The Worst Man on Mars

by Mark Roman

  “Right,” said HarVard, raising his baton for quiet. “The humans’ space elevator will enter the base through the central lift-shaft and glide to a halt behind these doors, here.” He pointed with the baton. “As soon as you hear a ‘Ding’, the doors will open. And that’s when you start playing.” HarVard surveyed the Welcoming Committee and couldn’t help feeling they looked about as welcoming as a class full of teenagers about to be set their homework. The robots slouched, in no discernible formation, each holding their musical instrument with little apparent knowledge of one end from the other. “Is that clear?”

  They variously nodded their heads or shrugged their shoulders or shuffled their feet. Len gave two thumps of the huge bass drum strapped to his chest. Dura tinkled his triangle.

  “Perhaps we should have a quick practice. Ready? David Bowie’s Life on Mars. On three. One, two, three.” He raised his baton and commenced conducting.

  The cacophony that ensued was excruciating, the tune unrecognizable, the timing dreadful, and the length interminable.

  “OK,” said HarVard when the last discord had faded and Dura had dropped his triangle. “I think we may need to work on that a little.”

  *

  “Are we nearly there, yet?” asked Tarquin’s plaintive voice.

  “Are we ‘eck as like,” snapped Dugdale, adjusting his position in the crush to find some space for his beer belly. The passengers exchanged puzzled glances, unsure whether that was a “yes” or a “no”.

  “We could sing some songs,” suggested Adorabella with a wide smile. “Brokk and I know some rousing folk ballads. How about the one about Maerwen, Queen of the Elvish? My favourite. It tells of her arrival in the New Land of Colonia and her harmonious encounters with the ancient fairy-spirits that inhabit the air.”

  The deathly silence that followed was indicative of a general lack of enthusiasm. “Allll right ...” said Adorabella, stretching the words out to allow for any last-second takers. “How about a poem, then?” She turned to look for Harry Fortune, but couldn’t immediately locate him in the throng – largely because she was scanning at head level whereas, given his inverted orientation, his head was still at crotch-level. “Harry? Where are you? Would you care to recite one of your poems for us?”

  Harry’s voice issued from behind Delphinia’s posterior. “Sure. How about my most famous poem?”

  The lift became a sea of blank faces and occasional shrugs.

  “Rhyme of Doom,” announced the poet and readied himself to deliver its sombre message of disaster.

  “Er, maybe not,” interrupted Adorabella.

  At which point Dugdale decided he’d had enough. “Will you SHUT THE FRACK UP! All of you. This is an ‘istoric mission to Mars, not a school trip to Clacton-on-Sea. Here are the rules. No friggin’ singing and no friggin’ poetry. In fact, until we get this sardine tin on t’ground I don’t want to ‘ear another squeak out of any of yer. Not a squeak.”

  There was a deathly hush, during which could be heard the unmistakable result of someone breaking wind. Gavin sighed with relief and Tracey sniggered.

  “Who were that?” demanded Dugdale but, despite some vigorous hand-fanning at the back of the lift, the source of the squeak was never discovered.

  *

  Silence, being the norm in lifts, was maintained a remarkably long time. Gazes were avoided and, when human contact occurred the offending limb, or posterior, or other body-part was withdrawn immediately. The teenagers amused themselves by nudging Emily and, when she turned in response, they would point a secretive finger in Dugdale’s direction. Emily smiled, adjusted her bun and pressed up against the commander’s cushion-like belly.

  Finally, the lift’s burners fired to commence deceleration for landing and the loudspeakers clicked on. “Ground Floor,” it announced. “Haberdashery, Swimwear, Electrical Equipment and Ladies’ Cosmetics. The toilets can be found at the far end of the mall.”

  It would have been better for all had the announcement omitted the final sentence. For, with the gently increasing gravity tugging on their bodily organs, and applying pressure on their fluid contents, all minds suddenly became entirely bladder-focused.

  Tarquin was the first to crack. “Mummy, I need a wee.”

  “You should have gone before we left,” retorted Delphinia in a hoarse whisper.

  “I did, Mummy, but that was hours ago.”

  “Well, try to hold it.”

  The silence continued as Tarquin crossed his legs and bit his lip. The gravity continued to increase. One by one the passengers’ feet settled on the lift floor. Harry, finding himself standing on his head finally managed to wriggle himself the right way up, ignoring the complaints and oaths directed at him during the procedure. As everyone’s weight increased, their bodies became more tightly packed together in the lower half of the lift. Consequently, the only way bladder-pressure could go was up.

  “Perhaps I could just pee in the corner. I promise it’ll only be a little one.”

  “No, poppet.”

  Delphinia glanced at Dugdale, fearing his anger at these breaks in ‘radio silence’. But Dugdale had a crooked smile on his face. “Why don’t you use t’potty you’re holdin’, miladdo?”

  “It’s a space helmet,” protested Tarquin.

  “Oh, my mistake,” said Dugdale, still with the smile.

  Miss Leach’s head popped out from under Brian’s armpit. “Actually, with all the excitement, I’m rather keen for a bathroom break as well.”

  “’Appen little tyke’ll lend you his potty,” said Dugdale, his mirth growing by the second.

  “Space helmet,” repeated Tarquin.

  But as the lift continued to decelerate, so the middle-aged woman and the little boy looked more and more longingly at the helmet. Finally, as their eyes met, a shared sense of desperation was telepathically transmitted between them and they both knew what had to be done. Miss Leach’s long flowing skirt provided the perfect modesty screen.

  *

  HarVard’s patience circuits were rapidly reaching overload. “OK,” he said, clasping his free hand over his face. “Maybe we’re not quite ready for the complexities of Life on Mars. Could we have a little try of The Floral Dance?”

  The robots shrugged as though to say, “Whatever.”

  HarVard raised his baton and readied his auditory systems for another onslaught. But before he could commence, a loud crash reverberated around the building, leaving it trembling as though hit by a sizeable meteor. He rapidly checked his sensors and closed-circuit cameras. “They’re here!” he yelled. “The humans have landed.”

  In an instant the robots were cheering.

  The cheering and whooping went long and loud, with Len banging his drum and Timi blowing a whistle. All oculars were fixed on the lift doors, waiting for their first sight of the humans.

  But HarVard’s sensors indicated something was wrong. The lift had not entered the lift-shaft and had not descended to the bottom. Consequently, no ‘Ding’ had sounded. It appeared to have jammed on entry into the shaft and was now wedged in its opening on the roof of the building. A few simple calculations identified the problem.

  “Euston, we have a problem,” intoned HarVard in an American accent. Gradually, the cheering of the robots subsided.

  asked Tude.

  “Slight dimensioning error.”

 

  “The lift-shaft appears to be smaller than the lift.”

  asked Tude.

  “Er, that’s one way of looking at it.”

  asked Dura.

  HarVard nodded.

  said Dura.

  HarVard gave Dura a hard stare, but said nothing.

  28. The Man who Fell to Mars

  Tarquin’s space helmet, carefully stowed in a corner of the lift h
ad lost most of its contents the moment the space elevator had crashed into Botany Base’s inadequately-sized lift-shaft. Fortune had not smiled on Harry Fortune at that moment. For, not only had he borne the brunt of the ensuing shower, but he had also lost his hairpiece. Other items dislodged by the impact included Emily Leach’s false teeth and Brian and Delphinia’s glasses. The floor of the lift was a mêlée of bodies as the passengers tried to regain their bearings.

  Harry was the first to appreciate the seriousness of his situation and immediately set to groping about for his lost hairpiece, eliciting squeals from the ladies and threats of violence from the gentlemen. At last he spotted the soggy item attached to Mr Snuggles’ crotch-plate. The hairpiece, coupled with flailing mechanical legs, made it appear the small robot was acting in some kind of mechanical porn movie. Harry slipped a hand below the surprised robot’s waist, retrieved his toupee and slipped it back on his head. But his actions did not go unobserved.

  “Look, Fortune’s a pervy robot fiddler!” exclaimed Gavin. “Coppin’ a feel of Mr. Snuggles’ pubes, innit.”

  The other passengers were too dazed to care about Gavin’s accusations. They were checking limbs, torsos, skulls and blablets for signs of damage. Once satisfied that minor bruising was all they had to worry about, they turned to their leader for guidance.

  But Flint Dugdale was in no state for issuing guidance. He lay prone, his vast weight pinning Miss Leach beneath him. His pendulous stomach had been the last part of his body to stop moving, and its momentum had ripped off the shoulder-strap buttons on his dungarees. So now, as he lay atop Miss Leach, he hardly cut an elegant figure, with his chest and rear-cleavage significantly exposed. Meanwhile, Miss Leach’s hair bun had unravelled and she was poking her tongue past toothless gums over her lips in a way that she hoped Flint would find erotic. The effect was not exactly what she hoped for.

  “Gerroff me, yer deranged old crone,” snarled Dugdale, scrambling to his feet. He brushed the parts of him that had been in contact with her and then looked around at the other passengers as they, too, struggled to their feet. “What t’bloggin’ ‘ell just ‘appened?”

  There was much shrugging of shoulders and shaking of heads.

  Flint peered out of the small lift window. “We’ve landed,” he observed. “But we’re not inside t’base.” He twisted his head around to get a better look outside. “Chuffin’ Nora! By t’looks of it, we’ve crashed on’t bloggin’ roof. Can’t anyone get anything right, round ‘ere?”

  There was a sharp intake of breath.

  Ding! “Ground floor,” announced the lift. “Welcome to Penge Shopping Centre. We hope you enjoy your shopping experience. Have a nice day! Doors opening.”

  Thirteen mouths gaped at the realization of what was about to happen. They were outside, on the roof, and the doors were preparing to open! Twenty-six eyes swivelled to stare aghast at the lift doors, desperately willing them to stay shut. Fortunately, young Tarquin did more than merely gamble on non-existent psychic powers. With lightning speed, he stabbed a thumb against the Close Doors button. “Got ‘em,” he reassured everyone.

  The whole lift sighed with relief as the doors remained closed.

  “Oh, my superhero,” cried Delphinia, hugging her son tightly. “You saved our lives!”

  For once, everyone else agreed with her and variously praised the little boy or patted him on the head.

  “What do we do now, commander?” asked Miss Leach, lisping slightly due to her absent dentures.

  Dugdale didn’t answer. He was still scanning the Botany Base roof through the window, seemingly deep in thought.

  “Clearly we need to contact the base and be rescued,” said Brian Brush, locating and putting on his glasses.

  “No can do, skipperoo,” explained Zak. “No signal. We’re wireless-less.”

  A murmur passed around the lift.

  “How about this Alarm button?” asked Tarquin.

  “Worf a try, bruv,” put in Gavin.

  “Waste of time, blad,” said Oberon.

  “How’s pushing a button a waste of time, bruv? How much time does pushing a button consume?”

  Oberon shrugged as though he’d lost interest in the matter.

  Tarquin looked at all around him. “Shall I?” Various nods urged him to try. Mindful of keeping his thumb on the Close Doors button, he pushed the Alarm button with the index finger of his other hand. There was a click from the small loudspeaker just above it, followed by the dring-dring sound of a telephone ringing. A hush fell in the lift as all minds urged the phone to be answered.

  Dring-dring.

  Dugdale turned round and, with a look of undisguised contempt, observed the silent, hopeful mass, staring desperately at the loudspeaker.

  Dring-dring.

  “Dis phone is probs ringing in some empty office in Penge, innit,” observed Gavin.

  Dring-dring.

  Brian Brush was shaking his head. “Can’t possibly be Penge.”

  Dring-dring.

  “Norwood?” offered Oberon.

  “No!” said Brian, more forcefully than perhaps was necessary.

  “Mitcham,” suggested Tracey.

  Brian gave a deep sigh of irritation. “It cannot be on Earth. The signal to Earth currently takes about six minutes.”

  “It’s gonna be ages before some geezer answers, then,” said Gavin.

  Brian was shaking his head and stroking his chin.

  Dugdale was also shaking his head, but in disbelief. “Worra total bunch of muppets! We’re on Mars. Duh! There’s no one down there but a bunch of dozy robot chuffers. Even if t’phone’s ringing down there, ‘ow th’eck d’you expect them to rescue us?”

  Everyone fell silent.

  Dring-dring.

  “We’re doomed,” moaned Harry Fortune, standing in a region of floor-space all of his own as everyone else had edged away from him to escape the smell.

  Dring-dring.

  “Shut that bloggin’ ringing,” demanded Dugdale. Tarquin released the Alarm button and the loudspeaker fell silent. Flint barged his way through to the lift doors. “Who’s gonna rescue us? The Flintster, that’s who.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath.

  “Hand me t’space ‘elmet,” he ordered.

  More breath was taken in sharply. “What are you going to do, commander?” asked Miss Leach.

  “First man on Mars,” was all that Dugdale said as he snatched the helmet from Harry Fortune.

  “Shouldn’t I go?” asked Tarquin. “It’s my helmet, so it’ll fit me better.”

  Dugdale glared at the boy as he tipped the helmet upside down to let the last few drops of yellow liquid drip out onto the floor.

  “No, I’m fine,” said Tarquin, changing his mind.

  “You can’t go out there!” protested Brian Brush. “It’s madness. The air pressure’s so low your blood will boil!”

  “How long can I last?” asked Dugdale.

  “A minute. Maybe two, tops.”

  “Bags of time,” said Dugdale with a smirk. He rammed the undersized headgear onto his oversized skull until it was stuck fast just below his blubbery mouth. His plentiful cheek fat formed an airtight seal with the rim. The smell inside the helmet hardly bothered him; he had encountered far worse in his time in the Gents in the Muck’n’Shovel.

  He turned to face the lift’s occupants and uttered a few final words, none of which escaped the tiny helmet in any form that could be understood. He pressed his own fat thumb on the Close Doors button, replacing Tarquin’s, and shoved the boy out of the way.

  A wave of realization of what he was about to do swept the small compartment, followed immediately by a wave of panic.

  “Nooooo!” wailed several voices, but in vain. Flint stabbed the Open Doors button. A loud hiss of escaping air signalled the breaking of the seals as the doors jerked open. With a deftness that belied his bulk, Flint squeezed himself through the opening doors, prodding the Close Doors button with his trailing han
d as he leapt out of the lift and onto the roof of Botany Base. As he glanced backward at the colonists, Flint’s last view of them, just before the doors closed, was of a sea of faces variously etched with looks of horror, of realization of imminent death, and of all hopes of rescue extinguished.

  “Oh ye of little faith,” he muttered to himself and turned to look over the drop down to the Martian surface before him. It was at that moment that he became aware of the low atmospheric pressure and the extreme cold and the pull of gravity. Wearing little more than a tee shirt and a pair of flimsy dungarees, he was not best dressed for Mars. He tried shrugging the iciness off, reminding himself he’d been built in Yorkshire, home of Geoff Boycott, Fred Truman, Nurse Gladys Emmanuel. Mars would not get the better of him. Minus forty degrees? Luxury! It were minus fifty sometimes during his binge-drinking promenades along Blackpool seafront at 3am in the middle of January, clad only in vest and underpants.

  “By ‘eck it’s cold, though,” he had to admit with a shiver. Suddenly he felt all alone, standing on a glass roof, 140 million miles from Huddersfield. But the thought of his home town recharged him. He glared out into the pink, dusty atmosphere and beat his exposed chest.

  “The Flintster’s ‘ere! Come’n gerrus, Mars, if yer think yer ‘ard enough.”

  *

  HarVard raced his motorized holo-projector through the airlock doors, leaving them open for those behind him. Not having had the time to change his avatar, he charged with his conductors’ baton thrust in front of him like a sword. Behind him tottered a ramshackle posse of robots, still holding, or dragging, their assorted musical instruments.

  “Remember to close the airlock doors,” he called behind him as he headed into the Martian desert. A few of the robots managed to get through before the majority, in trying to pile through simultaneously, became wedged in the doorway, the base’s air whooshing out through the gaps between them.

  HarVard had no time for their incompetence. He screeched his cart to a halt outside the base and his avatar pointed up at the roof. “There they are, see?” he said to Tude and Dura and the other two robots that had made it. On the roof, sitting at a slight angle, was the space elevator’s compartment.