The Age of Discovery, Chapter 3: Duckweed Base

Day 1: 1130 hours…

We sight Duckweed Base without further incident. 

As we approach the encampment I am struck by how many times have I looked over a small pond, or eddy along the Potomac, and seen the brilliant green of duckweed rafts mottling the still water.  These tiny aquatic plants, were it not for scale, looked quite similar to the more familiar lily pads – yet a trio of duckweed leaves would fit easily on the tip of your finger.  

The Micro Expeditionary Corps had constructed Duckweed Base upon just such a trio of leaves.  The base comprised a watchtower the height of six men, a cluster of yurts, and an arrival stage identical to the one at Dragonfly Sky-base.

Tarah banks the flyer and circles low as she sets the wings for our landing. 

I can barely feel when the skids touch the landing stage, so expert is Tarah’s landing.  I thank the pilot for her skilled services, invoke the wish that we meet again, shake her hand, and join the crew who are already gathered below the platform.

“Skipper!” Lyra calls out.  “Am I glad to see you!  For a minute there it looked like you were going to be a snack for that Odonata Zygoptera! “

“I am delighted to report that the rumor of my demise by insect ingestion is premature,” I respond with a smile.  “Now, where is our ship?”

“The dock hands moved her into the water before we arrived,” reports Gyro.  “It’s  this way.”

Barron grumbles disapprovingly.

“Something wrong, Mr. Barron?” I inquire of the engine master.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” answers the huge man in his rumbling voice, sneering slightly.  “At least, it better be.”

Lyra pats Barron on the arm and explains as if interpreting from another language.  “He wanted to be here for the launch, to make sure they didn’t break anything.”

“I should’ve been here,” mutters Barron.  “She’s a complex vessel, with a lot of sensitive systems.  If any part of her was compromised during the move I will wring the neck of…”

Gyro laughs.  “Easy, there big guy.  They moved her from here to the water, what’s that… twenty millimeters?  What could happen?”

Barron answers sub-sonically.  “Nothing…if I had been here to make sure of it.”

“Mr. Barron, “ I reassure him, “you may inspect the Cyclops bow to stern before we shove off.  I will not ring the bell before you are satisfied that she is in good repair.  Now let’s get aboard and make ready.”

“I appreciate that, Skipper,” says Barron.  “Thank you.”

With duffle bags slung over our shoulders, we cross the duckweed leaf and make for the pier where the Cyclops awaits.  A wooden walkway has been constructed, giving us solid footing over the rough leaf surface.  The duckweed leaf, despite appearing smooth to macro scale eyes, is surprisingly rough-textured, with many dips and folds, but the raised path makes for an easy stroll.   As we walk the crew chats excitedly about things they will miss on our expedition, and in low tones about the amazing meals Randy Emerson would have prepared.   

Were it not for the lack of a distinct horizon or visible geography, we could be walking on most any boardwalk along the Chesapeake on an early summer morning.  The air smells intensely fresh, and despite this being the season for allergies, I am enjoying a respite from my usual hay fever.  Of course… at micro scale pollen grains are much too big to be inhaled.

We arrive at the edge of the duckweed leaf. The mirror-like surface of the pond extends to infinity before us.  Beneath that mirror, darkness and a universe of mystery.  Moored at the end of the dock is our ship. Cyclops is resting in still water, a meniscus encircling her plated iron hull just below the main deck.  Through the glass panes of her steel reinforced pilothouse I can see the outfitting crew within, stowing provisions and removing the stays and ropes that had been used to lock down the helm and engine controls while the ship was being moved. 

The main hatch opens.  An eager deckhand steps into the sunlight, producing a boatswain’s whistle.  He puffs into the instrument and pipes us aboard.  “Welcome to Duckweed Base, Captain Adler!” he hails. “Please find your way below and stow your things.  The Cyclops is ready to depart!”

“Oh really?  We will see about that,” bellows Barron as he tosses his duffle into the arms of the young sailor.

Day 1: 1150 hours…

As it turns out, Barron can find no fault with the ground crew charged with moving the Cyclops.  He reports her mechanical condition to be “shipshape,” although I suspect he is disappointed that he has no further justification to disparage the outfitting team. 

I, too, personally inspect every compartment, passageway, and cabin.  It is, after all, my first time on board since her completion.   My first visit to see her was when she was under construction in a secret Maryland shipyard, an iron skeleton with unfinished decks, no glass where her portholes and observation panes would eventually be, her brass fittings yet to be installed.  Even though I had studied the plans judiciously, and knew the ship quite well from a theoretical perspective, it is something else to actually touch her hatches and bulkheads, smell the oil of her freshly varnished decks, hear the groaning of her iron hull warming in the midday contentedly, and admire her gleaming bright-work.

I complete my inspection back on the command deck, draw out my watch and check the time.  It is three minutes to noon.  I thank the harbor chief and shake his hand.  When the last of the dock team has disembarked, I call all hands to the pilothouse.

“Fellow explorers,” I begin, “today we set forth on an enterprise of scientific discovery.  Do we fear the unknown?  By some measure, perhaps – but we seek to dispel the unknown with the known, with observable, the factual, for scientific fact is our ally.  Facts are powerful for overcoming fear, and apprehension.  Discovery of fact is our mission.  This ship and our commitment to her mission will allow us to enter a world that until now has lain hidden under humanity’s very nose.  We do not do this to lay claim to new lands, or plant our flag on untouched shores, for the micro universe belongs to no nation.  What we discover will challenge ideas once held as doctrine.   The mechanics of life will no longer be subject to guessing.  We will be the first humans to actually see life’s fundamental processes, to gain new understanding of how those processes are carried out by all of Earth’s organisms, not just the simplest.  We will discover forms of life that we cannot yet imagine, be it animal, plant, or neither.  We enter this new world knowing that the record of our observations will fundamentally change how humankind looks at the world, and how it views itself in both the eternal, and the infinitesimal.   May the wind be at our backs, the currents in our favor, and may the Cyclops keep us safe, and bring us home.  Now… if you please, all hands to stations.”

Day 1: Noon...

With a cheerful ringing of the ship’s bell we depart Duckweed Base.  Through the encircling glass of the pilothouse observation dome I watch the dock hands cast away mooring lines. I give Gyro the command to take us sub-surface.  The interface of air and water rises up and over us effortlessly.  Water closes over the ship without the slightest turbulence, its normal adhesive properties neutralized by a hull-coating of thinned oil, without which the surface tension of air-meets-water would be an inescapable trap.

Pre-mission reports echo in my mind, warnings about the more obvious hazards we can expect to encounter near the surface.  Hopefully we are too small to be of any interest to the large vertebrates (fish and frogs) that inhabit the shal­lows near Duckweed Base. 

We drift forward and down.  The crew stares silently outward, captivated by the upper most veneer of this new world, a layer of visible motion caused by a great multitude of microorganisms.  The teacher in me is difficult to stifle, but I resist the urge to give instruction, or to point out objects d’ intérêt. 

The underside of the duckweed raft is a hanging jungle of hair-like rootlets, to us the size of tree trunks.  The rootlets are home to a teeming and diverse throng of microbes. Most visible is a species that extends itself out into the water by means of cord-like stalks.  At the end of their stalks, the organisms circulate water into mouth-like openings, filtering out the edible specks, which are themselves even smaller, simpler organisms. 

Lyra is pressed to the glass of the observation dome, her German-fashioned binoculars trained on the nearby organisms.  At random intervals she lowers the glasses to scribe a brief note.  My desire to linger here and document this first encounter with single-celled organisms is powerful, but the open water of the pond universe beckons, and the field survey schedule rigid.

“They are amazing,” I comment, breaking the silence.  “Lyra, you will no doubt be pleased to learn that I intend to dedicate more observation time to this species later, but we must move on.  Gyro, please set a coarse for the open water, and signal the engine master full steam.”

From his station at the magnificent brass and wooden wheel Gyro informs me that it will be early tomorrow before we reach our first survey site.  At his right hand, the sound of the engine order telegraph acknowledges full speed.  

As we leave the duckweed rootlet micro habitat in our wake, Lyra cries out.  “Skipper!  This is fascinating!  Those stalked cells reacted en mass!  Their stalks are spring-loaded!“

I look astern at the curious microorganisms.  They had indeed withdrawn, their stalks now coiled tight so that the organisms were pulled into a tight bundle.  “A defense mechanism?” I ponder.

“Very likely,” confirms Lyra.  “But I’m wondering what triggered it.  The organisms may have sensed our wake.”

“Maybe,” chimes in Gyro, “but it has me concerned.  It might be a good idea for Lyra to take a look around the ship with those fancy binocular specs of hers, and make sure we’re not alone out here.”

Several minutes later Lyra returns to the pilothouse, reporting that she has visually scaned the waters surrounding Cyclops, and had found no cause for alarm. 

We steam on for several more hours.  Twice in that time Gyro reports a momentary vibration at the wheel, as if something large passed astern, sending a pressure wake over the ship’s rudder.  But nothing further comes of it.  As the waters around us grow dark, I order all stop for the night.  Barron deploys our sea anchor and we take turns on watch.

Day 2: 0530 hours...

After a welcome night’s rest, we greet the sun’s first rays with hot coffee and high hopes for a productive day. 

Lyra observes a vertical migration of nearby algal plankton, green single-celled organisms, moving toward the surface.   She theorizes that like plants, the green cells require sunlight to power their life processes.  Sunlight diffuses rapidly through even scant centimeters of water, so the organisms must have the means to detect light levels, and to move closer to the more intense light near the surface.  This is our first encounter with plant-like organisms that had the power of locomotion.

730 hours…

We arrive at the region of the pond designated on our charts as the open water. This region is by far the largest of the pond habitats, and is home to a huge diversity of micro animals and single-celled organisms.  All together they are called plankton.  Some of these organisms are predators, but most are prey for the predators.  As with the ecosystems of the macro scale world, prey out-number predators many times over. 

As the morning light increases we observe untold thousands of the green single cells of many different species congregating near the surface.  As the day progresses and the light intensity increases the green plankton reverses its vertical migration, moving downward away from the surface and away from the light.  Lyra theorizes that this behavior serves to protect the organisms from becoming overheated, and from other possible sun-related hazards.

Shortly before eight bells Gyro calls on the voice pipe, summoning us to the pilothouse.  In the near distance, eighty millimeters perhaps, a much larger creature has arrived.  It is red and distinctly lobsteresque.  Referencing one of her field manuals, Lyra identifies the animal, as suspected, a member of the crustacean family – most likely a species of copepod – very tiny relatives of shrimp and crabs.  This copepod has placed itself in the middle of a green cell migration.  With an excellent opportunity to observe a predator-and-prey relationship we hold position and watch with fascination as the crustacean, five millimeters long at least, enjoys a boundless feast.  The copepod creates a maelstrom with an assemblage of swirling hairs, and draws the helpless single-celled green organisms into its grinding jaws. 

“That feeding vortex is powerful,” observes Lyra.  “It’s pulling in food organisms of all sizes.”

“And munching every one of them,” comments Gyro. “The glutton!”

“I don’t think so,” says Barron, chiming in.  “It’s actually rather picky.  If you look closely, the copepod only swallows small stuff like those green algae cells, of which there are thousands.  But look what it does when a larger object gets caught in the vortex.  There, see!  It pauses its vortex-makers. The current stops for a moment and it rejects anything that’s too big too eat.”

“A picky glutton,” adds Gyro.

That’s when the deck tilts suddenly under my feet and the railing surrounding the command deck meets abruptly with the right side of my head.  For a moment everything goes black and alarm bells echo in my ears.