LIKE A JEWEL, by Pauline Fisk

The rocket man said no way.  There were some things he wouldn’t stoop to, and bagging moon dust for sale on earth fitted into that category, especially sale by some company operating out of Jersey, calling itself Planet Earth Holdings. 

The company texted, phoned and emailed him, not only at Space Control UK, but at home. He declined to reply.  Even after he’d been launched, they were still trying to make contact. It was as if they imagined mobile phone masts up in space. All they got back, however, were engaged beeps that went on and on.

After this, Planet Holdings’ PR people started a grass-roots campaign raising public awareness to the value of moon dust, cosying up to the right journalists and paying hard cash to a couple of useful blogsite. The idea was taken up too fast for a tipping point. It caught like wildfire. 

Suddenly everybody was blogging about the properties of moon dust and what they called its ‘distribution crisis’.  Pride in the achievements of the UK Space industry turned to discontent. All this messing around with rockets, paid for out of the public purse - pound for pound that moon dust belonged to the man and woman in the street.  Their rocket man, funded by their taxes, had a public duty to bring it back.

People started phoning Space Control UK.  God alone knows how they found the number. The story made it onto the radio, and then TV.  Phonelines filled up with indignant callers demanding moon dust as their human right. Some wanted it sold to raise money for good causes. Others reckoned it should be administered directly to those causes, others that it should be divvied up by Lottery.  There were arguments about what would happen if the EU laid claim to it. Some subtle voices whispered that the safest hands were the good folk at Planet Earth Holdings – a company nobody had heard of before, but whose shares[on the subject of sky rocketing] were now aiming for the stars.  

Questions were asked in Parliament.  The government had crippled itself, accused the Labour front bench, attempting to prove its position on the world stage.  Its ridiculous space programme had brought the country to its knees - and were they now denying its citizens access to what effectively was their own moon dust?  A nationalized industry needed setting up, making it available on a basis of need. No way, announced the Tory front bench.  Moon dust should be privatized. Already discussions with Planet Earth Holdings were under way.

At this, a mob took to the capital’s streets. The matter was discussed in Cabinet.  Riots kicked off around the country and a COBRA meeting was convened. Rumours abounded about moon dust’s properties. The Government’s Chief Scientist was called in. Air Force chiefs advised. The people from the UK Space Industry were called in.  The Americans had something to say. So did the Russians and Chinese. The Pope issued an edict. So did Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth. All three agreed that it wasn’t ethical to remove dust by rocket-load from the moon.

Everybody had an opinion, but no agreement could be found as tis often the way.  The Cabinet was split.  The Prime Minister was prevaricating. The Deputy Prime Minister was no fool.  He appraised the situation and seized his chance.

Up on the moon, the blackness of infinity was so intense that the rocket man could not just hear it, but actually see it sing.  Dust lay like fallen stars beneath his feet.  The earth shone like a jewel. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

[copyright©Pauline Fisk 2013]