A.Lange & Sohne watches

Four teddy bears, fully decked out in custom-made spacesuits, were launched to the edge of space this week as part of a British university experiment.

Blasting off from Cambridge University’s Churchill College on Monday, they were attached to a helium balloon and fitted with multiple cameras, a GPS receiver, flight computer and radio for the two-hour nine-minute flight, which saw them rise 30 kilometres (18.8 miles) above sea level.

The spacesuits were designed by local schoolchildren, as part of a project to engage youths in science and engineering, organised by the Cambridge University Spaceflight student club.

CU Spaceflight said the aim of the experiment was to find out which of the four spacesuits, each designed by a different group of students, best insulated the cuddly toys from the -53 degrees Celcius (-63 degrees Fahrenheit) temperatures.

“We want to offer young people the opportunity to get involved in the space industry whilst still at school and show that real-life science is something that is open to everybody,” said Iain Waugh, CU Spaceflight’s chief aeronautical engineer.

“High altitude balloon flights are a fantastic way of encouraging interest in science. They are easy to understand, and produce amazing results.”

A Cambridge University spokeswoman noted: “No treasured possessions were endangered in this experiment.”

A Lange & Sohne was first established in 1845 by Adolph Lange in Glasshutte. The firm established itself as makers of distinctive and fine timepieces – its pocket watches were prized by European gentry. Following the Second World War, the factory was seized by what was then East Germany. Walter Lange, the company’s heir fled. It was only after the German reunification in 1990, that the founder’s great grandson, Walter Lange, began reviving the company. With funding from LMH, the newly reformed company set out to restore its fine watchmaking tradition. The company was sold to the luxury conglomerate Richemont in July 2000. Although its watch parts may be cut with exceptional precision by the most advanced computer-aided machine tools, they are still finished, decorated and engraved by the skilled hands of some of the world’s finest watchmakers.

AN exceedingly lean little peasant, in a striped hempen shirt and patched drawers, stands facing the investigating magistrate. His face overgrown with hair and pitted with smallpox, and his eyes scarcely visible under thick, overhanging eyebrows have an expression of sullen moroseness. On his head there is a perfect mop of tangled, unkempt hair, which gives him an even more spider-like air of moroseness. He is barefooted.

“Denis Grigoryev！” the magistrate begins. “Come nearer, and answer my questions. On the seventh of this July the railway watchman, Ivan Semyonovitch Akinfov, going along the line in the morning, found you at the hundred-and-forty-first mile engaged in unscrewing a nut by which the rails are made fast to the sleepers. Here it is, the nut！ . . . With the aforesaid nut he detained you. Was that so？”

“Wha-at？”

“Was this all as Akinfov states？”

“To be sure, it was.”

“Very good； well, what were you unscrewing the nut for？”

“Wha-at？”

“Drop that ‘wha-at’ and answer the question； what were you unscrewing the nut for？”

“If I hadn’t wanted it I shouldn’t have unscrewed it,” croaks Denis, looking at the ceiling.

“What did you want that nut for？”

“The nut？ We make weights out of those nuts for our lines.”

“Who is ‘we’？”

“We, people. . . . The Klimovo peasants, that is.”

“Listen, my man； don’t play the idiot to me, but speak sensibly. It’s no use telling lies here about weights！”