The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (34 page)

And while I’m on this subject, let me ask a question which Carlton posed: How would you feel about the Universe if you thought it was shrinking and not expanding? Would you feel less optimistic? Do you think it would affect you at all? Maybe you just don’t worry about these kinds of things. I have to now I am the author of the Theory of Levity. People are going to ask me questions.

“And what about God, Professor Reynolds?” I can hear them say. “Does He have a sense of humor?”

“Well He
does
move in a mysterious way, but I’m not sure it’s supposed to be a funny walk.”

I shall have to watch out for the cheap cracks. I need to be seen as essentially serious. I can hardly wait for the reviews.
Reynolds
’s
genius is in discovering, labeling, and quantifying levity, which he is the first to recognize as the expanding force of the Universe
. I keep having fantasies of opening the
New Scientist
and seeing pictures of me.
Reynolds’s pioneering work reveals levity is the opposite of gravity; that it is the universal expansion force, like the bubbles in champagne, the yeast in the dough, the force that drives the sap in springtime, the tingle in the testicles
. Oh Molly, where are you now I need you? This kind of fame fantasy makes me so damn horny. I’d probably forgive her if she walked in right now. I know I would if she was wearing that tiny red skirt and those tarty little pumps. I’m sorry. It’s not easy concentrating. I’m not a robot. Where were we? Oh yes, we were considering the big questions of the Universe. Is there enough
dark matter
so that the gnawing effect of gravity will eventually pull the Universe backwards, or is there enough
laughing matter
for levity to escape the restraining pull of gravity and permit the Universe to go on expanding forever. Take your pick. The optimistic, ever-expanding Universe, or the depressingly collapsing Universe? Manic or depressive? White Face or Red Nose? Tragic or comic? Conspiracy or fuck-up? Please confine your answers to one paragraph.

Lewis was as surprised as Alex to find himself locked up. One minute he was ushered into a tiny suite and the next he turned round to ask the page for a rehearsal schedule only to find he had gone. He tried to open the door to catch him before he reached the elevator, but was astonished to find the door was locked.

Shit, he thought. What’s this all about?

Just a few doors down, Alex was totally pissed off. His boredom threshold was low. He had been locked up for two hours and already he was fed up. He had tried hammering on the door. No one answered. The walls were thick and soundproofed. The screen showed nothing but promos for the concert. Brenda Woolley was everywhere. He clicked her off in disgust. He didn’t know what to do. Where was Katy? Where was Lewis? Why was he locked up like this? He picked up the handset, but the phone didn’t answer. He tried punching in random numbers, but nothing responded. He tried ordering more fruit, but a recorded message invited him to record his message.

“Ah yes, this is Alex Muscroft in…?” Shit, he didn’t even know what room he was in. “In one of your inhospitality suites. Fuck you,” he said.

“Message recorded,” said the machine.

Humorists can never start to take themselves seriously. It’s literary suicide.

—
Erma Bombeck

Kyle and Rogers were heading over to the Bodyslogs Bureau. Everybody loves Bodyslogs. It’s the ultimate luxury. Like being three years old. I used them only last night when I had too much to drink waiting for that damn Molly to show up. She didn’t, of course. Bitch. We were supposed to discuss our future. Her future without me more like. What am I, chopped liver? She didn’t even call. Well, she’s going to get a nasty surprise when I publish. Maybe it’s just as well she didn’t show. I was so drunk I might have confessed what I have done. I was feeling a bit guilty. The Bodyslogs carried me home. And they kept a record. Just like McTurk.

“So what was the Gunpowder Plot, Kyle?”

“A stupid plot to blow up some dumb Brit Parliament about a million years ago. Don’t make me watch another documentary on the seventeenth century or I swear I’ll take early retirement.”

“Know when the Mars Parliament opens?”

“Huh?”

“In three days.”

“So?”

“Where is this ship heading?”

“Mars.”

“And…”

“Oh come on, you’re kidding me.”

Rogers shrugged. Kyle shook his head in disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”

“Go with me on this. Let’s say some naughty boys are already on this ship.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“McTurk is.”

“Okay, McTurk is, but we don’t know for sure about anyone else.”

“Now let’s assume arms are hidden on board.”

Kyle looked at him. “How do we assume that?”

“Because it makes perfect sense. It’s the only real reason for them to be here.”

“All right. It’s a maybe. You’re way out on a limb.”

“I know, but if I’m even halfway right, then we’re sitting…”

“On a powder keg.”

“Very good, Kyle.”

“So the Bodyslogs will tell us where McTurk is staying.”

“Was. He won’t be there now.”

“Why not?”

“You think these guys are dumb? Let the Bodyslogs take you home drunk, in the middle of an operation. I don’t think so.”

“So why?”

“It’s a trace. A marker. They leave a little trail. If we follow it, they know we’re on to them.”

“So they’ll watch us?”

“Exactly.”

“So what do we do?”

“We try and watch them watching us.”

“
Bodyslogs. We get you home safely. Anyone. Anything. Anytime. Anywhere. Bodyslogs: getting you home safely for over a hundred years
.”

They aren’t simply people movers, though their function is halfway between a taxi and a sedan chair. Technically they are independent carriage conveyors. Most of their business is shifting freight, but if you call them and you want it, hell, they’ll come right along and pack you up and ship you anywhere. Not just door to door, but chair to chair. You don’t even have to get out of bed. What a luxury. “Bodyslogs, take me to Paris” et voilà, that’s it. One call, no ticketing, no waiting in line. They pick you up, pamper you, champer you, and deliver you to your destination. What a concept. What a service. Everyone loves Bodyslogs. A finicky company though. They refused at first to show Rogers anything on their files. It was only after he had them call Captain Mitchell, who confirmed that Rogers was indeed in charge of the investigation into the H9 disaster, that they agreed, reluctantly, to cooperate. They didn’t like it, but they couldn’t do much about it.

A tight-lipped purser pursed his lips at them. Disdain emanated from his every pore. He looked like he was sucking lemons.

“We don’t normally give out this information,” he said tartly.

“I don’t give a fuck what you normally do.”

Kyle looked like he couldn’t wait to smack him around.

“Name of client?”

“McTurk.”

The purser raised an eyebrow.

“How are you spelling that?”

They told him. He tapped in the name, gazed at the screen, then swung it round for them to see.

“We picked up a McTurk from the History Bar and took him home to Yellow Tower 1878A.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” said Kyle, still looking for an excuse to slap him.

The purser shrugged his shoulders flamboyantly, but wisely said nothing.

“Thank you for your help,” said Rogers.

“What’s so interesting about Mr. McTurk then?”

“Why do you ask?” said Rogers.

The purser sniffed contemptuously. “You’re the second one to ask today.”

Rogers paused in the doorway. “Really,” he said, “who was the first?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you anything,” complained the purser. “According to our company charter, all our information is for our clients eyes alone.”

“Look, we are in a hurry,” said Rogers. “There’s a simple way to do this. Or there’s an unpleasant way.”

Kyle moved towards him.

“You know my friend here can’t wait to get his hands on you,” said Rogers nicely.

“I was going to tell you anyway,” said the purser, but he had the grace to look a little worried now.

“He’s in the back room.”

“Who is?”

“The man from the Revenue Service. He’s doing a tax audit. He asked me about this McTurk.”

“A tax audit in the middle of an emergency?”

“Well, it did seem a little odd to me, but you know how the taxbots are. He isn’t even a regular robot. As far as I can see, they sent somebody real.” He made a distasteful face again, as if he had just smelled dog shit.

Kyle moved towards him.

“He’s through there,” he said hurriedly.

They walked through a narrow doorway. A man was hunched over a screen—a tall figure with a big head of blond hair—who looked up and grinned at them.

“Hello, Rogers,” he said, “what took you so long?”

“Dunphy?”

“Fucking Dunphy,” said Kyle.

“What the hell are
you
doing here?” asked Rogers.

“A little creative accounting.”

“I thought you were moonlighting as a cabdriver.”

“I got bored, moved on. Cabdriving didn’t really suit me.”

“No.”

“And you know what? I didn’t even have a license.” Dunphy shook his head as if pained at the memory.

“Ain’t that funny. We discovered that too,” said Kyle.

“Don’t tell me you’re a Tax person now,” said Rogers.

“Matter of fact, I am doing a little freelance digging for some old friends.”

Old friends
, thought Rogers. Of course, the classic sobriquet for Special Bureau.

“You’re SB?”

“Oh, take an ad, why don’t you?”

“He say he’s SB?” said Kyle.

“Of course I shall have to deny that officially,” said Dunphy, “but I’d hate to have you two stumbling around in the dark banging into me.”

“Fuck you too,” said Kyle. “Throw us a bone here,” said Rogers.

Dunphy looked at him for a moment. “You get anywhere with the Weiss woman?”

“Not really. The whole place went up soon after we found her.”

“Coincidence, you think?” said Dunphy.

“I dunno. You got anything on this McTurk?”

“Just his pals the White Wolves,” said Dunphy.

“No shit.”

Dunphy pressed a key and nodded towards the screen. Faces were lined up on it.

“Jesus,” said Rogers, “how many are there?”

“About two dozen.”

“On board?”

“Somewhere on board.”

“They ain’t gonna take much with only twenty men,” said Kyle.

“Depends who’s helping them,” said Dunphy.

“Someone on the ship?” said Rogers.

Dunphy nodded his blond head.

“Who?”

“Let’s say our friend Keppler has been somewhat economical with the truth.”

“Keppler’s involved?”

“Our reluctant host is in it up to his neck,” said Dunphy.

“With terrorists? What, is he nuts?”

“Greedy, I think. And a little short of cash. You see, I really was doing some auditing.”

“Keppler’s strapped for cash?”

“Cash flow. Big debts to service.”

“So, he borrows?”

“Big time. Brenda costs a lot. This ship only breaks even. Most people can find room for a little more money in their bank account.”

“How much?”

“This is the down payment.”

He punched up a number on the screen. Even Rogers was impressed.

“That must have paid for a lot of merchandise.”

“Oh, it did.”

“It’s a big risk for Keppler,” said Rogers. “Arms on a passenger ship. One word gets out could ruin the business.”

“That’s worrying for us,” said Dunphy.

“Because?”

“Because it means they have him by the short and curlies.”

Kyle was distracted. “There’s an incoming message for you,” he said. “It’s huge. Looks like an information file.”

“How huge?”

“It’s over two hundred and seventy pages.”

“Who’s it from?”

“Carlton.”

“He’s fucking nuts, that robot. Call him back.”

“No return address.”

“He’s in the lab,” said Rogers.

“Not anymore, he ain’t,” said Kyle.

“I told them I wanted him kept safe.”

“Well, he’s hopped it and now he’s wanted by Security.”

“By Keppler’s Security?”

“Yes.”

“What about his comedian, Alex whatsisname?”

“Muscroft,” said Dunphy.

“No trace,” said Kyle.

Rogers frowned. “What?”

“That’s what it says. No trace. Central switchboard denies all knowledge of him. No record, no room number, nothing.”

Rogers thought for a second. “Try Lewis Ashby.”

He punched in the name and then frowned. The words “No Trace” floated back at him.

“Same deal,” said Kyle. “They deny all knowledge of them. Officially they don’t exist.”

“That’s weird.”

“Ain’t it? They were supposedly coming to see you.”

“Find ’em.”

“So what’s in the file from the robot then?” said Dunphy.

“Have you read it?” said Rogers.

Kyle nodded. “I read the title page. It’s got a short cover note signed by Carlton. Says ‘Top Secret. Please keep this vital material safe in case of emergency.’”

“So what is in this highly sensitive secret report?” asked Rogers.

Kyle hesitated.

“Well?”

“It’s the meaning of comedy,” he said.

After all, why has a novel to be planned? Cannot it grow? Why need it close, as a play doses? Cannot it open out? Instead of standing above his work and controlling it, cannot the novelist throw himself into it and be carried along to some goal that he does not foresee.

—
E. M. Forster, Aspects Of The Novel

Shit. Dammit. Fuck it. I completely forgot about this. There’s another copy of
De Rerum
with Carlton’s name on it. The one he sent to the cops. So there’s evidence of my fraud sitting in police files. It is eighty years ago, but after all, the original was still in the USSAT computer until I wiped it, so Sod’s law says it’s still somewhere in the PD files. What am I to do? I can’t pull out now—I’ve already sent it off to the Nobel Committee. Finished the preface, put my name on the cover, and dispatched it via the Bodyslogs. It’s in the hands of four publishers and a couple of universities. Shit. The spirit of fuck-up is alive and operating in the Universe as usual. Hey, perhaps that’s what levity really is.