litro #105 science teaser
DESCRIPTION
Litro's theme this month is science, with writing from, Steven Appleby, Paul Blaney, Niall Boyce, Talia Carner, Tania Hershman, Helen Sedgwick and Iain M. Banks.TRANSCRIPT
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
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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: [email protected]/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: [email protected]/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