A Voyage through the Micro-Verse to Save Life on Planet Earth

1115 hours... And then the faces recede from the light and vanish.   Only a solitary silhouette remains, standing at the center of where the multitude had been only moments before.   It is beyond slender, with unusually long limbs, and at the end of an extremely tall neck, an oblong head with enormous eyes.     Its right arm, for lack of a better vocabulary, lifts up from its side, extends ninety degrees from its body.   At the end of the limb membranous pseudopodia become finger-like appendages, coalescing into a pointing hand. “I think,” says Gyro softly, “is it trying to tell us where to go?” In an act so unhuman, yet so understandable, the shape thrust its fluid-like right arm further from its body, as if to emphasize its instruction to us. “No doubt about it,” I say.   “Gyro, turn us ninety degrees port rudder and follow the glass wall.    One quarter speed.” “Turning to two-seventy degrees,” adds Gyro. “Answering one quarter, as soon as I get do

Day 16: 0800 hours... “It was your reflection in the porthole,” Barron Wolfe states with a dismissive certainty that I envy. “I wish that it had been,” I respond.   “Not only did it not look anything like me, it was clearly outside the ship.” “How can you be sure?” asks Lyra.   “I mean, maybe your reflection combined with the dim light in the cabin…” “Whatever, or whomever it was swatted a flagellating bacterium out of its way before it vanished back into the dark.   No, it was clearly outside.   But before it disappeared, it looked straight at me – into me.     And its eyes…”   I cannot find the words to finish my thought. “Some microorganism then,” theorizes Barron.   “But it couldn’t have been human – not without a helmet or suit.” “What about its eyes?” pressed Lyra. “They were piercing… penetrating…   curious and intelligent,” I tell her.   “But not…”   And again, words fail me.   “And Barron is right…eyes, but not human eyes.” “I’m sorry,” sc

Day 14: 1100 hours... Crisis! I am loath to report that we are stranded, now mired to the gunwales in the bottom ooze – and I have only myself to blame. The accident occurred in the middle of a strategizing meeting with naturalist Lyra Saunders and engine master Barron Wolfe.   They were elucidating me on their well-reasoned plan to modify Cyclops’ fuel production by utilizing the product and by-product of photosynthesis (starches and oxygen, respectively) to fashion a fuel supply that would be emission-free, resulting in no carbon exhaust, making us undetectable to the predators of the pond micro verse.   As proposed, our menagerie of green algae cells, which has provided the bulwark of our oxygen production, could also be utilized as a starch farm.   The starch would be processed to make a clean fuel for the boiler.   Combustion would provide heat to drive the turbine, and the carbon gas waste product channeled back to the algae cells, that with

Day 13: 0900 hours... Last night passed, at least for myself, with little sleep.   Slumber was kept at bay by a mind overly occupied, pondering the dilemma we now face of generating steam to drive our engine, but doing so without emitting carbon gasses.   We’ve learned from our observation of single-celled pond life and from our recent run-in with the flatworm, that most aquatic microorganisms have the ability to detect the presence of CO 2 – the universal product of aerobic respiration.   These organisms are adept at locating prey by following a trail of carbon dioxide – an ingenious evolutionary adaption.   Our own engine, which burns oil to generate heat, to in-turn boil water for steam, has the same effect on predators.   I am amazed that we aren’t now digesting in some micro beastie’s belly!   I am faced with the inescapable conclusion that it is only by luck and fast-thinking that we have avoided such a fate.   Surviving these encounters has given u