The Meteor Problem (2)

Thick cloud hung over Happy Island, an impenetrable blanket of blackness, the sun shied away day after day and not so much as a stray twinkle of natural light dared its way into our domain.

 

Yet through all this time, Alun refused to leave his observatory, staring constantly through his telescopic lens at the sheer, thick gloom in which our world was shadowed. I have reason to believe that he barely stopped to sleep. How he managed his toilet I shudder to think.

 

I tried to prise him from his room, with the twin temptations of food and gossip, but he refused to turn his gaze from the heavens, bleak and impenetrable though they were. “My meteor,” is all he said, “I daren’t leave lest I miss my meteor.”

 

 

With Alun lost to his telescope, I was effectively alone on the island.

 

Perfect, without distractions I was free to work on the novel my publisher had been demanding from me ever since I spent the handsome advance. I stared at my computer screen for a considerable time, filed my fan letters in alphabetical order, re-filed them in chronological order, before finally deciding to attach both of them to my fridge using Happy Is an Island fridge magnets (available from all good retailers and the Boatman).

 

It was a productive day. I cleaned the kitchen, the bathroom and the room with no name, thought up a list of possible names for the room with no name, and updated my writing blog. I even wrote a review of a film I’ve never seen, just because I could.

 

Of course I also followed developments on the meteor front. Someone had set up a www.Davies-Davies-meteor.co.mainland website, which was constantly being updated with sightings and developments from around the world.

 

At around the third fridge-clean after lunch I rushed round Alun’s with some exciting news. But of course Alun had already seen it, he may have had two eyes constantly on the sky, but his third was on the worldwide web.

 

“Have you seen,” he said, as I burst into the room, “My meteor’s caught in the Earth’s atmosphere. It’s looping round and round the world. I daren’t leave my observatory now, it could pass over at any moment.

 

“But now it’s in orbit you’ll know exactly when it will pass over,” I protested. “You can leave your observation tower, return to ground level and carry on with your day until the meteor is due to pass over. There’s an app you can use, Follow Your Meteor.”

 

However, in spite of my reasoned argument, Alun refused to leave his post, hoping for another glimpse of the meteor whose discovery he regarded as his greatest achievement.  “Oh it’s not as good as a planet,” he’d conceded, “but it’s part of the universe that they’ll name after me.”

 

“Er, you do know it’s been named already don’t you?”

“Has it. The Alun Davies meteor?”

 

“Actually no, the Davies-Davies meteor, named after you and our neighbour Aaron Davies, who spotted it at the same time as you did.”

“At least my name’s first,” he said, stubbornly.

 

“No it isn’t,” I had to tell him. “Aaron’s before Alun alphabetically, so technically he’s listed before you are.”

 

“Oh what a crazy system that is Jed. It’s like the bible, Adam’s always mentioned before Eve, as a consequence of which men have been given priority over women throughout the entirety of Christian history. If he’d been called Malcolm the entire history of the human race would have worked out very differently.”

 

I left Alun alone, to ponder the randomness of alphabetical chance.

 

Without the distraction of Alun’s constant interruption I continued to progress with my novel: I updated my website, cleaned out the geep-pen, painted the outside of my house and wrote a new chapter. Well, I say ‘wrote’, I merely edited an existing chapter, but it was good to stretch my creative muscles, even if the total output in terms of words added was minus 257.

I was so happy with my achievement, that I called round on Alun to tell him.  But he had even bigger news.

 

“It’s going to land Jed,” he announced. “It’s orbit isn’t stable, it’s slowly curving in towards the Earth.”

 

However, if I thought that was big news, I was wrong. The greatest discovery was made later that day, and Alun, though unwilling to leave his observation tower, was inspired to phone me with the news.

 

“It’s made of gold, Jed,” he said. “Solid Gold.”

 

“Gold!,” I said. “Are you sure? A golden meteor?” It seemed unlikely.

 

“Yes Jed, I’ve been looking at the scientific websites, and they’ve analysed the atomic makeup of my meteor and it’s made of solid gold.”

 

“Is that even possible?”

 

“Why not Jed. There are iron-based meteors and comets, tin-based meteors, why not a golden one.”

 

“But that much gold, it must be worth a fortune.”

 

It is Jed. The meteor has a diameter of 164 feet, meaning it’s total weight is 1,389,393 tons. It’s worth billions, enough for me to buy Canada.”

 

“Canada?” I said, somewhat thrown, “Why on Earth would you want to buy Canada.”

 

“I wouldn’t, Jed. I’m just saying, I could afford Canada. I won’t buy it though, I’ve nowhere to put it. I’d spend the money on things I need. Like a new telescope. Or a gazebo.”

 

 “But you’re getting ahead of yourself. It’s not your gold.”

 

“Of course it is, Jed. I spotted it.”

 

“Yes, but that doesn’t matter. It depends where it lands. Whichever country it lands in will claim sovereignty.”

 

“It had better land here then.”

 

“Besides, you’d only get half the gold anyway. Aaron would get the same as you.”

 

“It had better not land on Rival island,” Alun said bitterly.

 

We didn’t have to wait long for news of where the meteor would land. While I slept and Alun cast his eye pointlessly on the thick black clouds that obscured our sky, scientists in brighter, clearer parts of the world followed the meteor’s course and calculated exactly where it would land.

 

Alun was eager to tell me the news, but I’d taken the wise precaution of switching off my phone while I slept, so I heard nothing until I called to see him the next day.

 

“The Antarctic, Jed,” he said. “It’s going to land in the Antarctic. And that’s not a sovereign state, so they won’t be able to claim the gold, it’s mine, all mine.”

 

“At least it won’t be lost in the sea,” I said, not wanting to dampen his enthusiasm. Although the Antarctic isn’t a nation state, its wealthy mineral deposits etc. fall under the jurisdiction of the United Nations, who are not famed for their generosity to amateur astronomers.

 

“Right, Jed. Let’s go,” Alun said.

 

“Go?”

 

“We need to leave now if we want to catch the Happy Island to Antarctica cruise ship, Jed. We must get there so that I can stake my claim.”

 

I’d forgotten about the Happy Island to Antarctica cruise ship, which leaves the island at the same time every month. Neither Alun nor myself had ever taken a cruise and I occasionally had cause to wonder why it bothered stopping at Happy Island at all.

 

I had just about enough time to run home and hastily pack, before meeting Alun at the dockside. We boarded the Happy Island to Antarctica liner, found a suitable cabin, before returning to deck to enjoy the view.

 

However, we were not alone. The cruise had another passenger.

“Thief,” Alun shouted.

 

“You’re the thief,” cried Aron Davies. “It’s you who’s after MY gold.”

 

I tried to calm the two men, who after all shared a common goal in preventing the rest of the world trying to claim the golden meteor. However both were equally stubborn, they positioned their deckchairs as far away as possible from each other at opposite sides of the deck and refused to talk to each other, bar the occasional shouted insult.

 

It was going to be a long voyage.