Quote of the day:

‘One does not simply walk into the Dome; the very air you breathe is a poisonous fume….’

 

"zzz blabla zzz blabla' this is how it began. A waltz with boredom and expectation. The boredom of inaugural lectures, silently ticking away into the excitement of the month to come. The KCL Summer internship programme was intended as an opportunity for students to perform research, cooperate with fellow scientists, lawyers, geographers and the like to gain all-important work experience. I was one of those poor souls. I had been assigned to the rooftop front, one of the toughest fronts we scholars face against ignorance and on the 3rd of June, my struggles began.

 

One of my fellow physicists had been designated to the task of researching Quirks; or how he kindly put it in layman's terms; 'researching something which we are not sure exists and which currently belongs to the realm of imaginary theory'. I would look at him compassionately, before walking away, knowing that his fate was sealed; his quest for knowledge would terminate on the brink of the possible, bound by countless equations, one more magnificent than the other, each a brick in the wall confining the unchartered territories of human cognition. And so the scientist dreams, dreams of removing the prefix from the unknown while holding its hand and softly uttering ‘progress' … he then steps into the spotlight. Everyone shines with a different light; the one I was seeking was to come from very far away indeed.

 

Call me a romantic, a dreamer if needs be, but I would gladly give away a thousand dark nights to spend one contemplating the heavens. The shear grandiosity of a star-lit sky had evaded me until this moment. My reason to volunteer was personal; I had never seen a star-lit sky, I had never been able to observe the lights dotting the immense void looming over me. Pallid imitations of the grandeur of such a viewing had been snatched here and there by photos, planetariums and the like, now it was time to meet those stars for real.

I was under the command of Malcolm Fairbairn, appropriately nick-named 'the Boss'. Maybe it was a kindling to Springsteen, maybe it was a resemblance with Gny. Sgt. Hartman from Full Metal Jacket, but it definitely was an appropriate appellation for the man, if man he was. I grant you the Boss has courage. Pointing our noses up to the sky in the most light-polluted pat of Europe can be regarded as an act of extreme bravery or one of complete recklessness. That did not matter, orders were orders, and there was no 'but' under his command.

 

Before I get onto today’s action I would like to give a brief account of my perception of the man prior to the mission. I always thought of him as a charismatic character, one who would easily trample and not be trampled upon, one who would have no problems saying just about anything right in your face. Out of all missions, it was this man who made this one enticing. End of brief account.

 

After the waltz I reported to the Boss. Already I felt like a tense bow, and this was prior to knocking on the door. What I saw was to be the fitting start of a very long month of service.

 

The only items which would have given away a human presence in the office were a pair of boots and jeans. The first obstacle, the first decision to make, to knock or not to nock? A drop of sweat slowly trickles down my neck, my eyes start wondering for clues to no avail. With a spurge of heroism, I knock. Movement. The Boss slowly rises from his big sleep and like a colossal Kane utters: 'Jeans'.

 

I stand there panting, my heart racing, what did he mean?
'You are inappropriately dressed for work' he added. 
I take a grip of myself, remembering those history lessons; jeans were worn by miners in the Far West, they then became hysterically popular to the point where people would buy them worn, broken and felt-tipped to show off their used status. Some things cannot be explained by Science, and one of those things is fashion. Who knows… maybe by the end of the mission I might have doubled my wardrobe’s value.

 

The mission. We come to it at last, the first assignment of many to come. It was a search and rescue mission of the utmost importance; saving a private broom. I could feel the burden of possible failure looming overhead when after one hour of recognition no brooms had been identified. The sole option was to leave the civilised Strand Headquarters and head into the dungeons at level -1. Every abandoned lab seemed to come from a Kubrick film… erringly splendid in its state of advanced decomposition. Including the terrifying cannibal fly room, a graveyard of flies long deceased lit up by the glorious light of day, as I walk away I felt fitting to tune the notes of Mozart's Requiem.

 

I am granted access to the roof and admonished to lock all doors twice. The view which lay before my eyes was breath-taking. For a moment which could have lasted hours if not days I forgot my purpose and stood there gazing in awe. In the records I put it down as an attempt to identify any hostiles but to tell the truth it was a personal matter between me and the Queen of all cities.

 

Already half an hour behind schedule, the mission's integrity seemed compromised, I had to give it my very best before the darkness crept in. As it relentlessly did, so did I infiltrate the Dome. Intel prior to the sortie described the scene as: Dust, broken chairs, leaves, webs, rain water, putrefied wood, mud, more dust, electric cables and the rest were identifiable ingredients in the three hags’ cauldron.

 

Like a baby who gently yet tantalisingly raises his foot to softly splash crystal clear water, I slowly tread on the ground ahead of me into the abyss of darkness. It was not firm, more like a uniform slime; a macabre reminder of a Saint Seya episode where Sirius walks on the heads of the dead. An environment in which sudden pain with a sprinkled chance of death can smile at you any time. My equipment included a permanently borrowed mop, yellow washing gloves, bleach, bucket and wellies. The surroundings were silent. Once in the dome a desolate sight was strewn before my very eyes. A thick residue of age in the form of filth one inch thick encompassed the small room; two rusty pieces of the old telescope remained as sole withered monoliths testifying to the past presence of a human soul. The air was thick, dense with the shade of neglect; it wanted to lure you into an unsung requiem.

 

My instructions were to not open the hatch as it would be virtually impossible to bring it back down. I was sure the Boss did not consider asphyxiation as something which would jeopardise the to-the-letter development of the mission. Orders are orders, interns are interns. The dome was 3 metres wide, with a tough cement column right in the centre; it looked stable, so I jumped onto it and pulled the hatch down, in the action I was reminded what a concerto of untrained violin players sounded like. For the first time in two decades, the freshness of the outside world diffused into the dome. 

 

 The hatch, along with all the upper part of the dome was made out of fibre glass. With new life being radiated into the place there was only one thing left to do. A titanic task, comparable only to Merlin’s dishwashing magic; I emptied a whole container of bleach and mopped. Fumes of vapour from chemical reactions rose to fill the dome like an aerosol, the mist intensified and there I am in the Long Rain, with the Lieutenant, fumbling through streams of water for a glimmer of hope, walking, striding, slithering to find the warmth of the Solar Domes, sole refuge under the never ending Venusian rain. 

 

The first day of action took its toll on me; cuts from protruding nails, bruises from pivoting heavy equipment deciding to pay you a visit… I am glad to say enjoyed every bit of it, as it was in the name of Science. The events of that day brought me back to my previous missions in lands long forgotten; back to my boat cleaning days when sailing on Lake Garda, delivering cargos of Amaro Montenegro between Riva and Limone. A dead snake skin lay as a testimony to events which occur in abandoned places.

 

I realised that the floor was red, and became infused with the same emotion a gold-digger has when he discovers his prize after an agonising wait.

 

I moved all the equipment in the dome into the adjacent room, including the massive telescope parts… later being labelled a mad man by the Boss for doing it by myself; that was not a one-man mission. While on the subject, he came in, took a picture, a video, and demonstrated his compassion in the form of: ‘good luck’ to then disappear. After hours of cleaning the result was a quantum entangled state. The observatory was as clean as a whistle, and I had never been so covered in grime in my life, this is including falling into cow manure aged four thinking it to be mud.

 

I looked down upon the finished job and gave a slight grin of joy whilst considering the place as being brought to a decent level of acceptable grossness. I put myself in the position of people who carry out such tasks to earn a living, every day, it felt good to feel that again. The satisfaction of reaping the benefits of a job well done with sweat and tears and swears. I knew how to open the hatch, but closing it from the inside was nigh impossible. Having been trained in the Physics department I undertook the procedure of sitting down and thinking things through. The trick was to open the hatch even more, but this time from the bottom, the interior panel would slide onto the exterior one (the blocked one) and then the latter could be pushed from the outside, closing the hatch. Day one drew to an end, and the weary recruit heads home, setting into his bed as the blazing star succumbs into the horizon.