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

Day 12: 1515 hours... Vorticella never lie … will be etched upon my grave – if this day plays out the way the last hour has been going.   We quickly learned what alarmed the stalked ciliates… a planarian!   This predatory flatworm has caught our scent – probably sensing the carbon dioxide from Cyclops’ engine boiler exhaust. “As a wise man once said: you can’t outrun a planarian,” warns Lyra in an analytical tone that defies the peril we were in. “Oh yeah?   Watch me!” snaps Gyro, then shouts into the voice pipe:   “Barron, give me everything you’ve got!” We have been trying to evade this denizen of the aquatic weed forest for the better part of an hour, but to no avail. We can neither outrun it, nor out-maneuver it through a maze of water plants and bottom detritus.   At every turn the flatworm sways its enormous head from side to side, using its ear-like chemical detectors to track our every move with uncanny precision.   I...

  Day 12: 1015 hours... The celluloid is rolling! We are now several days into the production of a moving picture documentary. When complete, our film will feature the numerous kinds of microscopic organisms found throughout the pond. The recent acquisition of several oxygen-producing algal protists has extended how long we can remain submerged, allowing for lengthier observations… and more time to “get the shot,” as they say. We are currently navigating our way through the dense and occasionally treacherous weedy shallows – treacherous because navigation is more hazardous, and one never knows what micro-denizens may lurk in the shadows of this aquatic jungle. Because of the abundant aquatic plant life for shelter, and plentiful sunlight, this region offers safe haven for a rich diversity of microorganisms.   Again and again we see, whilst filming, the relationship between hunter organisms – and organisms that graze. The hunters, or predators, capture and ...

1430 hours... To our great delight, Lyra discovers a single greenish cell wedged firmly in the ship’s rudder assembly – the strange malfunction of our steering and elevator systems now demystified.   When she attempts to free the organism with a length of hemp line the protist takes her on a merry jaunt as she grasps the tether with all her strength. “And there she goes!” reports Gyro, as Lyra and the green beastie streak past the windows of the wheelhouse, looking for all the world like a micro-scaled reenactment of a nineteenth century Nantucket sleigh ride.   “Let go, Lyra, for heaven’s sake!” he shouts in vain at the drama beyond the glass.   “Why doesn’t she just let go?” “Because that simple and elegant solution,” I mutter, “would be far too convenient!   I suspect that our young biologist has reckoned that the organism is worthy of closer study – and once she sets her mind to such a task…” “All well and good,” raged the concerne...

Day 9: 0530 hours… Dawn is breaking.  Last night we anchored the ship to a decaying aquatic weed stem, about two hundred twenty centimeters depth – all hands glad for the respite after our adventure on the surface.  I am pleased to report that the night passed uneventfully.  As I enjoy my mug of coffee on the observation level of the pilothouse the faceted dome reveals the first sunrays piercing the pond’s depths.  Through the heavy leaded glass warm watery light strikes green algal protists, which illuminate into iridescent emeralds.   And there are thousands upon thousands of them all around us, creating an ever-changing green waterscape that extends in all directions to the furthest visible distance.  This harmless multitude is to other single-celled pond organisms what grass is to the herding beasts of the African Serengeti – food in abundance.  I am admittedly curious about the organisms that rely ...

Day 8: Continued… “Get inside!” roars Barron.   “Fast as you can… get inside!” The monster’s enormous head hangs over us, waving from left to right, as if its rudimentary brain is processing visual information from those huge compound eyes and chemical signals from those curious antennae, while primordial decision algorithms attempt to deduce if Cyclops registers as food. I spin a quick 360° to locate each member of the crew.   Barron wis on the ship’s hull, reaching out to help Lyra onto the port claw extender.   In another three seconds she will be inside.   Gyro is furthest away, sprinting toward the ship, slipping on the near frictionless pond surface, half-falling and catching his balance, then running again.   If the no-see-um decides to strike, Gyro will never make it to safety.   But then… will any of us? “Barron,” I shout across the aquatic interface, “fire the flare!” On the canted deck of the Cyclops , Lyra clambers...

Day 8: 1730 hours... Seeing Barron Wolf’s hulking silhouette standing before us back on the upper level is a welcome sight.   The big man wraps his huge arms around Lyra and I simultaneously.   We eagerly exchange tales: Lyra and I, the remarkable story of our trip down through the plant, of the amazing discovery of the already-harvested diatom oil, all that we would need, packaged and ready for us to transport.   Barron regales us with his thrilling account of the tidal wave, and that of the rush-climbing aquatic insect, which continues to cover the doorway, our only means of escaping the plant’s interior. “The wave probably disturbed that insect,” Lyra explains.   “So it came looking for a new resting place.” “And found one right in front of our door!” bellows a frustrated Barron.   “How are we supposed to get out of this rush?” “I don’t think she will be here much longer,” muses Lyra confidently.   “This is the nymph stag...

  Moving diatom oil to the stranded Cyclops Day 8: 1600 hours… Excerpt from Engine Master’s Log With each arm’s length of hemp line released I watched Captain Adler and Lyra slowly descend and disappear down the dim interior of the plant’s hollow shaft.    I had let out about one and a half centimeters of the rope when the resistance suddenly ceased.   Attached to the block, the fishing bell alarm made no sound.   I could only assume that the skipper and Lyra came to rest somewhere down there, hopefully at a depth where they might easily collect and harvest the diatom oil that we need to get back to our mission.   Had I been granted more time to prepare for this excursion it would not have been overly difficult to rig a telegraph or a simple voice pipe to allow for basic communication between myself and the descent team.   But as I am reminded by the gigantic insects emerging around us, time was short.   The fishing be...