Work Experience

Work Experience.

"You can hang your coat up in here. There are the toilets. That's the restaurant: they do some great daily specials! The fire assembly point's out the back. If the aliens reply, consult the blue book." The white-coated technician left with a cheery "See you at lunch..!" Closing the door behind him.

Work experience at a state of the art observatory had sounded exciting when first mooted. This broom-cupboard of an office, however, felt to Ben like the raw end of the deal. Still reeling from having to pay £4.99 for a lukewarm beaker of tea, he guessed they put all the students in here at one time or another. In front of him, an elderly P.C. had been broadcasting the 'Greetings from Earth! It's nice! Don't shoot!' message for several years. Next to it, the gaffer-taped gooseneck of a flimsy microphone peeked out from between two tiny plastic speakers. Apparently, the first contact nerve centre had been equipped leaving change from a tenner.

Halfway through powering up his phone, he found the warning from his careers teacher still held enough power to stifle the impulse. Besides, who knew if he was being observed? And was that muffled laughter from down the corridor? Mention of the blue book piqued his curiosity, so he took the scuffed, faded ring-binder down from the top shelf for a look. A sun-bleached John Major beamed at him from the cover under a thick layer of dust, alongside the snappy title "Official Protocols for Alien Contact 1996." Not wanting to be caught reading it, he put it back, immediately gave up being good and sat back with his phone. Across town, best mate Josh was having a high old time at the sports goods warehouse.

"Whoo!" He sounded out of breath." We're holding trolley races! What are you up to?"

"Nothing..." Ben looked around him at the desperate little cupboard. "Hold on a minute! Something's happening!" The tiny speakers were making a noise like a monkey shovelling gravel. Ben scrolled down the P.C's menu until he found 'Translate.'

"What, interrogation mark." The voice sounded impatient. "What do you want, interrogation mark."

"Please hold, caller." Ben could handle this. He'd taken hundreds of messages for his parents.

"Hold what, interrogation mark. But what do you want, vernacular expression of extreme impatience."

"Josh?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll have to go, I've got aliens on the other line, and..."

Josh was a man of the world. He'd seen more films than Ben. "No, you haven't!" he groaned. "How long have you been there?"

"About two minutes. Why do you ask?"

"It's somebody in the next office, you twit! They probably do this to all the students!"

"I don't think so," Ben looked at the screen. "Computer's traced it to system ICK45126, which is twenty-two light years away!"

"Blimey! That's decent coverage! I'm on Buffcom and they can't get past Watford!" Josh signed off. "Let me know how you get on, yeah?"

"OK. Will do." Ben leaned over the microphone again. "Well well well! Real aliens! As you'd expect, I've got a million questions! Do you have bubble and squeak on your world?"

"Every Monday. Why, interrogation mark."

"Thought so. I must say, you've chosen a fine weekend to visit us! There's a Doris Day/Rock Hudson marathon at the multiplex and..."