The Road to Mars: A Post-Modem Novel (1999) (4 page)

Alex, Lewis, and Carlton entered the arrival hall and were preparing to clear customs when they saw Boo look up at the image of Brenda Woolley and leap back in mock terror.

“Look out,” he yelled, pointing to the screen, “the mouth that roared!”

Startled, the customs officers looked upwards, some automatically reaching for their security belts. They turned back to Boo when they realized he was kidding.

“Hey, mate,” said one angrily, “watch your mouth, we like that lady here.”

“Oh sorry,” said Boo, “I mistook you for people of taste.”

There was an ugly silence.

“He’s a comedian,” said Carlton. “He says odd things in order to be funny. It was a joke. An attempt to be risible. A pairing of the disparate in order to create a physical response of merriment in the hearer.”

They stared at him.

“Comedy, you know,” said Carlton. “Risibility. Buffoonery. Farce. Burlesque. Knockabout. Slapstick. To occupy in an agreeable, pleasing, or entertaining fashion, to cause to laugh or smile by giving pleasure.”

“Thanks, we do know what comedy is,” said the officer, refusing to be mollified. “Is this your tin feller?”

“Yes,” said Alex. “He is a little unusual.”

“And is the other weird one with you?” said the agent, indicating Boo.

“Definitely not,” said Lewis.

“Well, he’d better watch it. We don’t like jokes like that here. He might get hurt.”

“Point taken, Officer,” said Alex. “He hasn’t seen real people in a while.”

He shoved Boo on ahead, who refused to give up and kept looking up at Brenda Woolley on the enormous screen, crossing himself and muttering.

“Thanks, bro,” said Boo to Alex when they had passed into the arrival hall. “I guess it’s better to get into a place before getting thrown out.” He ruffled Alex’s rusty hair affectionately, slapped him five, and set off jauntily towards the Gravity-Free Shopping Zone, which was beginning to fill with little old ladies, floating around shopping.

“Guess I’ll check out the smoke shop,” he said by way of farewell. “See you at the cattle market.”

“That little turd,” said Lewis disdainfully.

“He’s okay,” said Alex.

“Yeah? He’s about as funny as dead meat.”

“Some people like him,” said Alex.

Lewis turned his baleful brown eyes on him. Oh-oh, better change the subject, thought Alex. Lewis would never simply let things go. “We’d better find a cab quick, the cruise ship is unloading.”

Lewis glanced over to a line of little old ladies waving shopping bags and heading determinedly towards them.

“Better hurry, don’t want to be trampled to death.”

Shrieking and whooping, the old ladies headed for the Gravity-Free Shopping Zone.

Alex and Lewis raced ahead and beat out a party of bearded, black-robed clerics to the front of the line. The clerics glared angrily at them as they piled into the only taxi.

“Who are they?” asked Alex.

“Oh, just some religion that hates women and razors,” said Lewis.

“Why?” said Carlton in a very strange voice. “Because they shave their legs?”

He looked round triumphantly as if awaiting some reaction. They looked at each other, puzzled.

“Was that funny?” asked Carlton. “No,” said Alex.

I can tell at once whether they are my kind of people.

We do look for a certain type.

—
Mrs. Johnston, Head Of Casting, Keppler Cruises

A Stanford Torus is a huge revolving doughnut which slowly turns in space, creating by centrifugal force conditions resembling gravity. Imagine an inner tube; on the outside the view is of the galaxy slowly revolving, a night sky freckled with stars constantly in rotation, but on the inside you can see the other side of the city whirling up over your head.

The taxi flew them along the inside rim. It was a bubble cab affording breathtaking views of New Sydney Harbor sparkling in the sunlight below them. High above their heads lay downtown. The sun itself was much brighter here than out by Saturn, though still only a quarter of the size it appears on Earth.

“Best place in the world, New Sydney,” said the mechanical cabby as they landed on top of a tall building. “God’s own city.” He spoke with the colony’s nasal twang.

“Looks like a doughnut to me,” said Lewis dryly.

“That’s a Torus, mate, not a doughnut,” said the cabby.

“Ah, too bad,” said Alex. “No jam.”

“Very funny,” said the cabby as they paid him and headed towards a bank of elevators.

“I’m certain he didn’t really appreciate the joke,” said Carlton seriously. “I think he knows you were being funny, but he didn’t really get it.”

“Really?” said Lewis. “And what would you know about it?”

“Lewis, dear,” said Alex, “let’s not get snappy with the tin man now we’re in Oz.”

“That’s all right,” said Carlton. “Lewis is probably nervous about the audition. A perfectly natural human response since your chance of success is less than 8.273 percent.”

“Thanks for your confidence,” said Alex.

“You’re welcome,” said Carlton, the irony as usual escaping him.

“Gooday, mates, and welcome to the Keppler Towers,” said the elevator mechanically in that quaint Australian burr. “Floor 400. Hold tight.”

They shot upwards. Mozac played loudly as they rode.

“Ah, the Minuet in H,” said Alex.

“Don’t you love Mozac?” said the elevator.

The doors slid open, depositing them in a gilded Art Deco world.

“Goodbyee,” said the elevator. “Thank you for choosing Elevator B. Have a fabby day.”

Inside the double doors of Suite 40,000 a platinum blond receptionist sat behind a desk reading a book. She barely glanced up as they entered the room.

“Mrs. Johnston,” said Lewis, “we have an appointment.”

“
He
’s not Mrs. Johnston,” said Alex helpfully. “That’s who we want to see.”

She gave him a look which said don’t mess with me and pointed her pencil at another door.

“In there,” she said.

“Just kidding,” said Alex.

“They’re Muscroft and Ashby,” said Carlton helpfully to the receptionist. “A comedy duo.”

“I don’t care if they’re Einstein and Hubble, they wait in there.”

“Einstein and Hubble. Great comedy duo,” said Alex, entering the waiting room.

A crowd of people glanced up briefly.

“Hey, brother, what kept you so long?” It was Boo.

“How’d you get here so fast?” asked Alex.

“Walked right ahead and grabbed the shuttle. It’s quicker than a cab. Cheaper too.”

“Thanks for sharing,” said Lewis.

“Hope you don’t mind, I put you down as a referee.”

“For what?” said Lewis.

“For football, what you think? My character.”

“Your character?”

“Yeah. Formal stuff, you know. They need to know who will cover me in the event of any fire damage and shit like that.”

“
Fire damage?
”

“It happens. I have a record. They wanted some guarantee.”

“And you chose us?” asked Lewis, astounded.

“No, I chose
you
,” said Boo to Lewis, “on account of you being such a straight-ass and a real fine upstanding and decent person.”

“Nice,” said Lewis.

“I would gladly have performed the service of referee for our friend here,” said a tall florid figure seated beside Boo in a battered three–piece tweed suit with a pink carnation in his buttonhole, “but, alas, some mix-up with my credit. They are scoundrels, sir, they are scoundrels, fools, and knaves.”

“Have you met Charlie?” asked Boo.

The gentleman in question rose to his feet, removed a large fedora from his head in salutation, bowed extravagantly, offered them a hologram business card, and sat down breathing heavily.

“Charles Jay Brown, Cosmic Management, at your service. You may reach me at these numbers any time, night or day. Open all hours, we never close.”

His long silver hair was streaked with yellow, but whether through dye, nature, or nicotine was hard to say. His face was like an old map of Mars, with many lines and blotches etched in red. His age was hard to place, somewhere between fifty and sixty, and his eyes were bright and alert, staring out inquiringly from under great beetle black eyebrows.

“What the hell is Cosmic Management?” asked Lewis.

“Career management of comedians, professional advice of all sorts, business, taxation, wives, girlfriends, abortions, divorces, lawsuits, car rental, food service, and massage. All taken care of for a measly twenty percent.”

“Twenty percent!”

“I will consider fifteen.”

“Ain’t he something,” said Boo. “He’s my new management.”

“Our young friend Mr. Booper has wisely consented to accept my professional advice upon his career.”

“And you’ve advised him to retire?” said Lewis.

“Don’t hold your breath,” said Boo.

“His humor is somewhat rancorous, I grant you, but he gives delight to the young, and they, sir, are the future, and the future is my business.”

“Talks like a dictionary, don’t he?” said Boo.

Charles Jay Brown raised an eyebrow and contemplated Boo as one would an imbecilic child. Satisfied that the child was placid, he reverted his attention to Alex.

“Incidentally, should either of you two gentlemen be requiring representation at the moment, I would be most happy to advise you. I have spent a lifetime watering the gardens of wit and reaping reward from the harvest of mirth therein sown.”

“Does he always talk like this?” asked Alex.

“Used to be a preacher,” said Boo proudly.

“Alas, sir, an unfortunate fondness for the bottle combined with a weakness for the younger female congregants caused my downfall. It was a misfortune sinfully exploited by the gutter press. Christ himself used to deal with prostitutes and sinners.”

“Not quite so hands-on though, Charlie,” said Boo.

“Point taken, dear boy. But I flatter myself the Church’s loss has been comedy’s gain. May I put you down as interested clients?”

“In a rat’s ass,” said Alex.

“I believe those conditions are acceptable to Mr. Brown,” said Boo. “Have the rat washed and sent to his room.”

“Doubtless you are fully represented at the moment. Should you, however, change your minds, I would be only too happy to entertain you.”

“Would you gentlemen
puhleeze
sit down and wait quietly. We have a lot to get through here,” the receptionist said icily.

“Sorry, lady,” said Alex.

“Got a broom up her ass,” said Boo in a loud stage whisper.

Half an hour passed. It was like a doctor’s waiting room. Boo kept catching Alex’s eye. From time to time a smartly dressed secretary with a clipboard appeared at the door and called out a name or two.

“I think they must be killing them,” said Boo. “You notice they go in but they never come back.”

“Mr. Booper,” said the receptionist, finally out of patience, “will you please wait quietly or I shall be forced to report you to Mrs. Johnston.”

“Hey, how come it’s always me?” whined Boo.

“Because it is always you,” said Lewis. “You have the attention span of a ten-year-old.”

“Thanks,” said Boo nicely.

“The Tribe of Robinsons?” inquired the trim young secretary looking quizzically around the room. A party of four very young men in electric blue suits and amazing Afros rose and moved towards the door in unison.

“Give ’em hell, boys,” said Boo.

Another forty minutes passed.

“This sucks,” said Boo petulantly. He couldn’t keep still. He champed continuously on a small stubby cigar and wriggled around in his seat.

“Did you ever try reading?” asked Lewis sarcastically.

“Had a book once. Read it. Finished it. Big deal,” said Boo.

“Reading, sir, is the finest gift of God to man,” said Charles. “It refreshes the soul. It restoreth the spirit. It stimulates the senses and enlightens the mind, washes the inner man in the shower of simile, bathes the being in the warm waters of words. Why, reading is the very enemy of the devil, sir, and I shall tell you why…”

But he never got to complete his sermon, for at that moment the door opened and the secretary announced “Muscroft and Ashby” to no one in particular.

“Hold it,” said Boo, leaping to his feet, “I was before them.”

“That’s who they’ve called,” said the secretary. There was a faint smirk of triumph on the lips of the receptionist.

“How’d you like that?” said Boo to Charlie.

“Be like the ancient Christians when thrown to the Romans, sir. Be stoical in all things, I beg you.”

Boo shrugged. “Hey, I got nowhere to go.”

“That’s for sure,” said Lewis.

As Lewis passed him, Boo blew a loud raspberry on the back of his hand.

Lewis shook his head and let it go. They followed the secretary towards the open door.

“Good luck with the old material,” said Boo just loud enough as they entered.

“I swear I could kill him,” said Lewis.

“He don’t mean nothing,” said Alex. “Come on. Concentrate.”

Twenty minutes it was over.

“We’ll let you know,” said the secretary, ushering them back through the waiting room.

“Oh-oh, bad sign,” said Boo, looking up in surprise. “Coming back through here, definitely not a good sign.”

“When?” asked Alex.

“When what?” said the secretary, genuinely confused.

“When will you let us know?”

She reacted like she had never heard this before. “Oh, I see.”

“That’s just the kiss-off, buddy,” said Boo. “It’s like thanks after sex. It don’t mean nothing.”

The secretary ignored him. “They’ll be posting the results in an hour. You could come back then. There’s a coffee shop downstairs if you’d like to wait,” she said and then added as an afterthought, “of course we could always call your agent.”

“That’s a good one,” said Boo. “His agent died of malnutrition.”

“We’ll come back,” said Alex. “We’d like to know.”

“What you give ’em? Badgers in Space? Rodent Rodeo?”

“They did a hopping hospital piece that was hilarious,” said Carlton.

“Oh no, the old hopping hospital bit,” said Boo to Lewis. “I’m impressed. Physical comedy at your age.”