The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (33 page)

To his horror he could see his face plastered all over the park.

Everywhere he looked, he could see himself on giant monitors. A smooth voice accompanied the image.

“If you spot Carlton, just touch SECURITY on any phone and you will win a two-week all-expenses-paid vacation to Las Vegas, Mars, and a chance to meet Brenda Woolley in person. Carlton. Please look out for him.”

He was shocked.

Another face came on the vidphone screen.

“Who is this, please?”

He hesitated.

“Please state your name now.”

A paranoid thought occurred to him.
They knew it was him
. They were pinpointing his location right now. He cut the connection, ducked out of the booth, and moved smartly through the park towards the exit.

He felt very vulnerable. He was being hunted again. He saw a number of people scurrying towards him and he was about to break into a run when they hurried past him into the park. They barely glanced at him. Small groups of children were cheering and running around, jumping in pools of water. Carlton thought of Tay. Perhaps Lewis was with her? A kinderbot was watching him. Carlton lowered his head.

“Don’t worry,” said the kinderbot, and thrust a card into his hand. “I’m not going to turn you in. We have to stick together. Recycling is bad for us.” He chased after the children.

Carlton glanced at the card. It read, “Dugdale. For all your recycle needs.” There was a number.

History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.

—
Karl Marx

“On the night of November 4-5, 1605, a man called Guy Fawkes was found in the cellars under the House of Lords with thirty-six barrels of gunpowder. The Gunpowder Plot had been betrayed. As word leaked out to an astonished country, the conspirators, led by Robert Catesby, fled in every direction. They knew that the captured man would eventually talk. He would be horribly tortured. No one survived the rack and Fawkes was no exception. He was chained and stretched and broken in body and spirit over the next three or four days.

“In the pouring rain of November 7, Catesby and a small party of conspirators fleeing north hastily raided a large fortified house, Hewell Grange, for arms and ammunition. They successfully carried off a large quantity of gunpowder. As the rain continued to lash down, they rode a short way to Holbeach, where they hoped to find sanctuary. The gunpowder was carried on an open cart and was drenched from the pouring rain. At Holbeach House they carried the gunpowder inside and stacked it in front of a large fire to dry out. A spark flew out of the fire, igniting the gunpowder and blowing them all up.”

“Duh,” said Kyle. “Talk about hoist with your own petard. What were these guys thinking. Let’s just dry out the gunpowder?”

“And these people wanted to take over the government?” said Rogers.

“They were horribly burned and one was blinded,” intoned the voice-over. “Their chances of escape had just blown up. And now it’s time for our history quiz. Name the major conspirator in the Gunpowder Plot. Was it Richard Catesby, Richard the Lion-Hearted, or Richard Nixon?”

“Who the fuck’s Richard Nixon?” said Rogers.

“First man on the moon,” said Kyle. “Every kid knows that.”

Rogers killed it. Seventeenth-century London disappeared from the screen.

“Interactive shit,” said Kyle contemptuously at the screen. “I hate interactive. So what did we learn from all that crap?”

“We learned patience and humility.”

“In other words, fuck all.”

“That’s a more elegant way of putting it,” said Rogers. He glanced at his palm file.

“The reference to the Gunpowder Plot is in a file Sammy Weiss sent Carlton at 13945668.”

“Jesus,” said Kyle, “that’s just before she was killed.”

“Twenty-eight minutes, to be precise,” he said.

“So what’s with all this Gunpowder Plot thing?”

“Codes maybe?”

“Anything else in that file?”

“Let’s take a look. Mind if we borrow your monitor?” Rogers asked the waitress.

“Go ahead, love.”

He popped the crystal Weiss file into the machine. The menu appeared.

“What’s
Bronia?
” asked Kyle.

“Some kind of disaster.”

“Great. More history. Try that picture file.”

Pictures flashed rapidly on the screen. Katy in a black wig. A heavyset man at the desk of the Rialto escorting her to an elevator. A powerful man with a big mustache leaving the Rialto. A glimpse of Dunphy, the blond taxi driver.

“Go back.”

The picture of the mustachioed man flashed up again.

“Peter McTurk,” read Kyle. “No information available.”

“Ooh, I know him,” said the waitress.

They both turned to look at her.

“He was in here.”

“You sure?”

“Oh no question.”

“Maybe he likes history,” said Kyle.

“He likes malt whisky,” she said.

“You sure it was him?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Asked me to marry him. After half a bottle, mind you. Mac something.”

“McTurk,” said Rogers.

“I’d have accepted, but he fell over. We had to get him picked up.”

“By who?”

“The Bodyslogs picked him up,” she said.

“Well, that’s nice and convenient,” said Rogers. “The Bodyslogs will have an address.”

Tragically I was an only twin.

—
Peter Cook

“When’s Daddy coming back, Mommy?” asked Tay. She was in her pj’s, ready for bed.

“I expect he’ll be here soon.”

“He promised me he’d come back.”

“Yes,” she said, thinking he promised me the same thing once.

The doorbell rang.

“Is it Daddy?”

“No, Tay,” she said. “You stay in bed and I’ll deal with it.”

She walked through the living room and opened the door. It was a strangely handsome robot. He stared at her with one green eye and one brown.

“I’m Carlton,” he said.

“And?”

“And I’m looking for Lewis Ashby.”

“He’s not here.”

“Oh. Are you Tay’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, I’m Carlton.”

“So you said.”

Carlton was confused. He registered unfriendly, he registered unhelpful, he registered dislike.

“Do you know where Alex Muscroft is then?”

“No idea,” she said.

“Oh dear. I have to find Lewis urgently,” he said.

“And when you do,” she said, “please tell him that it’s one thing to disappoint a grown woman, but to disappoint a child is about as low as even he can get.”

“Wait, I…”

“You can tell him neither Tay nor I wish to see him again.”

“But wait, I…”

“And that goes for all three of you.”

She slammed the door.

He rang the bell again. What else could he do?

She opened the door.

“Go away,” she said.

“Look, I understand,” he said. “Comedians are very difficult to live with. They are needier than kids. Well, they are created by abandoning mothers, you see. What does Lewis say? ‘A fool and his mummy are easily parted.’ That’s witty.”

“Is it?” she said.

“Oh yes, very, and it’s true too. You see, the White Face uses his wit to hide from relationships, which is probably why you are so mad at Lewis.”

“Have you finished?”

“Not quite. I can cure him.”

“What?”

He leaned in conspiratorially. “I have just completed my Theory of Comedy and I know its place and function in the Universe. I’m going to win a Nobel Prize.”

“Aha,” she said.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “It’s a big secret. As a matter of fact, they’re already after me.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Are you on medication?”

“I’m a droid,” he said. “We don’t do drugs.”

“Carlton!” A small six-year-old bundle came flying into his arms.

“You’re okay,” she said. “They fixed you. I’m so happy.”

“Carlton’s just leaving,” said her mother. “He has important work on the Universe to get on with.”

He missed the irony, of course.

“Can’t I show him my drawings?”

“Not now, sweetie.”

“Oh please, Mom? Please, may I?”

Carlton caught a glimpse of Bethany looking over his shoulder at something. She frowned a second. What had she seen? Was it something on the screen? It seemed to change her mind.

“All right, sweetie. But take him in the bedroom, will you?”

He was puzzled by this sudden change of attitude.

“C’mon, Carlton,” said Tay, “last one there’s a rotten egg.”

She pulled him by the hand into the tiny bedroom. Then she flung herself into a closet, emerging triumphantly with an electronic scratch pad. She made him sit down, then she climbed on his lap and showed him her work. She had done freehand drawings of the
Johnnie Ray
. They were surprisingly good.

“This is Daddy and me. This is Katy and Alex. And this is you.”

He saw himself stretched out on the side of the escape vehicle. The moment of truth. The moment of levity.

“Tay,” he said. “One day you’re going to be so proud of me.”

“You can keep it if you like.”

“It’s fabulous,” said Carlton.

In the next room he heard her mother making a call. He turned up the volume on his ears. The walls were thin. He could hear clearly. She was speaking to someone in authority. “Yes. He’s here. No, he doesn’t. Yes. I’ll try.”

As he entered the living room, she jumped up a little too fast.

“Going so soon?” she said.

“Yes, I have to,” said Carlton.

“Carlton, where you going?” asked Tay. “You just got here.”

“I gotta run.”

“Why?”

“Ask your mom.”

“Why, Mommy? Why does he have to go?”

“Because the police are after him, Tay,” she said levelly.

“Not the police,” said Carlton. “Security.”

“Whatever. Either way he won’t get far.”

“Well, take care, Tay.”

“I love you, Carlton.”

Wow, he thought, she said the love thing.

“I love you too, Tay.”

“Why don’t you just wait till they come pick you up?” said Bethany. “I’m sure they can fix you.”

“I don’t need fixing,” he said.

He stepped on and off several elevators at random. Up, down, across. After about half an hour of this he thought they would be lucky to pick him up. He realized he didn’t have a clue what to do next. The situation was alarming. Alex and Lewis were missing. He was being hunted like an animal and it wasn’t the least bit funny. If he could at least find Katy Wallace. But how was he going to do that?

He was wandering aimlessly down the endless hotel corridors when he had an idea. Several of the doors to the suites were open and the bedbots were busy cleaning out the rooms. Inside one he spotted a huge vase of flowers still in its wrapping. He slipped inside and picked up the bouquet. He walked down the corridor, then knocked on a half-open door. A bedbot was busy vacuuming.

“Excuse me.” He did his best to hide behind the flowers.

“Yes, honey?”

“Flowers for Miss Wallace.”

“Who you want?”

“These are for Miss Wallace.”

“No Miss Wallace here, hon.”

She looked at her electronic list. “
Katy
Wallace?”

“That’s it.”

“Oh brother, have you got the wrong address. She’s way the hell over from here. 1442C, Blue Tower.”

“Thank you,” said Carlton. “Oh, and Alex Muscroft?”

“Muscroft?”

“Yes.”

She consulted the list again. “No Muscroft down here.”

“Oh I see,” said Carlton. “Is there any way of finding where he might be?”

“Could be in one of the camps,” said the bedbot. “They still haven’t got a complete list. Unless he’s in jail.”

“There’s a jail?”

“There’s a secure area below the theater. They have a number of high-security suites, but we never get the names of the occupants. At the moment it’s showing two single males.”

Oh boy. “Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, not at all. Nice to meet you, Carlton.”

He looked startled.

“You know if you are going to avoid recycling, you really should do something about your appearance.”

“Come again?”

“Adopt some form of disguise.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, honey. Something unexpected.”

He sighed. He hated dressing up. But she was right. After all, the future of his great work on comedy was at stake and he’d better do something to secure it. He stopped at a com. port and inserted his finger.

“Destination?”

“Rogers. No return address.”

“Ready for download,” said the machine.

Comedy just pokes at problems, rarely confronts them squarely.

—
Woody Allen

So there are these two opposing views of life: conspiracy or fuck-up. Which do you fancy? God’s law or Sod’s law? Or do you fancy a bit of both? God disposes, man screws up. The Garden of Eden kind of thing. We had our chance and blew it. Or do you not like the idea of God at all? Molly absolutely rejected it. But then she hated anything without a molecular structure. She couldn’t take it apart. Personally I’m a fence-sitter. But I’m not sure if the fence even exists.

It’s a basic question of the Universe and I don’t know how to deal with it in my preface. You see I’m rewriting Carlton’s foreword. I have to. I can hardly claim to have had a major insight into the Theory of Levity while spread-eagled across the outside of an Evac seventy-eight years ago, now can I? And I’m having a problem with God. Well you do, don’t you? You see, it’s easy for Carlton. Being a robot, he has no sense of God at all. Not even the god in the machine, I’m afraid. But
we
are human, aren’t we, and we have created this God thing. And it is an absolutely peachy concept. Once invented, it is absolutely impossible to disprove God exists. I certainly don’t have the math for it. So frankly I’m confused. Is there
really
a God who conspired to set all this monstrous Universe in motion, or is it just a fuck-up, an accidental explosion which has lasted for 15 billion years? Conspiracy or fuck-up, you see. It’s a free choice.