“Do you have a criminal record?”
“Good heavens, I had no idea one was still required.”
—British Joke About Entering Australia
Bringing a vessel into port when you have been floating for months with nothing closer to you than 70,000 miles is like threading a needle after crossing the Antarctic. They hadn’t so much as seen another ship in two months. Now a vast doughnut-shaped Torus wheeled below them, with hundreds of small craft buzzing around its harbor. Their attention was immediately focused on the Princess Diana, a monstrously large solar cruiser, the flagship of the Keppler fleet. It was the most gigantic cruise ship they had ever seen. It stretched for almost three miles, totally obliterating their view of Jupiter. Around its various entry ports little boats weaved in and out, picking up passengers to ferry them ashore. Its massive size meant it was unable to dock anywhere, and its orange-colored ferries served as both lifeboats and tenders. It was a cruciform cruiser, which is a technical way of saying that in section it was X-shaped, with four massive arms, each bedecked with enormous terraces, a shape which guaranteed the most number of outside cabins, providing the occupants with staggering views of the Milky Way. Where the four arms intersected, Alex could see leisure parks and playgrounds with people swimming and golfing and jogging. It was about to carry 10,000 passengers around a three-year cruise of the planetary system. Lewis was hoping for at least one gig on board, maybe even a regular contract.
“But it’s a floating geriatric home,” protested Alex. “Who else has the time to float around the solar system?” It was a good point. Attractive though the solar system is, it still takes years to get around. Elderly ladies were attracted by the bridge, the young male crewmen, and the desire to see more of the solar system into which they were born, before they were recycled as hydrocarbons. Muscroft and Ashby had passed their electronic audition with a carefully edited tape of their performances in which some of the ruder parts of Alex’s dialogue were tastefully eliminated. Now they faced an interview with the cruise manager of the ship, Mrs. Johnston, who was legendary amongst artistes and bookers as a dragon lady of ferocious bad will. Since the Princess Di was vast and consumed so much entertainment amongst its four huge decks, this would be an open call that would attract hundreds of artistes to New Sydney.
They passed through the banks of revolving doors on the giant double air locks which separated the parking levels from the surface of New Sydney. There were murals of kangaroos and crocodiles and vast ochre paintings of the outback between huge ads for Coca-Koala. Inside the arrival hall they banged into a short individual in a riot of unmatched clothing, topped with startling green hair. A small stubby cigar was clamped between his teeth. Alex sent him flying.
“Hey, careful brother,” said the individual, not in the least concerned by the impact.
“Whoa, holy shit, it’s you.”
It was Booper, one of the wilder comics on the circuit. He was extreme even by alternative-comedy standards, and had been known to resort to extraordinarily dangerous areas in comedy (such as setting fire to the orchestra, which is usually a no-no). Offstage he was the mildest and gentlest of men, but onstage he was wild. This transformation always amazed Carlton, who could not believe that the soft-spoken, shy young man was the ranting loony who stomped about the stage spitting venom. But that was often the way with entertainers. The shy ones were the ones to look out for.
“Hey, bud, what’s up?” said Boo, dusting himself off and hauling Alex into a bear hug. “You here for the cattle call?”
“You too?” asked Alex.
“You know me, man, I thrive on rejection.” It was true he had about as much chance of being booked on board a cruise ship as a stripper in the Vatican, but he loved challenges and was optimistic beyond all sense. He was telling Alex about his latest exploits on a cheap week’s booking at Caesar’s Phallus, a nightclub which bordered on the bordello.
“Oh man, you have no idea how low it was. I kid you not, avoid it like the plague.”
“Mechanical hookers?”
“Oh yeah, sure, but at least they were more intelligent than the crowd. It was so cheesy the management offered to pay me in blow jobs.”
“You turned it down,” said Lewis sarcastically.
“Sure. How would I pay my agent?”
He was quick, no question. He pulled out a hologram photo of two pumpkins with eyes and hair and carrots for noses.
“Seen my kids?” he laughed.
It was a regular gag of his.
“Well, at least they got your looks,” said Lewis.
“Rim shot,” said Boo, not the least fazed by the gag turning on him.
“Come on, Alex, we have serious business to attend to.” Lewis had no time for Boo. He thought him ill-mannered and his comedy offensive.
“Keep taking the colon cleanser,” said Boo cheerfully to him. “Maybe you’ll loosen up one day.”
“What do you see in him?” asked Lewis as they lined up to enter the country.
“He’s funny,” said Alex.
“He’s not funny, he’s just rude.”
“I like him,” said Alex. “He takes risks.”
“Well, there’s no risk they’ll book him,” said Lewis.
Above their heads a gigantic 3-D screen faced arriving passengers with the grossly magnified features of the diva Brenda Woolley. She was the singing sensation of the mid-planetary system, and had been for almost thirty years. She was now, alas, at that dangerous age of denial in the female star which Alex called “the Peter Pancake Syndrome,” where youth was replaced by makeup. In her case a bricklayer might have laid it on, for on the giant screen with her mouth stretching for a high note, it was not a pretty sight.
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.