The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (21 page)

“Well, you’re certainly not alone,” he said.

“No point in doing good by stealth,” she said. “We have to let the world see what is going on here.”

She turned and spoke directly to camera, segueing straight into documentary.

“This is Boo,” she said, “a comedian and a valued member of my staff here on the
Princess Di
.” Boo raised an eyebrow.

“This is an example of the sort of unselfish work that I encourage here on the ship in these…”—lip trembling, don’t forget the trembling lip, as she searched for just the right adjective—“in these
terrible
times. There’s no people like show people.” She launched suddenly into song. The sound guy flinched involuntarily, she was so loud in his headset.

“They smile when they are down.”

“They smile all the fucking time, as far as I can see,” said Boo. “Pretty much demented, drooling idiots.” There was a dreadful pause. Then Brenda gave her famous silver tinkling laugh and patted him on the cheek.

“Don’cha love him?” she said to camera. “He’s such a kidder.”

Now they had permission, everybody laughed.

“I
love
this man,” said Brenda with the warmth of a python wrapping itself around its prey.

“And she is doing just an incredible job,” said Boo. “Night and day, no matter where or when, just roll out the cameras and there she is.”

Brenda blushed becomingly.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said modestly.

“Oh, it ain’t nothing,” said Boo. “Without her, many of these people would not have copies of her albums or photographs of her. Many indeed would never even have heard of her.”

No need to go quite that far, she thought, but she could always edit out that bit. The man was speaking from his heart, and it was honey to her ears.

“In the middle of all this misery her tireless self-promotion has been something we have all come to rely on. We can all take hope from her example, that no matter how bad things may be, Brenda Woolley will always be there.”

She was quite touched.

“Thank you, Boo dear,” she said kindly. “I never realized quite how much you admired me.” She kissed him on the cheek and moved away grandly with her cameras as if quite overcome.

“Wow,” said Boo when she had gone, “an irony-free zone.”

Is comedy endemic in intelligent life?

Would evolution be possible without it?

Do ants have a sense of humor?

—
De Rerum Comoedia

In a perfect universe “T. S. Eliot” would be “toilets” backwards. But it is an imperfect universe. It is flawed. It has tears and holes and big gaps of nothing, and a strange fungus, called life, which begins to grow wherever there is water. So sadly it’s only “toilest” backwards which is not quite so much fun. An irrelevant point, I know, but I was thinking of language and Carlton’s attempts to understand comedy. He was intrigued by the odd linguistic connection between “comic” and “cosmic.” It was only an s away. Is humor, he wondered, a reaction to the enormousness of it all, an intuitive understanding of just how small the species
Homo sapiens
is in the cosmos? The Universe can function perfectly well without life at all, and yet, just add water and time, and there it is, growing like slime mold in the cracks of dusty planets, evolving into a million different life forms of startling beauty and efficiency. And why does it evolve intelligence? An intelligence which can only gape in wonder at the grandeur of it all and invent concepts like God to understand the magnitude of the ever-expanding Universe of which it is such a tiny part.

Galaxies are so widely spaced that they can pass through each other without colliding. Now that’s a mind-boggling thought. Let’s see it once again in slow motion.
The distance between individual stars is so huge that it is possible for one galaxy to slip through another galaxy without a collision between any of the billions of stars involved
. And you’re worried about returning a late library book. It’s hard to grasp this perspective, isn’t it? Perhaps, thought Carlton, this is what comedy is, a perception of a disproportionate ratio between the macrouniverse and their own microworld of self-obsessed concerns.

He began to work on the astrophysics of comedy. The cosmic laugh.

Ping
. Of course he was immediately interrupted. Aren’t we always? Isn’t that the funny thing about life? We’re just about to discover the meaning of life when someone comes to read the meter? Isn’t the person from Porlock always banging on the door? Or calling up and offering new and better phone systems. It’s a wonder we get anything done.

This time Carlton was interrupted by the answer to Sammy Weiss’s request about the Gunpowder Plot.

Gunpowder Plot, conspiracy to kill James I, King of England, at the opening of Parliament on November 5, 1605. The plot was formed by a group of prominent Roman Catholics in retaliation against the oppressive anti-Catholic laws being applied by James I. The conspirators rented a vault beneath the House of Lords and stored 36 barrels of gunpowder in it. Guy Fawkes, a soldier of fortune, was to set fire to the gunpowder, but the plot was exposed, and Fawkes was arrested early on November 5. Fawkes confessed and was hanged along with other conspirators in 1606. The Gunpowder Plot is commemorated annually in Great Britain on November 5.

Carlton read it and was baffled. What the hell was all that about?

In the communications room of the
Iceman
, Pavel read the same message. He was monitoring the signals traffic from the
Ray
. This one made him gulp his coffee and race out of the room.

In the dark hold of the
Iceman
two dozen men were assembled. It was freezing down there, their breath crystallizing in the cold. They were swathed in woolens and furs, mittens and earmuffs, knitted caps. One or two slapped themselves from time to time, like a horse impatiently stamps its hooves. Josef looked down at them.

“Okay, everyone, listen up. The
Di
has acknowledged.”

He spoke calmly, reassuringly. Didn’t want to give them any hint of danger.

“They’ve taken the bait, they’re on their way.”

Ironic cheers.

“Don’t start cheering yet. This is only the beginning. But it’s a good beginning.”

One of them let out a whoop and everyone laughed.

“Okay, the bad news is we’re going to have to clean the ship.”

A few groans.

“I know, I know. It’s boring, but we’ve still plenty of time before the
Di
gets here. This place is going to be swept, and if they find anything, or even suspect anything, we’re dead in the water, so it’s your lives. Is that understood?”

Muttered assents.

“After that I need you to start packing up your belongings and cleaning yourselves up. I wouldn’t let any one of you on my ship.”

Pavel came running up waving a form.

“Just got this from the
Ray
.” Josef glanced at the intercepted mail report. “Jesus,” he said. “Their tin man’s onto us.” He was looking at the words “Gunpowder Plot.”

“Well, that’s it then,” said Josef. “We have to take them out right now. Activate the bug.”

“But,” said Pavel hesitating. “What about his daughter, sir?”

“You do know how the original Gunpowder Plot failed, don’t you?” Pavel shook his head. “Somebody warned a relative.”

Sixty percent of human communication is miscommunication.

—
De Rerum Comoedia

Tay was playing happily. The games room in the
Johnnie Ray
hummed and buzzed and fizzed and crackled with electrical toys of all kinds. She was lost in her own world, punching keys, occasionally leaning forward to stare at the screen. The bug surveyed her carefully. It had been awakened by a signal from the
Iceman
. Now it was hungry. Almost any of the electro-mechanical games would provide a decent power source, but it sensed a big problem: Tay. Silently it edged towards her. Its metal antennae sweeping the air. She played on, oblivious. The bug scanned her, checking its files. This was not an electrical source, this was something alien, something dangerous to it. Slowly the bug moved closer and closer to her. She was too engrossed in her game to notice. It hesitated, trying to decide what to do. Then it made up its mind. It would eliminate the problem. This dangerous alien must be destroyed. Carefully it aligned itself and took aim at the young girl. She would never know what hit her.

Tay looked up sharply. Her little brow furrowed. The bug froze, registering its own danger.

“Bug,” said Tay and ran out of the room.

Lewis was in with the shrinkbot. He’d asked for an extra session. Normally he spent two hours a day with the shrinkbot. He required a lot of attention. It’s one of the signs of the White Face, says Carlton, all this self-obsession.

“Envy,” Lewis was saying, “a kind of jealousy of Alex. Especially now that
she
’s here.”

“But you have Tay.”

“Hardly the same thing.”

“No. But it must be nice for you.”

“Of course. I adore her. She’s a great kid.”

“And Miss Wallace?”

“I don’t trust her.”

“Is it sexual jealousy?”

“You mean, am I attracted to her?”

“If you like.”

He thought about it for a moment and was surprised when the door flew open and Tay came running in.

“Daddy, Daddy,” she said excitedly.

“Not now, dear,” said Lewis. “Daddy’s with the shrink.”

“Nice to meet you,” said the shrinkbot.

“This is Dr. Max. He helps me,” said Lewis.

“Hi,” said Tay. “Daddy, I have to tell you something.”

“Really, Tay, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“But there’s a bug in the games room.”

“I’ll get Carlton to fix it,” he said.

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

“No, sweetie, just play another game. Carlton will fix it when he has a minute,” he said. “We get ’em all the time.”

How could he know? Of course he thought she meant a bug in the machine. Wouldn’t you? Carlton calculates humans misunderstand each other at least 60 percent of the time. Even he, listening in, didn’t get it.

Tay was puzzled.

“Can I play with it then?”

“Yes, run along and play,” he said. “There’s plenty to do.”

“Can’t I stay with you, Daddy?”

“No, Tay, don’t be a pain, run along to the games room and let me finish up here and I’ll be right with you.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Yes, of course he was obsessed with himself—it’s the burden of the White Face clown—but he could hardly be blamed. Carlton made the same mistake. Ought Carlton to have been listening in while Lewis visited the shrink? Of course not. It violates all rules of privacy. Talking to a shrink is quality time, a time to be purely selfish, to be flagrantly self-obsessed, a chance indeed to star. It is the one-sidedness of the conversation that is so utterly satisfying. But Carlton was listening in as usual, recording everything and filing it away for future use, when he heard there was a bug in the games room, and he figured, like Lewis, what the hell, there’s lots of games for Tay to play with, and he was distracted by a control panel which told him something was sucking in great gulps of electricity from somewhere. So he didn’t go immediately to the games room.

Alex was showing Katy around the ship. She was beginning to feel much better.

“I have a little cure for you,” said Alex.

“Really,” she smiled, “and what is it?”

“Oh, it’s a little secret. Come.”

He took her firmly by the hand and they set off around the oak-paneled corridors of the
Johnnie Ray
. They looked first at the electronic art gallery, an oak-panneled room with several elegant empty gilt frames. He requested a Velazquez and it immediately appeared in an appropriate frame. Katy was delighted. He added a Braque, a Degas, and a Sisley. She was thrilled.

“Can I have a go?”

“Anything you like.”

She requested a Renoir.

It magically appeared.

“This is great.”

“Thank you.”

They played with the art for a while, looking at some fabulous Bellinis, until Carlton popped his head in.

“Oh excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for a leak.”

“There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall,” said Alex.

“No, I don’t need to use a bathroom, I’m looking for a power leak.”

“Show me the Monet,” said Alex to the art gallery.

Monet’s famous bridge over the water lilies popped into the frame.

Carlton held up a small meter and let it sniff the air by the Monet. He shook his head, puzzled.

“Don’t you like Monet’s bridge?” asked Alex.

He glanced at the bridge, puzzled.

“There’s nobody on it,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s just an empty bridge. Is it a joke?”

“Of course it isn’t a joke,” said Alex, outraged.

“Sorry,” said Carlton, “I don’t see the point of an empty bridge.”

To be fair, he couldn’t really see the point of art. It seemed to have no discernible meaning. He understood abstract. At least that didn’t pretend to have any meaning. But empty bridges. What was the point of looking at a picture of an empty bridge?

“Philistine,” said Alex as he left.

“He’s weird, your droid,” said Katy.

“Ah, here’s my favorite,” said Alex, selecting a fresco by Melozzo da Forli from the Vatican Museum. “Don’t you love that blue? I had a suit made in it. I call it High Renaissance. Oh look out, here comes Mr. Quattrocento in the fabric to die for. Stand back Lucrezia, it’s
gorgeous
for the Borgias.”

He waddled camply round the room, like a runway model played by an overweight queen. His voice was deep-dyed homosexual, the harsh rasping voice of a thousand cigarette packs. She marveled at the way he could play with language.

“Si, yais I am da pope, can I speak to Mike Angelo. He’s on his back? Vat, is he taking a nap? Oh he’s painting da ceiling? Vat color? No, no, I said
blue
. Who asked him to put figures up there? And another ting, his David. Ya. The naked guy. What’s wrong with it? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it. It’s the wiener, that’s what’s wrong with it. It’s too little. It was cold that day? Who cares it’s lifelike, this is art. Listen, you stupid prick, get me a bigger wanger or no more lire for you, signore.”