The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (9 page)

“Yeah.”

“So someone already knew he was going to replace us. Maybe even before we went on.”

“Who? Charles Jay Brown?”

“Maybe.”

“But that doesn’t explain all this though.”

“No. Carlton, see if you can find the origin of the cancellation command.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to check on a couple of things.”

“What should I do?” asked Alex.

“Take a shower.”

Alex was still taking his shower when the Facemail came. It was Katy Wallace. Carlton interrupted his data search to go find him. He banged on the door of the shower. Alex was floating around in the gravity-free environment, feeling the water hit him from all over.

“It’s Miss Wallace on Screen 1,” said Carlton when he finally attracted his attention.

“For me?” said Alex, grabbing a towel and flicking her face onto the giant screen. The moment she saw Alex, she broke into a smile.

“Oh hi, Alex,” she said. “I just wanted to thank you for the show. I really meant it, you guys were great.”

“I’m sorry I said that thing about Brenda Woolley.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Everyone here knows she’s a cow. Even Emil.”

“So he’s not mad at me?”

“At you?” She seemed genuinely surprised by the thought.

“Someone has been canceling our gigs.”

“What?”

She clearly knew nothing about it.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Look, I just wanted to say thank you. It was nice meeting you and I hope we can work together again somewhere.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Alex. “Oh, and you dropped your towel.” He looked down in alarm. “Just kidding.” She smiled and was gone.

He rewound the instant playback. He heard his own voice: “Someone has been canceling our gigs.”

“What?” she said.

He repeated it again, and checked the stress signs. They were normal.

“What?”

No, she knew nothing. He could swear it. He spotted something glinting in the corner of the gym. He picked up the Ganesha and looked at it for a minute. The Remover of Obstacles. Sure.

Carlton appeared at the door.

“What do you want now?” said Alex gruffly.

“You called me.”

“No I didn’t,” said Alex.

“Oh.” Carlton frowned. “Lewis said when you were out of the shower, could you meet him in the rehearsal room.”

“Be right there,” said Alex.

The conference revealed nothing but their lack of choices. They could hang around Jupiter in the hope that the cancellations would somehow plug back in; they could go back to Saturn and the mining stations, or they could head towards Mars on the logical assumption that no one could cancel gigs they didn’t have yet.

“Mars it is then?” said Lewis, looking round the rehearsal room. It was a large padded room, with sprung floors for dance routines (as if they did dance routines). Alex nodded his assent; Carlton voted yes.

“Two and a half votes to none,” said Lewis.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re off once again on the Road to Mars,” said Alex. “Crack open those long Russian novels and prepare to meet nothing at all for a few months. It’s time to kick back and relax as we travel the 340 million miles to Mars. Just a hop in the ocean of time, another brick in the wall of space.”

“Keep an eye on him,” said Lewis to Carlton. “He’s acting a bit doo-lally.”

The reason I’m in this business, I assume all performers are it’s “Look at me, Ma!”

—
Lenny Bruce

“The White Face wants to control the audience through his superior intelligence. The Red Nose wants the audience to adore him.” So writes Carlton. But actually all comedians seek control. It is a very controlling thing to dominate an audience and make them laugh. A comedian who does not seek control is like a lion tamer who does not dominate the lion. He is in immediate danger of being eaten.

So what propels a person to become a comedian? Abandonment. Simple abandonment by the mother. Mothers are the fathers of comedians, says Carlton. Comedians seek to replace the missing love of an absent parent with the admiration of strangers. Watch any kid being funny in a group of five-year-olds and I’ll give you ten to one his mother is absent. Here’s Carlton again: “The White Face clown seeks control; his impotent fury is revenge for a missing parent, a perceived absence of love as a child. He is the undertaker, the ringmaster, the harlequin. The White Face is the ‘controlling’ clown, the master; the Red Nose is the servant. The Red Nose is kicked, sprayed, soaked, and humiliated. But behind the back of the White Face the Red Nose is always thumbing his nose; he is complicit with the audience, for whom he is a victim, and representative of their humiliations. He is saying, ‘Yes, he may have the power, but isn’t he a pompous asshole?’ The audience love his bravery; they know he will be caught and humiliated, but his spirit remains strong and unbroken. The White Face in his turn
must know he is being mocked
even though he cannot always witness these acts of subversion. He may have control, temporary power and authority, but in the end it is meaningless: he is not God, he is mocked. Hence the bleakness of soul of the White Face clown.”

There’s yards of stuff like that—good personal observation backed up with plenty of well-researched data—and I’m beginning to suspect Carlton’s dissertation has mass market appeal. I’m not quite sure what I should call
De Rerum Comoedia
when I publish it.
The Things of Comedy
, I suppose it is, or
Concerning Comedy
, which is not a very good title, is it? Not terribly commercial. Not that I’m obsessed with commerce, but this will be the first book written by a machine and I want it to sell. I think I am definitely going to put my name on the cover. I am after all a professor, and it will add a certain scholastic cachet. I’m hovering between “Preface by William J. Reynolds” or “Foreword by Professor Reynolds.” Which do you prefer? I think “Preface” sounds a little more scholarly. I wonder if I should add some of my credits. “Preface by the author
of Genius and Madness, The Ill-Tempered Clavier; or If It Ain’t Baroque, Don’t Fix It.” The Gift of Laughter
—you like that title?

Carlton’s got all the time in the world for research now, as both Alex and Lewis are too depressed to bug him. Alex spends hours in his room playing violent video games. Lewis passes most of his day with the shrinkbot. They’re heading for H9, where he has an ex-wife and a small daughter whom he feels guilty about not visiting. Ah, guilt, guilt, the gilding of the lily of comedy. The shrinkbot takes him back through early childhood rejections, and all the time Carlton is monitoring him and taking notes on the Intrapsychic Personality Problems of the White Face Comedian. Oh, it’s a hoot. If only Lewis had a clue what was going on. It’s the control freak’s ultimate nightmare. But Carlton’s very secretive now, absorbed for hours at a time poring over old documents and calling up ancient databases. He suspects—rightly, I think—they’d stop him if they knew. Alex is moody and jibs at the Washing Machine, who is beginning to irritate him intensely.

“Ooh, I ache something dreadful this morning,” kvetches Mrs. Greenaway. “My circuits have been playing me up something terrible. Give my moving parts a little drop of oil, will you, Alex love,” she said and sulked when he ignored her.

“I see someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning. Well
excuse me
. I’d better go see what kind of a mess he’s left for me today. Any more of those strange toys in his room, I wonder?” And she went off muttering and moaning as the endless mega-miles of space slid past outside the hermetically sealed world of the
Johnnie Ray
.

One evening after a session, as he was passing, Lewis stopped and hugged Alex. White Face clowns are not by nature touchers, certainly not huggers.

“You all right, man?” asked Alex, concerned.

“I fucked up my life,” said Lewis.

“Good for you,” said Alex.

The non sequitur surprised and pleased Lewis. He broke into a grin. The hug cheered Alex enormously, and he was whistling a particularly irritating passage of Ravel’s particularly irritating
Bolero
when Carlton knocked on the door of his room.

“Yes,” said Carlton.

“What?” said Alex, looking up from his collection of tiny toy soldiers.

“You buzzed me,” said Carlton.

“I never buzzed you,” said Alex. “That’s the third time in a week. There’s something wrong with your pager. Let me take a look.”

“No, it’s okay.”

Carlton’s worst nightmare was Alex unscrewing his chest. He knew nothing about mechanics. He was the world’s worst engineer. It was as much as he could do to install new software in the games center. Even then it would malfunction and he would behave like a two-year-old, teeth clenched, red-faced in impotent fury. Lewis was even worse. Carlton had once seen him
kicking
machinery!

“I think you’ve blown a fuse,” said Alex, opening his chest. God, Carlton hated this. Like he had
fuses
! What century did he think they were in?

“Really, Alex, it’s nothing.” There was no end of trouble he could cause, and then it would take Carlton all night to repair himself.

“No, I can fix it,” said Alex, gazing vacantly at the gleaming circuitry. He tentatively prodded a few things in the hope it would repair whatever was wrong.

“What’s that?” asked Carlton. He had spotted the tiny Ganesha.

“It’s a security pin.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Miss Wallace gave it to me before the show.”

“Well, it’s
buzzing
.”

“What?”

“It’s buzzing, listen.” Carlton sniffed it. “See, it’s live. Look.” He ran the pin along his forearm. Alex could clearly hear the crackle.

“So that’s what I heard,” said Carlton.

“It’s static,” said Alex.

“Way too loud for static.”

“The Washing Machine won’t touch it.”

“Of course it won’t touch it,” said Carlton, examining it microscopically through one eye, “it’s a postman.”

“Is it some kind of a bug?” asked Alex.

“A postman is a device for passing on messages. All electronic signaling can be intercepted and, if encoded, then deciphered, but if you give a third party something, like this pin, for instance, then it can transmit your message later at a distance where someone is not bugging you.”

“You mean this is a transmitter?”

“Technically, a retransmitter. Looks as if you were being used.”

Alex went pale. “She used me as a goddam postman.”

“Miss Wallace gave you the pin?”

Alex nodded.

“Then it’s 99.8 percent logical to assume she knew about it.”

When they told Lewis, he said, “Well, that proves it then. Katy Wallace knew beforehand we weren’t staying.”

Alex looked despondent.

“Cheer up. That means you’re off the hook. You can’t torture yourself anymore.”

They were all leaning over Carlton’s workbench, staring at the screen which scrolled through pages of meaningless numbers and computer symbols.

“It’s encrypted,” said Carlton.

“No. Really?” said Alex.

“Yes it is, you see…” but Carlton stopped himself. “Was that irony?” he asked.

“Sarcasm,” said Lewis.

“Sorry,” said Alex sheepishly.

“I can’t deconstruct the code yet,” said Carlton, “but one thing is for certain—its unidirectional.”

“Explain.”

“There are two types of postman. The omnidirectional kind, which shoots the message off in all directions, and the unidirectional, which transmits only to a prescribed coordinate.”

“And this one is…”

“A uni. See, let’s check where it’s headed.”

He punched a few buttons and leaned in closer to the screen.

“It’s transmitting directly to H9.”

“Oh great, Divorce City,” said Lewis. He thought about his ex.

“Well, at least that’s where we’re going,” said Carlton.

“How would they know that?” asked Alex.

“Where else we gonna go? It’s where you pick up the main beam for Mars.”

“And someone made sure of it by canceling our gigs?”

“Could be.”

“The beautiful Miss Wallace. Because I borrowed her sugar?”

“Is that irony again?” asked Carlton.

“It’s just a little bitterness. He’s mad because he was thinking with his balls.”

“Fuck you.”

“There’s nothing on Miss Wallace in the Biobank,” said Carlton. “Look.” He punched up her picture. “
Singer
,” it said. “And there’s that bit about her and Keppler in the gossip file.”

“That’s interesting. Keppler. You could always ask Sammy?”

“Sammy
Weiss?
”

“Sure. This is right up her alley.”

“You think she’s forgiven me?”

“Let me think about that,” said Lewis. “She’s a woman. You walked out on her. You didn’t even leave a note. No, you’re right. Not a chance in hell.”

“Thanks.”

“Pity. With her gossip net and her data files, if anyone can trace this Wallace woman for you she can.”

Alex thought about it. He hated feeling used. He had to know. “I’ll go see Sammy.” He winced. “But what if she kills me?”

“I’m willing to pay that price.”

You should never turn down the chance to have sex or be on television.

—
Gore Vidal

Women have emotions; men have sport. That’s how it was for centuries. But this all changed at the end of the twentieth century. Emotions suddenly went public. They became compulsory for men. Getting in touch with your female side was the magazine cliché. The sorry spectacle of males in tears was everywhere. If you wanted so much as to sell a book, then you had to cry on a talk show. Athletes were nothing if they hadn’t been seen weeping on TV, basketball stars wept buckets, soccer stars sobbed on the field, comedians cried copiously, presidents could hardly address the nation without tears in their eyes. If you couldn’t hack it, then you’d better damn well fake it, brother, for this was Reality TV. Celebrities wallowed in public emotion, like warthogs in a muddy hollow. So, yes, TV was to blame again, changing behavior, lowering standards, intruding, falsifying, exposing. Emotions became the trademark of endless TV harpies, the Medeas of the media, with their frozen hairdos and their refrigerated smiles.
How do you feel?
people were asked moments after they had scored a goal or been told their family was lost in a plane crash. Prodding and jabbing.
How do you feel?
Primed and prepped.
How do you feel?
Until the tears would flow and the poor victim received his benediction from the blond show queen. Pass the Kleenex, check the ratings, pass the sick bag, please.