones, it occurred to me that she had a slightly curious gait: not so much masculine as such but a walk which didn’t immediately betray the walker’s gender. The fiction writer woke in my head again and I wondered if Doctor Jones might once have been a man, or was soon to become one. In any case, it was an aesthetic pleasure to watch the doctor walk in that way.

Eventually we arrived at a door, and in the room on the other side was indeed a laboratory: a forensic and chemistry sort of set up. There were microscopes and monitors, beakers, jars and bottles, and an examination table with another magnifying lamp above it. Doctor Jones hastened me over to a bench, on which there was a microscope and a monitor. She asked me to pass her the eye bath. She placed the vessel on the bench, then continued pretty much where she’d left off:

“They don’t move like anything I recognise. And I’ve seen big and small things in this job, with anywhere between no legs and over 700. When I first saw what you had, I thought you’d brought them to a vet because they’d come from a pet…”.

“Sorry,” I interrupted. “People have brought in ticks and lice from their pets?”

“Yes. I’m guessing you don’t have a house pet because if you think about it, bringing in one or two parasites is quite logical. We can identify the type of parasite and advise or prescribe accordingly. Of course, if we have any reason to think the host animal may need something more than home treatment, then we’ll have them in. Most of the time though, it’s a simple course of treatment in the pet’s home. We have to see the animal once the infection has gone, but bringing the parasite alone in first means that the house pet isn’t unnecessarily stressed and doesn’t cross contaminate other animals.” She was very clever.

“That does make sense. But these are not parasites?” I pointed at my eye bath.

“They could be. It’s just that I don’t think they’re organic.”

“So what now?”

“Well, first I’ll need to prepare a Petri dish and apply an adhesive surface.”


“So they can’t escape. Mr Fry, you said they just appeared on a sheet of paper in your typewriter. We want to find out what they are.”

“We do. They did. I’d been away from my desk and I knew they’d not been there before, because one of them was a full stop which I would not have put in the middle of a sentence; Or a decimal point in the wrong place; I can’t remember. Anyway, I noticed them when I came back to my desk and as I started to look closer – to see if I’d typed something incorrectly – one of them moved. Then the other one did. I must admit, I was going to brush or blow them away. It would seem that might have been a mistake.”

“But at the time, you’d have just been blowing or brushing a foreign body away. You certainly wouldn’t have given a thought to looking close enough at such tiny things to see that they weren’t in fact punctuation marks. These things are the size of a full stop on a page of a magazine; a couple of specks of dust. It does make you wonder how many more you might have brushed or blown away, doesn’t it?”

“It does now. So I caught them, wondered where to take them and decided on a vet. And this is all going rather splendidly Doctor.” She seemed to be getting quite into it all.

“It’s not my average day, Mr Fry. So, you, me, or anyone at all, may or may not have just brushed these things aside without realising.”

“So there could be millions, billions of these little machines, if that’s what they are. That presents some really quite alarming scenarios in my day job.”

“Then there are the other questions, Mr Fry: Where did they come from? These could be the only two of course. If they were to escape, where would they go? But you’re the fiction writer Mr Fry, so I’ll let you show me where we go from here. So, that’s why I’ll treat the Petri dish with an adhesive before I put the two of them in.”

I pondered aloud whether the doctor might be outside of her comfort zone. As it turned out, she had degrees in the sciences and her PhD was in human psychology. After all of that, she said she’d decided to work with animals. Doctor Jones was a scientist and although I had no formal qualifications, in effect, so was I, such is the scientific knowledge I’ve acquired in the course of my research. Where her learning was structured, mine came from fumbling around various fields. Mine was an imaginative qualification: an honorary doctorate in the power of the imagination. I imagined that Doctor Jones made a lot more money than me but she seemed to enjoy her work as much as I do mine. Given that she was clearly quite a brilliant scientist, I took it as a compliment that she didn’t dismiss any of my fanciful ideas. We made a good team.

What followed were orchestral manoeuvres of lab equipment, as Doctor Jones prepared the dish then raised a pipette. She pierced the cling film on the eye bath, then sucked up the two machines from the great rise of the robots which had taken place on my typewriter earlier. Then two small dots, barely bigger than the full stops on this page, fell into the pristine ocean in the dish. And stayed there.

It was actually quite sad. I’d only seen these things under a magnifying glass and even then, they were grains of sand. They had no features and we were yet to gain even the first idea of what they might be. But I’d watched them moving, and now they were trapped, like paralysed leviathans in the vastness of a Petri dish. Even though Doctor Jones said they weren’t organic, how could she be totally sure? What if the adhesive ocean was toxic to them? If these were indeed the only two of their kind, we could be responsible for an extinction. If there were millions or billions of these things around, constantly being brushed aside, blown away or sucked into a vacuum cleaner, must have limited their breeding opportunities in any case. Maybe that’s why dust accumulates and seems to breed. Perhaps there are trillions of nano robots smaller than dust particles, all around us. It’s the kind of idea beloved of fiction writers because it could very well be true. There’s just no way of proving one way or the other: It’s a paradox.

Returning to the true story I was writing, Doctor Jones got to the exciting bit: She readied the microscope. We were to put Dot and Dash under a traditional, optical microscope first, so that the lens looked like an enormous plasma cannon, bearing down on life forms, frozen and forced to witness their own destruction.

Doctor Jones looked into the microscope first: she was already there. She carried on looking, while I just wondered. Then she turned the lenses of the microscope, so that now the central cannon was above the robots. She looked for some while longer. Had the subjects of her study mesmerised her, against her will? Had they reversed the cannon, and were now firing lasers into her eyes? Were they transmitting a signal and filling her mind with propaganda? What could Hannah see? What could see Hannah? I wanted to ask, to call out. All of a sudden, Doctor Jones seemed lost.

Soon, the largest, longest, most powerful barrel was pointed at these strange creatures: a channel which had been established between them and Doctor Jones. Then Hannah said another surprising thing: “Fucking hell.”

I didn’t know if she was reacting to something she’d just seen, or something fired into her eye, or her mind. She might be about to kill me. She rose slowly from the microscope and looked at me. “Mr Fry.” That’s me. “What the fuck?” I didn’t know. Doctor Jones looked as lost as she’d sounded before that third barrel. They’d drilled into her brain. Or she’d killed them.

One of many things I’ve learned while writing fiction is that if someone passes out, the first thing they’ll remember when they wake up, will be the last they saw or heard before they went off. She’d not fainted but I looked Doctor Jones directly in the eyes and said, “What the fuck!?” She seemed a little taken aback but we were back in the room at least.

“What the fuck, Mr Fry; What the fuck are you breeding at your house?”

“Doctor, as I explained, these two things appeared on my typewriter. And now we are here. May I see what you just saw?”

“Your story is about to get a bit weirder. Go ahead.” Doctor Jones stepped away from the microscope. I walked towards her. It was more of a stride actually, as I placed myself between the good doctor and the imminent danger under the lens. For a moment, I felt quite pleased with myself.

Suddenly, it were as though I was far above the earth. Through the window of my plane, on the ocean below, I saw a ship. I couldn’t begin to guess at the vessel’s size but it was heavily armed. It was cigar shaped, with large cannons bow and stern. Smaller guns ran the length of the ship on both sides and the whole thing was covered by an elliptical dome. This is the one I’d called Dash.

I panned across the static ocean from the starboard side of the vessel to Dot. This second one was circular. It had guns protruding all around its perimeter and was also covered by a domed roof. At the very top was another dome; semi-transparent: the bridge? I swore I could see movement beneath that second glass dome. Even at 1000x magnification, they were just dots but they were moving. What the fuck, indeed.

Doctor Jones moved the Petri dish to an electron microscope. “Ten million times magnification and sound as well.”


“Yup. Tiny little amplifying microphones, so we can hear what they’re saying.” Now this, I was looking forward to. This was rather exciting, given the potential enormity of our discovery, even though it was miniscule. Then I wondered at that figure: 10,000,000x magnification. What would we see at that level? What detail?

Doctor Jones divided the monitor into two; split screen, with one camera on each vessel: Dot was on the right and Dash on the left. Then she started to tune an on-screen radio, because “We need to tune into their frequency.”

“Might there not be translation problems? I mean, a language barrier?โ€

โ€œHave you never heard of the Babel fish, Mr Fry?”

“Well, of course, but…”

“We have a computer program, called Babel fish. I was one of the coders in fact. I was doing some research into animal languages, because they do have a vocabulary you know? Most of it isn’t audible to us and what is, we hear as a foreign language; animal sounds. But in those sounds alone, there are a lot of variations. When you then consider the majority of the language spectrum which we can’t hear, you realise that pretty much all animals have quite complex language systems. Eventually I was hoping to apply it to my veterinary work, so that I could hear what the animals were saying.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Emotional detachment. It’s very difficult to leave my job at the surgery. Imagine how much harder it would be if the animals could talk to me.”

“Imagination is my job, Doctor. That really is quite a mind blowing thought. But your Babel fish program works?”

“Alarmingly, yes. It required a lot of input: different sounds, variations of them and frequencies; varied physical anatomies of the speakers; sounds in relation to catalysts and so on. Crunch all of that data in a quantum computer and it didn’t take long to come up with the Babel fish.”

“So the Babel fish program really can do what the Babel fish of legend did, albeit in a different way? It can translate any language to and from any other?”

“Like the other Babel fish. It has many applications and huge potential. At a personal level though, I just didn’t think I was ready. You’re probably surprised, Mr Fry.”

“I’m amazed that the Babel fish really exists, but I’m not surprised at your personal choice: It is a truly gargantuan step to take. On the one hand, opening your mind to the unimagined, but on the other, potentially catastrophic.”

“I’m glad you understand, Mr Fry. But in our current situation, I think it’s the right thing to do. If these things are just nano machines, they exhibit a level of artificial intelligence which might have an audible language. If there’s something organic inside and if we assume that they built these ships, then they must be intelligent. But to be the kind of multi-celled organisms which are capable of thought, they’d be too small. They’d have to exist at a sub-atomic level. Quantum beings. Wouldn’t that just blow the mind?”

“And I thought I was the writer. That is quite an incredible concept. There would have to be sub, sub, sub-atomic particles which we’ve never even imagined. Entire universes within an atom.” My mind wandered in the static from the radio. Then Doctor Jones hit something: a signal.

There were two distinctly different sounds which alternated, seemingly at random. The first was a low-pitched, gargling drone. It had no regularity. It was certainly artificial. It certainly wasn’t interference. The second source was more of a collection of sounds: high-pitched squeaks and clicks, low growls and whoops; and a third, whispering and rasping noise. “Ready for the Babel fish, Mr Fry?”

“Those are voices,” I suggested.

“That’s what I’m thinking. There’s only one way to find out, and that’s to eavesdrop on the conversation.”

“I know.” I paused. “I know that. You know that. I don’t know though. I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I’m ready, doctor.”

“Just as I’m still not ready to hear what the animals I treat are saying. But this is different.”

“I can see that. Of all the metaphorical, theoretical, figurative switches I’ve ever written about, this is by far the one with the biggest stories, once it’s switched on. The moral and philosophical issues are ones which we may have to address later. This is potentially first contact with beings from another world; another galaxy; another universe.” And then our world changed, as soon as we switched the Babel fish on.

“You had no business following us. This was our mission.” The first was a deep voice, a little excited.

“No it wasn’t. You stole our plans.” This second voice was an accusatory, loud whisper.

“Let’s look around,โ€ said Hannah. “Let’s see who’s talking.”

Doctor Jones took hold of a joystick on the microscope console, and moved in first towards dash. I’d not seen an electron microscope like this, but the fiction writer thanked the inventor for the opportunities this was about to open. As the doctor moved the joystick around, it were as though she was controlling a tiny space ship in a video game. We positioned ourselves just off the starboard side of Dash, so that we could see the side of the ship. We’d seen the elliptical dome on top from above, and the cannons below it. Below those though, were portholes, running the length of the vessel and spread over three levels below deck. Starting with the uppermost, we zoomed in and peered through a window: There were animals inside.

Through the top row of portholes, we saw a jungle. There were apes in the trees and above them, birds in the canopy. There were apes on the ground. There were snakes in the trees and on the jungle floor. There were white mice on the ground and in burrows beneath it. There were also snakes beneath the ground.

The middle row of windows looked into a subterranean world of serpents and mice, before giving way to the bottom deck. Somewhere between the middle and lower decks, Terra firma gave way to water: a clear blue underground ocean, teeming with dolphins and whales. What must those marine mammals see in the sky above them? The underside of the earth? A beige-brown sky which sometimes rained food, as mice and snakes dropped into the water? Serpents swam in the ocean too.

We scanned back up the side of the ship but above the jungle deck was just the domed roof and the weapons. It was only from this angle that we spotted something we’d never have seen from above: Antennae extending above the ship. There were three masts on the dome and a single white dove perched briefly on the central one before flying off. It was a microcosm environment; It was an ark. Dolphins and white mice: Perhaps Douglas Adams had been right.

I had a hunch and asked Hannah if we could take a look at the bow of the ship. She manoeuvred our camera into position and my suspicion was confirmed, as something else invisible from above, hove into view on the monitor. The domed roof overhung a row of windows above the upper deck. We were looking into the bridge of the ship.

There were three seats, only the central of which was occupied. Such a configuration in science fiction would have the first officer and ship’s counsel seated either side of the captain. In the centre seat was a snake and hanging in front of it was a microphone, extending down from the ceiling. The captain and the owner of the whispered, rasping voice was a serpent.

I’d studied herpetology and I knew snakes. There are roughly 3000 species of ophidians known to live on Earth: From the tiny thread snake at around seven inches in length, to the reticulated python, which can reach 30 feet. Snakes can thrive in trees: one can fly; They can climb and burrow, existing above and below ground; They can swim and live in both fresh and salt water. They can be found on all continents except Antarctica. They are reptiles and as such, they have cold blood, but they are adaptable and incredibly efficient hunters and survivors.

Only about 10% of snake species are venomous, and of those, only a few pose any threat to man. Not far down any list of the most venomous snakes is the legendary black mamba. There are snakes which are more venomous, but the black mamba is undoubtedly the most dangerous of all snakes. An untreated bite from one doesn’t so much make you wish you were dead, as pray that death itself would end. They grow up to 12 feet in length and they are fast. They’re also explosively aggressive. There is a documented case of a black mamba pursuing a bull elephant, biting it and the elephant succumbing to the venom. The black mamba knows no fear. And despite the name, black mambas are not black: They are grey, tending toward the lighter shades. It’s the inside of their mouths which is totally black: a bite which delivers hell. Untreated bites from this species are 100% fatal. The estimated human fatality count from a maximum dose of venom is 42. I was mesmerised by this incredible snake.

Here, in the central command seat, on the bridge of a heavily armed vessel, sat a black mamba. And from the pitch black mouth, came whispered, rasping words into the microphone:

“You stole our plans: You are welcome to them. The plans brought you here. You are not welcome here. You overlooked one thing and it ought to be pretty obvious by now what that was.”

If it wasn’t so worrying, it would have made for a riveting story. We floated over to Dot:

Your plans?” The deep voice again. “It was our plan to find God.” We zoomed in to the upper dome of Dot, where a group of men were gathered around a table. “Name this oversight of which you speak,โ€ one of them continued.

“Well, it wasn’t an oversight as such,โ€ replied the snake. “After all, how can something be overlooked if it’s not even there? You stole the plans for your ship from us. We knew you would, so we moved a few things around and left one crucial thing out. But first, let me be clear about something: You’re on a mission to find God. Does the bible not forbid such a thing?”

“No, you misunderstand. We are missionaries, come to spread the word and convert the people of this and other planets to our beliefs. So that eventually, all of God’s creatures throughout the universe are united in faith.”

“It was for that exact reason that we left the old planet. There’s no god, you deluded fool.”

“What are you talking about, snake?”

“I speak a basic fact, man: There is no god.”

“Blasphemy! Take that back, or I shall fire upon you!”


“Fucking hell,โ€ I said.

“Don’t worry,โ€ said Doctor Jones. “He won’t do it.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because he needs whatever the crucial thing is from mister snake here.”

This was getting quite exciting: Two warring factions, one threatening the destruction of the other with weapons poised. In a Petri dish, under an electron microscope. They continued:

You need something which I have,โ€ continued the mamba. “So I’ll say it again: there is no god.”

“Damn you, you, you…”


“Yes, punished by God, forever to slither on the ground.”

“Are you getting angry, man? Bite me: Please say it.”

“I like this mamba guy,โ€ said the doctor.

“He’s, er, a character,โ€ I concurred.

“Evil serpent!” Said one of the men.

“Define Evil, man. Is it not a subjective word? What one sees as evil, another may see as good. If evil is just bad stuff, then why is there so much of it on the planet we fled? A planet which you hold that your god made?”

“Aha!” Said man. “God must punish his creation for the original sin.”

“And if I had hands,โ€ said the snake, “you’d have just walked right into them. The original sin: The forbidden fruit. But non-humans also suffer fires, floods and earthquakes, yet we are not descended from Adam and Eve. Ergo, man, your god does not exist and none of us on my ship are creatures of any god.” The mamba paused and it seemed effective. Then he continued: “Have you not noticed that you’re a little on the small side? Your ship, I mean.”

“Yours isn’t much bigger.”

“True. But you probably expected to hang menacingly in the sky, with entire cities in the shadow of your ship, fearing you. If you look around, you’re not. We moved a decimal point in the plans.”

“But your ship is the same size as ours.”

“Indeed. Because we needed to be this size to pass through the wormhole which transported us here. But what were we to do once we got here? Simple, run the restore routine and return ourselves to our natural size. Only us and not the ship: that would make us a bit conspicuous. Just the crew, then we just disperse among the other creatures on this new planet and no-one knows. You see, the plans for your ship don’t have that restore function. So you’re a bit fucked really, aren’t you?”

“I think I’m falling in love with a black mamba,โ€ said the doctor.

“So what now?” I asked.

“Well, we clearly need to intervene.”

“But that would go against the prime directive: we would be interfering with an alien species. We’d be playing God.”

“Mr Fry, they’re unaware of us. Our comparatively enormous size effectively makes us invisible. I have a plan.”

Doctor Jones removed the Petri dish from the microscope, and picked up a magnifying glass and some tweezers. “Let’s get a coffee.”

Doctor Hannah Jones and I sat in the centre of a park, drinking coffee and with the Petri dish placed on the grass between us: The perfect beginning of another story. She took the tweezers and the magnifying glass from her pocket, and carefully lifted Dash from the adhesive.

“Hold out your hand. Time to say goodbye.”

I looked at the incredible little thing in the palm of my hand, now moving around again. Then I held my hand to my mouth and gently blew the ship into the wind.

Hannah was studying Dot beneath the magnifying glass. It’s amazing how things just spontaneously combust at that magnification.

“What a strange day, Hannah.”

“You made it that way, Simon.” I was about to ask and then Hannah answered: “I read your registration form.”

Even so, I next wanted to interview Doctor Jones about what we’d discovered.

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The choir

Some of the most amazing things can happen right in front of your eyes, but only if you realise they’re happening. If you’re not paying attention, they can just happen and be gone, without you realising that they were practically up your nose.

It was over a cup of coffee in Mountsfield Park in Lewisham that something quite remarkable had happened to me: I realised I might be able talk to the animals. I hadn’t yet spoken to any animals, but I’d heard them speak. It was Doctor Hannah Jones from the PDSA who’d made it possible.

There was much to like about the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals: They are a charity, financed by donations. They prefer the term, ‘Companion’ to ‘Pet’. It’s a hospital, not a vet’s. And Hannah Jones is a doctor there. It was Doctor Jones who’d started the whole amazing story, when she’d introduced me to a quantum computer program she’d helped to write: The Babel fish. The problem was, I wasn’t allowed anywhere near it.

The Babel fish could translate any language, to and from any other. Doctor Jones had invented it, and yet it sat idle in her veterinary practice. As Hannah herself had said, “As if leaving work for the night wasn’t hard enough, can you imagine what might happen if the patients could talk to me?” It was emotional detachment for her.

The Babel fish was of as much potential importance to the sciences as the doctor was to me: I’m a writer. And yet, we were at an impasse. I had a conflict of interests: Keep the whole thing to myself, or share it. I surmised that if I wrote about it, just a few people might be interested, and I might be able to keep the doctor away from other interested parties. But that would be to deny Hannah her moment. And yet, she wouldn’t go public herself, because she couldn’t bring herself to open this Pandora’s box that she’d designed. Although I was the writer, she was my protagonist; the one who took the story forward, because she had the Babel fish. The animals we could listen to in the lab had stories to tell. Muting them denied me stories to tell in turn, as a translator.

I could see why the doctor would want to remain detached: If I wasn’t a writer, I would too. In all of my writing career, the Babel fish had been the biggest metaphorical switch I’d ever had to consider. I’d debated internally for what seemed like a very long time before I’d flicked that switch. But now it was done; I could hear the animals.

Every good story has conflict. The conflict here was that the Babel fish was in doctor Jones’ lab. I needed the fish, because it had opened up so many possibilities. Therefore, I needed the doctor. It wasn’t such a big conflict.

The story I was supposed to write was a paid piece for a magazine: a slight departure for me as a fiction writer and a welcome one, as I do like all of the non-human animals who let us live on their planet with them. So much diversity, co-operation and conflict is what makes Earth such a wonderful, albeit slightly teetering thing; A bit like Lewisham. The park where we’d shared coffee seemed an ideal place to interview Doctor Jones for my magazine piece.

I’d never seen Doctor Jones on television but out in the park, she looked smaller in the real world. The only setting I’d seen her in was her lab. Perhaps she looked bigger there because her lab was smaller than the park. She wasn’t sitting any further away from me than she had in the lab, so it couldn’t be that. Perhaps it was because she was of greater importance at her place of work, whereas outside in Mountsfield Park, she could just be anyone. I liked that.
“Doctor Jones.” I said that first, as it was the first thing I thought people would like to see in the magazine article: That way, they knew who I was talking to.

“You can call me Hannah, Mr Fry.” That’s me – Mr Fry – because I was writing this.

“Of course. I mean, naturally. But for the purposes of the article, I need to refer to you as Doctor Jones.”

“I would imagine you might, but there’s only me and you here.” I looked around and this was indeed true. “So you can call me Hannah when you’re actually talking to me, then refer to me as Doctor Jones in the article.” She was right, I could.

“I could,” I repeated aloud. Being a fiction writer, I sometimes find it difficult to separate the facts from what I do with them in my imagination.

“I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, Mr Fry. Whatever works for you.” Doctor Jones paused for a moment, as if to give me time to decide. “So, the Babel fish program: I assume that’s central to your article or story?” It was at that point that I realised I might be able to write both.

“So, Hannah,โ€ I said. Because that was me talking to her before I started my magazine piece, sort of off the record. “Off the record, The Babel fish could be the greatest invention of all time: One which could change our thinking; our understanding of the world. It could potentially earn you a Nobel prize in science. I understand that you have reservations but dare I say, that’s perhaps a little selfish?” Had I just said that aloud?

“My reasons are personal, Mr Fry. I agree that others need to know about the Babel fish.” There was a pause. “Why do you think I chose to speak to a fiction writer?” That was very clever.

“I’m just too close to the patients,โ€ she continued. “I know it might make me more efficient as their carer if I could understand them, but I’d never stop working. It’s a very selfish thing to drive a wedge between work and home, but I need that separation. I trained in human psychology before I decided to work with non-human animals, and I understand them just as well as anyone else in my job, without the Babel fish program.”

I’m pretty sure she’d just referred to her patients as non-human animals, and that I hadn’t made that up. Hannah could be the greatest non-human animal doctor to ever have lived. But still, I understood her reluctance.

We arranged to meet the next day, when I would visit Doctor Jones at the hospital. I was to observe her working with the patients and there’d be a microphone next to her table, connected to the quantum computer which ran the Babel fish program. I was to watch and to listen in on a pair of headphones. I’d be able to hear the animals speak but Doctor Jones wouldn’t. It seemed like a perfect solution.

I pondered said situation as I walked home. I was living in Catford at the time, so it was a short walk. Although I could understand Hannah’s professional reservations, I would have welcomed any kind of company in my personal life and given my aversion to humans, a non-human companion would be just the thing. One which I could talk to would be perfect. I imagined debating current affairs, or watching science documentaries on BBC4 with a learned cat. We could share my book shelves and swap literature. If a dog needed a home, I would be just as welcoming. Perhaps the dog and me might watch soaps or sport together; Go for long walks and discuss the many colours which cars are made of; Then run home together, simply because it’s fun and because one day we might not be able to.

It’s a myth that dogs are colour blind: They see more than just black, white, and grey. However, the colour range they perceive is limited compared to the spectrum we see. To put it in very basic terms, the canine colour field consists mostly of yellows, blues, and violets. And they’re probably really amazing.

My landlady didn’t allow pets. I wanted a companion. If I were allowed one, I would actually have two: both cats. One tortoiseshell and one pure white, they would be called Ziggy and Slim respectively. Being a science person and a writer, I was familiar with Erwin Schrรถdinger. Not long after moving into my studio, I purchased two boxes and labelled them: ‘Ziggy’ and ‘Slim’.

So now I have have two cats. Or maybe I don’t. No-one will ever know because the boxes may not be opened. What happens with them when no-one is looking is supposition and a paradox: Like the tree falling in the woods; If there’s no-one around to hear it fall, does it make a sound? Ergo, it cannot be denied that I have two cats. And as another universe is created at a sub-atomic level, where the catalyst of my thought brings a parallel universe into existence, no-one can prove that I don’t have two pet cats. But I couldn’t have a conversation with Schrรถdinger’s Cats.

It was the famous Catford cat which caused me to pause. Catford may be a little rough, but my heart beat in that place. And it had a twenty foot fibreglass cat. Once upon a time, a bored clerk in a municipal office had a sense of humour.

It was early evening and the weather was clement, so I took a slight detour to a shop I knew called Supreme Animal Foods. They do indeed sell pet food: a vast range. They also sell the animals which eat the food: Rodents, birds, fish, reptiles, amphibians and invertebrates.
Looking into the various cages and tanks, I imagined what I could do with the Babel fish in there. As I peered, I seemed to catch the eye of a mouse. There were two white mice in this particular cage: One was chewing on a piece of wood and the other was drinking from a water bottle attached to the side of the cage. She looked at me with pink albino eyes as she drank, then she stopped drinking but she didn’t stop looking at me.

I realised how Hannah might feel and had second thoughts about the Babel fish. I couldn’t separate the two mice, so I bought them both and carried them home in their cage. My landlady aside, my two new companions would be good cover when I went to the animal hospital the following day.

When we all arrived home, I checked around the studio, as is my custom. There were no signs of intruders and if anyone had decided to test the Schrรถdinger’s Cat Paradox, I couldn’t tell: That’s the whole point of having Ziggy and Slim. There is a scenario where someone had gone into my studio, opened the boxes and brought two cats into existence. Based on the evidence, if that were the case, the boxes had been closed afterwards and there were two cats out and about somewhere. And nothing had been taken. And there were no signs of forced entry. The mice were in a cage, but I placed the cage next to the bed, just to be sure. The last thing I remembered before I drifted off to sleep, was thinking of names for my new companions’ trip the following day.

I arrived at the PDSA with an hour of the day left: I couldn’t and shouldn’t be doing what I was about to do for too long.

I had to complete a form, including the names of the patients: Pretty obvious, considering how I’d first seen them in the pet shop. There was no-one else in the waiting room and fairly soon, we were called:

“Mister Fry”: That’s me. Doctor Jones said my name slowly, as though unfamiliar with something. “Mister Fry.โ€ She said it slowly again. I looked up and Hannah was doing the most peculiar thing: She was wearing black-rimmed spectacles and they were crooked; Her head was tilted in such a way that she was looking down at her clipboard through her glasses with one eye, and directly at me with the other. Had she had a stroke? “Mister Fry,” she said for a third time, then continued: “Mr Fry, Miss Victoria Wood and Miss Julie Walters.”

“Aha. That’s us,โ€ I said.

“Come with me please, Mr Fry.” We were barely on the other side of the door for a second when she said something odd: “What the fuck?”

โ€Pardon, doctor?”

“I knew you were coming; You didn’t need to employ subterfuge. Reception were expecting you too.” Hannah straightened her glasses. She’d not had a stroke.

“Were they?” Hannah walked ahead, along the corridor.

“Yes, because I told them you were coming. But not with two mice called Victoria Wood and Julie Walters.”

“Well, I saw them in the shop and one was chewing on some wood and the other was drinking water, you see? So, the receptionists might think me a little odd I suppose.”

“I’d go with slightly eccentric, Mr Fry.”

“Yes, quite doctor Jones. I suppose I just like to make the everyday more interesting. That’s probably why I decided to be a writer.”

“It suits you. Anyway, here we are.” We’d arrived at Hannah’s consulting room / lab.

“Indeed we are,โ€ I said, agreeing that we were indeed there.

In the centre of the room was the table with the lamp above it. There was a microphone attached to the lamp. A work bench occupied one wall and on that sat an optical microscope and a scanning electron one with a computer terminal. In the overhead cupboards and on shelves were things like beakers, syringes, gloves, bandages and so on. I was to sit in a corner while Doctor Jones attended to her patients for the rest of the day. In that corner was the computer which ran the Babel fish program.

“Now, Mr Fry,โ€ Hannah said. “Do your mice need my attention?”

“Well, I’m sure they’d appreciate it but I didn’t bring them here thinking there might be anything wrong with them. I was rather hoping I might be able to talk to them with the Babel fish.”

“Now, about that,โ€ Hannah said, pointing at the computer in front of me. “Your purpose here today is to listen in on my patients: I’m okay with that. You have a job to do and so do I. I am an animal doctor and you are a writer. I trust you to write as you see fit in the circumstances: I am not a writer. Please remember that you are not a vet.” Under the circumstances, that seemed perfectly reasonable and logical.

Doctor Jones gave me a quick induction on the Babel fish program: The interface was essentially a digital radio dial on screen. The operator could slide a bar from left to right with the computer mouse to scan through various frequencies. On the left hand side of the screen were various drop down menus: ‘Age’, ‘Weight’; and a whole series of others which dropped down from one another: ‘Life’, ‘Domain’, ‘Kingdom’, ‘Phylum’, ‘Class’, ‘Order’, ‘Family’, ‘Genus’ and ‘Species’; Then a blank search field. “You only really need to worry about the search function,โ€ said Hannah. “Just say what you see: Dog, cat or whatever. Put the headphones on, then use the slider to fine tune.” It was beautiful in its simplicity.

The first patient was a cat called Clive, and his companion, Derek. There’s the old saying about dogs and their owners looking alike, but I was more persuaded by the less obvious: That dogs and cats, and their human companions, have similar personalities. I’d surmised this long before I’d encountered the Babel Fish, and Derek and Clive were my thinking personified on first sight: Derek was an elderly gentleman, clearly comfortable in his dotage. He was thin-set and slightly stooped, with piercing blue eyes and thick, grey hair. Clive was a feline Derek.

I typed ‘Cat’ into the Babel fish and put the headphones on. I could still hear Hannah and Derek, but it was Clive’s voice I was tuning into. He wasn’t purring, growling, hissing or mewing; He was simply being a cat, just out of his carry basket and standing on Hannah’s table. I moved the slider bar slowly across the screen and stopped as quickly as the static hiss became a voice:

“…nice.” That was all I caught. There was something before it as I tuned in, but I only got that one word at first. It was definitely Clive, because the voice was right in my ears. I could still hear Derek and Doctor Jones:

“…So he’s just been a bit under the weather?” said the doctor.

“Yes,โ€ said Derek.

“Just a couple of days,โ€ added Clive. He sounded almost regal: Incredibly posh. But of course, only I could hear Clive.

“He doesn’t look dehydrated,โ€ the doctor said, looking at Clive’s gums.


“Is he eating?”

“Not at this precise moment in time,โ€ said Clive.

“He can be a bit fussy,โ€ replied Derek.

“I am a cat. I caught a rat. I ate half of it and it tasted funny. So I brought the other half in to show you, on the kitchen floor.”

“Has he been going out as normal, doing his business?”

“I have many businesses,โ€ said Clive. “Good Bastet, woman, you’re rough.” Doctor Jones was feeling Clive’s gut. “She’s very pretty though, isn’t she?” Had Clive just said that to me, or himself?

The ancient Egyptians worshipped cat gods. One such was Bastet: Goddess of cats, protection, joy, dance, music, family and love. Humans once worshipped cats as gods: Cats have never forgotten this. Hannah put Clive back down on the table and stroked his back.

“That’s nice. Base of the tail. I’ve got a bastard itch.” Clive looked up at Hannah, then stood up and moved forward, arching his back a little: Even without the Babel fish, I recognised Clive’s facial expression as the universal code which cats use when they approve of a human: The smile. Clive continued: “Now, tell her about the rat, Derek.” Clive sat back down and looked at Derek. “The rat, my dear old man. It was on Tuesday. Today is Friday, Derek: FRIDAY!” Just as Clive said “FRIDAY!”, I also heard him meow, outside the headphones. So that’s what it sounds like when a cat shouts. Clive continued: “Derek, my dear; please. It was only three days ago. Have things got that bad? Have you taken your medication? I knocked your pills off the top of the bathroom cabinet and into the sink. What more do I have to do to remind you?” Of course, I could say nothing but I was trying to will Derek on. If only I could talk; If only I could translate Clive for Derek.

“Has he brought you any presents lately?” Hannah asked. “He looks like a very generous and caring person.” Derek looked down at Clive. ‘Come on, Derek!’, I thought. The poor man shook his head. ‘Someone help Derek!’ Then Hannah said “I think young Clive here has ingested some rat poison.”

“She’s very clever,โ€ said Clive. Great minds think alike. Clive looked at Hannah: “I assume you know what that man over there is doing?” Had Clive rumbled me, or was it a rhetorical question? I wished I could talk to him. Then he said a very strange thing: “I can feel the force in this room.”

Clive got back into his transport. Derek was given some pills for Clive. Hannah looked at me as she showed them out; And I could only hope that everything would be okay.

“How did that go?” Hannah asked when she returned.

“More questions than answers at the moment,โ€ I said. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say next. Then, “Who’s next?” Doctor Jones looked at her notes.

“A young lady called Amy and her Scottish Terrier, Frank.” Hannah gave one of those false smiles which TV news presenters do when they’re really not sure how they’re supposed to react to a story. “I fear this might be the last time we see Frank. He’s not been well for quite a while.” I wondered if now might be the time to disconnect from the Babel fish. Soon enough though, Amy and Frank were in the room.

Frank was a splendid looking old man: A distinguished little Scots gent with a long, thick beard, he was small and stout. I could imagine having a wee dram with Frank in a tavern somewhere. He stood on Doctor Jones’ table, looking alternately at Amy, Hannah and the table.

Amy was a storybook personified: A slim volume, with much dark material and turmoil between the covers. She was young but she had clearly lived her life: Stories were printed on her skin and carved into her arms. She was a work of modern art; She was sculpted from life; She was unconventional; She was beautiful. And she was troubled: If only the Babel fish could tune into her thoughts.

“How are you?” Hannah asked Amy, in a tone which suggested a tired but resigned familiarity; As though Hannah wanted to ask more but knew that she’d never be able to probe into that deep soul of a girl.

Amy was small – almost frail – but her soul leaked from her eyes. I paraphrased The Beautiful South in my mind, as I estimated Amy’s age: ‘Take a look at these crow’s feet (just look), sitting on the prettiest eyes; Thirty twenty fifth of Decembers, twenty nine fourth of Julys…’.

“Yeah, okay,โ€ said Amy. “Better than him.” She nodded down at Frank.

I thought about stopping the whole thing: Just leaving the Babel fish and walking away. This was precisely why Hannah couldn’t use it. The only thing that made me put on the headphones, was the thought that Frank might say something which would give Amy hope.

I typed ‘Canine’ into the Babel fish and was presented with a list of options: ‘Lupine’, ‘Vulpine’ and so on. If I so desired, I could listen to wolves, dingos and all sorts of other dogs, if they were ever to find themselves in Hannah’s consulting room. If I’d entered ‘Feline’ instead of ‘Cat’ for Clive, presumably I’d have seen all of the cat family too. In its current location, the Babel fish program was clearly aimed more at domesticated animals, but the algorithms seemed to be in there for pretty much everything. I typed in the search box again: Simply ‘Dog’, and immediately got static feedback in my ears as the slider appeared on screen once more.

“…Och, dear.” Frank’s voice was like that of hard drinking Glaswegian smoking a Woodbine. He had a Scottish, Cockney accent. “Och, dear.โ€ I wished I could give the little old boy a hot toddy. “Och, dear.” Frank looked up at Amy: “Och, dear.” He looked over at Hannah: “Och, dear.” He looked down at the table and around the room: “Och, deary, deary me…”

I placed the headphones around my neck for a moment and listened to Doctor Jones and Hannah:

“It’s for the best,โ€ said Hannah. It was a clichรฉ, but that’s what she said. I had to resist artistic license, and record things as they were for the magazine article: Factual. Assuming the article would be read of course: It was a huge scientific story which could change the world. Only two people knew about the Babel fish though. I wasn’t some qualified expert and no-one read my writing anyway. If anyone read this in a factual publication, they’d probably think it the work of a crank and dismiss it. It would read more like one of my stock in trade whimsical stories. The truth is often stranger than fiction. “I’m sorry.”

Amy looked at Hannah and gave one of those newsreader smiles: neither happy nor sad. Then she looked at Frank. I put the headphones back on.

“…Och, dear.”

How was I to write, in scientific terms, about what happened next, when the words I wanted to use, which best conveyed the moment, were merely sentimental? I had a wet face.

Hannah held Frank’s hand and Amy hugged her little old, rugged, bearded Cockney Scotsman. If he’d been wearing a tartan cap, that’s when it would have slipped.

“Och, dear.”

That little dog, with such a limited vocabulary; Once heard through the Babel fish, he had a voice. Just those two words were emphasised by feeling and inflection as they took on different meanings: Pity for himself and love for all around him. Of all the times to reflect on that day, the most poignant was when Frank closed his eyes: “Och, dear. That’s better. A wee sleep…”

Hannah left the room for a while and I looked at Frank on the table, through salty eyes. I thought of what I’d said to Hannah earlier about all of this: Questions, ideas, thoughts. Now I could really understand and would even defend Hannah’s resistance to the Babel fish. But to the fiction writer; to me in my job, it was a game changer. I was lost and confused in a long silence.

I remembered Victoria Wood and Julie Walters, the two white mice under the table where I’d been sitting. In the hands of a better writer, the mice would be protrusions of multi-dimensional beings into our universe, conducting experiments on humans. Of course, humans always thought it was the other way around: Such brilliant subtlety.

Hannah was out of the room, so I placed the mouse cage nearer to the microphone and returned to the Babel fish program. I typed into the search field: “White mice” and moved the scanning bar across the screen with the computer mouse. I peered over the monitor and my two mice were facing one another, cleaning their faces with their paws and twitching their noses; Being mice.

“…The best laid plans of mice.” It sounded like a child who’d inhaled helium. ‘And men,’ I thought. But that story had already been written. I didn’t speak, just as I couldn’t speak to Hannah about all that I’d heard. Nor Derek, nor Amy.

“It’s working”: Another high-pitched voice. “There’s only one human left, over there.”

“Do you know what they’re doing, humans? While they rush around, scavenge and make a mess?” There was a pause. “No, neither do they.”

“Aren’t they supposed to be aphrodisiacs?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Do you think that one knows what’s going on?” For once, I was the subject of a discussion, between two higher beings.

“It probably can’t even hear us.”

“Imagine if it could. Not just us but all the others as well. If only they could hear the dawn chorus. All those voices: The sopranos in harmony with the baritone of the sun: Earth’s choir. Then they’d hear the whispers from the trees, the humming of the clouds and the ghosts in the wind. But they don’t listen.”

“Maybe one day they’ll understand. Perhaps they’re not ready yet. They just need to slow down and think more.”

Maybe one day we will.

Until then, this story is both a beginning and an end. Myself and Doctor Jones were still at an impasse regarding the Babel fish and I was siding with her. Perhaps some things are better left as they are, like so many things which might have been.

We left the room together. I could say nothing. But I wondered: Why would she insist on me calling her by her first name, when she wouldn’t call me by mine? She knew my name: It was on her paperwork. Then I got it: I’d never asked her to.

Some of the most amazing things can happen right in front of your eyes, but only if you realise they’re happening. If you’re not paying attention, they can just happen and be gone, without you realising that they were practically up your nose.

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Quantum Computer

The Babel fish

โ€œIf you want to see differently, listen.โ€

I always dine with a guest, and tonight’s was a creeping obsession. Given the nature of my work, I normally dine alone, but the guest is one chosen from the many who share my mind. I can live with many, but can only question one at a time to find out if it’s the best pursuit of my aim: To talk with the animals.

I tried to place the enormity of the previous day into some sort of context. But even though Iโ€™m a writer, there were insufficient words to explain it, no matter how numerous and intertwined I made them. Less is more in literature. Suffice it to say, Iโ€™d listened to animals talking. I’d heard white mice speaking:

“If only they could hear the dawn chorus. All those voices: The sopranos in harmony with the baritone of the sun: Earth’s choir. Then they’d hear the whispers from the trees, the humming of the clouds and the ghosts in the wind. But they don’t listen.”

It’s always after the event that you realise what you should have said, or asked. Of course, by then it’s too late: An event has been created and there’s no way of going back to change it. Such is the nature of life and of space time: Both are the natural scheme of things, intricately woven together.

The night before the morning I found myself writing this, this story could have been so different. Mine was a story with a protagonist but without a hero. I’d returned home with two white mice and Doctor Hannah Jones had gone on somewhere else. I didn’t think to ask where that might be and she didn’t think to tell me. Every story needs a hero and I certainly wasn’t it.

I hoped the doctor wasn’t mistaking my obsession with the Babel fish for one with her. There was everything to admire, including her invention of a universal translation device in said fish.

The Babel fish was a computer program, named after the fictional universal translation device invented by Douglas Adams. Simply put, it could translate any language into any other, including animal languages. Using a wide frequency range, the Babel fish could hear animal sounds which are inaudible to humans. Either that, or it read minds. In any case, the upshot was, that it could translate any animal language into any human one. The reversal of this was still at a research stage, but there was nothing to make me think that it couldn’t translate my words into ones which each different animal would understand. If so, I would have something which I could devote my life to writing about. Hannah had something which could win her a Nobel prize, but she’d need persuasion to even continue her research.

Who might be a hero to Doctor Jones? She herself was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She was small: short and slim. She had long, red hair, which gave a fiery frame to a pretty bespectacled face. She was intelligent, intuitive and witty. She was perhaps a little guarded, maybe introverted. I was an extrovert on paper: I could be anything in the words which spilled from my typewriter. If anyone were to read those words, they might find me. As it stood, I was just like Hannah, but without the red hair and probably less intelligent, intuitive and witty. The only thing I had over her was about 10-15 years.

I wondered how my two white mice might perceive the situation. I wouldn’t know, because I couldn’t hear what they were saying without Doctor Jones. If I spoke, would they understand me?

“You see,โ€ I said. “The thing is. Well, the things are, I suppose. I wonder if I should be writing about all of this. I’m not even sure what I’m writing about, let alone what it might become or where it may end up. It has so much potential, yet I’m not sure I’m the right person to be in charge of something so important. Should I let go, just walk away and let someone else finish what I’ve started? What might someone else think of all this? Would they use it for their own gains, or simply dismiss it? The latter remains a problem, even if I do decide to write about it.”

The mice carried on being mice, so I decided to sleep on it.

When I awoke, it was still there: The next day, the problem still existed. And so did the mice.

I couldn’t just blunder into the PDSA in New Cross again. I’d done that twice already, most recently with the two white mice, Victoria and Julie, and I’d heard them talking. Doctor Jones also had an electron microscope, for looking at really tiny things, like viruses and bacteria: There were clues that there might be whole other universes in the sub-atomic world. I looked around my studio: I hadn’t cleaned the place for a couple of days and it was getting quite dusty. I was reluctant to do the housework, for fear of the consequences which might befall countless microscopic things, which may or may not be there. I couldn’t take my entire living space to Doctor Jones. The logical thing to do would be to ask Hannah over. But I couldn’t do that as the studio was so dusty. And she wouldn’t want to carry the electron microscope over. I had reached an impasse in my story. I decided to phone the hospital.

Doctor Jones was unavailable. I asked if I might perhaps call back when she was free. Doctor Jones was unavailable for the rest of the day.

Was Hannah unwell? On annual leave? Abducted? Killed? Paranoia now joined obsession at the dining table.

“Doctor Jones isn’t available all day,โ€ said reception.

“Will she be back tomorrow?”

“We don’t know. Is there a medical emergency? We have other vets.” No other ‘Vet’ would do. Might one of these “Other vets” be in Hannah’s lab at that very moment? In the very same room as the Babel fish? “Is there a medical emergency?,โ€ reception said again. “Mr Fry?” That’s me. I looked at Victoria Wood and Julie Walters in their cage. I could perhaps argue that those two being in a cage was an emergency. But what would be the point of going to New Cross anyway, if the doctor I needed to see wasn’t there? “She’s on house calls today, Mr Fry.”ย I’d been rumbled. I hung up.

House calls: Care in the community. It was a logical progression of the little I’d learned up to then about Doctor Hannah Jones, although somewhat counter to her ethos of leaving work at the workplace, for fear of becoming even more emotionally attached to the animals. It was that fear which prevented her from using the very device she’d invented: The Babel fish. But in this respect, I supposed it was entirely different: She still wasn’t getting too attached to the patients by hearing them speak, then not being able to leave them, or feeling she had to take them home with her: She was visiting them in their own homes, where she couldn’t hear them speak. The fact remained that wherever she was, it wasn’t actually her that I needed, it was the machine.

But the Babel fish / Doctor Jones situation was a self-perpetuating one: One needed the other. It was like the TARDIS and The Doctor, with the Doctor refusing to get in the box. I had the makings of a story, but for that reluctant passenger.

It didn’t matter. What difference would it make if the story was never told? In my hands, none at all.

By a strange coincidence, none at all was the level of chance I’d assumed I had of hearing from Doctor Jones that day. Suddenly and for no apparent reason, my mobile phone rang: What were the chances? Probably one, to the power of the caller’s number, against. It was the animal hospital.

“Simon Fry?” That’s how I answer my phone: There’s always an upward inflection in my voice, which annoys me. It’s as though I’m questioning who I am.

“Mr Fry, it’s Doctor Jones.” Having just used my first name, I wondered why Hannah hadn’t introduced herself with hers. I guessed she was maintaining professional protocol. “From the hospital,โ€ she said. I knew that: It was the hospital’s number calling me, and I knew that Doctor Jones worked there. She really was professional. “You called.” I had.

“Erm, yes. There’s something I’d like to show you.” Actually, I had nothing to show Hannah but if I’d merely said I’d like to talk to her about something, she might have suggested we did that over the phone, or dismissed me completely.

“Is it a patient?,โ€ she asked.

“Yes,โ€ I said. What on earth was I thinking?

Doctor Jones had appointments for the rest of the afternoon, but if I’d like to go to the hospital, she said she’d try to fit me in.

The waiting room was busier than before, with half a dozen patients besides me and my rabbit. I’d heard other animals speak when I’d used the Babel fish before, but it was rabbits that intrigued me. Because if you look a rabbit, any rabbit, directly in the eyes, they really look like they want to tell you something. All the animals could speak and I could hear them. I hadn’t discounted Douglas Adams’ theory on dolphins and mice, and I’d not yet heard a dolphin’s sounds translated, but for me it was rabbits. Much as I admired Douglas, I wondered if he’d missed something. I was continuing his work. I believed that it was the rabbits who could tell us the answer, to life, the universe, and everything.

I pondered a little riddle to bide the time, about the animals in that room: Here were six animals and between them, they had 18 legs. If there were no means of seeing the animals in the room, what might people suppose them to be, based on the collective number of legs alone?

There were two cats in baskets: One was a tabby and the other was black, with a white chest: It looked like it was dressed for dinner, in a black suit and white shirt.

There were two dogs, from the polar extremes of the canine world: A huge, furry beast, the size of a small horse, and a tiny little Chihuahua cross breed thing. It looked like it probably yapped a lot, and as though it’s bulbous eyes would pop out if it was squeezed firmly enough.

All domestic dogs share a common ancestor in the grey wolf and as such, any canine can cross breed with any other. Theoretically then, given a step ladder, the little dog could mate with the larger one in the waiting room and produce offspring: What curious things those would be.

The other two patients were a mynah bird in a cage and a Burmese python around a young girl’s shoulders. Given the mynah bird’s famous ability to mimic human sounds in captivity, I wondered if the Babel fish might be redundant if I were to have an opportunity to listen to the bird. The python looked to be quite young, at around ten feet in length. Docile and inquisitive, as those snakes are, it was tasting the air with its forked tongue. I’d taken an instant dislike to the small bug-eyed dog and I crossed my fingers for no reason at all.

“Mr Fry?” That’s me. It was Doctor Jones.

“Yes, that’s me.”

Hannah didn’t even wait until we were on the other side of the door before she said the sort of curious thing I’d heard on my previous visits. In fact, I clearly heard her mumble it as soon as I stood up: “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Charles was quite reluctant to cross the room on his lead, so I picked him up and carried him.

As we walked into Doctor Jones’ examination room, she was reading from her notes: “Charles Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. A rabbit. Really?”

“Well, I had to think quickly as I filled out the form. You see, I only picked him up on the way here.”

“He’s on a fucking lead.” For someone so pretty, she had a very potty mouth.

“Yes. He’s a house rabbit. Actually, he’s a flat rabbit: I live in a flat. I don’t have a garden and even if I did, I wouldn’t want him all cooped up in a cage outside. Then I’d have to call him David Soul.” Doctor Jones looked at me with a slightly surprised face. “Because,โ€ I continued, “then he’d be Starsky, in a hutch you see?”

“Oh, I see. Believe me, I see.”

“He just looked so sad in the shop, like he wanted to tell me something. And I couldn’t carry a hutch here, so I got him a nice lead. It suits him, don’t you think?”

“He suits you, Mr Fry.”

“Yes, so I thought I’d bring Charles for an initial check-up.”

“Really? Nothing to do with the Babel fish then?” She was very clever. “Fine.”: Result. “I do have other patients to see, Mr Fry. Charles looks like a fine rabbit to me. Same as before: You sit in the corner and try to just,” she paused, “not be here.” A splendid plan.

The first patient was the cat in the DJ: His name was Eddie, and his human was a lady, probably in her late 40s, called Liz. Liz would perhaps have been a little unconventional outside of Lewisham, or London for that matter: Clearly a little eccentric and perhaps a tad over made-up, but completely at ease within herself. She wore a bright red tunic with a faux fur collar, over a frilly white dress shirt, the cuffs extending flamboyantly from beneath her coat. She had hair which was jet black, but for a white streak which ran through her parting: Whether it was exposed roots or a flourish of peroxide, it didn’t matter. Liz wore tight black leather trousers, cut short at the ankle to accentuate her silver anklet. She wore bright red shoes with stiletto heels and she tottered a little.

“So what’s troubling Eddie?” Hannah asked.

“Well, I don’t know really,” Liz said, in a surprisingly masculine voice. Liz was just as at home in himself as he was in this part of London, or anywhere: What a wonderful person. Liz continued: “He’s just not been going out so much.”

I was so enamoured by Liz that I almost forgot to put the headphones on. The microphone was either still above Hannah’s table from the last time I’d been there, or she’d replaced it in expectation of my making a return visit.

I switched the Babel fish on and heard a familiar static feedback as I typed in ‘Cat’. Then I slid the mouse pointer across the screen, before picking up Eddie’s voice:

“…drilling.” Eddie’s voice was male but effeminate. I only caught the last word and it sounded like “Drilling”: For what? Eddie continued: “Pour tout ce qui est derriรจre le mur. Vous ne le sentez?”

How naive I must have been to assume that all animals spoke in English. Eddie was drilling for whatever was behind the wall. Surely just a cavity? A dead mouse perhaps.

“So, he’s normally an outdoors chap?” Hannah had a remarkable ability to anthropomorphise animals. Eddie was certainly a “Chap”.

“All the time, except when he needs food.”

“Je suis un, ‘ow you say, chat de ruelle?” Alley cat. “Vous pensez que vous me entendez ronronnement. Je perce.” You think you hear me purr: I drill.

Hannah conducted the familiar physical examination of a cat: Lifting Eddie’s lips to check his gums and checking his nostrils for moisture. Humans owned by cats frequently ask if a dry, warm nose means their cat is sick. The short answer is no. A healthy cat’s nose can vary between wet and dry several times over the course of a day. And there are many reasons a cat can have a dry, warm nose that have nothing to do with health.

“Elle est trรจs jolie.”

Next, Doctor Jones squeezed Eddie’s belly, picking his rear end up so that his front paws remained on the table. She was checking his gut for blockages or perhaps a twisted colon.

“Je suis un chat, pas une brouette.” If ever there were a feline Star Trek, Eddie would play Doctor McCoy.

Then Hannah lifted Eddie’s tail to check for signs of worms.

“Oh l’humanitรฉ!”

“I can’t see that there is anything at all wrong with this young man,โ€ Hannah said to Liz. He’s a cat. He looks like the kind of cat who just likes being a cat. I’d just let him get on with doing that. If he shows any obvious signs of not being himself, by all means bring him back in, but for now, I can’t see anything at all to worry about.”

“Okay”. Somehow, Liz didn’t seem at all surprised. Eddie made his own independent way into his basket.

“Ma couverture. Tapis magique. Emmenez moi au le Catnip.” Eddie was on drugs: What a fantastic cat he was.

I didn’t get a chance to speak to Doctor Jones. Not long after Liz and Eddie had left, Hannah returned with an elderly lady and the mynah bird.

Part of the starling family, mynah birds are remarkably intelligent, and famed for their ability to mimic the sounds they hear around them. “Myna” is derived from the Hindi language mainฤ, which itself is derived from Sanskirt madanฤ. I was especially intrigued by this patient, because it’s mimicry of the sounds around it may be just that, or it could be that the Babel fish was able to translate its voice into something different; perhaps something entirely unexpected.

I tuned the Babel fish in: “….Yes dear,โ€ was what I heard through the headphones, as the bird said “Yes dear”.

Doctor Jones looked at her notes, then at the old lady. “So this is Ronnie?”

“Yes dear,โ€ said the lady.

“Yes dear,โ€ said the bird.

“And what’s the problem?”

“Well,โ€ said the old girl, “He’s got a problem with his foot.”

“Foot, yes,โ€ said the bird.

“He keeps holding it up all the time.”

“Time, yes.”

“It’s like he’s in pain,โ€ the lady said.

“Pain, yes,โ€ said the bird. He clearly had a condition known in humans as Echolalia.

“And it’s always the same leg?” Hannah was being intuitive again.

“Leg, yes,โ€ said the mynah bird.

“I think so,โ€ said the old lady.

I was a little bored to be honest, so I twiddled with the controls on the Babel fish. Doctor Jones continued to ask the old lady questions and the mynah bird kept repeating the last few words the old dear said. For a moment, I completely lost the conversation. Then as I tuned back in, the mynah bird said something quite unexpected:

“…unexpected, yes.” I couldn’t be sure if I’d heard that through the headphones or in the room. I didn’t even hear a diagnosis or a prognosis. I was figuratively floored.

Hannah, the old lady and the mynah bird had left the room. I remembered Charles Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, on the floor. I looked down at him and he looked up at me. He had that rabbit look, like he really wanted to say something.

I grabbed the microphone and typed ‘Rabbit’ into the Babel fish. I pointed the mic at my rabbit: Nothing.

“Well?” I said.

I lifted his ears and laid the microphone on the floor in front of him: Nothing. Surely he’d heard me? Did I have an ironic, deaf rabbit?

Hannah was out of the room, so I unplugged the headphones. Maybe they were faulty. Perhaps Charles was trying to say something and I hadn’t heard him.

I turned the speakers on the computer up to 11. I blew into the microphone to make sure it was working: Charles didn’t even flinch at what sounded like a clap of thunder.

โ€œAren’t you going to tell me the answer? To life, the universe and everything? Or explain why the answer is 42? Because we’ve been asking the wrong questions? Isn’t the earth just one big organic computer, designed to work it all out? I’m carrying on Douglas’ work. I’ve listened to mice. I’ve not translated dolphins. But the mice said the answers could be heard in nature: In the dawn chorus, in the wind, and all around us. And that’s beautiful music, but it’s not a voice. The planet must have a voice. So I theorised that the answer lies with rabbits, and the way you all look like you want to say something. And now I’m talking to you, and you’re all ears. And now I’ve got a deaf and dumb rabbit? What’s anyone supposed to ask you?โ€ I was shouting at a rabbit, and the rabbit still looked like it was about to say something. But it didn’t.

Eventually, I left: In frustration, I left the room and I left that cloth eared rabbit there.

I walked along the corridor between the examination room and the waiting area. As I got closer to the exit, I could hear Hannah’s voice but it was mixed up with others. Then someone, somewhere, said the oddest thing:

“I don’t really know how to say this.”

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You only have to grasp the infinite size and possibilities of the universe, to see that all you’ve learned from science fiction is fact. At least, that was my standard line when people asked why I was a sci-fi writer. The other was, I’d always wanted to be a scientist or a writer. When it turned out I was no good at either, I became a sci-fi writer. And some say I’m quite good at that.

Recently I’d been pursuing a subject which wasn’t yielding to me: Talking with animals.

My research centred around a quantum computer program, called the Babel fish. It could do what Douglas Adams’ real fish could do: Translate any language to and from any other. Unfortunately, this Babel fish was at the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals in New Cross. It was the invention of Doctor Hannah Jones, who worked there. She’d been very accommodating but the nature of her work meant that she tried to avoid any emotional involvement with her patients. The upshot of this was that she wasn’t prepared to share her invention and discoveries with the rest of the world. Yet I was convinced that the Babel fish could provide all the answers, to life, the universe, and everything. I was sure the keys lay with the animals. But I wasn’t sure what questions I needed to pose to which animals, so that the answers I got made some sort of contextual sense.

I pondered other options and hit upon an alternative: Humans. Of course, this was a resource freely available to me but I didn’t know the right kind of humans. I figured, wouldn’t it be great if I could ask questions of famous scientists? If there was a way to speak to Einstein for example, and to furnish him with all of the research tools and knowledge we have in the twenty first century, someone like him might be able to work it all out.

I’d watched Jurassic Park, so I knew how the resurrection thing worked. Now I needed a scientist I could work with. Just as with Doctor Hannah Jones, the Babel fish and the animals, the relationship could be a symbiotic one: The scientist would allow me to study their work and in return, I’d write about it and bring the work to the attention of other academics, or even the general public. What could possibly go wrong?

I believe that anything is possible: I remember my mum telling me that one of her friends used to be a man but that now she was taking medicine to make her more like a woman, and it made her feel better. It was literally that easy to explain it to a kid. I wanted to make seemingly impossible things believable.

I wondered who I might contact to work with me on this project. It wasn’t something I could bother the mainstream with too much, as it was theoretical. I needed someone on the fringe. Being a writer, I understand the importance of researching and verifying things when reporting on them. As such, I have a network of contacts in various fields with whom I can consult on different topics.

Eventually my enquiries led me to Gilbert Giles. I like alliterative names, so he fitted the bill. Gilbert was based in Norway, where he was a tour guide on a ship which sailed around the Norwegian coast. I wondered if this might make him a fjord escort. He was due to visit the UK two days hence, so we arranged to meet.

There are certain constants in life: McDonald’s, Wetherspoons, any multinational coffee outlet. No matter which branch, in which country, the wares will be the same. I find uniformity comforting. Sometimes the only way to tell you’re in a particular geographic location, is by observing the people: Unlike the food and drinks, the people are always different. This extends to their personal habits and mannerisms. It is perfectly acceptable, normal in fact, to dunk one’s croissant in one’s coffee in Paris. Actually, I’ve never been to Paris but I consider myself continental. A Parisian in Lewisham though, might attract curious glances from the locals, as I found.

I’d had the chance to go to Paris a while back but the way things were in my life then, I couldn’t solemnly promise those close to me, nor myself, that I’d return, so I’d declined. I had an open invitation to visit Berlin any time and for as long as I’d like. But what was true of Paris was more so with Berlin. That was a trip at the end of my bucket list; perhaps the last thing I’d ever do, so convinced was I that I’d not be able to tear myself away once there.

โ€œMr Fry?โ€ That’s me.

โ€œThat’s me,โ€ I said, looking up at the man now standing at my table. Gilbert was taller than me. I could tell this, even though I was sitting down. He was a modern day Viking; a Nordic hipster. โ€œSit down,โ€ I offered, wishing he would. He did, quite obediently.

Gilbert had a somehow soothing accent: Think Skandi-Scot and you get the idea. It was when he started dunking his croissant in his coffee that I realised we’d get along just fine.

We discussed Norway, which I knew very little about. Gilbert showed me his published papers, which he said were peer-reviewed. He was mainly interested in extinct species of wildlife, and his research centred on fossilised remains, buried and preserved in the Norwegian ice. He hoped that nature’s deep freeze might have preserved tissues in the animals, making it possible to extract intact DNA and theoretically, to resurrect extinct species. Just like in Jurassic Park. The eventual aim was to bring some species back, to start gradually repairing ecosystems damaged by man. It wasn’t yet possible to reverse climate change, but this was one of many efforts to slow its effects. This wasn’t to be an Ice Age theme park, and nothing spectacular: There’d be no woolly mammoths or sabre toothed tigers, although I did wonder at how splendid that might be. The long-term plan was to re-populate the lower levels of the food chain, so that threatened or endangered species further up could flourish and increase their numbers. It was all very admirable but could the methods be used with human DNA? Well, similar techniques and others are constantly being developed and it has been possible to clone mammals since the end of the last century. This in itself gave me a thought: Dolly the sheep was famously the first mammal cloned from an adult somatic cell (that we know of), using the process of nuclear transfer. I wondered what it might be like to bring Dolly back and hear what she had to say through the Babel fish.

Cloning humans is of course surrounded by all sorts of mechanisms to ensure that we don’t actually do it. There are deep ethical and moral issues involved, and most philosophers agree that cloning humans would generally be a bad idea. Resurrecting a human is simply a case of cloning, like with Dolly, only using DNA from the person to be cloned, rather than of that of a sheep. Obviously.

So my initial conversation with Gilbert had been a little anti-climatic. But the reason he’d agreed to meet me was my seeming determination, he said. He realised how much work and research must have been undertaken to find him: Specifically a scientist with a sideline on the fringe who’d only shared his work with a select few like-minded people.

My persistence had effectively gained me unwitting entry to an underground network. I wondered at what other possibilities this opened up. I asked Gilbert if perhaps he’d like to join me for some dinner and a drink at a hotel I rather liked. He was staying Airbnb but he said he’d be happy to join me for the evening to discuss matters further.

The Station Hotel in Hither Green is a gastro pub, with what I’m told are some nice rooms upstairs. It’s a large Grade II listed building, near to Hither Green station, on the Lee Green side, not the Catford side of the railway: a metal ruler. The interior is cosy and eclectic, and they serve very good food. Gilbert had beer battered North sea cod, while I went for roasted fillet of sea trout, and we shared three bottles of a decent white wine. And we talked:

โ€œSo, Mr Fry,โ€ Gilbert said. โ€œWhat is it that’s made you go to so much trouble to contact me, specifically? What is it you’re looking for?โ€ It was a very simple question, with many answers. But I felt I could be frank. I was relaxed in Gilbert’s company, only slightly aided by the Pinot Grigio.

โ€œTo be honest with you, Gilbert…โ€ I started.

โ€œYou can call me Gil.โ€ We were on single-syllable terms already. Should I suggest that he call me ‘Si’? I’d never been called that. I’d always kept my second syllable intact: ‘mon’. If he called me Si, I’d be Si Fry. I quite liked that. But I didn’t say anything.

โ€œThe thing is…โ€ I paused. โ€œThe thing is, Gil. Well, the things are, you know? Everything. Life, the universe, and everything. I just want to know what it’s all about, you see? I suppose I’ve reached a certain age.โ€

โ€œHow old are you Mr Fry?โ€

โ€œHow old do you think?โ€

โ€œMid forties?โ€ I’d take that.

โ€œI’ll take that,โ€ I said. โ€œWell, all that time, I’ve just been thinking, wondering. I wonder at what point things got complicated. When we’re children, everything is so much simpler. Of course, we’re shielded from much in childhood, but I got hold of the belief that anything could have a simple answer, if we didn’t over-analyse too much. Of course, that goes against a lot of what I do as a job. When I’m writing non-fiction, I have to check, verify and interrogate, so that I can report the facts in a balanced way. And some of the things I’ve seen, some of what I’ve written about, make me wish for a simpler life and question why things are the way they are. I suppose you could say that almost my entire life has been one long existential crisis.โ€

โ€œBut we already know that the answer is 42, Mr Fry.โ€

โ€œWell, of course it is Gil. But what does that mean? What is the question we need to ask, in order for that answer to make any kind of sense to us? Or were we asking the wrong questions in the first place? You see, this latest brain fart of mine started when I was listening to Pink Floyd’s The Division Bell. There’s a song called Keep Talking, which samples Stephen Hawking’s quote: ‘For millions of years mankind lived just like the animals. Then something happened which unleashed the power of our imagination: we learned to talk.’โ€

โ€œYes, I know it,โ€ Gil said. โ€œAll we have to do, is keep talking.โ€ He had a curious smile: Like he was holding a pipe in his mouth, without holding a pipe in his mouth. Or having a mild stroke.

โ€œWell, yes Gil. So I just thought, well wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all talk? What if there were no language barriers, and any race or creed could talk with any other, and understand each other, without the need for interpretors? Wouldn’t that be constructive? Couldn’t that be only a good thing for the world? So then I thought of the bigger picture, and wondered what it would be like if we could talk with the animals. Imagine what they could tell us.โ€

โ€œIf only the Babel fish were real.โ€ Gil smiled again, or had another stroke.

โ€œIf only,โ€ I said. Although I trusted Gilbert now, I couldn’t be sure how much of that trust was displaced by Pinot. Only two people knew about the Babel fish and one of them wanted nothing to do with it. I was the other one and I’d not written about Dr Jones’ computer program in any of my online scientific papers. No-one was reading my fiction and anyone who did, would think the stories of the Babel fish too fantastical to be anything other than fiction. โ€œYou never know,โ€ I continued. โ€œDouglas Adams was right about a lot of other things, and most of the world’s ocean depths are unexplored. We’re constantly discovering new species down there. Who’s to say there might not be Babel fish out there somewhere?โ€

โ€œWell, certainly no-one could say for sure. The Babel fish cannot therefore be definitely denied. A bit like God really.โ€ As Gil said ‘God’, he raised two fingers on either side of his head, and wiggled them like pink quote marks. โ€œAnd as the good book pointed out, Oolon Colluphid’s trilogy of philosophical blockbusters entitled Where God Went Wrong, Some More of God’s Greatest Mistakes and Who is this God Person Anyway? were to be followed by a fourth book. He used the Babel Fish argument as a basis for a fourth book, titled Well, That About Wraps It Up For God.โ€ The good book to which Gilbert referred was of course The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The next thing he said, found me unprepared: โ€œSo, Mr Fry. What do you mean when you say Douglas got a lot of other things right?โ€

โ€œWell,โ€ I said. โ€œWell,โ€ I said again. โ€œWell, there’s a lot of social commentary in the book.โ€ And indeed there is.

โ€œAnd indeed there is, Mr Fry.โ€ Great minds…

โ€œYes.โ€ I needed to move this on. โ€œSo, going back to the big questions: I thought, other humans who’d be good to speak with, would be those no longer with us. Specifically, great minds of the past. What if we could use all that resurrection stuff to bring back a great mind, to see what that person makes of things, given all the more we know now than they did in their time?โ€

โ€œYou didn’t think to use your research? I mean, to find out if anyone was conducting research into animal languages? I mean, we’ve known for some time that many animals use sounds which we can’t even hear, because they’re beyond our audible range. We know that dolphins, whales, and elephants, for example, probably have quite complex languages. Did you not think someone might already be looking into something far greater?โ€

โ€œI suppose I surmised that anyone who was up to that sort of thing, wouldn’t want anyone to know, for fear of ridicule. Of course, I know there are entire branches of science studying animal languages. People are interpreting those languages, but no-one is looking to translate them, so that anyone can understand them. That would be something too profound perhaps for humanity itself to comprehend. My point is, if it is going on, I wasn’t going to find out about it. But through my research, I learned a lot about electron microscopes and the tiny worlds they allow us to see into. I found that fascinating, with all of the applications in various sciences. So I started thinking about the really small things, instead of the really big stuff: Things like gene editing, DNA mapping and so on. That led to me questioning the matter of cloning, and whether I could clone a scientist. And that led me eventually to you.โ€

โ€œI haven’t cloned any scientists, Mr Fry. In fact, I’ve not cloned anything yet.โ€

โ€œBut it’s been done before.โ€

โ€œWell, yes. With Dolly the sheep and many others. What it hasn’t been used for is bringing back the dead. We’re not at the Jurassic Park stage yet, Mr Fry. There are questions of ethics; Profound questions for humanity. I am looking merely to resurrect ancient organisms, so that I may first study them alive and then, only after thorough further research, just possibly reintroduce them to the food chain. But these are invertebrate creatures. The kind of things which most people wouldn’t be able to tell from each other if you were to show them. The point is, things which I could bring back, for the good of all, without anyone noticing.โ€

โ€œBut it would be theoretically possible?โ€

โ€œWell, yes. But even putting ethics aside, the sheer amount of resources needed to do it is a significant barrier. Scientists cloned a frog as long ago as the 1950s. But amphibians are different to mammals. They’re very different to humans. Since that first frog, researchers have cloned dozens of animal species, including mice, cats, sheep, pigs and cows. In each case, researchers encountered problems that needed to be overcome with trial and error. With mice, they were able to use thousands of eggs, and conduct many experiments, to work out these problems. It was a numbers game.

โ€œBut with primates, eggs are a very precious resource, and it is not easy to acquire them to conduct experiments, and the researchers can’t simply apply what they’ve learned from cloning mice or cows to cloning people. For example, cloning an animal requires that they first remove the nucleus of an egg cell. When they do this, they also remove proteins that are essential to help cells divide. In mice, this isn’t a problem, because the embryo that is ultimately created is able to make these proteins again. But primates aren’t able to do this, and researchers think it may be one reason that attempts to clone monkeys have failed.

โ€œWhat’s more, cloned animals often have different kinds of genetic abnormalities that can prevent embryo implantation in a uterus, or cause the embryo to spontaneously abort, or the animal to die shortly after birth. These abnormalities are common, because cloned embryos have just one parent rather than two, which means that a molecular process known as “imprinting” does not occur properly in cloned embryos. Imprinting takes place during embryo development, and selectively silences certain genes from one parent or the other.

โ€œProblems with imprinting can result in extremely large placentas, which ultimately leads to problems with blood flow for the embryo. In one experiment, a team cloned a species of cattle called Banteng, and the calf was born at twice the size of a normal Banteng cow. It had to be euthanized. So, you can see why it’s a moral and ethical minefield. Myself and others are looking to develop the science to overcome the problems, but with each hurdle jumped, so more ethical and moral issues become apparent. For now, human cloning is theoretical and possible only in the realms of all else which is fantastical: Fiction.โ€

โ€œWell I’m known just as well for my fiction work as I’m not for my factual, Gil. I wonder if you might entertain a proposition?โ€ We’d skipped desserts long ago and were now on our fifth shared bottle of Pinot.

โ€œEntertain me, Mr Fry.โ€ The invisible pipe was back in his mouth.

โ€œWell, Gil…โ€ I cleared my throat and looked around the room as I drew in closer to the table.

โ€œThe thing is this. I mean, the way I see it. The way I see things, is that you have something potentially very important and valuable in your work; Work which could one day net you a Nobel prize. But you need exposure. And yet, I understand your reasons for wanting to keep people in the dark for now. But if all of the ethical concerns are somehow overcome one day, there are potential future scenarios where your work could save humanity itself from extinction. Isn’t that worth documenting? And like I say, I’m of little note as a fiction writer, but even less so an academic one. If I were to work with you as documentarian and something went horribly wrong, it would be dismissed as the further chronicles of a slightly deranged fiction writer.โ€

โ€œHow do you propose studying my work? By visiting Norway?โ€

โ€œNo, of course not. That would be an imposition.โ€ Actually, I was as reluctant to go there as I was Paris or Berlin, for the same reasons. โ€œMy proposition is just this: The best way for me to study your work, is for me to actually study your work, if that makes sense.โ€ It didn’t seem to. โ€œYou see, the way I see it, you do all the scientific stuff in your lab and nature takes care of the rest.โ€

โ€œThat is a very simplistic way of looking at it, Mr Fry.โ€

โ€œI like to boil things down to simple components, so that they’re easier to understand.โ€

Gil smiled again, on the left side of his mouth. It was a different smile to the previous ones, because it was on the other side: Those had been a curling of his upper lip on the right, when he’d seemed contemplative. A smile on the left seemed to indicate something else: Amusement? Perplexity? I elaborated: โ€œYou see, you make the life, and I watch it grow. If it grows โ€“ or indeed, goes โ€“ well, I’ll let you know and then we can talk about publicity or other applications. If it doesn’t go well, no-one will ever know. You need to have nothing further to do with me.โ€

โ€œMr Fry.โ€ That’s me. โ€œIf you’re proposing what I think you are, then I must express deep alarm.โ€

โ€œI prefer to think more of reservations than alarms, Gil. Alarms are loud and startling, and they indicate danger. Reservations on the other hand, those are nice. One might have a reservation at a nice restaurant for example, or a hotel.โ€

โ€œMr Fry, if I’ve got this right, you’re proposing that I send you a cloned animal of some sort?โ€

โ€œNo, Gil. No, much more than that.โ€

โ€œOh God.โ€

โ€œYou see, I’m interested in cloning humans. Ultimately, I’d like to bring back Albert Einstein, to see what he makes of the world today. But those are my interests. Your interest in cloning, is its potential to save lives, and even species. You’re concentrating on very small creatures: people won’t notice, or be troubled by the news that cloning is helping the environment. Gradually, cloning becomes more accepted. If cloning humans were ever accepted, there are of course all of those moral and ethical arguments. But cloning could one day be applied to humans in the same way as your small creatures. It could save humanity. But of course, there is the whole numbers game of trial and error, as well as the ethical concerns. I’m simply offering to be a volunteer in the early stages of your research.โ€

โ€œBy doing what? Observing something I’ve sent you? Am I missing something, Mr Fry?โ€

โ€œI think you’re missing me, Gil. I would be a human guinea pig. I understand the ethics. What I’m proposing is that I give you the kind of permission which to my knowledge has never been requested or permitted of a living human: I give you my DNA to use in cloning experiments. Many copies of me will perish: Most people wouldn’t like the idea of that. But if just one clone shows signs of growth, you might be able to probe inside that one, to see what it is which makes it different: The survival code perhaps. Once you’ve got that, you’re on your way to a safe and reliable means of cloning humans.โ€

โ€œMr Fry, again you are simplifying things.โ€

โ€œMr Giles, I am a writer. When I write academic material, sometimes I have to simplify it for the reading demographic. When I write fiction, I demonstrate how something is possible and trust that readership to take the details for granted, or use their imagination. Ergo, when I am writing about scientific things, I do so in a way a reader understands and leave the sciencey bits to my collaborator. I do enough scientific research to ensure that my stories are feasible, then find a partner on the fringes who might be willing to help. I report on their work and it’s read as accessible fiction. And for myself and my collaborators, it’s a symbiotic relationship.โ€

โ€œSo what you’re asking me to do, Mr Fry, is to take a sample of your DNA, remove the nucleus of a donor egg and replace it with yours, thereby creating clones of you, most of which will most likely perish?โ€

โ€œThat’s what I’m proposing, Gil. What I’m asking, is for you to then send me one or more of those subjects, so that I can observe it. It would be all under-the-radar stuff, on the fringe, you know? Where the likes of me and you work?โ€ I was trying camaraderie, cloak and dagger skulduggery. We were underground operatives, secret agents, independently working to make the world a better place, ungoverned and accountable only to ourselves.

โ€œMr Fry?โ€ That’s me. I was drifting in my thoughts. โ€œMr Fry. If, and this is a big if, Mr Fry. Perhaps this conversation only got this far because of the wine, but I must admit I’m intrigued. So if I were help you, you must first consider a number of things: I would be given total anonymity. You would monitor one experiment, which will most likely not be successful. In that almost certain scenario, I would insist that you dispose of any evidence promptly. You may write of it, recording the process of the subject. In all likelihood, if that written record were to somehow be disseminated, it would be assumed to be fiction. If there is any need for this to be reinforced, I’d trust you to do so.โ€

โ€œYour anonymity is guaranteed Mr Giles, until such time as the experiments might be successful and you wish to publish your results. Otherwise, the whole thing will remain as fiction. But there were other things, you said?โ€

โ€œPractical things, yes. Things which are not necessarily a problem for me with my resources, but which you need to grasp the ethics of. For example, the availability of human donor eggs.โ€ Actually, I hadn’t thought of that.

โ€œActually, I hadn’t thought of that.โ€ I knew we’d need eggs, of course. I hadn’t considered where they might come from. Women, naturally, but not which ones. Obviously, women donate eggs for various reasons, sometimes in the hope that they might be fertilised at a later date, but usually this would be in the course of family planning. There were human eggs which were donated purely for scientific research. The cloning process only requires the DNA of one parent; in this case, me. The egg would just be a carrier; a vessel. But it was the thought that in any case, the egg will have come from someone. I would never know the identity of the donor and she wouldn’t expect me to. But even though her DNA would be removed, that still involved removing a part of someone. It was a thought which would continue to trouble me perhaps, but in the context of the research, it was something I could level with morally. โ€œAnything Else?โ€ I asked Gil.

โ€œThe limitations, Mr Fry. The whole numbers game aside, even if you do end up with a viable subject, its life will be limited. No human embryo has survived outside of the human body for longer than 13 days. After less than two weeks, your subject will be no larger than a grain of sand in a test tube and it will expire. That’s a version of you, Mr Fry, dying in your presence.โ€

That was quite profound. I would indeed be witness to my own death, or a version of me, with perhaps more potential than I ever had, to do more than I ever did. A second chance at life, gone. I decided it might be worth it, just for the profundity of that situation, to feel what it’s like and to write about it. It would be a personal loss different to any other. ‘I think I’ll do it,’ I thought. โ€œI think I’ll do it,โ€ I said.

โ€œVery well, Mr Fry. When I return to my facility in Norway, I will acquire donor eggs and insert your donated DNA. I will of course require your DNA from you. I will place the eggs in a solution and the rest is a game of waiting. Very few of the eggs will do anything at all. Of the few that do, even fewer will survive. I cannot commit too many resources to this Mr Fry, for reasons I’m sure you appreciate. I will send you two specimens, in around two weeks from now. That will end my involvement in this, unless something happens which might be of importance to the greater scientific community.โ€

โ€œThat’s the deal, Mr Giles. I volunteer for something others probably wouldn’t, because I have my own vested interests. I understand that the experiment will most likely be unsuccessful, but if something does happen, I will let you know, so that you can identify whatever catalyst in me it was that caused something to happen. Ultimately, you may discover a key to life. Otherwise, it will remain fiction in my hands.โ€

โ€œIn that case, I need your hand, Mr Fry.โ€ Why would he want that? โ€œTo collect a blood sample, Mr Fry? It’s better than a strand of hair or a mouth swab, for the purposes of this.โ€

โ€œOh, of course.โ€ Either Gil had come prepared for this, or he normally carried a syringe and a vial around in his case. Not for the first time in my life, I felt a bit of a prick.

But after much initial faffing around, I now had the start of a two-pronged go at doing something worthwhile.

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The Rabbit

Iย woke the next morning and realised it must be Thursday. For me, Thursday is the day of the week I find hardest getting the hang of: It’s well into the working week, which grows monotonous; and it’s one day away from the start of the weekend, and all which that might entail. For most people. For me, the only difference between days, is the letters which precede ‘day’. So I really don’t know why I find it so difficult.

On this particular Thurs, I woke with a hangover: A rare thing for me but hardly surprising given the evening before. Had I really given my DNA to a man I’d met for the first time? A scientist on the fringes of accepted science, who could now use my DNA for his own ends? Might he actually now have the one thing which he needed to create a race of slave humans, from a volunteer made complicit by Pinot Grigio? Apparently so, as confirmed by a non-disclosure agreement Gil had sent me by email after the meeting, and which I’d signed.

I contemplated what to do on this Thursday: The studio was in need of a clean, there was still the matter of the two white mice, and the rabbit which wasn’t there. Sometimes you don’t realise something’s missing until it’s not there any more. It’s was the absence of the rabbit which reminded me of its existence. I remembered being at the hospital the previous day and I was sure I didn’t have it with me at dinner with Gil: I’d left the rabbit at the hospital.

I checked my mobile and there’d been missed calls: two from the PDSA in New Cross, and one from an unknown mobile number. I called the hospital.ย Doctor Jones was with a patient, so she would call me back. I had to be patient.

Hannah called from work: I’d changed the entry on my phone from ‘PDSA’ to ‘Hannah, Work.’ in a tragic moment.

โ€œMr Fry.โ€ That’s me. Hannah was addressing me in her official-sounding capacity.

โ€œYes.โ€ I knew this would be about the rabbit. โ€œDoctor Jones.โ€ Then without thinking, I just said, โ€œHow are you today?โ€

โ€œI’m fine. I do have a bit of a situation though.โ€ This seemed slightly friendlier; more like Hannah. She was either resigned or being sarcastic; I couldn’t make out which. โ€œI think it best if you come over here.โ€ This sounded more serious. But actually it was best that I went to the hospital, as I had to collect the rabbit. Hannah was perhaps just stating the obvious.

A different day and another menagerie in the PDSA waiting room: On this particular Friday, there was a clowder of cats: A clowder or alternatively, a pounce are the collective nouns for cats. Probably the best-known collective noun is a murder, for a group of crows. But this is just for crows on the ground: In flight, they go by a different name; Or a profession, or vocation, such is the imagery I see as a writer in these things. As a writer, I wonder what crows who’d just committed a far-off murder might be talking about, back on the ground, after the deed. A gaggle of geese is another common one: What must geese be gaggling about? And they’re only a gaggle on the ground: In flight, it’s a skein of geese. There are some wonderful senses of lifestyles to be gleaned from animals’ collective nouns. To hear them talk as such groups would bring so many more stories to life: An interview with a flamingo, as part of a regiment, or herons involved in a siege. Honourable mentions go to my favourite two collective nouns: A tower of giraffes, and a crossing of zebras. But back to the pounce or the clowder in the waiting room:

There was a young girl of probably about ten, with her mum I assumed. They each had a cat in a basket: A black and white one which the girl referred to as โ€œCow cat!,โ€ and a tabby, who the girl called Duncan. A lad not much older was with his assumed dad, and they had a toyger: A domestic cat with tiger markings, and a splendid little thing. I didn’t catch the toyger’s name but it had a bit of the Shere Khan from Jungle Book about it. If the ensuing situation with Doctor Jones permitted, I was interested in hearing what these cats might say.

โ€œMister. Fry.โ€ That’s me. Doctor Jones was using the extended version of my name: Lengthening the ‘Mister’ and pausing before the ‘Fry.’ She’d done that the day before, when I’d brought the rabbit in. I looked up and Hannah exhibited a different body language: Rather than holding the door open with her arm, she was striking a pose which blocked the corridor behind her, by standing in the middle of the doorway. This looked defensive, which wasn’t good. โ€œCome with me, please.โ€ I followed her dutifully and quietly along the corridor to her lab.

Everything was more or less how I remembered it, and Charles was still there. He’d made a little home for himself. Someone had provided a cat basket, which he was sitting in, looking out, and still looking like he wanted to say something. The front of the basket was open and there were food and water bowls, and a litter tray just in front. He’d clearly used the litter tray: I’d trained him well in the short time I’d had him.

โ€œYou left your rabbit behind, Mr Fry.โ€ This was obvious.

โ€œI know,โ€ I said. โ€œI honestly didn’t realise until this morning.โ€ Which I hadn’t.

โ€œWell, Charles has been in safe hands.โ€ I looked at Hannah’s hands.

โ€œWell, obviously, and I’m grateful. It’s a bit like getting run over by an ambulance really. I mean, if you’re going to absent mindedly leave a rabbit somewhere, where better than a vets?โ€ I was trying to break through the tension, as Doctor Jones still looked defensive.

โ€œNot mine, Mr Fry. No, Charles has been in the safe hands of the police.โ€ The police? What had he done?

โ€œWhat did he do?โ€ I asked.

โ€œHe scared the shit out of me, Mr Fry.โ€

โ€œSo you called the police on him? What did they say to him?โ€

โ€œOh Jesus.โ€ I think that’s what Hannah said, as she was sort of talking to the collar of her coat. โ€œNo, Mr Fry. I left shortly after you last night. You were my last case and when you left, I had no reason to return to my lab. I was the first one in this morning. Today is Thursday and I open up on a Thursday. So I was alone in the building when I thought I heard a voice. I didn’t think too much of it, as I was in reception: It could have been someone walking past outside. So I was walking down the corridor to this lab, when I heard the voice again, but louder this time. As I got to that door…โ€ She pointed to the door. โ€œ…I could tell the voice was coming from inside this room. It was a male voice, speaking in German.โ€ German? A German had got into the room? โ€œNaturally, I was somewhat alarmed, so I phoned the police.โ€

โ€œWell, you would, wouldn’t you?โ€ I reassured her. โ€œSo, did they find this German man?โ€

โ€œNo, Mr Fry. Because there wasn’t one to find. The police told me to wait for them out the front. They were here within two or three minutes. They came in and I came with them, as I know the combinations for the doors. When we got to that door…โ€ She pointed to the door again. โ€œ…we all heard the voice.โ€ This was quite gripping. I hoped Hannah was going to be okay. She continued: โ€œOne of the policemen knocked on the door, and the voice said, โ€œDas ist eine tรผrโ€: That is a door. Well, I speak conversational German…โ€ She’s very clever. โ€œ…That is a door, seemed a strange and obvious thing for someone to say. And then I realised.โ€


โ€œThat not only had you left the rabbit behind, but you’d left the fucking computer on, with the speakers turned up.โ€ Ah. And so it would seem that in my frustration, when I’d left the hospital the previous day, I had left the rabbit hooked up with the Babel fish.

โ€œSo what happened then?โ€ I asked.

โ€œWell then, I had to say something. The rabbit wasn’t going to come to the door, and I didn’t want the police breaking it down.โ€

โ€œSo you told them about the Babel fish?โ€

โ€œNo, of course I fucking didn’t.โ€ Hannah was very potty-mouthed today. โ€œNo, I made a complete arse of myself and told them I must’ve left the radio on.โ€ I’d caused Hannah embarrassment. I was embarrassed. โ€œSo, we came in: Myself and two police officers. And that fucking rabbit, was just sitting there, talking German. To the officers, it was a rabbit moving its mouth, like rabbits do; and a voice coming over the speakers: The two weren’t connected. I apologised, cursed myself, and you, and switched the ‘radio’ off. The police took a precautionary look around, then they left.โ€ I felt sorry for Hannah.

โ€œI’m sorry,โ€ I said. โ€œDid you give Charles his little camp here?โ€

โ€œYes, I did. Because no-one else was going to feed and water him. Then I phoned you, three times.โ€ The last missed call on my mobile must have been Hannah’s mobile.

โ€œSo no-one knows about us? I mean, the Babel fish.โ€

โ€œNo. No-one knows, as it should be.โ€ Was this a setback? In any case, Charles was German. I didn’t speak German and I hadn’t worked out how to translate between human languages. Hannah did speak German but she seemed to want less to do with the whole thing now than she had before. So I was in the room where the Babel fish resided, but I wasn’t going to get far with the rabbit. I was interested in the cats in the waiting room; especially the little tiger. โ€œWhat is it you’re looking for, Mr Fry?โ€ I was looking out of the window, just generally. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.

โ€œErm, nothing,โ€ I said. For once, could I be Doctor Jones’ focus? โ€œNothing in particular. I mean, unless some sort of answer were to suddenly fly by.โ€ Of course, that would be a metaphor for my life: Suddenly some previously unknown creature flaps past the window, just as I turn my head away. So I kept looking.

โ€œBut, I mean, in life. What do you hope to gain from talking with the animals? What about the spaceships we took to the park?โ€

โ€œAnswers, doctor. My work brings me into contact with a lot of people, things and situations. The ships and the Babel fish have made me wonder many more things: Is it all connected? Where did the aliens come from? Are there more of them? What do they want? How long have they been here? And then the Babel fish: Maybe I’ve not been asking the right questions. Perhaps I over-analyse things and maybe some of those animals can simplify things for me. They’re not tarnished by modern human life; They don’t have jobs, don’t have to pay rent; Just make sure the family is fed and they have shelter. Is a life without politics and capitalism a better one for its simplicity, or would the animals make a better job than we did, if they’d evolved to be this planet’s dominant species? I just feel we owe them for all the damage we’ve caused, trampling all over their world, like invaders; Stealing their land, enslaving them, forcing them to rear young for our own consumption, then killing them. These are things which might sit awkwardly with many people if they gave it thought. Most people don’t. I do and I just want to find a simple answer, so that I can tell the rest of the world what it’s about and we can all get along.โ€

โ€œI can’t answer your questions, Mr Fry. Maybe no-one can. Perhaps you’re right and you’ve not been asking the right questions of the right people, or things. But I don’t know what the right questions are. I suppose they’re the ones to which the answers make sense.โ€ I thought that was quite philosophical. Everything comes down to philosophy in the end.

I realised this might be the last time I saw Hannah: I’d run out of animals to bring her and I couldn’t acquire more. Perhaps it was time to leave the Babel fish and wait to see what developed from my project with Gilbert Giles. That was highly likely to be short-lived, so perhaps I needed to look for answers elsewhere, or just stop questioning. It had been so tantalising to have the spokespersons for the animal kingdom at my disposal, but not to have found one who seemed anything like on-topic. Of course, I hadn’t spoken to any of them yet though: I’d heard them speak; I’d heard them respond to questions from Doctor Jones and their humans; and I’d thought for a second that the mynah bird had read my mind. I just had to speak, or think. And I needed to know what to speak or think about.

It may have been Hannah taking pity on me, but I didn’t ask why she let me stay in the lab that afternoon. I had one last chance, without having to ask for it. The arrangement would be as before: She would consult with her patients and their humans, and I would observe from the corner, using the Babel fish. I switched on the computer, twiddled some knobs, and adjusted the microphone and speaker levels, then I put the headphones on. While I waited for the first patient, I tried the fish out on the rabbit. It was still tuned to ‘Rabbit’ from the last abandoned session.

โ€œ…sie ist nett.โ€ What? Hannah was right: Charles’ German accent was quite intimidating. โ€œIch glaube, sie mag dish.โ€

Sometimes, something can be right in front of you all the time and you just don’t notice it’s there. Like, if you work with a word processor every day, knowing yourself to be very proficient and sometimes congratulating yourself on your cleverness with the things you can do. Then one day, you discover a function which you’d never noticed before, because you didn’t know what it was. Then it proves to be just the thing you need to make your life a little easier. In my word processor example, it was a means of numbering pages a certain way. With the Babel fish, it was a second ‘Translate’ function. As far as I’d been aware, the drop-down menu contained all of the translation tools: I chose a type of animal, then there were various sub-menus in further drop-down lists, to narrow things down. But even though this was a universal translation program, running on a quantum computer, it still used the Windows operating system. So under ‘File’, was another translation function. At first, I assumed it to be a duplicate of the drop-down menus, but when I clicked on it, I got different sub-menus: Languages. Not animal languages, but national and regional ones. So the drop-down menu translated any animal to human, and now this other one translated human languages. So I selected Rabbit>Human, then German>English. It was so simple, it had been there all the time and I hadn’t noticed.

By now, Hannah’s first patients were being brought in: Duncan the cat and Cow cat. I tuned to Feline>Domestic, wondering if I might need the second translator. But these two were definitely London cats. Without the benefit of the Babel fish, the cats were growling at one another from their respective baskets. As soon as I put the headphones on though, a conversation emerged:

โ€œ…you were s’posed to be watchin’ the doors, ya silly car.โ€ This was tabby Duncan to the black and white cat. Interestingly, the secondary translation menu in the Babel fish had ‘Cockney’ under the ‘Dialects’ options. I noticed it had one for Geordie as well. Doctor Hannah Jones herself had designed and built this thing. I set this secondary function to Cockney>English, and Duncan’s voice was still like that of Danny Dyer, but without his London inflections. โ€œ…all you had to do was watch the bloody doors,โ€ Duncan continued. โ€œYou had one job.โ€

โ€œYeah, but you didn’t tell me ‘ow many bloody doors there were, did ya?โ€ This was Cow cat, sounding like Pat Butcher, then like Pam St. Clement when the Cockney was translated to English. โ€œIt was a big house.โ€ I wondered what Cockney alley cat mission they’d been on.

The cats both belonged to the young girl, or rather, the cats had a girl. As Hannah read from her clipboard, it transpired that the girl was called Lola, Duncan was Duncan Jones, Cow cat was called Cow cat, and mum was just mum.

โ€œWhat seems to be the problem with these two then?โ€ Hannah asked Lola.

โ€œI think they were fighting last night. Duncan is limping a bit and Cow cat has been growling a lot. Could you check them over please?โ€

โ€œOf course. Let’s have a look…โ€ Hannah took Duncan from his basket and Lola opened cow cat’s, who then sat at the entrance.

โ€œWanker,โ€ said Cow cat, looking at Duncan. โ€œI hope she puts you to sleep.โ€ What had Duncan done to deserve something so harsh?

โ€œWho rattled your basket, you tart?โ€ Duncan was now speaking to Cow cat. Both cats were speaking in growls and I wondered again if this was the sole basis for the Babel fish’s translations, or if it was somehow reading and broadcasting thoughts. The latter scenario could have quite alarming possibilities in a different setting. If, one day, for whatever reason, everyone had an in-built Babel fish, no thoughts would be secret. I could think of at least one scenario where that might work in my favour. โ€œWell, if she puts me to sleep, I hope she doesn’t do it to you. Because then you’ll realise you miss me.โ€ Duncan was quite deep in his thoughts.

โ€œCan’t you tell this woman I’ve twisted my back leg?โ€ Duncan meowed at Lola.

โ€œI think he’s just twisted his leg, at the back,โ€ Lola said to Hannah.

โ€œWell, I can’t see anything else wrong. Let’s have a look.โ€ Hannah squeezed Duncan’s belly to check for any twists or blockages internally, then lifted his back legs off of the table.

โ€œI am not a wheelbarrow,โ€ Duncan protested. โ€œOw, ya fucker! Yes! There! Cor fuckin’ ‘ell!โ€ The translation seemed a little confused as Duncan squealed.

โ€œYes,โ€ said Hannah. โ€œYou’re right, young doctor: A bit bruised and maybe sprained; nothing broken though.โ€

โ€œApart from my heart,โ€ said Duncan, as he walked back into his basket. โ€œBitchโ€. He seemed to be addressing the other basket.

โ€œNow, young lady.โ€ Hannah picked up Cow cat. โ€œWhat have you been up to then?โ€

โ€œI ain’t bin up to nuffink. It was ‘im.โ€ She nodded at Duncan’s basket. ‘Go rand there, ‘e sed. Watch that bladdy door.’ So, I go and there’s two bladdy doors ain’t there? So I got me bladdy tail shut in one didn’t I?โ€

โ€œYes, she’s got a bit of a kink in her tail here,โ€ Hannah pointed out to Lola. โ€œThere’s no bite marks though; no broken skin. I think it’s just bruised.โ€

โ€œBladdy right it’s bruised. You got some tablets or summink?โ€

โ€œSo I’ll just write a prescription,โ€ Hannah explained to Lola. โ€œIt’s just some painkillers. They’ll be fine in a couple of days.โ€

โ€œ‘ear that you old tart?โ€ said Duncan from his basket. โ€œYou can stop yer bladdy moanin’โ€

โ€œOh, shuddap ya silly sod. I ‘ope they forget to take you ‘ome,โ€ replied Cow cat, now back in her basket. But Lola, mum, Hannah and the two cats left together. I’d have loved to have gone with them, just to listen to the cats some more, and find out exactly what was going on.

I looked at the rabbit again, looking like it wanted to say something. I set the translations for Rabbit>Human and German>English. Charles just looked at me, saying nothing. Perhaps I should prompt him? What would I ask him? I hadn’t begun to process a question, before Hannah returned with a the young lad and the man with the toyger. The little tiger was called Karu, and his human was Louis. Karu was there to be ID chipped and out of the basket, he was a magnificent little animal: The toyger is the product of selectively breeding short-haired tabbies, as far back as the 1980s. The result is a domestic moggie which looks to all intents like a miniature tiger, and Karu seemed as confident as any larger tiger might. The only sound he made was a purr, as the chip was inserted into his neck ruff. I tuned the Babel fish back to Cat>Human:

โ€œHuman. Human. Human. Human.โ€ Karu was looking around, so presumably counting the four humans in the room. He paid no attention to Charles. โ€œYou need us now, human.โ€ Was he talking to me? โ€œ3000 years ago, we needed you. 3000 years from now, we will need you again.โ€ Could this little guy confirm some of our ancient alien theories? Had ancient civilisations helped just cats, or were there cat gods, as depicted in ancient gliphs? Had mankind been put on Earth by extraterrestrial cat people, as some kind of experiment, or for some purpose? There were many wild theories. Why would they need us again? Why did we need them now? โ€œYou need us, human. But if you don’t listen, you won’t hear us.โ€ Me, or us? He only spoke in the singular. I was listening, through the headphones.

But Karu said nothing more. His chip implanted, he calmly walked back into his basket and settled in for the ride. He had a bit of the regal in him, like a wealthy man of old, seated in a sedan chair carried by two servants.

And that was to be the end of Doctor Jones’ consultations for the day. When she returned to the lab, she said she needed to go out on field calls. I took this as my cue to leave and took a last look at Charles before unplugging the Babel fish. As always, he looked like he was about to say something, but nothing came. I unplugged the headphones, and the speakers popped, as speakers do when a microphone is unplugged. I turned the speakers down to an acceptable level, ushered Charles into his basket and picked him up. I walked to the consulting table and rested Charles, while I spoke to Hannah:

โ€œHannah, thank you for putting up with me again.โ€

โ€œIt’s been…โ€ She paused. โ€œIt’s been, fascinating Mr Fry.โ€ Fascinating was better than interesting. She was a fascinating woman herself. As I looked at her, all I could think was, ‘I wish you only what’s best for you’.

As Charles and I made our way to the door, I thought I heard a voice:

โ€œI think I’ve fallen in love with you.โ€ It wasn’t Hannah. It wasn’t me. It must have been the Babel fish picking up Charles’ voice. I wondered what Hannah might make of it, if she’d heard it. Sometimes it’s best just not to know something.

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I’ve told myself a billion times not to exaggerate, but my studio was a shit hole: Not untidy or unhygienic, just dusty. But cleaning the studio posed existential risks. If ever there were a perfect excuse for not dusting, there it was: The very existence of many species, and perhaps entire races, was at the mercy of a tin of Mr Muscle furniture polish and a Vileda cloth. What was I to do with such a predicament?

I decided I wouldn’t vacuum but that I’d dust, and I’d keep the dust. That way, I minimised the risk of inadvertently destroying species or races, or being the catalyst for some pan-dimensional sub-atomic Armageddon. The spacecraft I’d found on my typewriter were the size of grains of sand, possibly smaller. I knew that they had the ability to alter their size: The black mamba ship’s captain had spoken of a ‘Restore’ function, when he was mocking the humans in the other space ship. Hannah and I had set the animal ship free.

The human craft had perished in a freak fire, perhaps recorded in their future prehistoric records as an inferno from a sun god. Ancient alien theorists maintain that mankind had contact with extraterrestrials whom they perceived as gods, many millennia ago on Earth. Some encounters were with purely altruistic gods, who passed on knowledge for humanity’s benefit. Others could have been warnings to stay away, to stop. Some of the wilder theories posit that humans are a genetically modified race born of the stars; others that we are an elaborate experiment, or slaves to a cause unknown to us: Parts of a machine, or a computer simulation.

In reality, the destruction of a ship with all hands lost was brought about by a magnifying glass held at an angle in the sun’s rays. They were a bunch of sanctimonious wankers who’d stolen plans from another race to build a ship, only to be inept enough to miss one crucial point: Where they came from, intergalactic travel required shrinking a vessel and its occupants to microscopic size to travel through wormholes, then restoring everything to normal size on the other side. They overlooked this. Although it pained me, I couldn’t help feeling they deserved what they got, if only for evolutionary purposes, or the prevention thereof.

A Pot Noodle tub provided the perfect vessel to transport any populations which might be among my household dust. I’d often wondered what was in those things (not poodle, according to the advertised ingredients). As I cleaned each surface, I pondered what I might be collecting: Warring armadas; the first wave of a race of aliens intent on populating Earth, or seeking refuge, following the defeat of an enemy or fleeing persecution: refugees, pursued by the captors they are escaping. There were many possibilities. But among them was the chance that I was merely dusting away wreckage, carnage, an aftermath: one which might have been prevented if these creatures had been offered asylum sooner, but for my reluctance to clean my studio. Extinction because of one man’s whim. And of course, it could just be dust. Dot and Dash, the original two ships, could have been unique to each of them: Pioneering explorers, neither of which returned; Those they left behind, wondering if their heroes made it. Perhaps they’d come to find out, assuming no news to be good. Or they might have simply given up. The ships could have been lost, not in their stories but in their navigation: Perhaps this wasn’t where they’d wanted to end up. The possibilities multiplied and with them, so did the questions, exponentially.

I might have been pondering aloud at some points. As I dusted around Victoria Wood and Julie Walters, they came out to see what was going on. I suppose you would if your home was being lifted from the ground. They came to the bars and twitched their noses, like mice do. They twitched at me and at one another. Were they talking? To whom? Themselves or me? Either way, they were captive; Imprisoned behind a door which they might not contemplate in the same way as me: A simple one-click mechanism without so much as a lock which they could see. It was simple: obvious to me and right under their noses, yet they couldn’t see it.

Among the preserved detritus in the studio was Charles, my German rabbit: He seemed less bothered about life, wandering around his new world in my studio, and probably not contemplating everything in the same way I was. He just looked like he wanted to tell everything something.

Once I’d gathered most of the dust into the Pot Noodle container, I sat at my typewriter to contemplate what to do next. I pondered spending the rest of the day writing: I had plenty of unfinished projects; mainly research, some fiction and others, factual. I was writing this book after all. I thought about phoning Hannah and just asking her if she fancied meeting up, just as friends. Perhaps we could get another coffee? I had what I thought was her mobile number in any case: I had it saved under ‘Hannah, mobile,’ just above ‘Hannah, work.’ I’d enjoyed our last time together in the park. I’d very much enjoyed my evening out with Gil, and wondered if Hannah might want to know about my other experiment. I really wanted to find out more of what Victoria, Julia and Charles might be saying, or thinking. But I’d taken all of them to the hospital recently, and all had been given a clean bill of health, which wouldn’t have declined in just a few days, unless I’d been neglecting them. Far from it, all of my guests were enjoying the sort of service and food I’d expect if I were in a hotel, if I was them. The excuse I seemed to be looking for was right in front of me: The Pot Noodle pot.

No matter that I was quite well know at Hannah’s place of work by now, I still had to complete a form every time I visited. For ‘Pet type / breed’, I wrote ‘Not poodle’. There were only two other people in the waiting room: A lady and her dog, a West Highland Terrier.

I twirled the pot around in my hands as I sat waiting. It was one of the orangey-brown ones: ‘Original curry’. If what I’d eaten from that pot was how curry originally tasted, I was thankful to our Indian cousins for changing it. But what did that pot, which once held the slag of snacks, contain now? What might we see under the doctor’s microscope, assuming I was allowed to use it? I ticked off the obvious things in my mind: Dust, my hair, dust, Charles’ fur, dust. There may be a turd or two from under Victoria and Julie’s cage. There’d be skin flakes, dust mites, and more dust. In amongst all that other dust, there just might be one or more tiny space ships.

โ€œMr Fry.โ€ That’s me. Doctor Jones had a voice which could instantly tear me away from my daydreams.

โ€œYes, Ha… Doc…tor Jones.โ€ I’d almost been over-familiar, but I’d stopped myself and changed tack. But in doing so, I’d just called Doctor Jones ‘Haddock’.

โ€œCome with me please, Mr Fry.โ€ I was being called first, before the lady and the little white Scotsman. As we walked along the corridor to the lab, Hannah continued: โ€œI see you don’t have a poodle, nor anything else that’s living, as far as I can see. So what brings you here this time?โ€

โ€œWell,โ€ I said. โ€œIt’s this Pot Noodle.โ€ Good start. โ€œOr rather, what’s in it.โ€

โ€œMr Fry, we are not Food Standards.โ€

โ€œNo,โ€ I agreed. โ€œNo, it’s what’s in here now.โ€

โ€œAnd what have you caught this time, Mr Fry?โ€

โ€œWell, that’s the thing. I don’t know. It’s dust from my studio.โ€ Then Hannah said one of those things she says:

โ€œWhat the fuck?โ€ She was very clever, and that potty mouth of hers made her even more attractive. It made me think that I needed to rein in my thoughts if we were to use the Babel fish, given that I suspected it could interpret brain waves.

โ€œWell,โ€ I continued. โ€œWell, you see. The thing is, or the things. You remember those space ships we found?โ€

โ€œYou found those, Mr Fry.โ€

โ€œWell, yes. But I didn’t know what they were. It was us who made the discovery, together.โ€ I hoped that didn’t sound too dramatic.

โ€œAnd you suspect that there might be more. So you’ve brought all the dust from your home, to show me at work. So that we can look under the big microscope and see if there are aliens in it.โ€ She really was very clever indeed. โ€œWell, seeing as you’re here.โ€ We were in the lab by now. โ€œI called you first as I thought you’d want to use the fish. I only have one patient to see, but be my guest.โ€ She was very intuitive. One might even think she could read my mind.

I knew what I was expecting, so I twiddled the knobs on the computer and set it to ‘Dog,’ then fine-tuned and waited. The lady looked quite surprised to see me. I wondered what else she might expect: She’d seen me leave the waiting room with Hannah, but not seen me return. Hannah had returned on her own and the corridor led directly to the lab. But the lady still looked surprised to see me there. If I’d not been there, would she have been less surprised, when the only way for me not to be there would be if I’d climbed out of the window?

โ€œDon’t worry about him,โ€ Hannah said to the woman. It was too early for a prognosis on the dog, so I assumed she was talking about me. โ€œSo you’re Nettie, and this is Jake.โ€

โ€œYes.โ€ I was riveted, so I put the headphones on.

โ€œSo what seems to be the problem with Jake?โ€

โ€œWell, it’s mainly his skin. But he’s been a bit…โ€ The woman paused. โ€œHe’s been a bit, well, naughty I suppose.โ€ Well, that helped.

โ€œOch, yee dan’t neigh the haff o’ it, woman.โ€ I was listening to Jake now. I fine-tuned the Babel fish in the languages menu: Glaswegian>English. โ€œI heed a doomp, underrrr yee beed.โ€ The translation took a while to compute. โ€œWe need tee geet woors a mawgay, so aa heave a bairrrn to bleem.โ€: They needed to get a cat, so the dog had someone to blame.

โ€œHow do you mean, naughty?โ€ Hannah asked.

โ€œWell,โ€ said Nettie. โ€œHe’s been tearing up toys, being fussy about his food, and just a bit down, really.โ€

โ€œReally?โ€ Hannah repeated. โ€œHe’s…โ€ Hannah moved her glasses into that strange position I’d seen before: Sort of at a forty-five degree angle on her face, so that she was only looking through one lens at her notes. โ€œHe’s just turned three.โ€

โ€œArm fifteen, ya knee?โ€ Dogs apparently do have their own version of years.

โ€œSo in dog years, that makes him a teenager,โ€ Hannah continued. โ€œSo what you’ve got, is a toddler and an adolescent, all at the same time. Westies can be quite restless and prone to angst anyway. They’re great family dogs but they’re instinctively a working dog, so they want to get out and hunt rodents. Wanting to go out and chase things around? Breaking things in frustration? Sulking? What do those things all have in common?โ€

โ€œI don’t know.โ€ Nettie still looked confused. I wondered for a moment if me climbing out of the window might actually help.

It really is funny, the things you can see in clouds. Floating in the sky outside were nine clouds in all, of various cloud shapes and sizes, all looking like clouds. But their tranquil appearance could be cover for their inner intent; cloaked ships, like a Vogon constructor fleet, wrapped in candy floss. Douglas Adams said he was lying on top of a haystack, looking up at the sky, when he conceived The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. JK Rowling had a Scottie dog. I wondered if I needed to add a little cloud like Jake to my growing menagerie at home. I wondered if having a dog might help my writing, so that it might be taken more seriously. But that was more fiction.

But if I had a dog, we could go out for walks. If I could talk to the dog, it would be even better: We could talk about things, like the best shape for a stick, or the different sounds the colours of cars make. When you throw a stick for a dog, does it enthusiastically bring it back to you, because it thinks you like throwing sticks? We probably wouldn’t talk much about maths, but there’s a very simple equation for happiness: Happiness is equal to or greater than the events of your life, minus your expectations of how life should be. Surely the happiest person in my household would be the dog, precisely because his or her expectations extend no further than being fed twice a day and going for walks. Open a packet of biscuits, and the dog is winning: He or she aims low, but they pretty much nail it every day as a result.

โ€œMr Fry?โ€ That’s me. Hannah was talking to me. โ€œAre you okay? You look miles away.โ€ As such, I descended from the clouds and tuned back in to the one on the examination table.

โ€œYes,โ€ I said. โ€œJust trying not to think aloud.โ€

โ€œSo,โ€ Hannah continued, skewing her glasses again to half look at her notes. โ€œI can see his atopic dermatitis and hyperpigmentation are responding well to treatment.โ€

โ€œHis what?โ€

โ€œHis sensitive skin and red blotches: The cream is working.โ€

โ€œOh good.โ€ Nettie looked relieved. โ€œWe did think we might have to have him put down at one point.โ€

โ€œYee can put me doon noo if yee wanny. On the feckin’ floor.โ€

โ€œNo,โ€ Hannah said, โ€œjust think of him as a toddler teenager with acne.โ€

โ€œAye. Arm feelin’ a bit doon. Get was hoom, so are keen sit on was lap and yee feed me wharl yee stooff yer cakehole. Put some telly awn, so are keen shoot at it.โ€ I don’t know if the Babel fish was having trouble with the accent and making it sound more like Newcastle, but I’ve tried to transcribe what I heard as accurately as possible. As Nettie, Jake and Hannah left, I was taking off the headphones when I heard one of those curious things: โ€œI just don’t understand.โ€ I unplugged the headphones but left the speakers on. Hannah would want to hear the aliens again, if indeed there were any.

I looked at the Pot Noodle again, then at the clouds outside: Nine had become three, different sized, differently shaped clouds. One was moving toward another just as Hannah walked back in, which was rather splendid timing.

โ€œSo,โ€ she said, โ€œnot poodle.โ€

โ€œYes,โ€ I said.

โ€œShall we get your toys out?โ€ Perhaps Hannah was taking this toddler / teenager thing to a more patronising level. โ€œMr Fry?โ€

โ€œErm, yes, Ha… Doctor.โ€ Oh, for fuck’s sake.

โ€œHannah is fine.โ€ I was glad. If Hannah’s okay, that’s okay. โ€œLet’s lay out some paper.โ€

โ€œLay out some paper?โ€ What? Why?

โ€œYes. We’ll lay a load of printer paper down on the floor, then tip your dust onto it. Then we’ll scan over it and look for anything that’s moving.โ€ She was very clever. โ€œYou do realise, before we do this,โ€ Hannah said, โ€œthose two things from last time, they might be the only ones.โ€

โ€œBut equally, they might not,โ€ I asserted.

โ€œI know, Mr Fry. And I know how much you want this to be. Just don’t get your hopes up mate.โ€ MATE!? MATE? MATE! Did she just call me mate, or did she think it? Or did I imagine it? Some things are best left unknown.

It was like staring at a clear night sky, not knowing where in the world you are or what time it is, scanning and hoping to spot the International Space Station float over: A tiny, white speck, like a little moving star. Our canvas was smaller than the night sky and we were looking for black on white. But just as white chalk on a blackboard is the same as black ink on white paper, this was the same as watching the sky.

โ€œThere!โ€ Hannah said, quicker than I’d expected. โ€œAnd there! Grab a flask.โ€ I handed Hannah a glass beaker and her hand hovered over the white sky, ready to bring down a huge dome on top of whatever was running around down there. Then I noticed one, then another. I started to itch, not mentally but because these little dark dots could be mites or fleas. Whatever they were, they seemed to be waking up. โ€œI think,โ€ Hannah started, โ€œwe should just plonk a lump of this stuff into something.โ€ ‘Plonk’, ‘Lump’ and ‘Stuff’ were now scientific terms, used in the process of collecting and extracting subjects for analysis. Pretty soon, we’d plonked a lump of stuff in a Petri dish, treated with the same inert adhesive coating that we’d employed before. When we’d found stuff.

Everything was poised over this plonked lump of stuff: Unbeknown to those below, a hugely powerful telescope was bearing down on them and their every word was being heard. Meanwhile, they were oblivious. Now, Hannah was driving and I was a willing passenger sitting next to her.

The first thing we saw was a dust mite: a gargantuan alien beast at this magnification. Although stuck in the solution, its front end was unimpeded and it appeared to be shovelling things into its face. It was quite an endearing thing actually: Magnified many, many times, it had a face, which gave it personality. It continued to just shovel away; to go about its sole business of shovelling skin cells into its mouth and knowing nothing other than what was in its mind: The shovelling of food. Although there were potentially many more, and even more interesting things to find in this micro universe, I was intrigued to hear what this shovelling machine might be saying or thinking. But the Babel fish didn’t seem to stretch to life which is
naturally microscopic in size.

We scanned around the Petri dish with the microscope’s remote controlled camera. Like before, the view on the monitor was as though Hannah was piloting a ship around a giant alien landscape. Except this time, it was more of a junk yard on some distant planet. Individual grains of dust were like boulders, and strands of hair, like massive twisted metal bars. Every now and then, there were more mites, shovelling; and many smaller, worm-like things: bacteria, I assumed. I wasn’t sure if I was excited or apprehensive about the prospects of finding another spacecraft, but I felt relief when we did. But it was a circular ship, like the original Dot, and that had been a human ship. I really, really hoped that we’d find another one like the original Dash: A long ship carrying animals.

We zoomed in on the domed top of the circular ship, to the bridge. There, three men in robes stood around a circular table: Druids around a command console. One of them spoke:

โ€œReveal yourselves!โ€ Nothing happened. โ€œWe are a rescue party. Our brothers came here and didn’t return. We come in peace, to discover their fate.โ€

โ€œDid you work out the restore function before you left?โ€ It was a rasping voice: It was a snake. Had the original one somehow got back into my studio? This seemed highly improbable, so this must be a different snake. Hannah panned out with the camera. The long ship was parked probably about a centimetre away from the saucer, hidden behind boulders, twisted metal and other debris. Although the distance was less than half an inch, it was vast in relation to the size of the ships. We maintained our position and listened in as the man spoke again:

โ€œWhere are you? What is this restore function you speak of?โ€ They clearly hadn’t thought of it. I relaxed, and listened more intently, now that a potential problem was out of the way.

โ€œI can see you, but you can’t see me.โ€: It was the snake again, with a teasing tone.

โ€œWant to zoom in on him?โ€ Hannah asked.

โ€œOf course,โ€ I said, perhaps slightly too enthusiastically. But one thing puzzled me: โ€œHannah, how are you able to translate two languages at once? I mean, I’m assuming the men there are speaking in some alien tongue and not English? And although the snakes are clearly an advanced race, I wouldn’t imagine English is their native language?โ€

โ€œNo, you’re right,โ€ Hannah answered. โ€œI just select Auto-detect on the Babel fish. Look, here.โ€ She pointed to the program’s on-screen interface. Sure enough, there was an Auto-detect function in the Options menu, just like Google Translate. It had been there all the time. It would seem that wherever there’s a simple solution to something in plain view, I’ll find a more complicated way of not using it. Hannah zoomed in on the snake’s ship and there he was, sitting (if indeed it’s possible for a snake to sit) in the captain’s seat, speaking into a microphone. He was a black mamba but he was a different one, although apparently with the same personality as the last:

โ€œI’m over here.โ€ Captain Mamba was almost singing now. I should imagine the humans were none the wiser about where here actually was. โ€œExcept I won’t be here for long. Because my ship has the restore function, which we left out of our plans because we knew you’d steal them.โ€

โ€œWhat is the restore function?โ€ The man sounded angry.

โ€œOn my ship, it’s a big, red button, which says ‘RESTORE’ on it, in large, friendly letters. Do you have one, man?โ€


โ€œWell, you’re a bit fucked then, aren’t you?โ€


โ€œOh for Ra’s sake, man. Will you ever evolve?โ€

Ra was an ancient Egyptian Sun god and the ancient Egyptians worshipped snakes. Based on the last snake captain’s dismissal of man’s God, was it right to suppose that Ra actually existed; that he was worshipped as a god when that’s what the ancient Egyptians would have perceived him as, when in fact he was an alien, who’d visited Earth thousands of years ago? This was certainly one of many foundations of ancient aliens theorists. The snake continued:

โ€œYour trailblazers made the same mistake: In their haste to construct their transport, using plans stolen from us, they didn’t think ahead. They didn’t check things over. Consequently, their ship’s run routine did exactly what it was programmed to do: It shrunk to sub-atomic size, so that it could travel millions of light years through a wormhole. But theirs lacked the part of the run routine which you have also missed: The restore function. A big, red button which restores the crew to normal size. But not the ship. That would give us away somewhat. Without the ship though, we are free to return to normal size at our target destination, so that we can blend in and live freely with the others on this planet. It was always a one-way trip. We understood that. We wanted nothing more, as we were fleeing persecution. You have a return ticket if you’d like to use it.โ€

โ€œHow?โ€ The man seemed lost and impatient, which I supposed he would be.

โ€œYou can simply return, through the wormhole. But even if you do, you’re still fucked.โ€

โ€œWhy?โ€ He was growing angry again.

โ€œBecause you’ll get home and you’ll still be microscopic in size. Your physical biology changed as soon as your ship launched. With the restore function missing, you’ll still be tiny back on your home planet. No-one will ever know you are there.โ€ This particular branch of mankind, or whatever they were, was indeed a bit screwed. โ€œYou can stay here, man. But Ra doesn’t want you here: You are not evolved. You’re not ready to explore. You’re here to invade. Word around the campfire here is that your predecessors were destroyed by a bolt of light from the sun. Ra banished them.โ€ Actually, that was Hannah with a magnifying glass.

โ€œCurse you, snake!โ€ the man shouted. โ€œCurse you and all of your kind.โ€

โ€œAh,โ€ said the snake. โ€œJust as we were cursed on Earth, to forever slide around and with no limbs? Well that worked, didn’t it?โ€ I detected sarcasm. โ€œI mean, that really stalled my evolution, didn’t it? Here I sit, limbless. But if your so-called god really had cursed my kind, wouldn’t he have thought to do something about my mouth?โ€

โ€œThis guy certainly has a mouth,โ€ said Hannah.

โ€œOne bite from me, man, and you’d be dead after a few long, agonising hours. And you’d probably beg me to kill you. And if I had hands to hold a gun with, I’d probably do the decent thing. But I don’t have hands, you see? So I can’t put you out of your misery. So I put it to you, that if there even was a god; the one you believe in, he was pretty shit when it came to thinking up curses, wasn’t he?โ€

โ€œHe’s got him there,โ€ I said.

โ€œYeah, this one’s maybe more of a bad ass dude than the last one.โ€ Hannah concurred.

โ€œAnother thing, man.โ€ The snake captain spoke again. โ€œCan your ship do this?โ€ As we looked to see what that might be, the long ship started to move.

โ€œHow can it do that?โ€ I asked. โ€œHow can they move through the adhesive?โ€

โ€œThey’ve obviously found a way, Mr Fry. They’ve seen a problem and set about solving it. And they have. They’re adaptive.โ€

โ€œWhat?โ€ Said the man in the saucer. โ€œCan my ship do what? I can’t see you.โ€

โ€œYou will in a minute, man.โ€ The snake’s ship then travelled slowly, submarine-like, around the barrier of debris it had been concealed behind. But then something else happened: A smaller craft; much smaller, emerged from the stern of the long ship. Then another, and another. Three smaller ships now lined up alongside the larger one. Then it got stranger still, as the three smaller ships grew. Eventually, they were exactly the same size as the mother ship they’d emerged from.

โ€œWhat the?โ€ I started.

โ€œWell, their ability to change size, I assume,โ€ Hannah offered. โ€œIt’s obviously scalable, so that one of these big ships here can carry others which are even smaller. And those others can then restore to a point. To be honest Mr Fry, I’m as intrigued as you are.โ€

โ€œSo,โ€ I wondered, โ€œcould this mean they could re-grow their ships to whatever their original pre-departure size was?โ€

โ€œGiven what we’re seeing, I wouldn’t rule it out. But as Mr Snake here said, they don’t. I can see where he’s coming from and it’s a perfect model.โ€

โ€œHow do you mean?โ€

โ€œWell, he said this is a one-way trip; that they’re fleeing their home planet. They’re not invading; they just need a new home which they can slip into unnoticed. If you think about it, it’s pretty much a perfect plan.โ€ And put like that, it was. In fact, the only people who knew they were on Earth were Hannah and me.

By now, the four long ships were lined up in front of the saucer ship. This was all starting to look a bit unfortunate for the stranded men. Then the snake rasped again:

โ€œYou have a choice, man,โ€ said the mamba captain. Looking at him on the screen, his mouth movements were quite unsubtle: an exaggerated opening and closing, like he was chewing invisible food, far too big for his mouth. If we didn’t have the Babel fish and we were relying on lip-reading alone, he could quite easily have been saying something like, ‘Blah, blah, blah, blah…’.

โ€œWhat choice, serpent?โ€ The man was growing annoyed again. If I were him, I’d try to keep it together.

โ€œWatch your mouth, man. Be careful what you say with that un-evolved, fat tongue of yours. I can help you, man.โ€

โ€œYou speak with forked tongue, snake!โ€

โ€œWell, of course I fucking do. I’m a snake.โ€

โ€œSorry,โ€ Hannah said, as she covered her mouth. โ€œThis mamba guy is awesome.โ€ I concurred.

โ€œYou can help us?โ€ The man asked. โ€œHow would I know we’d be safe on your ship?โ€

โ€œWho said you were getting on my ship?โ€ The mamba rasped.

โ€œYou said you’d help us. I assume you’d let us restore to full size using your ship.โ€

โ€œWhy would I want to do that? To introduce an invasive species to this planet which we are at pains to inhabit with no noticeable effect on our new host; In fact, to aid a symbiotic process with this planet, which needs it’s wildlife replenished?โ€

โ€œWe wouldn’t be invasive. There are only three of us. I promise you.โ€

โ€œNo!โ€ If a snake could bark, it would probably sound just like our black mamba shouting ‘No!‘ โ€œNo, man. You can stay here, or you can go.โ€

โ€œBut if we go, we’re destined to spend the rest of our lives at this microscopic size.โ€

โ€œYes, I know. Good, isn’t it?โ€ I thought I noticed the snake smile. โ€œAnd if you stay, you’re still stuck at that size, and stuck in this viscous substance we’re immersed in. And you’ve not worked out how to move around in it. So like I said, you’re a bit fucked really, aren’t you? But I can help you.โ€


โ€œBy putting you out of your misery, man. I have four battle cruisers with their guns trained on you. It will be quick, I promise. Much quicker than me coming over there and biting you.โ€

โ€œNo!โ€ The man was pleading. He really was stuck with a choice of bad situations.

โ€œVery well,โ€ said the snake, โ€œwe’ll just leave you here.โ€ And they did. The four long ships turned about and moved away from the saucer ship. There were cries for help from the men. โ€œCan’t hear you,โ€ said the snake. โ€œYour supposed god’s alleged curse, took away our ears. He was a good guy, this invention of yours. He made sure we didn’t have to listen to your fucking whining.โ€ This snake was very potty-mouthed. I always knew black mambas had attitude; Now I was seeing it personified, so that I could fully appreciate the level of attitude mambas actually have.

Eventually, the four battle cruisers stopped behind some more debris and the radio transmissions ceased.

โ€œThat was dramatic.โ€ I offered.

โ€œYes,โ€ said Hannah, โ€œand surprising. Shall we see what’s in these four ships?โ€

All four were identical on the outside, to each other and to the original long ship: The one I’d named Dash and which we’d set free in Mountsfield Park, presumably to continue its journey around the planet, dropping various occupants off as they went.

The first we looked at was similar inside to Dash: It had three decks, with the middle one full of foliage and flora, among which various animals were living: We saw apes and monkeys, rodents and mammals, just as you’d expect to see in such an environment on Earth. On the bottom deck was the artificial ocean, where we could see dolphins, the odd shark, various other fish, and coral. These were ecosystems in microcosm.

The second ship was similarly divided but the middle deck was sandy desert. And these ships at full size would have been vast: The desert deck was so deep that it wasn’t entirely surprising to see birds of prey flying above the dunes. In and around the sand and the cacti, we occasionally caught a glimpse of a lizard or snake. In the ocean deck of this ship, there were mainly marine mammals: More dolphins, seals and sea lions; even whales: They were very big ships. And whoever had designed these arks was clearly very technically advanced: The various species in the water would have different needs, and although these trips were apparently brief, those needs would have to be catered for in things like temperature. With seas as big as the ones on the ships, I imagined they must have different temperature zones. In any case, these leviathans were technological wonders.

The theme was continued with the third ship, which carried an ocean on the bottom deck, beneath thick ice on the middle one. Here, polar bears, penguins and Arctic foxes roamed. Beneath them, an arctic ocean environment. I wondered how Gilbert Giles was doing with making copies of me, because I couldn’t process all of this alone.

The fourth ship was different: It still had three decks but the middle and lower ones weren’t ecosystems. Instead, the decks were lined with huge wooden crates, each the size of a small house. If one were to walk on the decks, each would be the size of a large town, home to a few thousand of these wooden box houses. And yet, each of these cruisers, transport ships, or whatever they were, were the size of a grain of rice, at most.

I didn’t know what to say first. I mean, this whole episode had thrown up so many things: Some were ones we suspected but most, we’d neither suspected nor
expected. I knew how rabbits feel: All rabbits; all the time. This was the literary equivalent of being startled in headlights. So I said the one thing which occurred to me: In my simple but complicated way of thinking about things, it seemed the best question to ask. It was a question which would give rise to many more, thereby complicating the situation. But those questions needed addressing too. And there was only one person I could pose this initial question to, because she was the only other person on the planet who knew about this. She wouldn’t be able to keep this to herself, any more than I could.

โ€œHannah: Would you like to get a drink with me?โ€

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Simon Fry 2

Simon Fry 2.0

Happy people make shit activists: They lack the restlessness which drives change. A world full of them would be a passive and complicit place. Temporarily at least, I was happy. But what to do with our discovery? The happiness would pass but I was due to meet the only person I could talk to about the aliens, the talking animals, and about life, the universe and everything.

We were due to meet in The Station Hotel, where I’d dined with Gil two days previously. I wondered if I should tell Hannah about my other project, to see what she thought. But we had plenty to talk about already. So I figured, let’s just see how we go.

Hannah looked very different out of her lab coat: It wasn’t just that she wasn’t wearing her white coat when she arrived; it was her whole demeanour: More relaxed, perhaps more friendly and less professional. Hannah had never been intimidating, but in her own clothes, she looked warmer. In any case, it was a nice juxtaposition to see her in a different context. It actually took me a second to process that it was her, exactly because she was out of context; Like going to the bank every day and seeing the same cashier, then seeing that person out shopping and not recognising them, because they don’t have a window in front of them.

โ€œSimon.โ€ That’s me. That’s my first name. โ€œSimon?โ€

โ€œOh! Er, yes, Ha…โ€ Oh God. โ€œ…Docโ€. Oh for fuck sake. โ€œHannah, hi. How are you?โ€

โ€œI’m fine. You okay?โ€ I was.

โ€œYes, likewise. Thanks. Er, could I get you a, erm…โ€

โ€œTranslator?โ€ Hannah cocked her glasses in that way she does when she’s reading something: She was surveying the beer taps on the bar. โ€œScrumpy and black please.โ€ This told me a lot and negated the need for a potentially awkward question.

โ€œTwo pints of that, please,โ€ I said to the barman.

Not wishing to clutter the bar, I suggested we take a seat at a table, like the kind people eat food on. I had an agenda.

โ€œHannah, I’ve prepared a list,โ€ I started.

โ€œYou’ve done what?โ€

โ€œIt’s just a little prompt list really, to remind me. You see, I just have so many thoughts and questions.โ€

โ€œSo you’re going to interview me. Again?โ€ Hannah looked over her glasses that time. Her glasses were a part of her, giving her a far greater facial expression range: They enhanced her.

I’m not in the habit of describing people’s looks or attire when I write, because such things are subjective: Some would say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But for a moment, I was struck by Hannah. Perhaps it was simply because she was out of work. Maybe she just took off her white coat before leaving the hospital and was wearing her normal clothes underneath. She was smart and cool: A white shirt under a black suit jacket, with a black T-shirt under-layer; Tight black jeans, and zip-up boots with about a two inch heel, making her the same height as me. She had a white hankie in her breast pocket, and her black-rimmed Vic Reeves / Ronnie Barker glasses completed the monochrome. The only deviation from two tone was her red hair and pale pink complexion. I was wearing a dark tweed cloth cap, which I couldn’t help thinking my companion would carry better. For the sake of continuity, I was also wearing black jeans and trainers; I’d thrown a black denim jacket over a geeky T-shit: ‘USCSS Nostromo’: In my own universe, I’d been a crew member on the commercial towing ship in Ridley Scott’s Alien. I only include all of this for the purpose of recording facts, which may be taken as such, or which I can excuse as my own imagination in telling this story as a work of fiction. In any case, I was in my story. This Hannah thing was just one of those details: It had been there up until now, but now it was striking. But despite all the obvious differences between Doctor Jones at the hospital, and Hannah sitting opposite me now, there was something else: There was something different about her and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. โ€œSimon?โ€ Fact or fiction, that is my name.

โ€œYes, sorry. I was just thinking.โ€ About so many things on my list.

โ€œShall we just go through your shopping list?โ€ My shopping list: The things I wanted.

โ€œRight, yes. Where shall I start?โ€

โ€œFrom the top?โ€

โ€œOh, yes. So, Hannah…โ€



โ€œShouldn’t this be less scripted?โ€

โ€œYes, sorry. I’m more used to reading than talking to people.โ€ It was perhaps a truism: I felt more comfortable with a book in front of my face than an attractive young lady. โ€œDespite having it all written down, I don’t know where to start.โ€

โ€œWhy don’t we start from the end and work back?โ€ Hannah said. And actually, that struck me as a good idea. โ€œSo, what the fuck did we see earlier?โ€ She was just as potty-mouthed out of work. This was a comforting constant. And actually, the last thing on my list, was ‘Ask Hannah out’, meaning ‘Talk to Hannah about all of this.’ So the end of that list was now the beginning of this part of the story.

โ€œWell,โ€ I said. โ€œIf we take it at face value, we just saw two alien races in conflict: Human-types and animals. The human-types are missionaries, spreading the word of some god they believe in. I don’t like them, for many reasons. Somewhere on a very long list of things I don’t like about them, is their apparent absence of any gender equality.โ€

โ€œThey might be asexual?โ€

โ€œI wouldn’t put it past them. They seem more chauvinistic to me though. In any case, I don’t like them.โ€


โ€œThey seem selfish and self-serving. Anyway, I like Captain Mamba.โ€

โ€œHe, or they, are certainly fascinating characters.โ€ Hannah made me think of nice things, when she just said certain words: ‘Ditto’ reminded me of Patrick Swayze in Ghost; and ‘Fascinating,’ of Mr Spock.

โ€œYes,โ€ I agreed. โ€œIn some ways, strangely endearing. And they seem entirely benign. If we take what they say as read, they’re fleeing persecution on their own planet and seeking refuge on another: Ours. They’re subtle, shrinking to microscopic proportions, perhaps so as not to cause hysteria. Once restored to full size โ€“ and the animals, not the ships is a nice touch โ€“ they’re just able to blend in. It seems they might have done some research on our planet too: Didn’t Captain Mamba say something about restocking our endangered species?โ€

โ€œHe did.โ€

โ€œThere is one thing which occurs to me: We could hear and understand them thanks to the Babel fish. But they were talking to each other. Do they just have universal translators, or do animals really speak where they’re from? What happens when they’re back to full size? We have no real way of stopping them, and neither would I want to. It could just be that this will change life on Earth fundamentally, on all sorts of levels.โ€

โ€œWe could end up with talking animals roaming the earth, you mean?โ€

โ€œYes. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Although it could cause all sorts of problems. I don’t mean talking animals, but how humans might perceive them: Would we want to experiment on them? Or would the fact that they could talk to us mean we wouldn’t need to, when they could tell us all we need to know?โ€

โ€œYou’d hope it would be a nice problem to have,โ€ Hannah said. โ€œMaybe they’d know when to keep quiet. As far as they’re concerned, no-one here knows they can talk, if indeed they can; If we can understand them without the Babel fish, I mean. You and I know, but they don’t know that we know, if you see what I mean.โ€

โ€œIt remains paradoxical. It could be interesting.โ€ It could be all sorts of things.

โ€œOnly time will tell,โ€ Hannah offered.

โ€œWell yes,โ€ I agreed. โ€œQuite literally. We’ll have to wait and see, Hannah.โ€

โ€œWe will Simon.โ€ I liked it when Hannah said, ‘we’. Let’s see how we go.

We’d finished our drinks, so Hannah suggested we get another, as we had much to discuss. We had.

โ€œSo,โ€ Hannah said as she sat back down with our drinks: Two more pints of scrumpy cider and blackcurrant. โ€œUnless the human-types work out the restore function, we can pretty much discount them.โ€

โ€œThey might even give up now,โ€ I ventured.

โ€œWe can live in hope,โ€ Hannah agreed. โ€œSo now we just have the animal aliens.โ€

โ€œHannah,โ€ I said. I looked around the room, moved my chair in to the table, and leaned over to speak more quietly. โ€œDon’t you think we should be careful what we say? I mean, in public?โ€

โ€œReally? Simon, we could be talking about a sci-fi film. Or a book. No-one would think this is all for real.โ€ She had a point, but I left my chair where it was anyway. โ€œSo anyway,โ€ she went on, โ€œabout the animals. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to intervene.โ€

โ€œNone at all.โ€ I agreed. โ€œIf it wasn’t for the random sequence of events which found me at your surgery with those things, we wouldn’t even know. I mean, they might have been coming here for centuries, totally unknown to us; to mankind, I mean. They seem to have nothing but good intentions and pose no threat whatsoever.โ€

โ€œIt does make your other question relevant again, Simon: Do they speak to each other where they come from? If they have in fact been coming to Earth for ages, why haven’t we heard Earth animals speaking? I realise that’s a rhetorical question with many theoretical answers. But whatever the reason, I think it’s best that way.โ€

โ€œI agree Hannah. I actually dread to think what might happen to one of those animals if it fell into the hands of science.โ€

โ€œWell, it kind of has Simon.โ€

โ€œWell, I know. But you know what I mean: Experiments and so forth.โ€

โ€œSo now I imagine you’d agree it’s a good idea to keep it to ourselves. I know we could both stand to gain a lot by going public, but I don’t think we should.โ€ I couldn’t help but agree.

โ€œHannah, I’m a fiction writer by trade. I can still write about all of this, but I’ll do so with fiction. As you just said, no-one would believe any of this stuff is real anyway.โ€ Fiction or not, now was as good a place as any to speculate on what might happen next. โ€œSo it’s a logical next step, to set the four animal ships we left in the lab, free. Presumably, they’ll then fly around, dropping various people off to restore themselves. I do wonder if mankind’s conservation efforts are only part of the reason certain animals have been saved from extinction. Perhaps the animal ships have been arriving all along, topping up animals where they need to; all the time, without us realising; right under our noses.โ€

โ€œI doesn’t really matter though, does it Simon?โ€

โ€œAbsolutely not,โ€ I agreed. โ€œIf that has been going on, us Earth humans wouldn’t know: The animals’ shrink-hyperspace-restore system is perfect. And neither should we know, present company excepted of course. Just let mankind keep congratulating itself, for being a partner in it all. Of course, this is all speculative, so I wonder, what next?โ€

โ€œI’d suggest more cider.โ€ Hannah was a thug.

โ€œSplendid behaviour,โ€ I concurred, and made my way to the bar. Just as I’d sat back down, Hannah did one of those unexpected things:

โ€œCheers.โ€ Hannah raised her glass and smiled, either at someone standing just behind me, or at me. I looked behind me, and there was no-one there. So I picked up my drink, we clinked and we drank a toast, to something.

โ€œSo, Hannah,โ€ I didn’t actually know what I was going to say next. I thought ‘So, Hannah,’ would give me time to think, but it didn’t work. There was still so much on my mind, I didn’t know where to start. I figured it was as good a time as any to tell Hannah about Gilbert Giles. How to start on that? ‘There’s a man I know…’; ‘I met a man…’; โ€œHave you heard of a man called Gilbert Giles?โ€ I doubted Hannah had.

โ€œNo.โ€ I was right.

โ€œWell, he’s a microbiologist in Norway, but he has a few sidelines. One is, during tourist season, he takes guided boat tours around the Norwegian coast.โ€ I paused. โ€œHe’s a fjord escort, you see?โ€ Hannah did another strange thing: She spat her drink back into her glass.

โ€œOh, fucking hell.โ€

โ€œYes,โ€ I continued, โ€œhe’s also researching cloning. He’s hoping he can replenish some of the food chain. But so as not to upset any ethics committees, he’s working with frozen organisms from beneath the Norwegian ice. So in effect, no-one will notice what he’s doing. It’s all very covert and exciting. Almost as perfect a stealth model as the alien animals’.โ€

โ€œAnd where do you come into this? How did you meet this Gilbert?โ€

โ€œJust through research. I do a lot of that, especially for the fiction I write. Even though it’s fiction, it has to be at least plausible, so when I’m writing something sciencey, I research the science.โ€

โ€œSo what was he doing that interested you?โ€

โ€œWell, he wasn’t, but he is now, kind of thing. If you see what I mean.โ€

โ€œEr, no.โ€ Hannah could speak and express a subtext, perhaps better than I could write one. Two words, her face, and the position of her spectacles, could speak volumes. But now she looked slightly blank. What thoughts might be evolving behind those black-rimmed windows? Any which might be taking shape continued to do so, as she said nothing at all. I felt I should elaborate:

โ€œWell, you see.โ€ Could she see? I looked behind me again, at where she might be looking, but there was no-one there. I turned back around and leaned in on the table, somewhat conspiratorially and intriguingly, I thought. โ€œYou see, I had this other idea…โ€

โ€œOh God.โ€ I looked behind me again.

โ€œYou see,โ€ I continued, โ€œI thought of another way we might find answers to all the questions we all ask: Scientists.โ€

โ€œNormally a good place to start, granted. And?โ€ Hannah’s left eyebrow started to climb away from the window.

โ€œWell, obviously there are lots of fields for scientists.โ€ And that gave me another thought: โ€œActually, imagine if all those animals really could talk. Some would perhaps be more learned than others. It might be that you could have a herd of cattle, all with doctorates, just wandering around, grazing, having a nice day and being a field of scientists.โ€ I was digressing. โ€œBut I digress. Well, the underlying issue with matters of life, the universe and everything, is, which questions to ask, so that one may understand the answer. Then I thought, but it would also depend on whom you asked the question of.โ€

โ€œWell, of course.โ€ Hannah’s eyebrow had moved back down. โ€œBut what would you ask Gilbert?โ€

โ€œAha!โ€ I looked around to make sure no-one was within earshot. โ€œNo, you see, it’s more subtle than that. It requires further research and experimentation. Even then, we don’t know if it’ll work.โ€

โ€œSubtle sounds like unnecessarily complicated, Simon.โ€

โ€œAh, but it’s not, see. Or rather, it needs to be that way so as not to alert anyone. Very covert.โ€

โ€œAnd what are you planning to do, covertly?โ€

โ€œWell, yes. Not directly, but to see whether it could be done. Without anyone realising. Have you seen Jurassic Park, Hannah?โ€

โ€œYes, I have.โ€ She shook her head slightly, and smiled just a barely discernible, almost reluctant smile. โ€œAnd I am so fucking intrigued…โ€ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, as if to stifle something. โ€œ…to find out what the fuck you’re going to come up with next. You’d better get me another drink.โ€ Behind Hannah’s glasses, her eyes asked questions. Below her spectacles, and underneath her nose, her mouth seemed to grow more potty, perhaps from the alcohol. I had another thought while I was at the bar.

โ€œHannah, I just thought of something,โ€ I said, as I returned with our drinks. โ€œImagine if Mountsfield Park was like Jurassic Park. I mean, it could be: We don’t know what animals the alien ones might bring back. What if some of those crates in the cargo ship we saw, contained dinosaurs. What if we released that ship in Mountsfield Park, like we did the first one? And what if they decided, as soon as we released them, that Mountsfield Park in Lewisham was an ideal habitat for some dinosaurs? Wouldn’t that be fun?โ€

โ€œOh my fucking God.โ€ Potty-mouthed, blasphemous; Perhaps atheist: What a sweetheart hooligan Hannah was. โ€œThere’s a slight plot flaw in that one, Simon: People might notice.โ€

โ€œWell, of course. And fiction needs to be plausible. In any case, the animals’ strategy, as far as we’ve observed, would avoid such a thing. If they were dropping off dinosaurs somewhere, they’d choose somewhere remote, like a deep, dense forest or something. Of course, that throws up all sorts of other possibilities. Including, but not limited to, dinosaurs being in Earth’s impenetrable habitats, all along. And deforestation could be making animals extinct which we don’t even know about.โ€ And of course, there might be something, or someone, who I could really talk to about all this stuff. Someone hidden somewhere, hopefully not extinct.

โ€œWell, that is an almost undeniable fact, Simon. Dinosaurs though? Well, you’re the writer, Mr Fry.โ€

โ€œWell, I like to think so, Doctor Jones. It’s plausible though?โ€

โ€œI can’t deny that, Simon. But you were saying about scientists?โ€

โ€œOh yes.โ€ I was. I’d digressed. โ€œSo, what if we could ask one of the greatest minds ever to have lived, what the answers are?โ€

โ€œIt depends who you’d ask and what you’d ask them.โ€

โ€œAs we said earlier.โ€ I agreed. โ€œSo what if, we could ask someone, who in their own time didn’t have access to all of the information we now have in the twenty first century?โ€

โ€œAsk what? Ask who?โ€

โ€œWell, you see, I haven’t got those two worked out just yet. But theoretically, imagine if we could ask someone like Albert Einstein what he makes of things? You know, if we sat him in front of a computer, or let him watch TV, or some DVDs?โ€

โ€œHe’d have a lot to say. And probably a lot to ask.โ€ As Hannah’s glass rose to her face, so her eyebrows both ascended. It was as though her drink was attached to them. She took a quite impressive gulp of cider as she looked at me down the barrel of the glass, over her spectacles.

โ€œWell, yes. He’d love Google. And lots of technology.โ€ He’d go shit street on the Babel fish, but it was out of respect for Hannah’s wish to not become emotionally involved with animals, that I’d pursued my other line of inquiry. Complete fiction of course, but for a moment, I imagined Einstein sitting in Hannah’s lab, with the headphones on, listening in; Perhaps with me sitting next to him, showing him how all the knobs twiddle things. So many questions, none perhaps with an answer. Like having thought you were in love, many times over; but for different reasons, never finding the one answer. I suppose the question in those circumstances was best asked of myself: Do I want to spend the rest of this life with you? โ€œBut it’s all fiction of course, Hannah.โ€

โ€œOkay.โ€ Hannah took another respectable amount of cider. โ€œBut you’re not going to find Albert Einstein preserved in amber.โ€ I could tell she wasn’t taking this seriously.

โ€œNo,โ€ I said. But his brain is preserved.


โ€œBut all anyone would need is just one strand of preserved DNA and theoretically, it would be possible to clone and resurrect him.โ€

โ€œAlbert Einstein.โ€

โ€œYes, him. Or anyone.โ€

โ€œSimon,โ€ Hannah said.

โ€œHannah,โ€ I said.

โ€œSimon, I’m assuming that even you are not actually proposing this?โ€

โ€œWell, no. Like other poorly thought out plans, that one would be too obvious. I couldn’t really get away with doing a weekly shop with Albert Einstein: I’d be noticed. No, my idea is more subtle. May I?โ€ I hoped that Hannah understood the question, ‘May I?’ as it was intended: A request to take the floor and have the opportunity to explain something, without interruption but with questions at the end.

โ€œPlease do,โ€ she said, making a gesture with her hand, as though she was offering something to me in her palm. If there hadn’t been a table, it was a gesture for me to take the floor; In this case, the table.

โ€œAs I said,โ€ I started. โ€œMine is a plan, an idea. It requires research. It all boils down to two things, which I’ve connected: Gilbert’s project to clone extinct species to improve the planet; And the polar opposite: Human extinction. If Gilbert is successful, he could be a saviour of the planet. But what he’s doing is controversial: Cloning. But not in the way he’s doing it: Quietly, with creatures no-one really knows exist, so won’t know if they pop up again; the repair of the planet being a handy upshot. But what if mankind is ever threatened with extinction? You see, Gilbert’s experiments with cloning would cause a stir if they were conducted on more complex life forms: There’s a high mortality rate and lots of parameters which change with each level of complexity. Essentially, he’s looking for a God gene in a subject; an organism which survives the rigours of a cloning process. But if he can identify that in just one subject, then transfer it into the DNA of another, he’s given the recipe of life to a species, and future generations will pass on that genome. What if such a God gene or survival code was somehow embedded in human DNA? All humans, or a rare defect, which has never caused us any bother because it’s benign, but doing good, right under our noses, without us even knowing? It’s almost impossible, but it’s plausible. It warrants questioning and looking into. But of course, human cloning is way out of any playing field as we stand. But what if something suddenly happened, which threatened the very existence of the human race? Or if we understood that such a threat might be real? I question whether a species should survive under certain circumstances; be allowed to, but I do feel attached to my own kind. So if that survival gene is hidden, somewhere deep in the human genome, but it’s unethical and immoral to conduct the science, we’d normally turn to guinea pigs, rats, or mice. But they’re not human. Their DNA is different. Not much, but enough. We could employ ever darker methods and means of research. I didn’t like that idea. So I’m a guinea pig. There you go. I said it.โ€ And I had…

โ€œWait. So you have volunteered to be cloned?โ€


โ€œYou do realise, you’re not just going to be able to make a full-size replica of yourself, just as you wouldn’t Einstein. You have thought that through I presume? When you said you might be noticed walking around Lewisham with Albert Einstein, you wouldn’t. Not for several years anyway. And that’s all assuming it fucking worked, which I very much doubt.โ€

โ€œYes, well. I’ve thought about it, but not fully thought it through yet. I mean, the chances are so small, the odds stacked against us so strongly, that we’ve not even thought about how things might progress, if we got to the stage where we had a successful clone. The Einstein thing was just the pipe dream that started it all. What we’re looking for is some kind of survival gene, hopefully in my DNA. Hopefully in everyone’s. But to find it, we need a willing volunteer. And that’s me. I accept that possibly thousands of potential mes will perish but if just one of me starts to grow, then we can identify what it is in that one which causes the growth, isolate it and use it in the future, should we need to. Chances are, we won’t. Chances are, the whole experiment won’t work. But if it does, then we can take our results to the appropriate authorities and share them, for the greater good. It’s very subtle, you see?โ€

โ€œSimon, I have to assume certain things: That you, or Gilbert are acting ethically; That the only ethical code being broken is the use of real human DNA but that it’s yours and you’re a willing participant. How do you know that Gilbert’s intentions are purely benign?โ€

โ€œSome things have to be taken on trust, Hannah. But what’s the worst he could do? Manufacture an army of mes? It’s impractical. No, we’re just looking for the one clone of me which survives, so that we can find out how it did that.โ€

โ€œYou do know that you’re talking about microscopic things? I mean, any growth will only be apparent under a microscope. It’s not going to grow in front of your eyes. And you do know that a human embryo needs a host?โ€

โ€œWell, yes. But if a clone is successful, we’ll know long before then. It’s immoral, unethical and illegal to grow a human embryo for longer than 13 days, but we’ll know long before then if the cloning was successful. It’s a one per cent in one per cent chance though, so such details aren’t particularly bothersome.โ€

โ€œIs this not perhaps a bit of a vanity project then, Simon?โ€

โ€œI hadn’t thought of that Hannah, so I can honestly answer no.โ€ Now she came to mention it though, I suppose it was a personal survival instinct prompting me; a quest for immortality, no matter how improbable. But I could also save the human race, should it come to that. Then I’d be of value. I’d have a use and a purpose, for many people and not just one.

โ€œSo what happens now?โ€ Hannah asked. We were back to there.

โ€œWhat’s happening now, is that Gilbert is back in Norway. He’s putting my DNA into donor eggs. Now, I do know that human cloning isn’t a thing yet, because it’s such a numbers game. But the eggs are ethically harvested and I’m a willing donor.โ€

โ€œAnd it probably won’t work.โ€

โ€œIt probably won’t.โ€ I agreed. โ€œAnd I don’t even know Gilbert’s sample size. It could be tens or hundreds. The first I’ll know, is a copy of me starts to grow in my studio.โ€

โ€œYou what?โ€

โ€œWell, Gilbert was only willing to be involved up to a point. He said he’d do all the sciencey bit for me, then the rest was up to me. He’s going to keep a quantity of the potential clones, but he’s said that he’ll not study them; That after 13 days, he’ll destroy them. But he’s sending a sample to me. If my sample does anything in those first 13 days, I’ll contact Gilbert and he’ll look at his control group. He said he would only do that in the unlikely event that I witness growth. If the experiment is a failure, he wants nothing further to do with it. But if it looks promising, that’s why he’s agreed to do it. He knows as I do, that the chances are slim, but if it works, it could be very important.โ€

โ€œAnd how do you plan on conducting your studies, Simon? At a microscopic level?โ€

โ€œWell, I’d need a microscope, Hannah.โ€ We’d had four or five pints of scrumpy cider by then. โ€œActually, I was going to ask you about that.โ€

โ€œOh, fucking hell.โ€

At that very moment, 700-odd miles away, there could conceivably be a new Nordic version of me coming to life: Simon Fry 2.0. But it was very unlikely…

ยฉ Steve Laker, 2017.

Staedtler Noris 122

“If this all sounds a bit weird, that is, because it is. But it all somehowย works,ย and knits together in the manner of surrealist writers likeย Julio Cortazarย andย Otrova Gomas, with a substantial nod, of course, to Douglas Adams, who can make the impossibly strange seem mundane and ordinary.ย Steve Laker pulls this extraordinary juggling act off admirably well, producing a very good, thought-provoking, page-turning, and also at times darkly comic read.”ย (Review by Stephen Hernandez, a translator and interpreter).

So that’s how it starts, and that’s the kind of book it is. That’s the first seven chapters, what an agent might read as 50 pages of A4, and which is the first 140 pages of the book. There are 17 more chapters to go, over another 272 pages: The middle and end of the story (Acts 2 and 3). Every copy of the book bought on the strength of this excerpt will be an informed purchase, and I guarantee a satisfying (albeit perhaps unexpected) ending.

Cyrus song is available now in eBook and paperback.
ISBN: 978-15482501-19

Buy me a coffee one off


A tale of future biblical scribes


I maintain that the bible could be a record of actual events, recorded by the scholars of the time using the language and tools available to them. I’ve suggested that if ancient scribes had access to mobile phones, we’d have far more convincing evidence. I don’t know yet what of.

orangutan_cameraDear Stephen Hawking…โ€

As one who also believes that โ€œGodโ€ could have been an extraterrestrial visitor with advanced technology which we might not even recognise now, I see references to magic mirrors and fire-breathing dragons in the bible, and wonder if they might have been tablet computers and spacecraft.

This came in to The Unfinished Literary Agency earlier (a fictional place of my creation, which exists to tell the stories of others who can’t), as a text file with an attachment I couldn’t open at first. Some books, chapters and verses of the bible are very short (‘Jesus wept’), perhaps because the author didn’t have much time to write…


[1] Then there came a dragon, orange like the sun. [2] The Sun God was angry [3] and the beast he sent was angry. [4] The dragon had the neck of a giraffe, wearing a giant knight’s armour [5] the body of a rhinoceros [6] and the head of a hammerhead shark. [7] The sun dragon snapped trees in half and fed on them. [8] The tree people feared for their homes. [9] Food for the sun dragon was home to the tree people.

[10] Tuan was brave. [11] And the bold one faced the dragon. [12] There were apes with the dragon. [13] They were pale, thin apes. [14] They covered themselves with elaborate loins. [15] There was writing on them. [16] It was in code and glyphs. [17] Tuan could understand them when they spake. [18] Some of the pale apes said they came to help. [19] One pale ape was sitting in the body of the sun dragon. [20] Tuan spoke.

[21] Tuan said, the dragon eats trees. [22] Tuan said, my family live in the trees. [23] Tuan said, the sun dragon took my family. [24] The pale apes didn’t understand.

[25] Tuan fought the dragon. [26] The dragon and the pale apes tricked him. [27] Tuan jumped to join his family [28] away from the jaws of the beast [29] into the disappearing green inferno below.

[30] The tree people wrote stories [31] on the trees. [32] Stories of their gods [33] eaten by another god.

If only there’d been someone there to record it.

I can’t begin to imagine the fear, but I’m humbled by his bravery. This is one of our closest relatives, made homeless by us. And this was filmed five years ago. Since then, forests the size of countries have been cleared, just to feed the selfish human gene.

Greed is murder, and while there are humans doing this, we all have blood on our hands as a species. Perhaps this is what happened to ancient humans once, way back in ancient history, when something they didn’t understand happened. It could happen again, and I have to say, if there are any superior species reading, humans deserve it.

For now, say no to palm oil. One inconvenience in the human food chain could lead to a greater awareness of what all that oil is for: cheap, processed human food, or food for livestock, reared exclusively for human consumption. The more I reduce my meat intake, the greater my awareness that each mouthful of flesh might as well be from an animal on the brink of extinction. It’s only one step removed.

It’s one of the many reasons I wrote Cyrus Song, a mainly vegetarian novel.

Indah“…You called?”

โ€œ…Who knows, if you are looking for the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, you might just find it here, or in the โ€˜Cyrus Songโ€™ of our planet. In the meantime, taking Steve Lakerโ€™s and Stephen Hawkingโ€™s advice, we all need โ€˜to keep talkingโ€™, and as long as there are books like these, keep reading.โ€

The full review is here.

Tuan is a name borrowed from a Bornean orang-utan at Chester Zoo, who operate orang-utan and other conservation projects in south east Asia.ย 

With my head in the cloud cities


As a science fiction writer, I give plausibility to my stories with some grounding in scientific fact. Some of my near-future worlds are simply based on what I see around me, and how things might develop, one way or another. Like many modern thinkers, I can’t imagine life on Earth as we know it more than a few decades from now. The human population is growing, and our planet only has finite resources. We need to move out…

saby-menyhei-cloudcity-final-v001Saby Menyhei

I’m anti-capitalist, generally-speaking (I have to be: I’m an anarchist, and because my own companies folded when I was drinking), and I’ve sometimes wondered, what’s the ultimate aim? Not being rich myself, I simply can’t imagine devoting my life to making as much money as possible, and never really stopping to enjoy it (but then most capitalists are immune to everything but themselves). There’s only so much room on the planet, only so many raw materials and consumers. That’s a discussion for another time, but it’s relevant to humanity’s current position, where people like Stephen Hawking, Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk agree, that humans need to start leaving Earth within the next century. Great minds think alike (and so does mine).

There is one way we could stay on this planet a little longer: If we all turned vegetarian. Any argument that we evolved as carnivores is irrelevant to a species as advanced as ours, able to maintain good health without eating other people. The retort that we’d be over-run with animals if we didn’t eat them is largely redundant, when there are more animals raised as livestock for human consumption than there are animals in the wild. Those animals we rear and breed require food too, and crops to grow that food needs land. We also steal the young and the maternal milk of the animals we share this planet with. We imprison other autonomous, self-determining beings, for our own consumption, simply because we can, and because they can’t argue or fight back.

As the human population has grown, we’ve lacked foresight to keep it in check and maintain a sustainable environment. Instead, we’ve destroyed the homes of others to make way for ourselves, with no apparent thought for the long-term and permanent damage we’ve done, yet still we’re clearing areas of forest for palm oil, to feed ourselves and our livestock. The greater moral and ethical case for vegetarianism though, is the limited size of our one world: It’s theirs, we just live with them. They were here first. As a species, humans are really quite unpleasant, and I pity any other worlds we might one day populate.

We need to shrink our sense of entitlement, accept that there’s no room for human greed, give up much of what we’ve stolen, and make space for the others whose planet we invaded. We’re unique as a species, but not just in our selfishness. We have the ability to communicate in complex language, to imagine and invent. The problem humanity has is itself, when we’re prone to conflict over our own ideals, and because big plans require co-operation. In the absence of any extraterrestrial agent appearing, to unite warring factions against a new and common foe (or interest), the nearest we have is what’s around us. It doesn’t require the imagination of a hostile or altruistic alien visitor, it just needs us to open our eyes to what we’ve done.

Among the few capitalists I admire, Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk represent a positive future, built on technology, and for the benefit of all. They are among long-term visionaries, who see greater gains further ahead than the traditional short-term gain capitalist. They imagine the advancement of humans as a species, through co-operation, exploration and discovery, and they see a future world built on social capitalism. Long-term gains are a satisfaction with life, not currency. But it needs money to get there.

Bezos’ business model is surprisingly simple: He built his fortune through Amazon, which used the existing infrastructure of the internet. His and others’ vision is to build a technological infrastructure which others can plug into, very much like every business which uses the World Wide Web. His is also a massive and ambitious vision: Cloud cities.

We have the technology, and the likes of Bezos and Musk have the money (a fanciful thing like a cloud city isn’t likely to be government or state-sponsored, yet). It’s estimated that there are enough minerals, elements and other raw materials within near-Earth asteroids to build an 8000-storey building which covers the entire surface of the planet, which would clearly defeat the object but it’s illustrative nonetheless.

We can build spacecraft to mine the asteroids, and process the materials to construct infrastructure. Eventually we’d have industrial facilities in Earth orbit, or geostationary in near-Earth space (or even tethered to the surface). From those factories, we can produce, process, and manufacture to fulfil our needs, and we can design and build further, with the cloud cities as outposts for onward future exploration. With its available resources and lack of gravity, space is far better suited to heavy industry than a planetary base.

These early manufacturing facilities in the sky would most likely be fully-automated, operated by robots and managed by AI. In a utopian future of human socialism, the machines have made humans redundant from all but a few occupations. The wealth generated by this automation is shared fairly among a human population and humans are able to create their own lives, free to think, question, discover and make things.

The cloud city model would allow us to return much of the Earth to nature, even without many of us having to leave in the short-term. If we moved everything we need to sustain our race, off of the planet’s surface, we’d be able to return around half the Earth’s land area to those who were here first. With most manufacturing in the sky, and shuttles delivering goods to Earth, humans only need room to live (modestly) on the surface. If we grow crops in our cloud cities, most of our food cycle could operate in space, and we could even raise our livestock on sky farms (although I’d like to think we’d realise the benefits of vegetarianism by then).

While the human population continues to grow, and for as long as most humans eat meat, the only chance the planet and its native wildlife have, is for humans to use their unique ability to sustain themselves. There may be a global nuclear war just around the corner with the way things are going, but although it’ll reduce the human population, it might make Earth a wholly hostile environment and lead to the mass extinction of animals and the planet’s entire ecosystem. There’s a conspiracy theory that this is all planned and that those in power (and wealth) already have plans to vacate the planet. That and many other ideas make more dystopian science fiction for me to write, but some utopian futures remain within reach, even as our species stands at a pivotal existential point.

If we manage to avoid a mass suicide event in the next 100 years, there may be a chink of light for humanity, in the silver lining of the cloud cities and beyond.

Corvids with opposable thumbs


The UK’s weather has jumped suddenly from winter to summer, and nature seems to have overlooked spring. But I’ve noticed fewer of the invertebrate visitors than I expected through my open window, as they emerge from their long sleep, and I wonder how many have perished because of humankind’s interference with the thermostat on nature’s climate control.

Fewer insects mean less food for birds, so I’ve taken to scattering seeds on the flat roof directly outside my window, where avian friends gather. I’ve had the usual suspects (thrushes, starlings, sparrows…) and there’s a regular wagtail who visits, but nevertheless their numbers are few, which is troubling.

I also get members of the corvid mafia, mainly crows and magpies, so I’ve been witness to the odd murder, gulp and charm of collective nouns. Knowing these birds to be incredibly intelligent, I’m thinking of making some food puzzles for them, so that I can witness their ingenuity first-hand. If I put some nuts in my Rubik’s cube, they might be able to work out something which has stumped me for many years.

A friend of mine once wondered at these bird brains, and I myself pondered what a world might be like if crows had opposable thumbs…

Crow Star WarsTheStarWarsCulture


I overheard someone talking about how intelligent crows are, and this got me to wondering what might happen if they evolved opposable thumbs. Being a writer, I set off to find out. It was sheer luck which put me in the right place at the right time, with the right people.

I was suffering one of the worst episodes of writersโ€™ block that I care to remember, so Iโ€™d gone for a walk to Manor House Gardens, a National Trust property just outside the village where I lived. Ideas for stories occur to writers all the time and in the most unexpected ways. It wasnโ€™t that I lacked ideas so much as I couldnโ€™t extrapolate some really good stories. A story is relatively easy to write but aย really goodย storyย is something completely different and I was in the business of writing really good fiction.

Royalties had dried up from my last book and although I was never a writer for the money, I was a bit destitute. In a way, I enjoyed the financial freedom which writing enabled me to enjoy. Although that was a beautifully philosophical way for an impoverished writer to think, it wasnโ€™t putting electricity on my key, nor much food in my stomach. I had great visions of where my next novel would take me but it was a long way from being finished. And so it was that I was writing short pieces of both fiction and non-fiction for various magazines. The cheques were small but they kept me alive. My book was on hold and I was struggling for original material for the short story market: such a first world problem.

I sat on a bench and rolled a cigarette. To my surprise, I was joined by two old ladies. When Iโ€™d sat down, I was the only person around and Iโ€™d seated myself in the middle of the bench, so the ladies sat either side of me. โ€œExcuse me,โ€ I said. โ€œIโ€™m sorry.โ€ I went to stand up.

โ€œDonโ€™t you excuse yerself young man,โ€ said the lady to my left. โ€œYou were โ€˜ere first, so you sit yerself down and do whatever it was you was gunner do.โ€ I couldnโ€™t be sure if this was something she said absent mindedly, or whether she had a sense of humour which was dry to the extreme. In any case, the irony was palpable. She continued: โ€œYou might โ€˜ear sumink interestinโ€™.โ€ She gave my arm a gentle pinch, with finger and thumb.

โ€œSo, what was you sayinโ€™ baat the crows?โ€ The old dear to my right was speaking now.

โ€œWell, I feed โ€™em in me garden, donโ€™t I?

โ€œDo ya?โ€

โ€œYeah, I told ya, ya daft caar. Anyway, theyโ€™ve started bringinโ€™ me presents ainโ€™t they?โ€

โ€œโ€˜Ave they?โ€

โ€œYeah. Clever sods ainโ€™t they?โ€

โ€œAre they?โ€

โ€œWell yeah, cos then I give โ€™em more grub donโ€™t I?โ€

โ€œDo ya?โ€

Of course, all corvine birds are noted for their intelligence: Crows, rooks, ravens, Jays and the like, show some quite remarkable powers of reasoning and it was this that the two old girls were talking about, perhaps without at least one of them realising it. I excused myself and made my way back to my studio, smiling at anyone who caught my gaze.

The most wonderful thing is when people smile back at you. Those are the stories, right there.

Back at my desk, I skimmed quickly through the news feeds on my computer: Britain had voted to leave the EU, Cameron had resigned as Prime Minister and Boris Johnson was his heir apparent. Across the Atlantic, Trump had installed himself in the Whitehouse, banned anyone he didnโ€™t quite understand from entering the USA and was erecting a wall across the Mexican border. What better time to leave?

Using some string Iโ€™d borrowed from a theory and a little imagination, I constructed a means of transport to a far future. My ship was powered by cats: and why not? Schrรถdingerโ€™s cats to be precise, as a fuel source, wherein two possible physical states existed in parallel inside each of an infinite number of sealed boxes. Effectively, it was powered by will. The upshot of this was that I could go absolutely anywhere I wished. A working knowledge of quantum mechanics would enable you to understand exactly how the engine worked. If you lack that knowledge, suffice to say that the engine worked. The only limitation was that I couldnโ€™t goย backย in time. I could goย forwardย andย thenย back, to my starting point but I couldnโ€™t go back from there. Nevertheless, it was a dream machine.

A couple of years prior to this, Iโ€™d had a bit of a life episode and wondered: If Iโ€™d had my time machine then, would I have travelled forward to now and would I believe what I saw? I paused for a few minutes to contemplate the paradox of myself appearing from the past: I didnโ€™t turn up. Then I did something really inadvisable. It was a self-fulfilling exercise to see if I was vilified in a decision Iโ€™d made two years ago: I travelled forward to a time when I either should or could be alive; five years hence. If I was still around, I had to be very careful not to bump into myself. It was a cheatโ€™s way of gaining benefit from hindsight. I set the destination and it was as much as I could do to not say, โ€œRoads? Where weโ€™re going, we donโ€™t need, roads.โ€

Travelling through time is a curious sensation: Iโ€™m not sure quite how I expected it to feel, but it wasnโ€™t at all like I could have expected. I suppose, scientifically, I expected all of the atoms in my body to be torn apart as I accelerated at many times the speed of light. Eventually, my physical self would reassemble itself. I suppose I thought that Iโ€™d effectively be unconscious and as such if anything went wrong, I would be oblivious to it. Not so, as it turns out.

It was like when I first tried magic mushrooms: At first, there was nothing. So I took some more. Then the first lot started to take effect. Time did indeed slow down, so that I could relish the sensation of reduced gravity. I can assure you that what you may have heard about the senses being enhanced, is true. The hardest thing to control is the almost undeniable urge to burst into laughter. It is said that just before one dies from drowning, one experiences a euphoria: it was like that I suppose and I felt a little lost. Iโ€™d almost forgotten that Iโ€™d taken a second dose. I wish Iโ€™d had some way of recording where I went but I donโ€™t recall.

So then I found myself five years ahead, of time; of myself. I kept a low profile but not so covert as to miss what was going on around me: the evidence of change over the intervening five years.

The most striking thing, initially, was the absence of pavements and roads in my village. There was a single thoroughfare which carried both traffic and pedestrians. All of the cars were computer-driven, their passengers simply passengers. As I took this scenery in, a much more fundamental thing occurred to me: what I was witnessing was a harmony. There were no impatient drivers (or passengers) and no self-righteous pedestrians impeding the carsโ€™ progress: the two existed together, in the same space. Whoโ€™d have thought it? The โ€œlittleโ€ supermarket was still there: a necessary evil, but it was smaller than I remembered, with complimentary independent shops now sharing its old footprint. There was a butcher and a baker; a fishmonger and greengrocer. On the face of things, much progress had been made over five years.

No-one had seemed to notice me, so I decided to take a stroll around my future village, taking care not to interact with anyone. I resisted the urge to go to my flat, for obvious reasons. Whether I was still around of not, things had moved on nicely: Iโ€™m glad I saw it. Of course, it was like visiting an old home but this was a nostalgia made in the future. Then I decided to do the most ill-advised thing of all.

I had no signal on my mobile and it was a futuristic irony that an old red phone box replaced my smart phone. That iconic red box on the village high street no longer contained a pay phone but a touch screen open internet portal. Free. And the little communication hub was pristine inside: no stench of piss and not a scratch anywhere. Either a zero tolerance police regime was to thank, or more hopefully, a society which had calmed down, like the traffic. I noticed that the library was gone, converted into housing and imaginatively called โ€œThe Libraryโ€. Kudos I supposed to whatever or whomever had made that red kiosk available, to all and for free. I wondered what else might have changed and wanted to use that little box for as long as no-one else needed it but I really shouldnโ€™t have been there.

I gave myself one go on the Google fruit machine: I typed my name into the search field and allowed myself just enough time to scan over the first page of results. I reasoned that I should not dwell and that I certainly mustnโ€™t click on any of the links. Five years from now, I was still alive and Iโ€™d published the book I was writing in the present time. I could not, should not look any further, even though I longed to see how it was selling, how it had been received and reviewed, and how it ended. I must not, I couldnโ€™t; I didnโ€™t. So I came back. I steered myself away from looking up my parents too.

Iโ€™d caught a bug out there. The kind that bites and infects those with an inquisitive nature and who are risk-averse, carefree; couldnโ€™t give a fuck.

I shouldnโ€™t be at all surprised if I wasnโ€™t still around fifty years hence, so why was I going there next? Because I could. Just because oneย canย do something though, doesnโ€™t mean theyย should.ย Iโ€™d rarely heeded advice in the past, so why heed my own advice about the future? Iโ€™d only have myself to blame and I was sure Iโ€™d already lived with far worse. There are limits to what one can imagine.

Hindsight is a fine thing, with the benefit of hindsight. Each of us are limited in our ability to change things but if we co-operate, Iโ€™d seen just five years from now, how things might be. But Iโ€™d had to return to what is now as I write this.ย Nowย could be quite an incredible time to be around, if things turn out the way I saw them.

At some point in that future I travel to, there is no me: I will cease to exist in my physical form and that will be, well, โ€œThatโ€.

So when I arrived fifty years from now, I had no idea what to expect, given what Iโ€™d witnessed had taken place over a previous five year period. The only thing I could be sure of as I went through that very disconcerting wormhole thing, was what I was determinednotย to do: I would not look myself up.

The only way I would suggest of distancing yourself from the future, is to not go there in the first place. Should you find that impossible, try to remain inconspicuous. Naturally, there will be many things which a traveller from the past will find alien about the future. Like the way people stared at me. And then walked straight past me. I smiled at some of them and they all smiled back. The supermarket had completely vanished from the village by now, replaced by more independent shops. There were fewer driver-less cars but that was irrelevant because the cars cruised at about thirty feet from the ground. The walkers had reclaimed the thoroughfare.

Cognitive Behaviour Therapy taught me that if people look at you for longer than a second or two, it might be because they find you attractive. It could equally be a look of recognition. So I panicked and went back in time.

Just to be sure that I was back in the world Iโ€™d left, I took another walk to Manor House Gardens: all was as it had been. The old girls had departed, probably in opposite directions. Not so far from here. Nothing is really, is it?

As I sat and smoked, whimsy took over: what if those people in fifty years time recognised me as a well-known author? Perhaps one of my books had gone on to be an international best seller. Maybe it had been made into a film. What was worrying if that were the case, was that they recognised me as I look now, fifty years ago. Could it be that I just finish the book Iโ€™m working on, then I die suddenly and never get to see what happened? I had to be more optimistic. After all, it was my own will driving the cat machine.

Continuing the theme which was developing, my next foray into the future was 500 years from now and thatโ€™s where it gets a bit weird. Obviously, the things I saw were familiar to the people who lived in that time and although nothing seemed alien as such, the apparent technical progress was quite remarkable. The most striking juxtaposition was the one between old and new. It looked as though wherever possible, my village had been preserved. Some of the buildings had been more than 500 years old when I lived there. My old local pub, now over a millennium in age, was still there and it was still a pub. Peering in, I could see that the decor had hardly changed: It was still an eclectic mix of old, non-matching tables and chairs and there was still an open fire. I was tempted to go in. No-one would recognise me. Then I considered how much a beer might cost. Even if I had enough money, I wondered if it would even be recognised as such.

Either side of the pub were houses, built in some kind of plastic / metal composite. It was quite soft to the touch and it was as I touched the wall that I got the biggest surprise of all. A window opened before me in the wall. It wasnโ€™t a window that was there and which had been opened; it just appeared in the wall and a woman looked out. She smiled, as though seeing someone looking back through her window was a common occurrence.

These windows that just appeared were a feature in most of the modern houses in the village. Eventually I noticed that doors were too, as one materialised on the front of a house and a man stepped out. He walked off and the door disappeared, leaving just a minimalist, aesthetically pleasing piece of both architecture and art.

Without the benefit of the previous 500 years, I could only assume that this was nano technology: microscopic machines which can alter their physical form, so that in this instance, a material changed from a wall made of the building material, into a glass window or a wooden door. I imagined that each of the small houses had perhaps three or four rooms, the functions of which could be changed by altering what is in them. Touch a leather sofa and it might morph into a dining table and chairs; Change or move something on a whim. How liberating that must be.

Iโ€™m sure there must have been many more wonders, 500 years from now. It struck me that rather than become slaves to technology, humanity seemed to have used it to make more time for themselves in their lives of relative leisure. All of the residential buildings were of roughly equal size. I hoped this might be the result of some sort of leveller, which rendered everyone equal. Iโ€™d theorised about a universal state payment system for all in one of my old sci-fi shorts. In that story, everyone was paid a regular sum: enough to not just survive but to be comfortable. The thinking was that people would then put their personal skills to good use for the benefit of all. I created a humanitarian utopia in that story.

5000 years from now, I couldnโ€™t be sure of what might have happened in the intervening four and a half millennia to make things so different. In short, mankind had gone. There were very few things remaining that suggested weโ€™d been there at all. Had we left of our own accord, or were we destroyed? Did will kill ourselves? Two thoughts came to mind: either, we were extinct as a race, or we could have populated the cosmos by now. Both ideas were quite staggering, after all the progress weโ€™d seemed to be making.

I was forgetting about the crows: I wanted to see if I could shake hands with one. Science held that after humans, it would most likely be the invertebrates who evolved to inherit the earth. If that was the case, what of those who would feed on them?

Sure enough, there were some alarmingly large things with many legs, 50 million years from now. Some species which were once arboreal now walked upright on land. Others which had once grazed on the land grew so massive that they evolved gills and became amphibious, and still others had become exclusively marine-dwelling to support their huge bulks. One of the greatest spectacles on earth in 50 million years will be the annual migration of Frisian sea cows across the Pacific Ocean.

I sat on a grass bank in this distant future and looked across a lake. A chorus of wildlife which I didnโ€™t recognise, buzzed and chirped in the trees. I laid down on the grass and watched a pair of large birds circling above: vultures? I sat back up, so that they didnโ€™t mistake me for dead and they landed either side of me: two crows, about four feet tall, stood and looked over the lake.

โ€œSo, what was you sayinโ€™ baat the oomans?โ€

โ€œWell, I feed โ€™em in me garden, donโ€™t I?

โ€œDo ya?โ€

โ€œYeah, I told ya, ya daft caar. Anyway, theyโ€™ve started bringinโ€™ me presents ainโ€™t they?โ€

โ€œโ€˜Ave they?โ€

โ€œYeah. Clever sods ainโ€™t they?โ€

โ€œAre they?โ€

โ€œWell yeah, cos then I give โ€™em more grub donโ€™t I?โ€

โ€œDo ya?โ€

โ€œYeah, I enjoy it, donโ€™t I?โ€

โ€œDo ya?โ€

โ€œYeah. Iโ€™m gettinโ€™ on a bit naah, ainโ€™t I?โ€

โ€œYou are.โ€

โ€œLifeโ€™s what ya make it every day though, innit?. Live for the next one.โ€

โ€œNext one, yeah.โ€

And that gave me an idea.

ยฉ Steve Laker, 2016

This story is taken from The Perpetuity of Memory, my first anthology. My second collection of shorts โ€“ The Unfinished Literary Agency โ€“ is available now.

Planet talking with Hawking


First it was Mischa, the London Zoo aardvark. Douglas already spoke from beyond, and another one does today. He shared a birthday with the Starman: Stephen Hawking, the pan-dimensional cyborg, another voice from Cyrus Song, now with the stars, free of our polluted planet.

Look up at the stars big

He was a cyborg who could speak to anyone, and no-one would much notice his disability, because he didn’t have one. He made communication between species possible, with no need for translation and all the inherent problems of perception of reception, such was the level of thought he put into each of his words.

The deep thought behind his every word was by condition, so he could transcend the thought process of most humans. He was someone who’d appreciated not just the music he heard, but the work of all those who’d arranged it. He’d probably read film credits (as I do) checking the names of the talented, however deeply hidden. And he inspired Cyrus Song.

Stephen Hawking prophesied that humankind faced a number of existential threats (nuclear war, chemical and biological weapons, alien contact, global warming, AI…). Then there’s our ubiquitous invention: Plastics, specifically, micro plastic.

It takes centuries to break down, and then into microscopic particles, never degrading completely. Human waste means that the particles are present in every cubic metre of ocean water (with countless times more, settled below the seabed), and despite filtering for our own consumption, even the “Finest” bottled water contains the particles. It’s in the rain, all wildlife, and every plant on Earth.


Humans are part plastic, and every part of the natural world is now infected. We’re killing the planet, and everyone who lives on it. We’ve fucked mother Earth, and everyone we share it with, permanently. The next great extinction event was of our own making, and it’s one which won’t only extinct humans, but everyone else as well.

Thankfully there’s Captain Mamba to get the animals out.

Like the fictional scientists within, Hawking made the science in Cyrus Song plausible. In the book, the pan-dimensional mice only know him from Earth broadcasts of The Simpsons. Because he was pan-dimensional himself, able to bridge the gap between academic science and popular culture.

In his memory, Cyrus song is free for the next three days: take it. It took me nine months to write, but I owe it to our planet to do all I can to get its message out. There is a perfectly plausible answer to life, the universe and everything in there, and a plot to save our planet.

Cyrus Song eBook Cover

Free eBook. Cyrus Song is also available in paperback.

Acclaimed by Stephen Hernandez (a translator and interpretor), as โ€œAn extraordinary juggling act,โ€ the full review is here.


A lonely reflected world


Sometimes I look in the mirror and I hate myself. Not always the individual looking back (although my sober life is forever burdened by guilt for all I did when I was drunk), but what I represent: My country, my planet and my species. When there are parts of each which you despise, and all bear their own human scars, it’s easy to hate yourself (even more) as a part of them.

Mirror EarthAstronomers Discover Planet Identical To Earth With Orbital Space Mirror (The Onion, 2014)

My country (the UK) is a fractured nation, a shell of its former self, damaged perhaps beyond repair by the greatest wilful act of self-harm I’ve ever witnessed by a government. Brexit has divided us within, while the nation has been set adrift by its ignorant, arrogant, self-serving leaders. With the state of the world at large, now is when we need partners, allies and friends. But the UK is alone on this small planet.

Ours is a world of limited, dwindling natural resources, and it’s of finite size. I often wonder what the agendas or ultimate aims of capitalists and governments are, and where catalysts and saturation points might be reached, when there’s only so much to go around, and only so many people (there are conspiracy theories, of course). And then of course, there are those we live with: The animals.

I consider myself a member of one race, the human race, but then I look at what our species does to others and its own kind, and I’m ashamed. And yet, in all the searching, the only thing which makes the loneliness bearable, is each other (to borrow from Carl Sagan). And we’re all connected, by quantum entanglement. Still though, I often feel disconnected, like my country from its European family.

As a science fiction writer, I wonder who else might be out there, and what we ourselves might be capable of. This in itself can make for the stuff of dreams or nightmares. We can fear the unknown, or we can speculate.

The current pace and progress of human science and technology mean we could very well be near a pivotal point, where we solve problems or destroy ourselves. We’re employing AI minds to answer our biggest questions, and one of these man-made brains could easily conclude that humans are the problem. The end of humanity, or a new beginning, could be a near-future scenario.

I imagine near-future humans (if there’s to be such a thing) as the beginning of a next stage of accelerated evolution, as we integrate with machines and technology, eventually becoming organic-technological hybrids. I believe there are other species in the universe like this, perhaps so advanced that they’ve harnessed the natural energy of parent stars using Dyson spheres. Maybe they’ve transcended conflict, evolving to realise that it’s inefficient. I can live in hope, and I can write.

What more can I do? What can we all do? We need to stop fighting and ignoring. We need to talk. So I’m giving Cyrus Song away for free on World Book Day (Thursday).

Despite potentially devaluing myself and the nine months I put into it, Cyrus Song is a book for everyone. I do need the money, but more than that, I want people to see my message, find the answers and tell others, in a review, or by talking. There’s a donation button on this blog (Buy me a coffee) should anyone be sufficiently moved by the free book, normally the price of a decent coffee.

Writing is the only way I have of talking to other people. Cyrus Song is everything I want to say to my own kind. For now, I look in the mirror, and a lonely planet stares back.

Cyrus Song eBook Cover

Cyrus Song is available now (free on World Book Day).

An aardvark in the air tonight


Like everyone else, I was saddened by the news of the fire at London Zoo. It’s a place I know very well, from several visits over many years, and one very close to my heart when I wrote Cyrus Song. Four meerkat brothers are missing presumed dead, an aardvark called Misha perished, and I lost a little friend.

Misha and OttoMisha and Otto

I first visited London Zoo in 1977 on a primary school trip. Back then the big draw was Guy the gorilla, and we happened to visit on the day he died. Hoping I hadn’t cursed the place, I’ve returned many times since without incident, and most recently for the chapters of Cyrus Song which are set there.

A lot of research went into the book, to make the science plausible and the characters real. The three human leads each have a notebook on a shelf in my studio, containing their life stories, very little of which made it into the novel, but it was knowing the characters which allowed me to bring them to life in the unwritten words. I familiarised myself with London Zoo’s ‘Inventory’, and researched many of the species therein, so that I could give them voice and personality through the Babel fish.

Unfortunately on the day Simon Fry visited, the aardvarks were asleep:

There were too many interesting animals I wanted to speak to for me to be able to place them in any sort of order. So I decided to just go from A to Z. In the time available, I’d probably be able to speak to the aardvarks and the zebras, but very few others. But the big draw for me was the reptile house: Not because of my fascination with snakes in general, but because London Zoo is home to one male and one female black mamba.

Of course it would be handy if London Zoo laid out all of their exhibits alphabetically, but that wouldn’t be practical, so they didn’t. This being a warm spring Sunday afternoon, the zoo was quite busy. The aardvarks are in the ‘Animal Adventure’ area, which is mainly for young people. And aardvarks are nocturnal, so they were asleep. Which was a shame, because Misha and Otto looked like a couple very much at ease in one another’s company, at least when asleep. Otto had arrived from Berlin Zoo in 2014, so I’d have liked to ask him about that city, and whether he’d seen David Bowie.

It’s cold comfort that the post mortem shows she died of smoke inhalation in her sleep. But there she was, little Misha, curled up with Otto and both looking very pleased with themselves in dreams. I can only imagine how the guy from Berlin must be feeling now, but I do know that the zoo staff are very socially aware with the animal people, so he’ll be getting some sort of aardvark counselling. If only he could read my book, he’d see that I put him and Misha (she was from Holland) in a story which changed a lot of lives, and gives a perfectly reasonable answer to the question of life, the universe, and everything.

I’ve written many times of how I don’t write for the money, because there’s hardly any for the undiscovered self-publishing masses. I have my basic needs covered, so anything I make from writing I give away. I can hardly be called a philanthropist, as it’s really not much, but it’s what I don’t need. When life decided to give me a second chance, I resolved I’d pay it back.

As well as the charitable donations, I make my books available in libraries (on request), as I realise not everyone can afford books (I couldn’t once, and I used to base myself in a library when I was living on the streets). For those who can afford books, buying mine benefits good causes (mainly animal, homeless and addiction) and hopefully delivers a good read. Of course, anyone can donate directly to the charities but if we’re honest, most won’t. If someone’s buying a book anyway (because it’s received good reviews), the altruism by proxy is a small bonus. So it seemed only right to donate any proceeds from the sale of Cyrus Song in January to the Zoological Society of London (ZSL), the whole science side of the zoo which the public displays and learning support.

I shan’t milk the passing of every individual leaf cutter ant to plug my book, but Misha has a place in my heart from it.

History predicts that each new book increases interest in preceding ones, so with The Unfinished Literary Agency almost finished, Cyrus Song might get noticed more. And that’s good for Misha and Otto.

In loving memory of Misha Aardvark, 20.06.07 โ€“ 23.12.17