Steven ApplebyPaul BlaneyNiall BoyceTalia CarnerTania HershmanHelen SedgwickIain M. Banks

“Lake Sahara is a wonderful place and I’m the man responsible, a mere landscape gardener. It’s just such a shame about the polar bears.”

Ruben Connell, Lake Sahara, page 15.

LITRO | 105

SCIENCE

ISBN 978-0-9554245-5-7

www.litro.co.uk

105

org ukgggorgorgorggrgrggoooorrrggoorrggrgoro kkkuuuuuuuuukkkkkuk

Cover Art:Winner of Litro & Artbelow cover artwork competition, Paige Sinkler. www.paigesinkler.com

Please send forms to: Litro Subscriptions, 91 Cambridge Gardens, Notting Hill, W10 6JE

or call Litro Subscriptions - Tel: 0203 371 9971

Email: info@litro.co.ukwww.wellcomecollection.org/dirt

Science is at the root of everything we know, but how often do we really think about it – let alone read about it? Unless you stray into the back reaches of your local bookshop, where the science fiction is usually kept, you’re unlikely to come across a lot of science-themed stories or novels – and even less likely to find them in a literary magazine.

But science writing and sci-fi make up a surprising amount of essential literature: from Darwin’s Origin of Species to Orwell’s 1984, Huxley’s Brave New World, H.G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds, and even Douglas Adams’s Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series (the sci-fi even science-phobics love), there are worlds of wonderful writing out there to discover.

So this month, Litro is proud to present a selection of extraordinary science fact and fiction: Professor John D. Barrow discusses the universe(s), we’ve got time travel from Robert Caporale, a memoir of the most terrifying science class ever from Talia Carner, teleportation gone eerily wrong in Niall Boyce’s Transmission, an alien invasion courtesy of Paul Blaney and laboratory shenanigans in Tiny Unborn Fish by Tania Hershman.

Meanwhile, Ruben Connell gives us a tale of brilliantly crackpot terraforming in Lake Sahara, and there are punchy, wry observations of science and scientists in their natural habitats from Jason Vandaele, who investigates dog psychology in Missy Theory, and Helen Sedgwick’s moving Walter.

In the month that sees the 350th anniversary of the Royal Society, as well as the birthdays of J. Robert Oppenheimer and Nobel Prize winner James Watson, who revolutionised genetics by unravelling the secrets of DNA, what more could you ask for? Well, perhaps a Q&A with best-selling author Iain M. Banks? No problem – it’s on page 41.

So grab your lab coat, get your geek on and turn the page – we’re about to boldly go where no Litro has gone before.

Katy DarbyEditorApril 2011

This selection is copyright © 2011 Litro MagazineLitro Magazine is published by Ocean Media Books Ltd

Litro Magazine is London’s leading short story magazine. Please either keep your copy, pass it on for someone else to enjoy, or recycle it - we like to think of it as a small free book.

www.litro.co.uk

Missy Theory Jason Vandaele 6

Extract:The Book of UniversesJohn D. Barrow 8

Bacteria Street Circus David Hermann 12

Cartoon:How to Destroy the WorldSteven Appleby 14

Lake SaharaRuben Connell 15

Tiny Unborn Fish Tania Hershman 21

Transmission Niall Boyce 24

Walter Helen Sedgwick 30

My Brain’s Big Bang Talia Carner 33

Not Alone Paul Blaney 39

Q&AIain M. Banks 41

Joyland Robert Caporale 43

PseudomorphDavid Hermann 52

ListingsAlex James 53

In a thick coat with fur lining the hood, she, probably a

first year psychology undergraduate on a day off due to

snow, with heavy red lipstick, walks with a Frisbee in her

hand but the dog fixed on a leash. The dog’s soft paws make

it dance as it struggles to stand on all fours, on the ice. By the

way it moves, it looks feminine and she keeps looking at the

psychology undergraduate and barking for the Frisbee. The

song in the girl’s ears must have stopped because she looks

down and seeing that the dog’s eyes will move anywhere the

Frisbee in her hand will, she starts teasing the dog and I can

see that she, the dog, can’t take much more of it. Finally, she

throws the Frisbee and the dog takes off, quickstepping her

way over the cold snow. I watch the leash tighten and the

choke chain close around the dog’s neck just as she reaches

the Frisbee.

The psychology undergraduate stands still, slips a strap off

her shoulder and unzips her bag. She takes out a pad and

pencil and notes something down, drawing a long line before

applying a heavy full stop. When she puts it away, she walks

over to the end of her leash, finally loosening it and says, “Now

that’s what we call an experiment. Dog obedience, Missy.

That’ll teach you never to bark at me.” Missy looks up at the

undergraduate and wheezes. The undergraduate then leans in

with her earphone free ear and when she hears nothing but the

slow tapping of cold paws, slips the choke chain from around

the dog’s neck.

Little red droplets burrow deeply into the fresh snow, a girl

screams and 200 yards away a dog drops a Frisbee from its

mouth and as it dances in the snow its heavy red lips bark

away. When it stops, picks up its Frisbee and skips away, I

realise that I’ve never been very good at drawing, so I slip the

strap off my shoulder, take my camera out of my bag and snap

the image of the girl dancing on the snow in front of me. I

figure that if a picture tells a thousand words then it might not

be stupid to think that I could change my major to psychology

1. Being in the Right Place at the Right Time

“I know it’s all in our minds, but a mind is a powerful

thing.”

- Colin Cotterill

Two men walking

“I am always surprised when a young man tells me he

wants to work at cosmology; I think of cosmology as

something that happens to one, not something one can

choose.”

- William H. McCrea

The old gentleman walking down the street looked the

same as ever – distinguished but slightly dishevelled, in a

Bohemian style, a slow-walking European on an American

main street, sad-faced, purposeful but not quite watching

where he was going, always catching the attention of the

locals as he made his way politely through the shoppers

and the contra-flow of students late for lectures. Everyone

seemed to know who he was, but he avoided everyone’s

gaze.

Today, he had a new companion, very tall and stockily built,

a little the worse for wear, untidy but in a different way

to his companion. They were both deep in conversation

as they made their way, walking and talking, oblivious of

the shop windows beside them. The older man listened

thoughtfully, sometimes frowning gently; his younger

companion enthusiastically pressing his point, occasionally

gesticulating wildly, talking incessantly. Neither spoke

native English but their accents were quite different,

revealing resonances with many places. Intent on crossing

the street, they stopped, lingering at the kerbside as the

traffic passed. The traffic lights changed and they continued

scan the detail for spectatorsblind maestro

hear the hooplawhen they zoom

up and down into and through

desk citymicrobe avenue

ashen spheresand pill shaped acids

dancinglogarithms

here

among your pens and paper thrives

sophisticatedbiosphere

fissioning aficionadostake their microscopic seats

in microscopic opera housesbuilt in microscopic streets

raise your hand and with a whisperspin your silly fairy tales

it is with ease that you will please the crowd beneath your fingernails

Like anyone else I have a few regrets in life. Really, I wish

I’d tried harder at piano lessons when I was a kid. I also

feel bad about being the man credited with making polar bears

extinct. But then sometimes you have to be philosophical

about things. I’ve had my successes too.

You have to remember that back then the world was a

different place. The polar ice caps were melting, the sea levels

were rising and low lying land and islands were at risk of

being destroyed. No-one knew what to do. I even heard that

the people of the Maldives had given up and started hunting

around for somewhere else to live. They thought they were

going to become the 21st century’s Atlantis.

At the same time central Africa continued to experience

droughts. Millions of people were suffering famine. There

was more water sloshing around than the world had seen for

millennia, but the people who needed it couldn’t get access

to it.

It’s hard to believe, but back then people thought they could

save the planet by recycling their rubbish. That was the best

we’d come up with. For some reason it took a landscape

gardener to think about things a bit differently. I suppose I had

a bit of a head start on everyone else – except maybe all the

other landscape gardeners.

I’d done a job installing an artificial lake in the grounds of

a stately home owned by a rich banking family. They wanted

a lake with a little island in the middle of it. We dug out the

land, reinforced the bottom and filled it up with water. Hey

presto. A lake. It took a bit more than that, to be honest, but

that was the principle. Good old Mother Nature did her bit too.

Rain keeps the water level topped up quite nicely. Or at least

it does in England.

That was the basis of my idea. It seemed so simple. Too

much water in the oceans: not enough in Africa. Why had no-

one else thought of just digging a big hole and filling it up

with all the excess water?

Apparently the answer was that it was a completely stupid

idea. I was told this in no uncertain terms by the science

correspondent of the broadsheet newspaper I wrote to with

He brings her to the lab. What does she see? She sees me.

She blinks. My timer beeps. She blinks again. I turn,

take my test tubes off the rocker. Looking back, he’s standing

with her, pointing round the room, and she, she’s smiling,

blinking, smiling.

My hands move without me, flicking open Eppendorfs,

taking a pipette. Why’s she with him? I want to shake her too.

I pick up my protocol. Don’t get distracted. Not your business.

I look for my solution. Must tidy up my bench. In my head she

looks at me and blinks.

We all go to lunch. He’s talking, talking, talking. Can’t you

see that he’s moronic? I want to say. She’s pale and smiling,

opposite me, next to him. He knocks his shoulder into hers.

Do you know he’s awful, I should say. He gets most of it

wrong, he can’t think straight, he’s got no grasp of anything.

Not that we don’t all make mistakes, I tell her in my head,

as she picks at her sandwich. But there are ones you can’t

avoid and then there are his, splashing on the bench, like little

children flooding sandcastles.

“We’re getting married,” he says and she looks at me and

blinks while he grabs her hand and, like a moron, kisses it.

I know I’m on the verge, my eyebrows raising. I stand up,

mutter all the things you’re supposed to say, and leave.

He brings her to the lab. I turn around and see him leave her

there, he rushes off to look important. She’s coming this way,

my face gets hotter. I motion to a stool. She’s moving slowly,

as if each lab bench is a minefield, as if her touch could send

us up in smoke. She perches, blinking. I peel off my gloves,

take new ones from the box.

“Lovely,” she says, and her voice isn’t high, isn’t tentative.

“What?” I say. She nods her head.

“Lovely purple.” I look down at my hands. I never notice

any more. I worry that I’m blushing. I need to speak.

My timer beeps. She laughs and I think that if I could I’d

have a timer with that sound, ten or twenty times a day, an

“David? Are you awake?”

David turned in bed and opened his eyes. Katherine, his

wife, stood in the doorway of the bedroom, silhouetted by the

light that hung over the spiral staircase.

“I am now,” he said.

“It’s back,” said Katherine.

David groaned and rolled onto his side. Katherine turned

the bedroom light on. He shielded his eyes.

“David,” she said, urgently, “I heard it.”

David got out of bed and put on his dressing gown. He

stumbled groggily towards the door. He felt thirsty and the

headache was starting again, the one that began with a sharp,

stabbing sensation in the centre of his forehead and gradually

spread until his whole head felt full and painful. An after-effect

of the transportation, although the amount he was drinking

probably didn’t help.

Katherine was poised over the bannister, listening.

“Where?” he asked.

“Shh!” she said, raising her finger to her lips.

“Downstairs?”

She nodded. He shrugged and began to descend the stairs.

Katherine leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Careful,” she said.

David shook his head. The headache tightened around his

temples.

“I don’t need to be,” he said, “there’s nothing there.”

David had been chosen from innumerable volunteers

because he was in every way an average man. His height,

his weight, his physical health were all quite unremarkable.

The psychological tests demonstrated that he was a man of

reasonable intelligence, with no particular issues likely to

cause trouble in the aftermath of the transportation.

Of course, they pointed out to him as he signed the

consent form, that did not mean that the period following the

experiment would be problem-free. All it meant was that there

was nothing adverse that they could predict, no particular

He always sits at the head of the table. He sees everyone,

and notices them. He smokes neat little roll-ups made

with black Rizlas and free trade imported tobacco. He’s a tiny

man, smaller than me; at 5ft2 I see the thinning hair on the top

of his head and feel weighty and clumsy, and also fond.

Everyone knows he’s something of a genius. When things

are slow or stalled, ideas scarce, cells misbehaving in their

culture or dying in their isolation chambers the suggestion is

always the same: we could ask Walter. I used to have weekly

meetings with him, to show him my latest designs for the

microfluidic chambers and get his ideas on which carcinoma

cells to use. These days I try to stop myself relying on him too

heavily. I spend more time on the biochemistry – always my

weakest subject – aware that I should be better than I am, less

dependent.

Walter tells me that he will not give up his roll-ups. He

says that he has two a day, and that they are a pleasure. He’s

European like that. Coffee and cigarettes. We meet outside to

smoke, and I take out my extra-light, white-as-a-fume-hood

cigarette with the perforated filter. I’ve started smoking a lot

more than two a day. I’m not sure if I’d call it a pleasure.

Every cell is different. That’s fundamental. Until recently,

research was carried out on millions of cells at the same time.

Any result was an average result; details were smoothed out

or lost and inhomogeneous responses were neglected. So now,

we’re trying to isolate arrays of single cells. We can see how

each one behaves individually. We can see if some are more

aggressive than others (they are) and if some respond to drugs

differently to others (they do). We are trying to determine if

individual cells can be targeted to achieve a population level

response.

When I get my device to work (which takes months) and my

cells to survive, and my microfluidics steady, and I finally get

a result that is interesting (which takes over a year) I decide

to show it to Walter. I walk into his room and thank him for

seeing me, then say sorry for disturbing him at a time like this.

He smiles and tells me not to apologise; it is a pleasure. I find

Isit in a classroom where I clearly do not belong. On the

blackboard, the professor writes a scientific formula

that stretches into its third line. What looks like high-end

mathematics is merely serendipitous to the chemistry, physics

of light, and of course, astrophysics entombed within the

squiggles, numbers and characters.

Stunned, I stare at the white chalk marks. I am supposed

to take a science course in order to graduate with an M.A. in

Economics. But this? Life’s circumstances are pressing upon

me: if I complete a single science requirement, I can graduate,

leave my husband, take my two babies, and move near the

city where the jobs are. I am racing against time. All my plans

will fall through if I don’t complete a science course. I will

reenter the job market without the benefit of a graduate degree

on which I’ve spent the past four years – and money I could

ill-afford.

As the professor continues his furious scribbling on the

board while spewing incomprehensible narration, I chide

myself for having postponed taking my science credits until

this semester when the pickings of available courses with no

science prerequisite are almost nil; this is the only one.

No prerequisite? What is the professor talking about when

he explains how to measure the temperature of a mass of

compact matter called “a star” based upon its thermonuclear

fusion? And to extrapolate in the process how old this star

is and how many aeons will it live before its supernova

nucleosynthesis? The kinematic viscosity is helpful here, and

don’t forget the hydrostatic equilibrium, of course.

Apprehension about the course description fills me as I

glance at the rapt faces of students who fill the room. When

I had signed for Cosmology, I had thought it was akin to

Astronomy. Beyond learning to point out the Great Dipper

and Orion, I would learn to identify a few more constellations.

I would flaunt my expertise with friends at a beach party on

dark summer nights ...

At recess, I go to speak to the professor. He is munching on

a sandwich which his wife, who has sat throughout the lecture

There may have been an intergalactic consensus. A

treaty or something, an agreement to leave us alone.

Like not experimenting on animals. Or had we been part of

an experiment all along? One that required non-interference

for a set period, laboratory conditions. Maybe it was more

haphazard than that. Maybe they just got curious. Whichever

way it went down, the gloves were suddenly, undeniably off.

That was the autumn of the aliens.

Not just the odd landing – hundreds every night. Daytimes

too, Sundays while people were in church, before breakfast,

mid-afternoon. Not just in New Mexico or New Jersey either,

but Ulan Bator, Guatemala, Iceland, Angola. (Was there

anywhere they didn’t land? For some strange reason, Scotland.)

And not just one type of spaceship. There were mottled,

scaly ones and bright mauve ones with mirrors; buzzing or

warbling or completely noiseless; spinning, hovering, flitting

about or simply materializing; round spaceships and irregular

spaceships and two-dimensional spaceships; spaceships the

size of Superdomes and others you could fit in your purse.

Did people panic? You bet they panicked, but when the

aliens came calling resistance was futile. And the panic only

lasted a few days. Once it became clear how things were going,

it was amazing how attitudes shifted. People came on board,

if you’ll excuse the pun. Nobody resisted at least. They were

ready to go. Some even packed a bag. These were people with

stuff to lose: families, jobs, nice houses with above-ground

pools. They didn’t care. They didn’t want to be left out, or

behind.

And then what? Then it was all over: the calm after the

storm. Six weeks to the day then no more aliens – it was like

they’d seen all they needed – and everyone back safe and

sound. So what were they like we all wanted to know, all of

us who hadn’t been abducted. The funny thing was, out of

thousands of abductees, there was no one who could really

say. They were polite but very firm. Superior, but not in an

unpleasant way. It was hard to describe them in any physical

What is your earliest childhood memory?Getting my tonsils out when I was three! I can even remember

the colour of the skirt my mum was wearing when she and dad

dropped me at the hospital.

What makes you happy?Well, apart from the obvious stuff like being with my beloved:

the widespread redistribution of wealth (from rich to poor, so

I’ve basically been deeply disgruntled for the last thirty years),

hill walking, a good book, good comedy, completing something

I’ve been working on, wine, curry, a neatly executed overtaking

manoeuvre ... lots of things.

When did you decide you wanted to be a writer?Primary Seven. I was eleven.

What are you reading at the moment?Nothing, or my own latest novel, however you want to look at

it (I don’t read fiction when I’m writing and anyway only have

time for New Scientist, Private Eye, the Guardian and New

Humanist).

What advice would you give to a first time writer?It’s all about the three “P”s: practice practice practice. Writing

is like everything else; the more you do it the better you get.

Perseverance makes it more likely you’ll succeed, too, as does

luck, though I’ve no idea how you develop that.

What is your guiltiest pleasure?Still occasionally reading car magazines even though I sold all

the fast cars and mostly drive a diesel Yaris. Actually, the soft

top Mini is probably a guilty pleasure too, as we don’t need two

cars. Come to think of it we don’t totally need the Yaris as we

live next to a railway station. Durn!

Sam feels the intense heat radiating from the bright light

moments before he actually sees the tunnel of light.

But once he spots it he’s off to the races. Sam begins to

sweat profusely as he chases down the tunnel of swirling

luminescence when he hears a voice call out from some far-

off marshmallow galaxy: 1200 cc’s of adrenalin.

Sam feels a stabbing pain in his chest.

No response, doctor.

Clear!

Boom. Sam gets jolted by a bolt of lightning.

Still nothing.

Clear!

Boom, Sam gets whacked with a second bolt.

We’re losing him.

Don’t be ridiculous! Sam shouts out. I’m not lost … can’t

you see me … I’m right here in my special place. You just

don’t recognise me because I’m young and pristine and

wholesome-looking in my orange lifeguard bathing suit and

bronze suntan. I’m at Joyland Beach … can’t you hear Little

Stevie Wonder on the jukebox … don’t you see the bumper

cars and the Ferris wheel? I’m right here in the arcade playing

pinball. That’s me bent over the Jet Spin. Surely you recognise

Lucy hanging off my shoulder all liquid-hot and moody.

Christ, there’s no mistaking Lucy … she’s a vision … the girl

from Ipanema.

A loud harsh buzzer starts ringing. Sam covers his ears but

the buzzing reverberates in his head.

He’s gone.

I’m not gone! Sam screams. I’m right here. You’re making a

terrible mistake. Sam waves his arms and calls out for Mister

Blizzard. Save me, Mister Blizzard! Save me!

So it’s a little excitement you’re after, hey, Sam?

That’s why I’m here.

Another Caribbean cruise won’t do it?

Not even close.

LISTINGS

Spring is sprung, the grass is riz, and a young Londoner’s fancy

turns to thoughts of what to do in the long April evenings.

Well, Easter is packed with great events – here’s the cream of

the crop, edited by Alex James.

1st April – 31st August: Dirt, the filthy reality of everyday life, The Wellcome Collection, 183 Euston Road, NW1. The Wellcome Collection is a free destination for the incurably

curious, where science collides with art. The current exhibition

takes in the mystery, history and future of dirt in our lives. Get

down and dirty with microbes, hospitals, shanty towns and

landfill sites. See: www.wellcomecollection.org

Until 2nd April: The Peroni Collection – Italian Style on the Silver Screen: UK-wide, free.Peroni Secret Cinema is a collection of rare images depicting

the influence of Italian style on film, featuring some old classics

like Cinema Paradiso as well as some more modern films that

showcase Italian designers such as Casino Royale, running at

art centres across the UK. See: www.peroniitaly.com

2nd April, 9pm-3am: Masked Ball at The Last Tuesday Society, Adam Street, Charing Cross.Dance Practice - The Waltz plus Orphanage Masked Ball. Over

18s only, dress code – Divine Decadence: masks obligatory,

clothes optional. Literary extravagance at its finest, at London’s

most authentic quirky venue, dancing encouraged by way of

dance classes teaching the waltz. “But when he put his arm

around her, pressed her to his breast, cavorted with her in the

shameless, indecent whirling-dance of the Germans and engaged

in a familiarity that broke all the bounds of good breeding –

then my silent misery turned into burning rage.” Thus wrote

Sophie von La Roche of the Waltz in Vienna in 1771. See: www.

thelasttuesdaysociety.org

8th April - 7th May: Funk it Up About Nothin’, Theatre Royal Stratford East.This exciting programme launches with acclaimed Chicago

Shakespeare Theater production Funk It Up About Nothin’, presented by Theatre Royal Stratford East, Chicago Shakespeare

Theater and Richard Jordan Productions. Created and directed

by The Q Brothers, this adaptation of William Shakespeare’s

Much Ado About Nothing is a fresh urban take on a story as

oldskool as love itself, a perfect spin on the Royal wedding

fever sweeping the nation. Complete with a live DJ, B-boys and

girls, MCs and divas, this is a romcom street party and much,

much more. See: www.stratfordeast.com

10th April: Liars League: Fun and Games, The Phoenix, Oxford CircusLondon’s premier performance prose night brings actors and

authors together, with live readings of brand new short stories

and creative nonfiction from up and coming authors. Come

for the stories, stay for the bargain wine and literary quiz! See:

www.liarsleague.com

10th April: John Cooper Clarke, Rose Theatre, KingstonNow recognised and studied as one of England’s most

important poets and performers, John Cooper Clarke’s verse

is biting, satirical, political, very funny and – as always –

delivered in his unique rapid-fire performance style. See: www.

rosetheatrekingston.org

16th April: London Maze, Guildhall Art Gallery and YardThe much anticipated return of the capital’s free local history

fair will take place at the Guildhall Art Gallery and in and

around the Guildhall complex. Devoted to London and its

past, the fair includes the chance to visit stalls from libraries,

archives, museums and local history societies, as well as

specialist talks, guided walks and a wide range of fun and

educational activities. See: www.cityoflondon.gov.uk

22nd April onwards: Southbank Centre’s Festival of Britain, South Bank, LondonThe Greater London Authority has planned a season of events

exploring life and culture in contemporary Britain to tie in with

the 60th anniversary of the Festival of Britain. This celebration

of British culture and creativity will allow visitors to experience

performances, new outdoor environments, talks and events by

some of Britain’s leading artists and thinkers. Festival highlights

include Ray Davies curating this year’s Meltdown, Tracey Emin’s

first major survey show in London, plus appearances by Lang

Lang, Heston Blumenthal, Billy Bragg, John Berger, Meera Syal

and Tony Benn. Themed weekends celebrate just some of the

highlights of British culture. See: www.southbankcentre.co.uk

24th April: Storytails, The Drop, below Three Crowns, Stoke Newington, London N16. FreeStorytails, the free Sunday night storytelling event, presents new

and established writers reading their own work. This month’s

line up includes Nikesh Shukla, author of the novel Coconut Unlimited. This chilled out afternoon begins at 3pm so drop in

after lunch to catch some tales. See: www.storytails.org

26th-30th April: London Burlesque Week, various London locations.London Burlesque Week is back and better than ever with

local and international burlesque stars, boylesque, twisted

cabaret and much more! London Burlesque Week is the

largest international showcase of burlesque in the world,

which will present five huge nights of burlesque and cabaret

at various venues throughout London. The week’s programme

includes an 80-minute opening gala, presenting the stars of

worldwide burlesque in London, twisted cabaret, showcasing

performers with a darker take on neo-burlesque and cabaret,

and a newcomers’ contest, which will reveal the finest new

talent – plus much more. See: www.londonburlesquefest.com

Please send forms to: Litro Subscriptions, 91 Cambridge Gardens, Notting Hill, W10 6JE

or call Litro Subscriptions - Tel: 0203 371 9971

Email: info@litro.co.ukwww.wellcomecollection.org/dirt

“Lake Sahara is a wonderful place and I’m the man responsible, a mere landscape gardener. It’s just such a shame about the polar bears.”

Ruben Connell, Lake Sahara, page 15.

LITRO | 105

SCIENCE

ISBN 978-0-9554245-5-7

www.litro.co.uk

org ukgggorgorgorggrgrggoooorrrggoorrggrgoro kkkuuuuuuuuukkkkkuk

Cover Art:Winner of Litro & Artbelow cover artwork competition, Paige Sinkler. www.paigesinkler.com