Log 22

Camp is looking well settled now. I’ve fashioned a sort of pump over the well, using odds and ends from the ship. The boundaries of my camp I’ve laid out using a clumps of rocks. I’ve got a little path running through what I call my ‘garden’, bordered by yet more rocks. I’m even thinking of putting in a rockery.

Rocks are plentiful on Morrisworld, albeit on the small side. None of them seem to work themselves up into a proper boulder.

I suppose I could pile them up and make walls out of them, if I could fashion some sort of concrete paste. That type of thing was never my strong suit. It’s all a little too low-tech for me. But low-tech is the way I’m going to have to go.

I’m starting to think of my little camp as a frontier homestead – my own personal ranch way out west. Can’t help thinking someone is going to come riding over the horizon any minute.

I enjoyed westerns as a kid. You could say I had an active imagination. I used to write stories about cowboys and indians, before I developed my fixation on space. My mum never had time for it, mind you. She’d clip me round the ear and tell me to do my chores. And if I’d already done them, to find other chores and do them – which always defeated the point of doing them in the first place. I mean, what kind of reward is that, for doing your chores? More chores. My mum was a hard woman.

She was pleased when I knuckled down and became an engineer. A practical vocation – that was what she liked to see.

But she wasn’t keen when I joined the space programme. Space, you see, was never practical. Venturing out into a cold vacuum, and for what conceivable purpose? It was bad enough that I was working on spaceships – worse when I announced I wanted to fly on one.

What good would that do? she asked. I should leave those sort of silly heroics to bigger, stronger boys. But going into space, far from what she believed, actually did serve a practical purpose. It got me a very long way away from her.

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Log 21

So now I have water and I’m not going to die. Of thirst, at least. Truth is, though, Morrisworld isn’t exactly abundant with food. I’ve been living off vacuum-sealed packets of dried space rations for weeks. It’s a bit like eating cat litter. Salty, granulated food chunks. My tongue dries up at the sight of them. It’s been so long since I had a square meal my stomach feels like a twisted sack.

I’ve been taking a closer look at the vegetation. A survey of about 20 square metres surrounding my camp has thrown up this remarkable fact: there is only one type of plant on Morrisworld.

Oh sure, there may be other strains of plant life further afield, but in this neighbourhood, there’s only one. A straggly, pitiful little weed that looks a bit like a stinging nettle. On my four- or five-day hike, I didn’t encounter anything other than this plant.

I’ve decided to name it Morritus Maximus. Or morris weed. Doesn’t sound very appetising, does it? Well, actually… it’s not. It’s bitter and prickly and, well, bloody awful. I tried some of it raw and went to sleep last night. I didn’t feel sick in the morning, so it’s not immediately poisonous.

I conducted a few basic chemical tests today (it’s been a long time since Chemistry class) but it seems morris weed contains just enough fibre and vitamins to sustain me on a medium- to long-term basis. How about that?

Oddly enough, I didn’t jump for joy at this news. I’m not going to die any time soon. But I am now condemned to eat morris weed for the foreseeable future.

I’m going to have to think up some recipes.

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Log 20

An unbelievable thing. Two metres into the soil my spade broke a smooth rock and water started to dribble in around it. Before long the soles of my shoes were in water.

I fell to my knees and scrabbled at the puddle with my hands, splashing it into my mouth.

The water is brackish but drinkable. The mere feel of it on my face is like liquid glory. The first thing I did was tear off my flight suit and splash water all over my body. Then I just sat down in my hole in the ground, as I had no towel and no change of clothes.

Eventually I scrambled out of the pit and ran to the ship and pulled on Farmer’s spare flight suit. I must have looked a right sight to any passing alien. A butt-naked man climbing out of a hole in the ground and running around. But it felt great. I might even make compulsory nudity a new law on Morrisworld.

Oh yes, Morrisworld. I forgot to say. While I was toiling away over my well, lots of odd ideas flashed through my brain. Mostly idle thoughts, imagining what everyone I knew was doing right now. The best idea I had was to name my new home. So I have christened Planet X16695-L Alpha ‘Morrisworld’.

Morris was my cat between the ages of seven and 14, when, in act of almost heroic idiocy, he galloped into the street and chased Mr Carver’s car wheel, insanely desperate to throw himself under it. He succeeded.

I always feel nostalgic when I think about Morris and I hope that naming an entire planet after him is a fitting tribute. Initially I wasn’t sure about giving him the whole planet – it does seem excessive – but in the absence of any smaller landmarks I have just decided to call the whole thing Morrisworld.

And, in case you’re wondering, of course it crossed my mind to name it after me. But I’m not a freaking megalomaniac.

I’ll just settle for being the ruler of Morrisworld.

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Log 19

I arrived back at camp yesterday morning. It was quite a relief to see that little black smudge on the horizon. The ship (or what’s left of it) is my only link to the outside world.

Camp is now well established. I have been digging a well. Slow work with the lightweight spade I found in the storage tins, but I’m getting there.

I have no idea whether there is water beneath the earth, but the sensor readings are promising.

I’m getting carried away with the thought of uncovering some underground stream. I desperately need a bath. Sweat and grime and dust has stuck to every last crevice of my body, like a layer of cling film. My lips taste salty and I have ridiculous beach hair.

I caught sight of myself today in a reflecting panel on the ship’s side and I was frightened by the sight. Black hair sticking up on end in a sticky afro like candyfloss. Scrubby patches of beard like smears of chocolate. Wild eyes darting back and forth. For a moment I really wondered who that man was.

Vanity doesn’t matter when you’re Robinson Crusoe.

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Log 18

Hiking back to the ship is proving quite a task. I have to keep my eyes on my compass and on my footprints in the sand or I’ll easily stagger off course. Then I’d never find my way back.

Strange thoughts keep going through my head. Memories of home, all that rot. Parents, friends, family. Don’t why I should think of them! It’s not like I particularly enjoyed being around them when I was there.

Maybe it’s cos I’ll never see any of them again.

Probably.

I mean, the odds aren’t stacked in my favour.

The odds are very much towering over me, in fact. Especially if I don’t find water soon on this dirtball excuse of a planet. (Planetoid? What’s the difference? Academy classes seem so long ago).

I’ve been thinking about the Academy a lot too. Thinking of all the lads in my first year. Tristan and Bill were there. My abiding memory of Tristan is in the bar on the ground floor of the Flight School reception building, chasing Bill around with a stick he’d found in the trash outside. Idiots.

They used to avoid me at the end of each day, looking for an excuse not to invite me for a drink. Sometimes I’d look at them directly, force them to avert their gaze. Later on, they were more up front about it. “Drink, Bill?” “Sure, Tris.” And they’d walk out right in front of me, blatantly ignoring me.

They were never happy about the fact I was assigned to the Orinoco’s crew. I know Bill was hoping his pal Spender would make the cut. But no. I was deemed the best suitably trained engineer for the mission.

I could see Bill and Tristan talking about me on the other side of the hangar, casting dirty looks my way. I know Bill met with Commander Clevinger, trying to get me transferred out. I just said nothing, bit my lip. One of us had to be a professional.

As it turns out, Bill almost did me a massive favour. If I hadn’t been on this flight, I never would have ended up here. Unlucky for everybody he failed.

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Log 17

I’m sitting in my tent, trying to wait out another night. Amazingly, the temperature has barely dropped since sunset. Just a few degrees – making for a very balmy night. Indeed, the whole time I’ve been here (a week? two?) the weather has hardly varied. Not only does this planet have a boring landscape, it has boring weather.

Still, I’m not complaining. I’m not keen to be blasted by gale-force winds or fried by blistering heat. This steady 70-degree temperature suits me, even if I sometimes wish I could feel the hot sun on my face, or yearn for a refreshing downpour.

The sky above is a glittering canopy of strange stars, utterly brilliant and clear. The night sky is easily the most interesting thing on this planet and, technically, it’s not even on this planet.

I’ve been trying to recognise constellations but nothing stands out. I’ll admit, astronomy was never my strong suit at flight school. I flunked out the first two modules. I was never good at reading star maps. They look like they’re written in drunken Braille, lots of random pinpricks. Fortunately, I’m an engineer, not a navigator, so it wasn’t strictly necessary for me to understand them.

But now I’m trying to work out where in the universe I am, and I all have to go on is the sky above me. That and the incomplete data from the ship’s computer. So where the hell am I? How far am I from home?

The answer must be hundreds of light years, if not more. The fact of the matter is, the ship’s course was interrupted by what in astronaut terminology might be called ‘spatial phenomena’. That’s what we call something in space when we haven’t got a bleedin’ clue what it is. In this case, it looked like a wibbly wobbly swirling brown thing.

Yes, that’s right. A wibbly wobbly swirling brown thing.

That’s the only way I can describe it, because I only saw it for a few seconds. We were flying through an ordinary part of the solar system, on a route that took us between Mars and Jupiter, when the ship suddenly shook. As we scrambled back to our seats, we caught a glimpse of the phenomena up ahead – the wobbly brown thing – then the ship went into a massive spin. We were pinned back in our seats, and after a few moments, the g-forces made us blackout.

The next thing we knew, this planet here was hanging in front of us, a big globe of wispy white clouds and brown earth. And then we fell onto it. And here we are. Or here I am.

So you tell me. What the hell happened?

That’s enough random thoughts for now. It’s late and I need my energy for tomorrow. I’m returning to the ship. Hard to take my eyes off the stars, though.

Log 16

It’s been four days, by my wristwatch. Four days of trudging through this wilderness. I’ve been getting dizzy from the landscape. Not from the thinner air or lighter gravity, mind you. Just dizzy from the utter, unending tedium of it. The ever-unchanging view.

There’s no getting around it.

I have crash-landed on the most boring planet in the universe.

I mean, there’s nothing. Nothing.

For the last two days I have been cursing as I walked. Cursing the fate that conspired to bring me here. Cursing the implacable absence of anything remotely interesting on this planet. And yet a small part of me kept hoping – perhaps it still does – that there might yet be something new on the horizon.

Except the horizon never gets any closer. Because the landscape never changes, you get no sense of forward movement. Just endless red clay, scrubby little plants and pebbles.

This is not what you imagine when you dream of an alien planet. This is not what kids think about when they look up at the stars. No. You picture volcanoes and mountains and lush forests and gleaming cities. Yes, gleaming cities. All right? I want gleaming cities!

But no. Instead I get this wasteland. Just goes to show, it doesn’t matter how far away from home you are, you can still have your hopes crushed.

One more day and I’ll turn back. You never know. There could be something out there. Maybe.

Log 15

I’m on to the second stage of the hike and there’s still no sign of a single distinctive landmark. No mountains, trees, hills, caves, rivers. Certainly nothing in the way of cities, roads, buildings or discount shopping malls. I mean, there really is nothing going on.

I keep thinking some gleaming alien metropolis will be around the next corner. Then I remember there aren’t any corners. I mean, nothing from which you could actually make a corner. The planet is entirely flat.

A few hours ago I encountered a slight rise in the ground. I ran forward, thinking maybe – just maybe – I might find a crater at the top of the slope. But no. The ground just sloped away again – sloped off – as if it had thought about making a hill, and then thought better of it.

So I carried on walking. I’m not holding out for much now. Forget the futuristic cityscapes, the flying cars, the floating aliens with heads like rhino. All I want is something like a corner.

Log 14

I have been walking for about 10 hours now. In the low gravity, you just don’t notice the energy expenditure. I could probably carry on, but it’s best not to overdo it.

For the first few hours I just kept my eyes on the horizon, looking back every now and again to check on the ship. Finally it was a just a grey dot in the distance, utterly swallowed by the red plain.

Now I can barely see it. My footprints lead all the way back to where I started. There’s not a breath of wind. Perhaps they will stay there for decades, like those on the moon?

I will set up my hiking tent here and camp for the night. I’m completely exposed on the plain should a storm sweep in, but there’s nothing in the way of shelter for miles around. Not even a boulder. Just little pebbles. I’m starting to hate those little pebbles.

Log 13

Having established camp, I am now preparing my first trip into this alien world.

I can’t wait to get out there and see it. How many kids dream of landing on an alien planet? Hell, how many astronauts dream of it?

The boys at the academy would piss themselves if they knew it was me, out of all of us, who got the chance. But what do I care? They were always jealous of me. Even on the eve of launch, I know they were thinking, ‘why does he get to go?’. They always thought I was the least qualified man for the mission.

Well, I’m here, and I’m surviving – so far. That makes me more qualified than any of them.

I have begun packing my belongings for a trip. Just a small hike to see the lay of the land. I need some water, rations, compass, camera, notebook to start sketching a map, and thermals of course, if the sun should set while I’m away.

I’m going to take Lomax’s aviator sunglasses. The light isn’t particularly strong right now, but you never know how the atmospheric conditions may change. He won’t mind me taking them. It’s for science, Tristan!