I FOUND THIS LITTLE THING ON MY PC AND DECIDED TO POLISH AND POST. WHY ON EARTH I WROTE IT I CAN'T IMAGINE. I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN ANYTHING QUITE LIKE THIS BEFORE. NOW I AM GOING TO RUN AWAY AND HIDE!
Alright, maybe it was a stupid thing to do, but it was fun! It was something we all wanted to do all the way through college.
We had raced along the beach, across sand dunes, over hilly terrain, through thick forests and across the sea. We were the Speed Devils. I didn't coin the phrase, by the way, Damon Hargrove did that. He was always the one to come in first in every race, except one. The only time he was ever beaten was when we clubbed together and hired ourselves a second-hand space Hopper…and no, I don't mean those funny balloon-like things with the silly face that kids play on. I mean a real proper space-ship, first developed to make going into space a little more affordable for normal mortals. I mean for people like me, who are neither NASA-trained astronauts, nor billionaires who could afford to go for size and luxury. Our little space-hopper was called The Lunar Moth; and was basically the equivalent of a flying mini-metro. It looked streamlined and all that, but it had only four proper seats, and space for luggage or haulage. We loaded it up with half a dozen home-made moon buggies, and locked them down, and off we went. The four of us who had no seat to strap themselves into, strapped themselves into the seats of two of the buggies instead.
If the World Aeronautical Authority ever found out about that, we would be deep in trouble. None of us is going to give the game away…so if we get found out, then it would have to have been someone from International Rescue.
Before you start telling me how foolish we were to go off into space without the proper training, forget it! The unofficial skipper of the Moth was Jackson, whose elder brother got half way through NASA training before being dropped. He taught Jacko how to fly the thing, and even came with us on the first couple of trial flights. It was Jacko's brother who registered the craft in his own name for use so that we could make our expedition to the moon.
What a race that was! With the lower gravity, racing on the moon was very different, and of course, one of our rules was that we were disqualified if we got ourselves stuck in a crater and had to be rescued from it.
I suppose you think we were completely insane? None of us thought so at the time until buggy number three malfunctioned a rather long way from the Moth. Our friends might have run out of oxygen walking back to the ship, so we had to stop by and try to figure out what had gone wrong.
I still don't know what was wrong, but I was leaning over the engine, peering into its depths, absolutely clueless, when something went whumph! right in my face. I blacked out for a moment, and when I opened my eyes, I nearly died right then and there.
I was floating in space, with the moon a bright dot in the distance.
I read a book once, about a boy who got himself stuck in space with no spaceship or planet nearby and thought to myself how totally ridiculous that was. As if anything like that could really happen in real life! In the book, the boy was almost completely not at fault. Neither was I. Really. I mean, I didn't make the thing blow up or whatever happened, did I? I was actually trying to help. Last time I do that! Next time we abandon the broken-down buggy and leg it!
I am actually a reasonably sensible guy most of the time. Alright, I may be addicted to speed races in my spare time, but I'm not totally thick. I was stuck in space, with no way to get back to my spaceship. Space-hopper, then. But I knew firstly that the Hopper was not broken, and its pilot was fine. So they should be able to come and rescue me. I knew also that even though you can't propel yourself anywhere in zero gravity, an opposite and equal force will do the trick quite nicely.
Ideally a bulkhead of sorts. But then, if I'd had a bulkhead, I'd not need to get anywhere. If I had had something in my hand I could throw away from me, that would be enough to stop my progress away from the moon, and maybe even reverse my course.
Maybe? Alright, I'm no genius either, but it was an idea anyway. Something positive I could do. I groped about my spacesuit and found my toolbelt had been ripped.
No tools. Nothing to throw…except the terror tantrum that was threatening.
Suddenly, I knew I was going to die.
I was in an uncontrollable spin, away from the moon and my friends. I could see the earth every time my spin brought me round to facing that direction. It was only the apparent movement of earth that told me I was moving. Since there is no wind or gravity or anything up there, there was no real sensation of movement.
I wanted to throw up. I swallowed it down. The last thing I needed was puke in my helmet. How long would that take to kill me? Before my air ran out or after?
I made a promise there and then to whoever might have been able to hear me through my crackly, second-hand, rebuilt radio that I would give up space-racing and take up something safer and much closer to home.
Formula One? Parachuting?
"What about cookery or needlework?" came a dry sounding voice in my ear. It was not a voice I knew.
I looked around, rather foolishly I now realise, to see who was talking, but I was still alone in space. But someone was definitely talking to me.
"Who…who are you? Where are you? Can you come and get me, whoever you are?"
"This is International Rescue. Please do not panic Mister Gabriel. We will be with you very soon."
"How did you…my friends. They are on the moon…or they were. Are they alright?"
"Thunderbird Three is on its way to pick them up. Your space-hopper was damaged by debris from an exploding Moon-buggy, and your friends called us for help. They were afraid you had been killed. I've been scanning the area for you for some time. Are you injured in any way?"
"I was feeling sick. That seems to have gone away now. My head feels a bit odd. I think I was knocked out when the explosion happened."
"Probably a slight concussion. Thunderbird three has reached your friends and they are now safely on board. I have given her pilot your coordinates. You will be rescued in approximately ninety-seven seconds. Do me a favour please, Mister Gabriel?"
"Its Dom. Dominic Gabriel. What favour International Rescue?"
"Never go into space again without the proper training, equipment and license. There are too many ways to get yourself and other people killed."
"I promise!" I replied earnestly.
A moment later, an enormous red rocket was coming towards me and stopped some distance away.
Thunderbird Three.
Wow. What a beauty! It was almost worth getting myself almost killed to get the chance of seeing this amazing machine first-hand.
Almost.
I watched, mesmerized and relieved, my heart pounding, as a hatch opened in its side, and a slight figure in a blue uniform emerged on a red hover-board. He approached me quickly and expertly. Clearly this person was familiar with space. Unlike me and my friends. When he came close, I was startled to see he was several years younger than me! How could a kid that young be a licensed astronaut? He held out a hand.
"Hello Dominic. My name is Alan. Are you enjoying the view, or would you rather go home?"
I liked this guy. In other circumstances, we could have been mates.
"Well, I've seen worse views I guess, but…I really need to use the bathroom!"
I attempted a grin and took hold of his hand, then stepped on the back of his board, holding him tightly by the shoulders.
"Hold on tight, and we'll go for a ride!"
I happen to know those hoverboards can travel even in space at the speed of a slow tortoise, so the fact that we made it back to his impressive ship in half the time it took him to get to me, told me that here was a kindred spirit. Even if he did not go space-speed-racing himself, he was a kid with the need for speed. I guess flying the biggest and fastest Thunderbird would be an impressive way to satisfy that need.
Well, that happened two years ago. After we were dropped back on earth and the big red Thunderbird returned to her unknown base, I knew I was going to keep the promise I had made to the unknown International Rescue operator who had spoken into my ear. No more illicit space racing. But people still race on earth and make big money at it. So, I joined a race team. I'm no mechanic. I guess I made that clear enough up on the moon. But I am a demon driver though. I was made one of the drivers of the team, and I soon got to know the strength of the competition.
Only one other driver comes close. He seems somehow familiar, but for the life of me I can't place him. He's good though, I'll give him that. You may well have heard of him, because his dad is a well-known as the multi-billionaire Jeff Tracy.
It's his youngest son, Alan Tracy.
Alan…hang on…now I remember where I have seen his face before…