The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (27 page)

EUUUUUREEKA!!!!!

He became insanely euphoric. If he hadn’t been frozen to the side of the Evac, he would have let go and begun dancing in space. Dancing in space with the expanding Universe. Expanding in the expanding Universe at the speed of
what
exactly? The speed of light. And what exactly was the
force
that continued to expand the Universe? He began chuckling and laughing and singing out loud. Anyone would have taken him for an idiot. A computer gone berserk. But he had gone beyond that. For staring him in the face was the answer. The clue to what was behind all this comedy madness. What was the contracting principle of the Universe? Gravity. What was the expanding force of the Universe? Why obviously, wonderfully and marvelously:
levity
. Levity! Of course. Levity was the opposite of gravity. Levity was a universal force that worked in the opposite direction to gravity. Pushing apart, expanding, growing, swelling. Yin, yang; sweet, sour; birth, death; expansion, contraction; explosion, implosion; gravity, levity.

He is freezing over fast but his mind is still lucid, taking notes to the very end. This is what he writes:

Levity is a universal constant. Comedy is one of the basic forces of the Universe. Mankind latches onto comedy, because levity is the expanding principle that keeps the whole bubble inflating.

There are gaps appearing in the notes now as he starts to black out, but he is filled with this ineffable, glorious lightness of being. He has found the solution. The expanding principle. Levity is the answer. His final note is still lucid:

Comedy, which at the human level is merely a kind of consciousness, an awareness of something going on in the Universe other than the moment, is at the subatomic level behind everything. Everywhere. May the farce be with you!

It was cosmic. It was comic. Everything seemed suddenly wonderfully, ridiculously funny. He began laughing hysterically. He had one final ecstatic delirious thought. Here he had stumbled on the great secret of life at the very moment he was about to die.

Yes, he thought. Yes. And he giggled. For he had finally understood irony.

Levity

This…is the inherent defect of novels: they go off at the end.

—
E. M. Forster. Aspects Of The Novel

L
evity. Laughing matter. The cosmic joke. Brilliant, isn’t it?

Levity. Expanding the Universe. So simple. We’re all moving at the speed of laughter.

Time. Timing. The secret of comedy is.

We are the only point in the present in the entire visible Universe. In every direction we are looking backwards in time. Want to see the past? It’s above your head. For all we know, the Universe might have been switched off five minutes ago, but we wouldn’t know it for several million years. Is ignorance bliss? We’re still here, ain’t we? Life goes on. Evolution continues. So what about comedy then? The useful defense mechanism. It’s specifically human, isn’t it? It’s humor that separates man from the animals. It isn’t possession of tools; chimps have tools. It isn’t farming; ants farm. It isn’t music; birds and whales have music. It’s comedy. Its magical alchemy turns anger into humor, as the stars convert hydrogen into energy. Gravity exerts a strong pull, but according to Carlton, levity exerts an equally strong push. Strong enough to keep us expanding forever? Who knows? Nothing lasts forever. Stars die, galaxies die, surely even Universes die?

Something has been bothering me. Carlton submitted
De Rerum
for a postgraduate degree from the University of Southern Saturn. That’s where I found it. But did he ever receive his doctorate? I have been searching the records and the answer is clear. No, he did not.

Why not? Were they so ignorant they missed the value of his work? Did they somehow think his thesis was not good enough? The answer is simpler. Sadder. Prejudice. Sheer bloody human prejudice. Oh, we are so proud of ourselves at stamping out racism and gaycism (well, at least making them illegal), but you know why Carlton didn’t get his doctorate? The same reason Deep Blue cannot join a chess club, or the Hubble telescope get a Nobel Prize. DNAcism. He isn’t human. He doesn’t count. Carlton was not eligible. The protocol committee refused to accept his submission. They wouldn’t even read it. It’s a wonder there is even a record of it. It’s quite possible I’m the only human being who has actually read this great work. Scandalous? Unjust? Absolutely. “Universities are run by humans for humans,” they said. I’m quoting from a letter by the admissions dean, a pompous fart called Arnold Wessels. May he rot in a designer hell. “Artificial intelligence has no place in our university system. Machines are for our use only.” Makes me so angry.

So I’ve been thinking. I have an idea how to make good this injustice. I shall publish the work as if it were written by me. Then once it is acclaimed and accepted, I can reveal the identity of the real author. In due course. I’m quite excited by this idea. It’s the least I can do for him, and I think I can make it work. I think I can carry it off. I like the idea of having my name on the cover of
De Rerum
, no matter how temporary. It’s an appropriate joke for a thesis on comedy, don’t you think? To hoax those snobbish wankers from the university. Obviously I’m going to have to wipe all references to Carlton and
De Rerum
on university files for the moment. Just as a precaution. I don’t want to be exposed as some kind of intellectual fraud. Don’t worry, it won’t be hard to do. I have access to the files. I have the key to the file room, and the codes and the clearance. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour. I’m quite looking forward to it. At last,
action
.

By the way, Molly still isn’t back. I hear a rumor that she is permanently shacking up with Mike Wilkinson from the Mathematics Department. Moved in. Staying nights. Well this will show her, won’t it?
De Rerum
with my name on the title page: William K. Reynolds. A breakthrough book by a man she spurned. I might even get a Nobel Prize. That would be great, wouldn’t it? She will have to live with the knowledge that she could have been living with a Nobel Prize winner instead of some loser stud monkey number cruncher.

Nothing laughs forever.

There is not one female comic who was beautiful as a little girl.

—
Joan Rivers

Brenda Woolley was standing on a tiny gantry slung across the receiving bay. Harsh lights hit the side of the
Iceman
. Soft lights lit the face of Brenda. Beside her an old man in a grey blanket stared vacantly around him like a poor blasted Lear on the heath. She ignored him, except when the cameras turned, at which time she would sing dauntingly loud at him. At the moment she was very irritated. What was supposed to be a simple shot had already taken two hours.

“Take me down,” she said. The gantry operator lowered the whole contraption to the deck level.

“What’s going on?” she demanded loudly of everyone in particular.

“Sorry, Brenda love, we’re having problems with the sound.”

“With my sound?”

“No, not you, dear, the problem’s on our end.”

Instant frost.

“Did you call me
dear?
”

She gave the young man a withering glance. After that no one came near her. She stood in the pool of light on the narrow gantry trying to look as though she wasn’t standing on a tiny platform with an old man who was busy talking to himself. She had reached the all-powerful stage of divahood, when she could terrify with looks. Ah, divadom, divaness, how divine to be a diva, a goddess, a prima donna, that state which makes grown men want to dress up like female singers. When she had first seen herself impersonated, by no less than three young men at once (they called themselves the
Brenda Woolley Four
) she had been shocked. They seemed like a gross caricature with their outrageous full glam makeup, their sequined sheath dresses, so like hers and yet somehow so much larger than life. But soon she became reconciled to it, even to enjoy it. Now she encouraged it. Sure, there was something a teeny bit unflattering in their portrayals, but still it was
camp
. It meant she had arrived. She was a diva.

The real reason for the delay was the banner. They were having trouble accommodating it in the shot. This was partly due to its size, but mainly to its length. It stretched forever behind her, screaming boldly, THE BRENDA WOOLLEY EXPERIENCE FOR THE REFUGEES.

Ferret-face, the fox terrier woman, watched every monitor intently. She would not let them record until she was satisfied. At the moment she was lecturing the director on how he must keep the name BRENDA WOOLLEY in shot behind the old man, and not the word REFUGEES. He was accepting the advice through gritted teeth.

Amidst this scene of chaos Boo was standing on the deck next to the Amazing Keith. They were watching the old man next to Brenda, muttering to himself under the blanket.

“Poor thing’s gaga,” said Keith.

“Yes, and
he
’s almost as bad,” said Boo.

“Thank you, good night, and don’t forget your waitress,” said Keith.

“Boo, is that you, dear?”

It was Brenda. She was holding her hand over her eyes, peering into the darkness where he stood. Oh shit. He’d been spotted.

“Everybody, this is Boo. A very funny man.”

The spotlight searched for him, trapped him. He grinned.

“Come over here, Boo, and keep me company. I’m all alone here.” Apparently the old man didn’t exist. As Boo walked over to her, the grizzled old man began singing softly. It was an old song, a song of nostalgia, of distant sad places. Yearning for a homeland far away. Brenda looked with disapproval, as though she had something tart in her mouth.
She
was the singer.

“Nice song, old feller,” said Boo as he passed him, and then to appease Brenda he added, “You notice they always sing songs about crappy places? Ever notice that, eh? Rainy, damp, nostalgic places where nobody in their right minds wants to live. And another thing,” said Boo, warming to his theme, “you notice they’ve always
left
these places. ‘How I wish I could go back to Bonny Blantyre!’” he sang. “Well, why the hell don’t you; instead of just singing about it all the time.” Boo could hear appreciative laughs from the darkness around, but Brenda seemed lost in her own thoughts, for she suddenly seized his hand and, patting it gently, said, “Ah, Boo, dear Boo”—she was gazing into the middle distance—“don’t you sometimes wonder what life is all about?”

He stared at her, then looked behind him for a second.

“You shitting me?” he asked.

But Brenda was lost in her reverie. She suddenly clasped him close to her bosom. He found himself in an irresistible bear hug, with his face pressed against her considerable thorax. He thought for a second he was going to choke, but she finally released him with a deep satisfied sigh.

“Now that’s what we need more of. Hugs.”

Boo straightened his neck gingerly.

“If we could all learn to hug one another. The galaxy would be a much better place.”

She looked at Boo for approval. He nodded and grinned. How could he get away from here?

“Do you believe in God?”

Her words picked up by her body mike echoed around the makeshift stage area. Hundreds of people were included in this intimate conversation. Technicians high in the air giggled. Some reached for their recorders. Psychobabble like this was highly prized amongst them, and it looked like Brenda was off on a roll.

“I mean, do you ever stop and wonder what it’s all about?” Her thoughts bounced around, banging into things, like someone bumping into furniture in an old shuttered house.

“Deep down, I mean. What do you think it all means?”

“I think it means jack shit,” said Boo.

Brenda smiled tolerantly. These comedians, not really comfortable with philosophy.

“You see, I think we’ve all been here before, don’t you?”

Boo hesitated. “I was here yesterday,” he offered. “But I didn’t see you here.”

Somebody laughed out loud. Brenda ignored it.

“No not
here
here. But here,” and she waved her arms generously to include the galaxy and possibly several other worlds. “In a previous life.”

“I was here in a previous
wife
,” said Boo deadpan. Up in the lighting scaffolding someone appeared to be having a coughing fit.

“Have you seen God?” she said suddenly.

“He’s on the show?” said Boo.

“Silly man,” she said flirtatiously, tapping him lightly on the chest. “You know I have the endorsement of the Church.”

“Congratulations,” said Boo.

“Though I don’t believe in the sort of God everybody believes in.”

Oh God, a God snob!

“I do not believe in
your
sort of God.”

She made
his
sort of God seem like he wore dirty old clothing.

“But I do believe there is a presence. I feel there is something out there, beyond.” She gestured vaguely.

“The wall?” asked Boo innocently. A slight irritation crossed her face.

“No, not the wall,” she said. “Something out there beyond the wall.”

“The washroom?” he said.

“No, no, beyond the washroom.”

“Oh!” said Boo enlightened. “I get it! The dining room.”

Was he dumb or something?

“There is a kind of mystery in things…” began Brenda, though the final thought defeated her. “Call it love if you like.”

“Okay, I will, love,” said Boo. “Well, gotta go.”

“Do good and be kind to the little people,” said Brenda, on a roll.

“The short people?”

“Remember, those you meet on the way going up you meet on the way going down.”

“So be careful who you go down on,” said Boo. “Especially short people.”

“What?” said Brenda.

“Nothing,” said Boo. “Thanks for all the advice.”

“You’re welcome. If we can’t help each other, where are we?”

Probably on the Brenda Woolley show, thought Boo, but he had the presence of mind not to say it.

She embraced him once again. He wanted to squeal.