Up and Down (19 page)

Landon was standing perfectly still without a hint of dizziness or the traditional temporary wobbling that normally accompanies being spun in a blender for five minutes. I could not relate at all. I would often get a mild case of vertigo after turning a corner.

“You’re not dizzy at all after that?” I asked.

“Nope. I was the first two hundred times I did it back in ’83, but then, over the years, I just got used to it,” she explained.
“I’ve routinely pulled two and a half Gs in this thing. And sometimes I even secure the seat in the vertical position, facing the centre post, to simulate launch. It’s easier to take the Gs at launch because of the direction of the force. But still, it’s good practice.”

“But it’s as if you’re completely unaffected by being whipped in circles for five minutes.”

“It bothers me even less now. Researchers have actually discovered that there’s something about the geriatric physiology that makes it easier to accommodate G forces. I guess there are at least a few benefits to growing old.”

“Oh yeah, it must be a great comfort to senior citizens everywhere knowing that they’re better able to handle rocket launches,” I replied. “So you’ve really been doing this for years? Why?”

“I’ve been waiting for my shot and I wanted to be ready. I guess you could say I’ve been waiting for you and your contest.” She was staring at the centrifuge seat as she said this, with a faraway look in her eyes. We stood in silence for a moment or two before she took my arm and led me to the seat.

“Okay, now it’s your turn. Hop on, and strap in,” Landon said, pointing to the seat.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I’m really not great on amusement park rides. Trust me.”

She said nothing but just kept pointing to the seat and smiling. It was a nice smile. Plus, she was my host and personal pilot for the trip back to Mackenzie. I didn’t really want to offend her.

I leaned on the seat to offset the weight it was losing as Landon removed the concrete blocks. On her signal, I slipped into the seat.

“How much do you weigh?” she asked.

“About 165.”

Landon immediately walked over to a flat tree stump near the observation deck and picked up a large iron disk with a hole in the middle. I recognized it as a weight that would normally be added to a barbell for power-lifting in the gym. She slid it onto a shelf below the engine mount, walked back to fetch another, and secured them both with a couple of shock cords. I was heavier than Landon and this additional weight on the engine end of the mast returned the entire contraption to equilibrium. Simple, but effective.

Landon then made sure I’d secured the harness.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“No.”

“Good. You control the throttle, so you don’t have to scramble your innards. Just go fast enough to feel the additional weight on your body. ”

I nodded.

It occurred to me that I’d never make it as an astronaut. Suddenly, wave after wave of nausea rolled over me. It was a horrible feeling. I didn’t know which end was up I was so disoriented. It was even worse when Landon started the engine and I actually started moving slowly along my circular flight plan.
And that’s all I remember. I must have passed out. When I came to, Landon was standing in front me with a pail of water. It was shockingly cold as she dumped the bucket on me.

Apparently, I’d thrown up and fainted on my second complete revolution, while still travelling so slowly it was hard to tell I was moving at all. Or perhaps I fainted and then threw up. Either way, I eventually understood why I was being unceremoniously doused with cold water. It took a few buckets, but the last vestiges of my breakfast were finally washed from the seat, my clothes, my hair, my nose, etc. Yes, I was born to this.

“I’ve never been very good at spinning,” I conceded. “Despite being a
PR
professional.”

She took my arm and led me farther up the path where the sound of rushing water grew louder. I could see a mountain stream cascading down the slope to the lake. A wooden box had been placed in the water and was full. The water that didn’t flow into the box rushed around it and continued down the slope eventually feeding into the lake. I could see a black plastic hose running from the box down through the woods to Landon’s cabin. I got it.

“So this is how you get your water?”

“A tried and true technique. This gravity-fed water box system gives me all the clean and cold water I need, with no pumps required,” she explained. “Of course, it’s helpful to have a mountain spring rushing by your back door.”

I wasn’t sure why we were standing there.

“Rinse out your pants and shirt in the stream and we’ll dry them on the dock,” she instructed.

I hesitated. She wanted me to strip down to my boxers.

“Mr. Stewart, I’m a doctor. I’ve seen plenty of men in their skivvies. Besides, I bat for the other team, remember?”

I stripped down and was about to dunk my pants and shirt when she stopped me.

“Not in the water box, if you please. We drink from that. Take two steps downstream and we’re fine.”

Half an hour later, we were sitting on the dock in old-fashioned wooden lounge chairs, known in Ontario as Muskoka chairs, enjoying the sun’s warmth. I’d changed by then and was feeling much better, as long as I stayed quite still. Landon got up, walked up the path, and lifted the canoe off its rack in one smooth motion. She supported it on her thighs as she sidestepped back down to the dock and slid the cedar-stripped canoe into the water. She tossed in a couple of life jackets, grabbed the paddle that was stuck in a slot and bracket on one of the plane’s floats, and slid onto the seat. She looked my way.

“Hop in and we’ll go for a paddle up the lake a ways,” she suggested. “You don’t have to lift a finger. I only have one paddle anyway. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. I’ll take care of navigation and locomotion.”

I hesitated.

“Come on, Mr. Stewart, you won’t get an offer like this very often.”

I did what I was told. I actually made it into the canoe without dumping us both in the lake. I felt pretty good about that. Landon had me sit facing her on a soft life jacket in the bottom of the canoe with my back against the seat. This lowered my centre of gravity, which meant that it also lowered the prospects of tipping the canoe from
certain
to just shy of
likely
. She pushed away from the dock gently and took silent strong strokes. Each stroke was precisely the same. She must have paddled this lake a thousand times. Every time she pulled her paddle back through the water, I felt us surge forward. For the first fifty yards or so off the dock, the water retained its deep blue. Then I watched the rocky bottom rise up and level off about twenty feet beneath us, where it stayed for the rest of our journey up the south shore of Cigar Lake.

“If I’m not flying, this is my favourite mode of transportation,” she said, keeping us about twenty yards offshore.

“Except perhaps for the space shuttle,” I suggested.

“You got that right,” she replied. “Okay. Now that you’ve heard it all, what happens now?”

“Well, I head back to Toronto and report on our contest winner’s suitability for space travel. If I had my way, you’d be confirmed as the Canadian citizen astronaut. Your story is perfect and would captivate the country. You’re a bush pilot doctor who was rejected nearly thirty years ago for the astronaut corps. You built your own centrifuge, for crying out loud. This would have
been such sweet vindication,” I said, but with a melancholy tone that was not lost on Landon.

“But you’re not the decision-maker.”

“Right. Moreover, I doubt I have enough influence even to get your full story on the table before the hatchet falls,” I lamented. “
NASA
and my bosses in Toronto and Washington will make the call, and I don’t think it will take them long. I’m sorry.”

“All because I’m a little past my best-before date. Just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Well, it isn’t fair, but they hold all the cards,” I said. “I’ll try to get all of your story in front of the key players before your age even becomes an issue. But in the end …” My voice trailed off.

“Right,” was all she said.

We paddled farther up the lake, as I marvelled at the scenery. Take the best Canadian beer commercial ever made, with shots of our fresh water, towering mountains, and big sky, and it couldn’t come close to what I was seeing from a canoe on Cigar Lake.

“Did the
RCMP
ever officially close the file on your father’s disappearance?”

“About two months later, they declared him lost in an air crash and haven’t done a thing about it since.”

“Do you ever wonder what Sherlock Holmes would make of this mystery?” I asked.

She smiled.

“I’ve reread the entire Holmes canon several times over searching for some insight that might help. I rediscovered my love of
Doyle’s writing, but I’m no further ahead in finding my father.”

We turned and headed back to the dock.

Half an hour later, my clothes were dry and packed, and my bag was loaded on the Beaver. I took a last look around, taking in the idyllic cabin, canoe, dock, trees, lake, and mountains. I’m not sure I’ve ever been to a more beautiful and untouched sliver of Canada. I climbed in, fastened my seat belt, and pulled on the headphones as if I’d been flying for years. Landon reached in and started the engine, the propeller disappearing from view as it gathered speed. Then she slipped back out onto one float to cast off from the dock. A few seconds later, she too was buckled in. She pointed us west and hit the throttle. It took us a while to get up a head of steam but we eventually lifted from the surface of Cigar Lake, climbed over the trees at the west end of the lake, and turned for Mackenzie.

“By the way,” I said over the headset. “How can I reach you? I mean other than flying back out here.”

I heard Landon’s voice in my ears as she rhymed off a cellphone number. I grabbed a pen from my jacket pocket and wrote the number down on the back of one of my business cards I’d found in my wallet.

“You have cell service way up here?”

She pointed out the side window back to the west.

“On the next lake over, a wealthy tycoon from Seattle with more money than brains built a cell tower on his land so that he is always reachable. I can pull in quite a strong signal from my
place. I just don’t like to give the number out. But I’ll make an exception for you.”

She reached behind her and grabbed a brown paper bag and handed it to me.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Have a look.”

I reached in and pulled out a small tin. I opened it and saw and smelled chocolate chip cookies.

“For the trip home. You’ll need something,” Landon explained.

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Can I try one now?”

She just waved her hand in assent. The bag was not yet empty. I reached in again and pulled out the 1930 Doubleday edition of
The Complete Sherlock Holmes
. I was taken aback.

“Landon, I can’t accept this. It’s in pristine condition!” I protested.

“Ah hell, I’ve got two more in a box in my closet. Take it. I don’t meet too many fellow Sherlock fans. I’d like you to have it. You’ve come a long way to see me, and I probably didn’t make it very easy on you.”

“I don’t know what to say. It’s very generous,” I said in all sincerity. “I appreciate it very much.”

“Now pass me a cookie, would you?” she asked with hand outstretched.

We flew on. At about the halfway point, even though the air was smooth, I was beginning to feel a little queasy. I must have looked a little green around the gills.

“Use this if you need to,” she directed, handing me a large Ziploc freezer bag. “I can’t wash down these seats with a bucket of water without short circuiting the entire instrument panel.”

I just nodded and opened the bag.

“Welcome home, David,” Diane said as she settled into the chair at the head of the boardroom table, no paper, no pen. “We weren’t sure you were ever going to come back.”

It was late Monday morning, the day after I’d returned from my memorable visit to Cigar Lake, B.C. My stomach was almost back to normal, although sitting in a swivel boardroom chair was almost more than I could handle right then.

“By the look of your numbers in
PROTTS
, you’ve sustained your torrid pace. You’re averaging more than fifty hours a week billable on this project. Very impressive.”

Amanda slipped into the room and sat down next to me, her smiling face full of anticipation.

“So, how was it? How’s our guy?” she asked, rubbing her hands as if they were cold.

I hadn’t provided any kind of an update while I was gone or even when I got back over the weekend. I was still trying to
figure out how I was going to handle this.

“Are we waiting for anyone else?” I asked, feeling a little tense.

“Nope, it’s just the three of us to start. We’ve got half an hour before our call with the
D.C.
team so we thought you could brief us first. You know, no surprises,” replied Amanda. “So …” She moved her hand in a way that made it clear she wanted me to start talking. So I did.