Scrawls Of The Unexpected By Mark Pollard

Professor Colin Pillinger, lead scientist on the Beagle II programme, was calm but well pissed off inside. He had been clinging to the idea that his £35 million Mars Probe was stuck in a crater, waiting for some narrow rays of sunlight to banish the shade for a few precious hours each day in order that its batteries could slowly regenerate some power.

This should have been accomplished within a day of landing, but the heavily-whiskered boffin was prepared for it to take place more gradually if it meant his mission was not to be deemed a complete failure. But it had been ten days now, and not a bleep, tweet or scratch to report from Joderell Bank.

Nothing. Not even a shred of evidence that it might have suffered some catastrophic failure.

At least when the Yanks lost space shuttles they got to see it happen, live on TV. No such consolation for Pillinger's boys though. In truly understated British style, Beagle II had gone without so much as a whimper. Like a pensioner a week after their gas supply has been cut off. Or Shergar. Or the Sinclair C5. Or Oasis. And to rub it in, Uncle Sam had just landed his own piece of kit successfully on the red planet.

Pillinger left the sterile confines of his office-cum-laboratory, pristine in white and silver, partway between operating theatre and workshop, and padded disconsolately towards the toilets for a thoughtful interlude.

Over the years he had drawn solace and inspiration in equal measures whilst in his favourite trap, and he would hope to do so again now, as his darkest professional hour approached. As he dropped his corduroys, he considered his options.

Could he rise above his envy and persuade NASA to undertake some kind of rescue mission for his stricken craft? Would he be able to get funding to do it all over again? Should he drop his Martian obsession and spend overdue time with his family, perhaps attempting the barn-conversion he and his wife had dreamt of since the early 1970s? Even if Beagle II was a total write-off, 33 years of excellent, often groundbreaking work in his field must have guaranteed him a gong from Her Maj' when he finally decided to retire. What to do, what to do....

Ten minutes' contemplation later, and Pillinger's feelings of frustration, envy and anger had still not subsided. He knew he still had to write up the report he had drafted in the event of mission failure. A report that would have to be run past the Prime Minister before being circulated to various, multi-national representatives of the European Space Programme. It was not a task he was relishing; although it would highlight many positives for European space exploration, he knew that Beagle II's demise meant that the report had, in effect, become a formal, detailed inventory of what he and his team had done wrong.

But before the report, Pillinger had one last thing to do. Taking care not to disturb any equilibrium that may have been developing behind and beneath him, he leaned forward and took a black marker pen from his coat pocket. On the toilet door, he scrawled the words NASA ARE NOBHEADS and drew a huge, squirting and disproportionate penis alongside it. The Professor felt much better now. ©2004 Mark Pollard

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