A veil falls over Susan.
The shower curtain.
No, it is the moonlight.
The veil covers Susan.
She smells the Martian dust.
“Dad?”
No, it’s not her father.
Who is walking into the bathroom, into her spaceship?
Who knows?
The veil is lifted.
“Hello?” Susan says.
“Susan?”
“Yes? Who is it? Who’s there?”
“It’s Dr. McCarthy.”
Her old psychiatrist.
But why is he here? On Earth?
How did he get into her apartment?
He says, “Your mother gave me a key.”
“My mother?”
“She thought I might need it if something ever happened.”
“Has something happened?”
The doctor looks down at her. “You tell me.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, is everything . . . okay?”
Susan tries to touch another balloon-person but still cannot reach it.
“Susan?”
“What? Is something wrong? What happened?”
“You called me.”
“I did?”
“Yes, Susan. You called me. You said something about your father. You said your father’s here.”
“He’s here?”
“That’s what you told me, Susan. But... Your father, your father isn’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“You know where he is, Susan. You do. Now tell me where your father is.”
“He’s . . . ”
“He’s where?”
Susan turns the faucet on.
Cold water.
She says, “Engines are on.”
“Where’s your father, Susan? Tell me.”
She turns the other knob.
Hot water.
She says, “We are ready to go.”
“Your father, Susan! Your father!”
“Where is he?”
“Susan, your father isn’t here. He’s not in this room. He’s not in this apartment. He’s not even on this planet.”
“Mars.”
“That’s right. Mars.”
“What is he doing there?”
“Susan, I don’t know. No one knows. But maybe . . . ”
The doctor walks over to Susan while taking a pill bottle out of his jacket pocket. “You look like you might need one of these. Take one. Take one with water and everything will be okay, Susan, I promise.”
Susan reaches out for a pill but she can’t reach the doctor. He is floating away. The veil drops. Moonlight, moonlight. The shower curtain drapes across the street, covering the balloon-forms and the earthlings and everything.
Darkness in Susan’s eyes.
The doctor is lifted away and the pill drops to the floor.
Susan turns the water off.
Moonlight, moonlight . . . invades her body.
I am sitting in this room.
I am sitting in front of you.
I can hear you breathe.
I can hear your chair creak.
I can hear your swallow every time you take a sip of your coffee.
But I am not sitting in this room.
And you know this.
But still, I have to document this because we, as human beings, have to document things, don’t we? We always have to document and file and make back-ups of our documentation which, I assume, is what you are going to do after we document this. I’m not a big fan of documentation myself but I digress.
What do I see?
That’s always the first question and so here I go.
I’ll tell you what I see.
I see this room.
I see this room that we’re in. That’s obvious. Even you can see this room.
That’s first.
I see this room and I see you and I see me and we are both sitting here in this room.
I see the chairs we are sitting on and the table in between us and I see the video camera that is directed at me. I see the walls. I see the door. I see the small bug that’s crawling across the floor behind you. Don’t worry. It’s a small bug. It looks harmless.
I see the hallways outside of this room. There are men and women walking back and forth. Some of them I recognize. They look exhausted. I think you’ve been working them too hard. They need a vacation.
Okay, fine, back to what I see.
I see the rooms connected to the hallways. I see inside of the rooms, the men and women there doing their work. Some of them are on computers while some are writing things down on paper or talking on the phone. They’re hard workers but probably also exhausted.
Anyway, now I see the entire building as if the top is cut away. It’s like a maze. That always amazes me.
That was a joke.
Anyway, I see the building and the shape of it and the parking lot and all the cars, people walking to their cars and from their cars and security checking people in and out.
I see a lot of cars. I can read the license plates.
I tell you this in case you want me to read you off some numbers.
What else . . .
I see the road that runs from this building to the highway. I see the highway and I see all the roads expanding and multiplying. It’s getting quicker now. I’m seeing more and more.
I’m slowing down now.
I see our building.
It looks so small and not really important.
Like seeing the Earth from Mars.
(I’m blocking my mind from recognizing the realization that I am also in the building as I watch it from outside. True realization is a sure path to insanity.)
But anyway . . .
Where was I?
I am sitting in this room.
Yesu is perched on a mountain only visible from the clouds.
Immovable, invisible, intangible, ineffable.
Mom is dying.
She still does her gardening, though.
That’s good.
Still dying.
Flowers, tomatoes.
Stars drowned in urine.
It’s her turn at the controls.
Skip the instructions.
Space Age Suicide Pact.
Gardening is good.
It’s relaxing.
Catheter.
Skin and bones.
Gardens.
Respite care.
Restart.
Almost . . .
Almost is not good enough.
We’ll pull through.
Get over it.
Her cats are Martianites.
Buy candles.
Someone is not coming home.
There are problems here . . . with her.
I know.
We haven’t even scratched the surface.
Black candles work best.
We’ll go back to Earth soon.
We’ll tear down the veil and blanket ourselves in it until the spheres hit.
Etched on a metallic wall of the train:
On the surface of Mars, a construction company called SYZYGY, INC. is constructing a gargantuan office building in the shape of a giraffe skull.
The offices of SYZYGY, INC are home to several of its subsidiaries, including THE MONOGENES GROUP, a pharmaceutical company specializing in combating the many disorders that have appeared in non-native inhabitants of Mars.
THE MONOGENES GROUP, founded in 2056 by Dr. Gerald Davis IX of Old Bridge, New Jersey, Earth, is currently in negotiations with ASTRA-BYTHOS & BAYER of Earth to develop a drug that would counteract the symptoms of interstellar autism which, since 2076, has risen to epidemic proportions.
For the last three days, representatives from THE MONOGENES GROUP have been trying to get into contact with members of the Martian Mandaean Committee with little success.
There wasn’t any eye contact. I didn’t expect there to be any. It was mostly in the mind, ou
r communication. That’s the way it had always been so eye contact and even the bare minimum in terms of social skills . . . Well, let’s just say there’s a lot to be desired.
Desire.
That’s an interesting word to say in this situation. There is no desire there, really, no real yearning for something. There is no emotional pull in any direction and so I’m pretty sure that all of the goals will die unfulfilled. But let’s face it. We’re used to that by now.
Sometimes I’m struck by the notion that either of us could return to our true form, a shapeless husk that knows nothing, does nothing, believes nothing. It is inconceivable to me that we can be anything but that . . . But I digress. Let’s move on.
We communicate through the air, through the dust, through the red landscape that has finally been encapsulated in our minds, the fragile bundle of grey matter that remotely views only the reflection of the spheres. Someday we will learn how to communicate without the need of communication. Someday we will conquer this place.
“Move!” the soldier screams.
Barry falls back, stunned at the order. He is surprised that the city is under some sort of martial law. He regrets moving here.
Into a warzone.
From what he knew about New Merkabah, he had expected a rather anarchistic place, a group of communities that had not adopted any Earth-like structures of government. Just business as usual.
“Identification!” another soldier shouts.
Barry moves his hand for his I.D. but stops when he hears an explosion.
Up ahead a building is one fire. Several people run out of the flames, covered in tar.
The soldiers run towards the building, leaving Barry by himself. He runs off in the opposite direction, to the entrance of a small restaurant.
He steps inside.
The threshold brings shimmering light, the smell of baking bread, and the sound of dying conversation.
Silence.
Barry is shown to a table and he sits. A menu is placed in front of him. A man speaks to Barry in a language he does not understand.
“English?” Barry asks.
The man replies by patting Barry on the shoulder.
He walks away.
Barry looks at the menu.
The selection is shown mostly in pictures: exotic breads, meats, vegetables, fruits, and things in between.
Obviously, the strange new food is native to Mars but Barry is not familiar with any of it. Along with the food, there are pictures of various pharmaceutical beverages and pills.
At the bottom, a footnote:
ALL ITEMS ON THE MENU DESIGNED BY DR. WESTRUPP,
THE LEADING AUTHORITY IN ASTROPARAPSYCHIATRY.
The last part about Mars, it was not as I had explained, not the truth in as much as a way it was to be interpreted, some sort of interpretation of such things filtered through office gossip and unsubstantiated stories, passed around like canteens in a drought, spun one way or the other, a spinning top that refused to stop even in the midst of contradicting fact-finding in the form of our very own terrestrial propagandist who, despite the uphill battle, continues to persevere in even the most dire of situations, shedding light on the enigmatic falsehoods innate within the Martian moors, even in the apocryphal books ridden with errors both intentional and unintentional, errors that have shaped our resolution, as feeble as it might be, because that last part about Mars was a lie, pure and simple, and I’d rather we both die than to go on believing it or suggesting to others that they believe it.
As long as the brain is ripe for arousal, a sigh of relief instead of a parched throat and crooked teeth, we will find our preordained alibis where they were left by the buffoon, the two buffoons, the thieves, and the rest of them, like sullen mice packed tight in the string, looped around the burning and flushed faces of shining men, held up in a spirited form, a predestined technique for praise, amen, and the tiresome tidings we’ve come to expect from the scapegoat, the wilderness of loops and pocket mirrors and archons stretched into fool grins, like thus:
Remember the parties and pills and cosmic spills, the doctors, the rooms, the elaborate doom, constructed by many like us but not like us, no victims of spatial confusion, celestial burns, interstellar industrial parks, stoning the poor men released by some wisdom or another, and the ripe brain opening like flowers full of pills.
I might have been trained for this.
I don’t remember.
Weeks, months, years.
I don’t remember.
Maybe I have a wife.
A kid.
I don’t remember.
Maybe I’m a religious man.
I don’t remember.
Maybe I’m close to completing my mission.
I don’t remember.
Maybe I’ve already failed.
I don’t remember.
I might know these men.
I don’t remember.
I might be one of these men.
I don’t remember.
Well then, what do you remember?
I don’t know what I remember.
As long as the brain is ripe for arousal, a sigh of relief instead of a parched throat through this desert I’ve been left on but I won’t say stranded because that’s such a negative word and it implies that they don’t care about me and I think they probably do but honestly, I don’t remember.
The scene thus far: the astronaut walks up the mountain, records what he sees: small humanoid skeletons hanging from t-shaped forms made of stone or wood (he cannot determine which).
The astronaut records all of this on VIDEO though it is a technology I do not understand at the moment. He sends the transmission back to one of the nearby settlements, a city really, a place called Chenoboskion, named after the first terrestrial astronaut to settle in that region (that woman, Sophia Chenoboskion, lived out her last days in the deserts, dying at the age of ninety-three from dehydration; when her body was found by settlers, she was mummified and put on display in what is now Saint Sophia’s Cathedral in downtown New Merkabah.)
The astronaut sends the information back to his vehicle, the COSMOCRATOR XXIII which is nearly three miles east of where he is now, looking at the skeletons on their Martian crosses. It is a mountain unlike any other on the planet. The astronaut thinks he should name it if no one else has already. He calls it GAUGELA TWO and sends this information back to the city and his shuttle as well. All information is important, he figures. Who knows what might come in handy? Also, he thinks he might be famous one day and anything new he comes up with might add to his importance. That’s what he tells his psychiatrist Dr. Guirdham.
Dr. Arthur Guirdham is currently on Earth, sitting in his office and doing paperwork that would bore anyone who is not Dr. Guirdham. It concerns his financial records and he is reluctant to send it off to the two off-planet bankers who have requested the information. These bankers, Thomas Sasabek and Timothy Berotth, are ruthless in their fact-checking and Dr. Guirdham knows he has made more than a few mistakes.
The doctor thinks about his patient, the astronaut.
He had prescribed the man three different medications before the trip. It was enough to calm, enlighten, and demystify the astronaut’s mind and his experiences. The astronaut would be seeing things clearly than he had never seen before. Even so, the doctor wonders if perhaps he should have prescribed just one more pill. It is a new pill but he had heard positive things about it in peer-reviewed psychiatric journals. If he had given the astronaut the new medication, not only would he, the doctor, have been given a stipend from the pharmaceutical company (MACROBIUS LABORATORIES, a subsidiary of WESTRUPP & IOR/DAS) but he would have been instrumental in supplying the astronaut with the means to accomplish his mission faster.
Maybe.
The doctor is unsure because the medication was untested beyond the medi-complexes here on Earth. Who knows what side-effects would manifest on another planet? These interplanetary pharmaceutical details are always so confusing, so a
ggravating, such a bother. Dr. Guirdham decides it is probably a good idea he didn’t prescribe the new medication to his patient, the astronaut. Instead, he should take it himself. Yes, now that’s a good idea.
Take the medicine himself.
I’ll take it myself.
I smell flowers.
They’re on their way to down from blooming but the scent reminds me of Earth and the garden my mother used to tend. I haven’t been to my mother’s house in years, not since she left my father. It’s funny that the smell of flowers only reminds me of her and her garden.
My mother was what I’d consider to be a fairly saintly woman. Or at least that’s what I remember. Memories are always flavored by what we prefer to remember.
I like to fantasize that she’s dead and has been given sainthood and that her bones have been preserved and are viewed as relics by those associated with my own particular pharmaceutical-religious denomination.
I don’t know anything about that. To me, she was just a mother. Not a saint and certainly not someone whose mummified remains I’d like to keep in a glass case in a church on Deimos.
“Hello . . . Hello there . . . Hell—” she had said, interrupted by a laser blast that emanated from the doorway of a candy store.
Susan reaches out for a pill but she can’t reach the doctor. He is floating away.
The veil drops.
Moonlight, moonlight.
The shower curtain drapes across the street, covering the balloon-forms and the earthlings and everything.
Eight pills left for nine more days.
Shouldn’t have doubled up yesterday.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
“Hello?” Susan says.
“Susan?”
“Yes? Who is it? Who’s there? Is that you?”
“What?”
“The train. Where’s this train headed?”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“I’m caught.”
“Caught where?”
“I don’t know, maybe . . . ”
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