by Ben Elton
The truth of the matter was that they had both been rather reluctant to buy a Claustrosphere at all. They had not been the first of their friends to do it, but they were not the last, either. They had, in fact, wrestled with their consciences for about the average amount of time taken by most middle-class liberal couples before buying one. Nathan often reflected that his generation seemed to have spent its entire adult life sitting round dinner tables drinking red wine, eating Tuscan bean soup, and trying to justify the morality of buying a Claustrosphere.
‘I mean you don’t want to do it, for God’s sake. Do you?’ they all said.
‘Nobody wants to do it.’
Of course, as students they had all been deeply opposed to Claustrospheres. Natura was big on campus and when their parents had slowly begun to think about buying an Eden One they had all reacted with horror. Referred to their dear old mums and dads as ‘Pollution Fascists’ and ‘Planet Traitors’. However, when they themselves reached maturity, the situation looked a bit different.
Dying of consumption.
The Earth just wasn’t getting any healthier. How could it? The one single and abiding criterion by which the success of countries is judged is in terms of their ‘growth’. Each year the great nations agonise over how much they have ‘grown’. How much more they have made, how much more they have consumed.
Consumer confidence is actually considered a measure of a country’s relative economic strength. When a load of poor deluded sad-acts are down at the shops running up debts on their credit cards, finance ministers claim that the economy is ‘growing’ and start celebrating. Recessions are deemed to be over the moment people start spending money which they don’t have on things that they don’t need. Consumption is synonymous with ‘growth’ and growth is good. It is always good, whenever and wherever. Hence, clearly consumption is good, all consumption, anywhere, anytime. Judged by the logic of world economics, the death of the planet will be the zenith of human achievement, because if consumption is always good, then to consume a whole planet must be the best thing of all.
Acting sensibly.
And so, faced with the fact that the world was growing to death, slowly but surely people began to buy their Edens. Just as their grandparents and great-grandparents had moved out of the dirty inner cities into the countryside. Nobody wanted to do it, but on the other hand, things were as they were and privately martyring yourself was not going to change things.
Every night Jurgen Thor and all the other self-righteous greenies were on the TV, banging on about planet death. What were you supposed to do? It was obvious: send Greenpeace a donation and start digging the foundations for your Claustrosphere.
It was, of course, self-perpetuating. The more people bought them, the more difficult they were to resist. Those who had taken the plunge became Claustrosphere’s most passionate advocates. Every time another tanker sank or a nuclear power station went pop, they would silently congratulate themselves on having made the right decision. They scarcely liked to admit it even to themselves but there was almost a grim satisfaction to be had out of the daily worsening eco-statistics.
‘I see that two-fifths of Russia is no longer habitable,’ they would say to each other over breakfast. ‘I knew getting a Claustrosphere was a sensible decision. I mean nobody wants the Earth to die, but you only have to look at the papers… I wonder what Mr Holier Than Bloody Thou next door will say when it’s two-fifths of the bloody Home Counties you can’t live in? I know what he’ll bloody say. He’ll say, “Any room in your Eden for me and the wife?”’
The question of what non-Claustrosphere owners would do in the event of planet death added considerable piquancy to the delicate social politics of the whole issue. In the early days those who owned a ‘Sphere were in the minority and they had looked rather selfish and anti-social, but as Claustrospheres became more and more common, the moral balance switched. So that it was those without a shelter who began to appear selfish. Once it came about that there were only a few houses left in any street without a Claustrosphere, the majority became obsessed with what those people would do if the Rat Run was announced. More and more, those who held out (be it for moral or financial reasons) began to look like the irresponsible, anti-social ones. In many communities, those who were neglecting to take due precautions to ensure a future for themselves and their families in the event of Eco-death, came to be held in contempt.
‘It’s all very well being green, we’re all bloody green,’ people would say. ‘But they’ll be banging on my door trying to get in when the Rat Run starts. I know they will.’
These debates were even more heated when it came to flat dwellers. Many people in communal living situations had begun to band together to purchase land out of town and commission larger, group Claustrospheres. The question of who was in and who was out divided previously friendly neighbourhoods.
Finally the whole community became involved in the issue as politicians began to plan for mass, public Claustrospheres, for the use of the broader population. They claimed that they were concerned for the wellbeing of all citizens in the event of Eco-Armageddon, but the real reason was of course fear of the mob. If you have a nice back-garden Claustrosphere, just right for you and your family, and up the road there is a housing estate containing thousands of people with no eco-cover whatsoever, then you’re going to get a little nervous about what all those people are going to do on the day of the Rat Run. Therefore, in order that the rich might feel confident about using their Claustrospheres unmolested, some arrangement had to be made for the poor. Right across the industrialised world, borders began to be reinforced and legislation passed to make it a local government responsibility to provide basic eco-cover. The Community Claustrosphere became as much the responsibility of City Hall as the roads and the police.
Everyone could see which way this type of thinking was leading. It didn’t need a Jurgen Thor to spot it. The more effort that went into what would happen after planet death, the less effort people were putting into preventing that death. Coupled with which, the Claustrospheres themselves consumed colossal Earth resources in their actual production. The extraordinary irony was clear to all but the stupidest. The world was actually hastening its own destruction in order to survive it.
Some people like Nathan and Flossie agonised over this paradox; other people said, ‘Shit happens.’ Everybody made sure they had access to a Claustrosphere.
Discussing death.
As Plastic Tolstoy led an astonished Nathan into his palatial
Claustrosphere, Plastic’s most public and bitter enemy, Jurgen Thor, was being sewn back together after the explosion of the European parliament.
Jurgen allowed only local anaesthetics to be used. This was partly because he wanted to keep his mind clear to consider the implications of the outrage, and partly because the press were outside the room and he wanted to look tough. It never does a politician any harm to be seen showing physical courage, and also it helps when trying to get laid.
‘I tell you, this was a company job, and we go public with the story.’
Jurgen was addressing a small group of senior Natura officials, announcing his theory that the bomb blast had been aimed at him as part of a seasonal Claustrosphere marketing push. He spoke through gritted teeth as the laser surgeons worked to sew his massive limbs back on. ‘Hey, take it easy with that,’ he shouted as his colossal Nordic penis was unpacked from the ice and prepared for surgery. ‘It’s the basis of my legend.’
‘You’re lucky we saved it at all,’ the surgeon said. ‘It landed in the smörgåsbord at a reception given by the Norwegian fisheries people. It was a chilled plate and the rollmops kept it cool.’
‘You mean my prick’s been saved by the whaling lobby!’ Jurgen roared with laughter. ‘Imagine what all the earnest little hippies who vote for us would think? Jurgen Thor had his dick in a whaler’s smörgåsbord. Ha, ha! Maybe I won’t get so lucky with all the “right on” girls! What will they say?’ Jurgen affected
a high squeaky tone, ‘No, Jurgen, you cannot rumpy-pumpy me! Your wang has the blood of innocent whales upon it!’
Jurgen’s great frame shuddered with amusement at his own jollities. The chief surgeon looked up from her delicate work.
‘Mr Thor, I am trying to sew your penis back on, here. Could you kindly lie still?’
‘Ha! Doctors! You pretend you are such special people!’ Jurgen laughed. ‘We all know the Robo-surgeon does the difficult bits.’
‘Even Robo-surgeons have to be programmed, Mr Thor. I would hate for you to walk out of here with your penis disappearing up your backside.’
Jurgen felt this was a good point and decided to stop cracking gags for a minute, much to the relief of all concerned. The brief respite gave a chance for Natura’s Chief of Press Liaison to observe that Jurgen’s theories regarding the source of the bomb were unsubstantiated slander.
‘The police say the blast could have been planted by one of any number of nationalist groups. What on earth makes you so sure that the company tried to hit you, Jurgen?’
‘Hey, groover, two things for a start. First, as a rule of your thumb, right? Whatever the Belgian police say, you take the opposite. Right? OK? Ciao, baby, wake up and smell the flowers. Second, the bomb was indiscriminate, no? Too big by far to have been targeted at any one group. In fact every group suffered causalities, right? You think people plant bombs to kill themselves? I don’t think. No, the bomb was designed to breach the security screen which protects the speaker. The speaker was me, OK, babe? But I was lucky, the screen was strong, and so am I. All that happens is my love pump got a little damaged.’
‘It certainly did,’ said the surgeon, again looking up from her work, ‘Look, there are burn marks on it.’
‘Hey, baby,’ Jurgen smiled. ‘Those burn marks didn’t come from no bomb, OK? Right? You know what I’m saying here!’
Jurgen rarely failed to make a strong impression on women and this occasion was no exception. The micro-surgeon would have liked to have taken that big long fat dick of which Jurgen was so clearly proud and throttle him with it; but she was a professional and so she returned quietly to her work, making a mental note to put it about that she had actually seen the great Jurgen Thor’s legendary appendage and it was tiny.
‘I’m telling you,’ Jurgen continued, ‘that bomb was meant for me.’
‘Well, maybe,’ conceded the Chief of Press Liaison. ‘If it was, you sure are lucky they installed such a tough screen.’
‘Oh yes, that’s for sure and certain, OK? They designed it for when the British hold the presidency… everyone in Europe wants to kill them, right?’
‘But the company?’ The press officer protested. ‘It would be pretty audacious, I mean, it could easily backfire. Killing you could provoke a green backlash.’
‘Not if I got killed by someone else’s bomb! Look, it’s simple, man. Claustrosphere want me dead, right? They always have, but they know that if I die, bang! Immediately I’m a martyr. The Guevara syndrome, right? OK? Unless, of course, I die stupidly, like getting blown up by someone else’s bomb. Then it’s kind of a stupid, embarrassing way to die, like those people who get sucked into airline toilets. So what do they do? Wait till I’m addressing the European Federation, bomb capital of the damn Universe, Goddamn and dammit, and hit me with a bomb so big that every nationalistic zealot will be crying foul. They want me dead! I am more than a mere man, I am an idol, an inspiration, a prophet! In many people’s eyes I am just too wonderful to be allowed to live.’
The surgeon raised her head from her work again.
‘I can certainly understand people wanting to kill you,’ she said.
‘Exactly. Of course the Claustrosphere Company will kill me if they can do it safely. Believe me, babe, I am lying here today in fourteen separate pieces because Claustrosphere have added murder to their marketing strategy. I want you to knock up a press release explaining our opinion. They won’t sue, I’m telling you.’
‘But it seems so wild, I mean…’
‘Listen, man, ask yourself this: if one of our people got the chance to knock off Plastic Tolstoy. Wouldn’t they take it?’
A meeting to kill for.
‘Hey, how would you like to meet Plastic Tolstoy?’ Max asked Rosalie. It was a last-ditch attempt to interest her.
Max was already halfway smitten by Rosalie. She was exciting. She had purpose. He wondered whether her sweet face and pale, slightly freckled skin could possibly be real. It wasn’t that she was perfectly constructed like Krystal or anything, far from it, but Max was aware that some girls deliberately had slightly flawed, kooky face-jobs done, so that people would think it was natural. Having lived in Hollywood all his life, Max was only vaguely aware that there was a big world outside where people did not have themselves routinely reconstructed to suit their clothes.
He had asked her to lunch. He had suggested a drink, a swim in his pool, a trip to the BioDome-enclosed beach at Venice; but all this Rosalie had politely declined. She reminded him that she was an international terrorist who had just tried to give a whole crowd of media stars a dose of cancer and was now on the run from the forces of justice. So could he kindly drop her at the airport so that she could make her escape before her description got circulated.
That was when Max suggested introducing her to Plastic Tolstoy. Max occasionally caught the news, and he had a vague idea that Mother Earth and Natura people considered Tolstoy a figure of some significance.
There was a pause. Rosalie was wondering if this was a joke, or perhaps a trap of some kind. ‘You can get me in to see Plastic Tolstoy?’ she asked warily.
‘Sure, I have a three forty-five at his place in the Hills . You green guys have kind of a down on him, don’t you?’
‘Oh, well, you know,’ said Rosalie, ‘these things get blown out of proportion.’
‘He’s actually a pretty cool person. I think you’d like him. You know, you’re both kind of energetic “in your face” type of people. You get things done. He’s a legend in the industry …‘ Max put on his most impressive tone of voice. ‘He wants me for a picture.’
They were manoeuvring through the traffic which was, as usual, gruesome. But for once Rosalie did not go into her traffic-jam rant. For once she was appreciative of the delay. She needed time to think. Despite her tough talk, Rosalie was not a killer. She had killed, in an indirect sense. During Mother Earth actions she had often been fired upon and had occasionally returned fire. She might have hit someone, she didn’t know. She had never hung around long enough to find out. Also, she had blown up a lot of things around and about the world; polluters, Dodo-makers (as the traders in near-extinct species were called), Claustrosphere showrooms. There must have been casualties then, she supposed. Her own side had certainly suffered many losses, so she presumed that the enemy must have had them too. She had, however, never specifically or deliberately killed anyone.
Could she do it now? Should she do it now? Rosalie’s mind was racing. Plastic Tolstoy was not, after all, directly responsible for the dead seas and extinct species. Except in a small way he was. He was, after all, the prophet of the alternative to saving the planet… But that was stupid. If there was no Plastic Tolstoy there would still be Claustrospheres. He had not invented them, what’s more somebody would still be selling them. It was people who were destroying the Earth, not any single person … But then again, Tolstoy did encourage them. Every day, he cynically tempted people to neglect their true responsibilities… History was full of leaders and Plastic Tolstoy was definitely a leader and an incredibly powerful one at that. More so than any politician. It wasn’t politicians who shaped the world any more, it was the marketing people, the people who perpetrated and justified the myth of consumption. Plastic Tolstoy was the biggest marketer of all.
‘I don’t think you heard me,’ Max interrupted Rosalie’s reverie. He was very disappointed that his news had not gone over bigger. ‘Plastic Tolstoy wants me for a picture! Have you any idea what
kind of huge shit that is?’
Rosalie was anxious not to arouse Max’s suspicions. She pretended to take an interest.
‘Why is it so special? You’re a big star, everyone knows that. I’ve read that you could work with anyone you wanted to.’
‘Anyone but Tolstoy. He’s so far ahead of everybody else he’s an industry in himself, he is the industry. No matter how big you are, you’re still small compared to him and if I play my cards right, he’s going to make a picture with me!’
Not if Rosalie could help it he wasn’t.
Chapter Eleven
Career opportunities
The games people play.
Plastic and Nathan were not playing tennis in the conventional sense. Big though Plastic’s ‘Sphere was, it did not actually contain a court. It did not need to. It was equipped with state-of-the-art games suits which offered a tennis court, a baseball diamond, in fact, any pitch the player desired. The suits were Virtual Reality body stockings which the player wore whilst suspended, weightless, inside a vacuum tank. One could run, kick and jump in them without going anywhere. You could play any sport, either against a great player of your choice, via computer or against a real person whose suit was linked to yours. Thus, Plastic and Nathan played two hard sets of tennis involving some pretty impressive serving and net-play, and yet all an outside observer would have seen was something akin to two frogmen squirming and writhing in a big fish-tank.
‘That’s the kind of leisure accessory that is going to make New Generation Eden absolutely irresistible,’ Plastic remarked over a glass of fruit punch as they sat relaxing under the great geodesic dome on the edge of the desert, next to the rain forest. ‘Inside one of those suits you can join any team you ever dreamt of playing for and play against any team you ever wanted to beat. Some great match you think your team should never have lost? Join the side, play it again and see if you can make the difference. Many times I’ve come down here on my own, got in that tank and shot hoops with the 1980s LA Lakers when Magic was playing. Of course, your average guy couldn’t afford one of these suits if he saved for a thousand years, but the price will come down, it always does.’