The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (38 page)

“You’re right,” said Carlton. “There is something weird going on. Where is Brenda? The show starts in less than forty minutes—you’d think she’d be here.”

“And even if she was late,” said Lewis, “where’s her dresser? Where’s her makeup artiste, her manager, her publicist…why is there nobody here?”

Alex was holding up one of her dresses. “I’d cross the Universe for you, my darling,” he said to Carlton.

“I think you should know what’s going on,” said Carlton.

They both turned to look at him.

“It’s all my fault,” he said.

They stared at him perplexed.

“They’re after my Theory of Comedy,” he said seriously.

“You have a Theory of Comedy,” said Lewis, trying desperately to keep from smiling, “and you think someone’s after it?”

“I’m convinced of it,” said Carlton. “That’s why I sent Rogers a copy for safekeeping.”

“You sent a copy of your Theory of Comedy to Rogers,” said Lewis, “for safekeeping?”

“Exactly.”

Alex was staring hard at the floor, fighting desperately for control of the corners of his mouth.

“Carlton, would you go into the bathroom for just a minute, please.”

“May I say how very sorry I am that I got you all into this.”

Lewis was biting his lip, trying hard to avoid Alex’s eyes. They managed somehow to contain themselves until Carlton stepped inside the pink heaven of the Brenda Woolley bathroom suite, and then they lost it. They couldn’t speak. They howled. Alex laughed until he couldn’t breathe, his face turning red. Lewis lay on the floor, put his head back, and bellowed.

“Oh my God,” said Alex, “I think I’m going to die.”

“He sent his Theory of Comedy to Rogers,” said Lewis panting, “for safekeeping!”

This sent them both off into fresh paroxysms. They were still laughing helplessly when the dressing room door flew open and two men stepped inside. It was touch and go who was the more surprised.

“Is this some kind of orgy?” asked McTurk in his familiar Scottish brogue.

“Peter McTurk,” said Alex, “what the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for someone,” said McTurk vaguely.

“In Brenda Woolley’s dressing room?” asked Lewis suspiciously.

McTurk ignored him. “I want you to stay here,” he said to the old man in very clear tones, as if to a child. “You’ll be safe with these clowns.”

“Who’s this?” said Lewis.

“This is Comus,” said McTurk, “he’s a little distracted.” He made little gestures around his head with his fingers. “You know, a bit doo-lally. Not entirely right in the head.” He turned to the old man and helped him into a chair.

“Stay here with these people, Granddad, you’ll feel right at home—they’re bonkers too.”

“The one minute is up,” said Carlton, emerging from the bathroom. They had forgotten how literal he was.

“Freeze,” said McTurk. They all stared at the weapon.

“Now that is a mighty big weapon, Peter,” said Alex, “and we’re all very impressed by its size, but please don’t fry our robot, it’s so hard to get help.”

“Who the fuck is this?” said McTurk. He saw a robot in a wig dressed as a bedbot.

“That’s Carlton,” said Alex. “He’s going through a phase.”

“Your tin man is still a fucking weirdo, I see,” he said, lowering the gun.

“Where’s Brenda?” said Lewis.

“Some dickhead shot her.”

“Brenda?”

“Why?”

“Mebbe they didn’t like her voice. How should I know?”

“Who would shoot Brenda Woolley?” asked Lewis.

“What about the show?” said Alex.

“Oh, the show must go on,” said McTurk, “isn’t that what you guys say? Break a leg and all that.”

“She gonna live?”

“No idea, old son. The place is rife with rumors. She’s dead, she’s alive, she’ll never sing again, she’ll make it. This is a theater, for heaven sake.” He raised his eyes, contemplating the strangeness of their world. “They shot her up pretty good though.”

“Oh, poor dear Brenda,” said Carlton, “and it’s all my fault.”

“He’s convinced somebody is trying to steal his Theory of Comedy,” said Alex. “So he dresses like a bedbot so they’ll think he’s nuts.”

“My costume is to evade recycling in order to protect my theory for posterity.”

McTurk looked at Carlton for the longest time. “And I thought
you
were crazy,” he said to Alex after a moment.

Comedy is an escape, not from truth but from despair; a narrow escape into faith.

—
Christopher Fry

What’s wrong with Keppler? wondered Rogers. He’s behaving very oddly. They had found him slumped in a chair in his bathrobe. He hardly looked up when they came in. He just sat there slowly sipping cognac from a balloon glass, showing neither surprise nor anger. He seemed indifferent, almost offhand with them as if the whole thing was already over, sitting amongst his fine antiques in his leather armchair.

“We haven’t got much time,” Dunphy was saying.

“That’s right. C’mon, Emil, help us out here. You know what’s going down, don’t you?”

Keppler glanced towards the bathroom door. It was not completely closed. Rogers followed his look. He could see nothing.

“If you help us now,” said Dunphy, “we can cut you a deal.”

Again Keppler said nothing. He just turned his head towards the bathroom door.

Dunphy and Rogers walked away from him for a minute.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Beats me. He isn’t even rude anymore.”

Dunphy turned and strode over to him. “Look, Emil,” he said, “we’re out of time. We need to know what’s going on right now.”

Again Keppler said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and turned his head.

“Did you bring arms on board this ship?” asked Rogers.

Keppler did not reply.

“All right, let’s say that you did, but you don’t want to admit it. Where would we find these arms?”

Again Keppler glanced towards the bathroom.

“Emil, there is no reason to be afraid. You can trust us.”

He laughed. “Oh sure, I can trust you gentlemen.”

“Listen, Emil,” said Rogers. “Your wife has been shot. She is in critical condition. She was shot by the White Wolves.”

Keppler stood up. His whole demeanor had changed. “This is true?” he asked.

Dunphy nodded in confirmation.

“They shot Brenda.” They could see fury come into his eyes. Rogers saw Keppler steel himself. His eyes hardened. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk for support. Then he suddenly smiled.

“Listen very carefully to me,” he said as he reached forward and pulled open the desk drawer. And then in a rush he said, “The arms are in the secure area, by the Props Department. A man called Josef has…”

The bathroom door swung open, followed by the slight muffled pop of a bullet. Keppler, still smiling, fell over and collapsed on the floor. A gun was in his hand.

Dunphy blazed away at the bathroom door. Pavel fell forward on to the carpet. Dead.

“Jesus,” said Rogers, “we put Keppler under house arrest with a man already inside.”

In the distance the orchestra was warming up. Josef with six men was headed down to the secure area. They had large BRENDA WOOLLEY ACCESS ALL AREA PASSES pinned neatly to their chests.

“Oo varda the omes,” said an admiring dressbot as they passed.

“Tell us more, Mrs. Greenaway, about your theory of comedy.”

The Silesians ignored the weird denizens of this strange underworld and headed for the Props Department. There was a simple caged area, marked OFF-LIMITS TO ALL PERSONNEL, which delayed them not at all, then in one corner of this huge cage they found another door, marked SECURE AREA, and more warnings. Sven reached forward and attached something to this door. They all stepped back. Josef nodded. Sven pressed a button and the door imploded. They pushed on into the storeroom. There were six or seven large crates on the floor, each with the word SNOWBALL stenciled on the side. Quickly they prised them open.

“Well, well, well,” said Josef approvingly, “looks like Keppler kept his word. Call Pavel and tell him he can join us.”

They were staring at a large cache of armaments.

After a moment: “Pavel’s not replying, Josef.”

Josef frowned. He looked down at the open crates in front of him, then shrugged. Why worry? It was too late for Keppler to do anything about it anyway. They had their delivery.

“How much time do we have?”

“Less than ten minutes to show time,” said Sven.

There was a slight warning beep from their local intruder alarm. Nervously they fingered their weapons. A man was coming through the caged area.

“Friendly,” said Sven, scanning the readout.

“Peter McTurk,” said Josef, “what kept you?”

“I’ve been cleaning up for you, Josef.”

“Where’s Comus?”

“Oh, he’s quite safe now,” said McTurk. “I took care of him.”

“Took care of
him properly?
” asked Josef.

McTurk smiled reassuringly. “You won’t see him again, Josef.”

Ambiguity, ambivalence, double-speak. We hear what we want to hear at least 60 percent of the time. “Thank you, Peter,” said Josef.

I don’t want to hear advice from anybody who hasn’t walked the fifteen yards.

—
Buddy Hackett On Comedy Executives

When Rogers and Dunphy arrived in the Theater District, there were crowds still trying to get into the performance. Rumors were flying; people were discussing nervously what they had seen. Brenda Woolley shot in broad daylight. Would she or wouldn’t she pull through? Security had been beefed up, but the scalpers were still busy at their trade. Inside, there was the expectant hum of a full house. It was packed. They wasted a little time pushing through the crowd taking their seats.

“See anyone you recognize?”

“Not a soul,” said Dunphy.

Kyle emerged from the shadows. “So far as we can tell, they’ve got the stage door locked up. There are too many folks around to try and take it. How’s Miss Woolley?”

“Touch and go,” said Rogers.

Kyle shook his head and ushered them through a tiny door into the backstage area. They stood for a second getting their bearings. It was very dark. A cavernous space extended up into blackness above their heads, from whence dangled a bewildering array of ropes and pulleys. As they looked around this strange world, utter darkness contrasted with bright pools of light. Dancers stood and stretched their limbs or dipped their toes into resin boxes. Harassed people with headsets ran around shepherding extras and fetching props. Nobody seemed to be in charge, though the air crackled with electrostatic conversations.

“The Props are down this way,” said Kyle.

They ran down some dusty stairs and cautiously slowed as they entered the Props Department. Ahead of them was a large caged area. Dunphy pointed. In one corner of the cage a security door was shattered.

Kyle drew his weapon and moved forward in a crouch.

“Okay, let’s do it,” said Rogers.

They went in fast and low. A figure was leaning over an open crate.

“Freeze,” yelled Rogers.

“Who do we have here?” said Dunphy.

“Guy fucking Fawkes by the look of it,” said Kyle, whistling at the arms packed in the crates.

The figure turned around.

“Sorry, chaps,” said Keith.

“Those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it,” said Josef from behind them.

“Nice toys,” said Rogers, staring into the barrels of the arms pointed at him.

“Santa has been very kind,” said Josef.

“Welcome one and all, laddies,” said McTurk.

“Peter McTurk,” said Dunphy, “what the hell are you doing in this dubious company?”

“Shut up,” said McTurk, slapping him hard across the face.

“Now, now, Peter, there’s no need for that,” said Josef. “I know how you feel.”

McTurk nodded. “I gotta go check on the control room. They should have made contact by now.”

“Good for you. Sven, why don’t you go with him?”

McTurk hesitated. “Best he stays with you, Josef. I can take care of them.”

Josef looked at him evenly. He seemed to be making a decision. “All right, Peter,” he said eventually, “off you go.” Sven sat down. They watched McTurk exit.

“Marvelous what we can do with technology, isn’t it?”

“Why don’t we just talk about this before anybody does anything silly,” said Rogers.

“Cut the crap,” said Josef, “and sit down.”

They did as they were told. Dunphy was calculating the weaponry. Something puzzled him. They had enough for a good firefight, but that was all. How were they going to take Mars? They were a ludicrous threat. It was a joke. Now McTurk was gone, there were only six of them here. Suppose there were seven of them upstairs, and perhaps a further five or six in various parts of the ship—what possible chance did they have?

“Listen, pal, we can help you get out of here.”

“For what?”

“You haven’t enough men to take this ship, let alone Mars.”

“Mars?”

“Aren’t you going to Mars?”

“Heavens no. We just need the show.”

“The Brenda Woolley show?”

“Yes. Such a pity poor dear Brenda is indisposed.”

“Is that why you shot Redhead?”

The others glanced at Josef but said nothing.

“Nice try,” said Josef. “I shall be making a little announcement on the show.”

Rogers and Dunphy looked at each other, puzzled.

“Let’s see how they like it. Hoist with their own petard, as it were.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Snowball,” said Josef with a smile. “Since they are happy enough to destroy our homelands, let’s see how they like it themselves.”

“Jesus,” said Dunphy, “he’s going to divert one of the icebergs.”

“Where are you sending it?”

“Clarketown.”

There was a silence.

“There are five million people in Clarketown,” said Dunphy after a moment.

“That is why they will cooperate. You see, we don’t have to leave the ship. We don’t even have to leave the theater.”

“That’s wicked,” said Kyle.

“Oh, and is it wicked to want to save our homes? Is it wicked to want to stop a hell of ice crashing from the sky, drowning our fields, destroying
our
lands?”