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  Maria was different. The fact that she was the most attractive woman on the campus went over Simon’s head. He didn’t see her beauty but only her personality. When they discovered they had been selected to work on La Palma they felt this was serendipitous. Or at least it was until they found out the location of the two research centres was so far apart they might as well be living on different planets. Given their respective locations, the two teams of siblings had no expectations of meeting up on a regular basis while they undertook their summer duties. At least they could talk daily using Zoom Conference software. Most importantly, for Simon and Maria, they could see each other.

  Claudine was a scientist, pure and simple. She based everything – religion, music, love and politics – on her perception of the latest available evidence. She never took things at face value. Everything had to be debated to a standstill. She took no interest in suitors and had no time for boys – or girls for that matter. She was most comfortable in jeans and jumpers talking to her scientific peers. Her vocation was volcanoes. She got her kicks from analysing data sets and writing predictive behavioural algorithms of lava flows. She was in her element on La Palma.

  When it became clear that Maria had taken a serious shine to Simon, she didn’t offer motherly advice – or indeed sisterly advice. Once she found out that Maria’s love interest was a fellow scientist, Claudine only wanted to talk about his academic papers on volcanoes. She had no interest in such mundane issues as his personal interests or character.

  While Ros and Simon had to make do with very rudimentary accommodation, the sisters Marin-Rabella were staying with their aunt and uncle in their villa on the outskirts of Los Canarios, the most southerly inhabited town on the island, just a thirty-minute walk from their work base.

  ‘What were the readings?’ said Ros as he moved closer to the bench to get his coffee. He looked at the array of monitors in front of him. They were quite dated but were sufficient for the tasks at hand. Until midday his cafetière was in constant use. The regular consumption of strong coffee was very much part of his personal routine. His chipped Barcelona FC mug, with a faded image of Lionel Messi, was his pride and joy: a constant reminder of his love of fútbol, the beautiful game. Unlike Ros, Simon was a football agnostic and teased his brother about his unashamed fanaticism for Spain’s most famous club at every possible opportunity. It was good natured repartee. After all, as they only had each other for company a bit of leg pulling passed the time.

  ‘Same as yesterday. In fact, the same as all of the yesterdays for quite some time,’ replied Simon.

  ‘OK then, I’ll send the daily report to Claudine,’ said Ros.

  ‘Let me have a look first,’ replied Simon.

  What they were looking for was any change in the flow of sulphur dioxide that might indicate an early sign of volcanic activity. Unlike older devices, the detectors they had designed at university were capable of picking up the smallest micro-millilitre changes in the emissions of this deadly gas. Their work on their doctoral theses on volcanology, specifically on sulphur dioxide measurements, had ingrained in them a deep awareness of the importance of probing every small piece of evidence, even if the monitoring device registered a barely noticeable change to the data.

  The large A3 printouts from the various sites showed what at first sight appeared to be a flat line. No sulphur gas meant no volcanic activity.

  ‘Look at this, Ros. See the readings from the northern side of the Caldera de Taburiente near Roque de los Muchachos? Two detectors in close proximity show a barely perceptible reading, it hardly registers, while all the others show no sign of activity. The spike lasted less than ten seconds. These measurements are quite recent and were recorded a few hours ago.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Ros. He stared at the expanse of coloured data points to make sense of what looked likely to be an anomaly, and a very small one at that. He was aware that sudden changes in gas composition, even small readings, often presage a change in potential volcanic activity. And yes, there was a pinprick of a reading. Not only that, but the first reading was followed almost immediately with a reading from the second device located about nine hundred metres away. This suggested the two were connected. ‘Maybe the detectors are faulty, or the solar energy panels we installed have packed in. We might as well go and inspect the devices as not much else is going to happen here today.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Simon.’ I’ll transmit the data to Claudine and tell her and Maria that we’re going walkabout.’

  Simon logged in. The sisters were at their workstations. Claudine was in her customary jeans with unkempt hair but Maria, since the video option on Zoom was used daily, was dressed elegantly in a smart skirt and blouse, with her hair groomed attractively. By this stage, Ros and Claudine had worked out the pair were a serious item and allowed them some space when they were on air.

  ‘Hi Maria,’ said Simon. His face went deep red.

  ‘Hi Simon,’ said Maria. She smiled at her boyfriend and blew him a kiss.

  ‘I like your hair. Do you often wear a bow?’ said Simon.

  ‘Only when I’m meeting someone special,’ said Maria.

  ‘Would I fall into that category?’ asked Simon sheepishly.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Maria with a broad smile.

  ‘You’ll be wearing your hair in a bow for a long time to come,’ said Simon.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Maria as she laughed.

  ‘Anyway, just to give you a heads up,’ said Simon, ‘our prototype devices have recorded their first reading. We are going to physically inspect the devices. We’ll keep you briefed on our return. Talk soon. Besos.’

  More kisses were blown.

  It was back to business for the Rodriquez brothers.

  ‘Let’s get the gear,’ said Ros.

  ‘I’ll brew up the coffee and pack some food and water. Don’t forget to bring your new camera,’ said Simon.

  It was a good three-hour walk to the sulphur dioxide detectors at the Roque de los Muchachos. Despite being at an altitude of over 2,000 metres, it was already relatively warm. As midday was four hours away, the brothers knew they had to take all the necessary safety measures. They were well used to wearing protection suits and hard hats in the midday sun and having oxygen masks and protective clothes and equipment in their backpacks. They got ready and were provisioned for the short journey in no time at all.

  The outdoors was where they were most at ease. They had spent many summers walking through the mountains and valleys of La Palma. The extent to which their army-standard hiking boots moulded to their stockinged feet was testament to this. They knew the terrain and trails as well as any professional guide. It was both rocky and unstable under the scree, loose stones and impacted dark ash residue, so they were always prudent and un-hurried as they made their way along the well-trodden footpaths on and off the GR131.

  The mountain walking demanded that more attention was paid to the two or three metres in front of you than to the wider surroundings. A slip or a trip along gritty and often slippery slopes had to be avoided at all costs. There were sheer falls of over 1,000 metres just a metre off parts of the winding trail to the Roque de los Muchachos. That’s why hiking along this trail wasn’t allowed in high winds.

  ‘I’m surprised there are so many tourists up here,’ said Ros, as he spotted a large walking group of twenty or so that were moving slowly in a long line ahead of them. Their air-conditioned coach was parked a short distance away. As they approached, the hikers could be heard chatting away in a relaxed manner while soaking in the sun and the scenery. The group leader, who was wearing a red and yellow head scarf, was clearly visible at the front and the same coloured scarf was worn by his colleague who took up position at the back of the group. They had all been supplied with a standard issue tall walking stick: a critical piece of equipment given the nature of the terrain.

  ‘Germans, I guess,’ said
Ros. ‘You can spot them straight away as they have the latest gear and equipment.’

  ‘There are far more walking groups in the mountains nowadays. When we started to spend our summers here the place was almost deserted.’ observed Simon.

  While most tourists sought out beaches, bars and bodegas, the more discerning hiker had different priorities. The tourist authorities in La Palma had invested heavily in way-finding signage and detailed maps. People hardly ever got lost on La Palma’s 900 kilometres of trails. The GR 131 trail was by far the most popular on the island, despite its challenges. It took fit and experienced climbers at least three days to complete.

  Simon leaned on his walking poles and took in the vast arena of scenery. This beats a desk job any day, he mused to himself.

  As it was late August, the sky was almost cloudless, and the air was crystal clear. A steady light breeze kept the temperature below ten degrees Celsius. The Caldera de Taburiente was visible in all its glory as far as the eye could see. The edge of the massive volcanic crater rose to heights of almost 2,400 metres with many peaks towering even higher. The almost sheer cliff faces were beautiful but also potentially lethal for anyone who wasn’t cautious. The terrain was defined by rocky outcrops, ridges, spurs, lava mounds (called ‘roques’) and open areas bordered by thin lines of Canary pine trees with their characteristic branches. The bare rocks along the rim of the Caldera were natural works of art shaped by centuries, perhaps millennia, of wind and rain.

  In contrast, the vegetation at the base of the National Park was lush, comprising shrubs, bushes and thickets of all hues, interspersed among a dense array of forest plantations. On the lower parts of the rock walls, changes in colour indicated different materials. The escarpments were a violet-grey colour. The 308 species, subspecies and varieties of plant located in the National Park displayed every combination of colour. The dominant pine trees added a canopy of greens.

  The only blot on this otherwise pure natural landscape was the array of six enormous telescopes and radio dishes constructed adjacent to Roque de los Muchachos as part of the International Astrophysical Observatory. Opened in 1985, this observatory took full advantage of the island’s clear night skies. Called the ORM (Observatorio Roque de los Muchachos), it was the best location for optical and infrared astronomy in the Northern Hemisphere and, as a consequence, it hosted the world’s largest single-aperture optical telescope.

  Unlike the Pico de la Nieve research centre, the facilities for its multinational team of scientists were state of the art. The ORM had four-star hotel facilities. It had a kitchen and a chef, a recreation area, a gym and spa, and individual bedrooms with all mod cons. And the roof didn’t leak. In sharp contrast, the brothers Rodriquez cooked over an open stove, slept in a Portakabin, and had the stars for companionship in the evenings. The two research centres operated as completely separate entities while both sharing the glory that was the Caldera de Taburiente.

  ‘Perhaps trekking up volcanoes is the latest way of getting fit?’ said Simon.

  ‘That or they want to see the island before the next Big Bang,’ replied Ros.

  ‘Let’s hope we’re not here to see the action,’ said Simon.

  ‘As we’ll be the first to spot any sign of volcanic or seismic activity, we may witness just that,’ said Ros.

  When they arrived where the spectrometer was installed, on the northern side of Roque de los Muchachos some thirty metres to the right of the walking trail, Ros paused before he examined the device. Unlike the old standard instruments that were designed to measure the amount of sulphur dioxide in a passing air mass, the new TOMS (Total Ozone Mapping Spectrometer) kit that the brothers had taken so much time to install could provide data in units of milli-atmosphere centimetres. The readings could be detected by the NASA Goddard Space Flight Centre – provided, of course, that a relay feed had been set up, which it hadn’t.

  ‘I really hope we’re not going to get data indicating volcanic activity,’ said Ros.

  ‘Don’t be so pessimistic,’ said Simon.

  ‘I’m being realistic,’ replied Ros.

  ‘The data we saw recorded a small, barely perceptible reading,’ said Simon. ‘Just a spike in sulphur emissions. This is not normal as this old vent hasn’t recorded a flow since the older monitor was installed decades ago.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know to be honest. Let’s double check the instrument,’ responded Simon with little confidence.

  Ros bent over the vent and extracted the spectrometer from its casing. It was functioning normally. The solar batteries were fully charged. He opened up the screen and sure enough saw a reading showing a minute amount of sulphur dioxide over a period of two minutes, before it stopped for no obvious reason.

  ‘Simon, the spectrometer is in good order. We must accept the readings.’

  ‘Is this the only site where a flow was recorded?’ said Simon.

  ‘No, the other spectrometer is located on the far side of the ridge to the right of the roque,’ replied Ros.

  ‘Why don’t we check it out?’

  ‘OK,’ said Ros.

  Once they had replaced the instrument back in its casing, the brothers set off the short distance to the next monitoring site.

  Augusta, Georgia

  The azaleas were in full bloom. Shade tolerant, they grow best near or under trees. A wet and short winter and the early arrival of spring had them in pristine condition.

  These bright pink-coloured bushes were a signature feature at the Masters, one of the ‘majors’ golf events, played every year in early April in Augusta, an otherwise nondescript town in the State of Georgia in the USA. The event, the equivalent of the World Cup of golf, was top of the ‘must visit’ list for fans of the sport.

  ‘He’s in trouble,’ said Lars Brun, talking to himself.

  He was seated on the packed stand directly opposite the par three, 147-yard, signature twelfth green that was part of ‘Amen Corner’, the name given to a set of the most difficult holes on the course. He had a perfect view of the golfer and his caddie, who was eagerly prodding a large clump of azaleas with the shaft of a golf club. As an amateur golfer, he appreciated there is nothing more embarrassing than hitting a shot off target that disappears into the foliage well wide of the intended target. It must be so much worse in full view of a packed gallery and live on television.

  Augusta’s azaleas were thick and wiry and the final resting place of many a lost ball. Lars could only sympathise with the acclaimed Spanish player who, at least at this stage, was the tournament leader.

  Lars fitted in with the crowd. Like nearly everyone else he wore regulation clothes befitting an avid golf spectator: the compulsory ‘Masters’ golf cap, grey stripped knee socks worn above his expensive all-weather leather golf shoes (also grey), designer shades made by an established fashion house, a bright pink golf shirt and deep-blue shorts. It wasn’t his usual attire but like the chameleon lizard he blended in seamlessly with his fellow fans.

  ‘I’ve the solution,’ said a fellow spectator, who had sat beside him a few minutes earlier, clutching a large plastic beer glass in one hand and a sandwich of some description in the other.

  They may have been strangers but, like everyone else in the stand, their mutual focus was on the now frustrated golfer who was returning to the tee to re-take his shot. His loud, ill-tempered muttering could be he heard clearly in the bleachers.

  ‘A better swing would be the best way to sort out his problem,’ opined Lars.

  ‘He rushed his shot and sliced the ball out of control to the left. He’s under pressure, obviously.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  They fell silent as the anguished golfer played another ball, a two-shot penalty, that he executed with skill landing it on the green. The crowded gallery applauded politely as he walked off the tee knowing he had lost his place at the top of
the leader board.

  ‘If he had used my golf ball he wouldn’t be in such trouble,’ said the man beside Lars.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Lars.

  ‘I’ve designed a prototype hard core golf ball that has an in-built tracker device. With my technology anyone can find the location of their ball, even in the deepest azaleas of Augusta. It’s so efficient and successful that the companies who manufacture golf balls are lobbying the world’s golfing bodies to have my ball banned. It would be dreadful, would it not, if us amateur golfers didn’t have to buy so many of their expensive products.’

  Lars’ attention switched effortlessly from golf to work in a split second.

  ‘I’m Sean Pitcher by the way.’

  ‘Lars Brun. By your accent, I guess you’re not American.’

  ‘God no! I’m Irish. And you?’

  ‘Norwegian.’

  ‘The support of this great game knows no boundaries,’ said Sean.

  Sean, in sharp contrast to Lars, wore grubby ill-fitting, well-worn, multicoloured trainers, short purple socks, knee-length denim shorts with pockets everywhere and a long sleeve maroon sports shirt with ‘Supermacs’ printed in a prominent position on the front and a crest with the word ‘Gaillimh’ underneath over the heart. The outfit was completed with a traditional tweed cap that did little to hide his flowing locks of curly red hair. He would have mixed inconspicuously with football fans but looked out of place in the hallowed fairways of Augusta. With his untrimmed red beard, one could have spotted him at fifty paces. He certainly stood out from the crowd.

  ‘It’s quite simple really,’ said Sean. ‘We embed a chip with an individual identity into the hard core of the ball. It behaves like a transponder by sending out a low frequency signal that can be picked up by a phone App within a range of around one hundred metres. What the golf ball manufacturers don’t like is that the performance of the ball is not affected in any way. Here’s a sample.’