“Good morning, everyone,” she says. There’s a twinge of a foreign accent. She looks in her midforties, with jaw-length hair and an extreme side-parting: professional and futuristic. As she runs her gaze over the audience, it feels as though she’s appraising each and every one of us. I sit up straighter.
“I’m Fabienne Baas, head recruiter for the Mars Project.”
It’s so quiet I hear myself swallow.
“During this morning’s session,” Fabienne says, “I’m going to give you some crucial information. Then, this afternoon, we’ll split you into groups and observe you.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. Her expression changes from serious to excited. Or at least a well-rehearsed impression of someone who is excited. “Let’s get straight to it. Who here wants to live on Mars?”
As if we have been primed by a TV producer for a live show, we clap and cheer. The cheering is like rain after a humid day. Too sudden, too strong, but it clears some of the tension in the air. I notice that the pregnant woman in the front row is whooping.
“Good. That’s great.” Fabienne’s smile is starting to look genuine. “It’s wonderful to see so many of you here in the Major Oak Suite. I am reliably informed that this room is named after Robin Hood’s hideout. For the purposes of today, though, it’s more like the Major Tom suite, don’t you agree?”
Another round of applause.
Fabienne switches on the screen behind her. We might be planning the most advanced interplanetary expedition ever attempted by the human race, but we’re still at the evolutionary stage where PowerPoint presentations are the done thing.
“Here you can see a timeline for the project.” Fabienne points at the screen. There’s an arrow running from left to right. Above the start of the arrow, it says “Now.” At the end, it says “2030.” There are five other points marked along the way:
• 2020 - Select crew
• 2021 - Train crew
• 2025 - Communications mission
• 2027 - Cargo mission
• 2028 - Outpost preparation
Fabienne tells us that there is a lot to do before we are ready to colonise Mars. We need to send out a rover to prepare the outpost, and communication satellites to enable contact with Earth. We’ll need living units, as well as support units containing air, water, and food. Fabienne’s voice is calm and reassuring, and several people nod as she speaks. My guess is that they’re nodding less out of comprehension than relief. Relief that someone has thought this thing through.
Reaching the end of the timeline, Fabienne points at the final date. “This is the big one,” she says. “In 2030, Mars will be inhabited.”
Several people fidget, me included.
“As you probably know, the planets need to be properly aligned, so there is only one launch window to Mars every twenty-six months. That’s when Mars is at its closest point to Earth, known as the perigee.” A PowerPoint slide pops up with the word PERIGEE in capital letters. It’s quickly replaced by a picture of a spacecraft that looks a bit like a giant battery pack. “This,” says Fabienne, pointing at the slide, “is how you’ll be getting there.”
She pauses. “That’s right—I said ‘you.’ Because it could be you, or you, or you.” She points at specific people in the audience, and I’m annoyed that on the third “you” she points at the girl in the tinfoil hat next to me.
Fabienne raises a finger to her lips, hushing the whispering in the room. “Now listen,” she says. “You’re probably wondering what kind of candidates we’re looking for. Well, if you’re serious about taking part in this mission, you’ll need to be . . .” An acrostic appears behind her:
Mars-obsessed Ambitious R esilient
Trusting/trustworthy
Inquisitive
Adaptable
Nice
Sense of humour
“That’s right, you need to be Martians!” Fabienne says this as if she’s just delivered her coup de grâce. She then talks us through each of the qualities listed on the screen.
When she reaches the final line on the acrostic, she announces: “And now we come to the big one. If you want to go to Mars, you’ve got to have a sense of humour.” For some reason, everyone laughs when she says this. Are we laughing at the notion of jokes in general? Do I lack a sense of humour because I can’t understand what’s so funny?
20
Honestly though, what makes me laugh?
There was that biology lesson at school, where we learnt the scientific name for a European badger: Meles meles. My friend Alana and I got the giggles. It was the repetition that got to us. When the teacher told us that the name of one of the badger subspecies was Meles meles meles, we were beside ourselves. Kept daring each other to try and say meles three times in a row without laughing. These days, I think I could say meles indefinitely.
I step out into the midday sun, looking for a place to eat lunch. My brow is furrowed. What’s my sense of humour like? Hidden under a mass of anxiety.
The steampunks are sitting at a picnic table, along with a couple of people in suits. One woman’s jacket has shoulder pads. Near a sign saying “Dog Exercise Area,” I spot the pregnant woman. She’s perched on a tree stump. I find myself gravitating towards her.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Mmm, please.” She wipes sandwich crumbs from the corner of her mouth.
I sit on the stump too and say: “Nice to get a bit of fresh air.” I feel instantly silly. I’m here because I want to live on Mars for the rest of my life, never again feeling the wind in my hair, or a lick of breeze on my cheek.
The woman laughs, and I wonder if that means I just made a joke. “It’s all getting a teensy bit intense in there, isn’t it?”
“It’s good to get a breather from the Bowie stuff for five minutes,” I say. A small thrill runs
