You should never turn down the chance to have sex or be on television.
—Gore Vidal
Women have emotions; men have sport. That’s how it was for centuries. But this all changed at the end of the twentieth century. Emotions suddenly went public. They became compulsory for men. Getting in touch with your female side was the magazine cliché. The sorry spectacle of males in tears was everywhere. If you wanted so much as to sell a book, then you had to cry on a talk show. Athletes were nothing if they hadn’t been seen weeping on TV, basketball stars wept buckets, soccer stars sobbed on the field, comedians cried copiously, presidents could hardly address the nation without tears in their eyes. If you couldn’t hack it, then you’d better damn well fake it, brother, for this was Reality TV. Celebrities wallowed in public emotion, like warthogs in a muddy hollow. So, yes, TV was to blame again, changing behavior, lowering standards, intruding, falsifying, exposing. Emotions became the trademark of endless TV harpies, the Medeas of the media, with their frozen hairdos and their refrigerated smiles. How do you feel? people were asked moments after they had scored a goal or been told their family was lost in a plane crash. Prodding and jabbing. How do you feel? Primed and prepped. How do you feel? Until the tears would flow and the poor victim received his benediction from the blond show queen. Pass the Kleenex, check the ratings, pass the sick bag, please.
Men were by no means the only victims of this hijack by the harpies and perhaps they had it coming anyway. There was a lot of bullshit bleating about it at the time, as men found themselves, perhaps for the first time, vulnerable to particularly public forms of female revenge. Women, it seemed, could hardly wait to get laid to lay pen to paper, saving semen-stained souvenirs to offer as evidence for the courtroom or the studio, it didn’t matter which, since both were on television now. Sharon reveals all. Naked pictures of the girl who fucked the country. Read the book of the blow job. News at eleven—sex, scandal, and weather. It was of course the total breakdown of privacy. Private life—that was such a Victorian concept anyway, and it went straight out the window with TV and the computer. Now the Double Ages had arrived, nothing was private. I could get your credit rating, your total net worth, your purchasing patterns, your private address; dammit, I could even check your orgasms online.
But what’s my point here? My point is that Molly is still not back.
I read somewhere that when it comes to women not only do we have a type, we also have an antitype. Chilling thought, eh? Not only is the perfect mate out there waiting for you, but so is the perfect antimate. Apparently you are equally attracted by both the mate and the antimate, but the antimate is deadly for you. I’m beginning to think Molly must be my antimate. She hasn’t been home in a week. Last time she was home, she said I was obsessed with my work and she needed time to think. That’s rich, isn’t it? I’m not allowed time to think for a living, but she is allowed to waltz away and think. It makes me fucking mad. I know just how Alex was feeling. Women can really piss you off. Carlton says that these bitter feelings of abandonment in the male are even worse in the comedian, who is the victim of maternal rejection. He says they seek to risk losing the surrogate love they find in the audience over and over again, simply by attempting to be funny. In an odd way they seek the confirmation of abandonment by risking getting no laugh. They are surfing the edge of rejection. So you can tell Katy’s betrayal rankled with Alex. And Molly’s really pisses me off. Dammit.
§
H9 was shaped like one of those children’s toys you shake and snowflakes fall. It was half base and half bubble. Its vast dome was pointed always towards the sun, which was nearly twice the distance it was from the planet Earth, providing only a quarter the amount of sunlight. Below the surface lay the dark regions, the docks, the generators, the water refiners, the shops, everything that kept the colony alive. Underneath the giant translucent dome a wooded park was intersected by a few small streams, a large boating lake, and several exercise tracks, where the inhabitants could walk their dogs, visit the zoo, or take picnics. Real birds twittered in the trees and pouter pigeons cooed their reassuring mating rituals on the grass. Around the perimeter of this central park, high-rise buildings competed for the views into the green playground and outward to the stars.
The construction of the Main Beam through the asteroid belt, the opening of a safe electronic highway between the floating chunks of metallic rock, gave H9 its lifeline. Like all great ports, it had once been a smuggling center, but even that prosperous trade had passed on and now the colony survived as a truck stop. Lewis had played there for almost a year, amongst the hookers and the gaming tables at the Parrot Club. He had married a card dealer when she became pregnant, and they had stuck it out for a year before admitting it was hopeless. Now the Ganesha was leading him back.
§
They were surprised by the traffic they encountered. Their monitors showed the place was jammed and the reason soon became evident: the Main Beam was down. It was like a canal closing. Ships were backed up for days.
Alex grew bored with sitting in the traffic jam and flagged a passing cop, who pulled alongside on his bubble bike.
“What’s up?” said Alex.
“The Main Beam’s down,” said the cop. “Some kind of power failure. It’ll take them a couple of days at least to fix it. There’s all hell let loose out there. Backed up for miles. Where you headed?”
“H9,” said Alex.
“It’s a zoo,” warned the cop, “they’re all diverting there. Hey, Lewis Ashby, that you?”
“Hi, Ed.”
“You guys playing the Parrot Club?”
“Yes,” lied Alex before Lewis could intervene.
“Follow me. I’ll take you through.”
Show business can open doors, I tell you.
The cop switched on his flashing blue lights and led them past long lines of shipping.
“Leave me a coupla seats, will you?” said the cop as he let them off near the docks.
“You bet,” said Alex.
“Well, I never,” said Lewis.
There ahead of them was the Princess Di, its mighty bulk surrounded by bobbling orange craft ferrying the passengers ashore.
Parking was packed, and they finally squeezed the Johnnie Ray into a compacts-only berth. Long lines of people snaked back upon themselves waiting to pass through customs. It took them almost an hour. While they waited, Carlton was working on the Geometry of Comedy, a kind of Euclidean proof about angles and the sum of expectations of the opposite.
“Tell me about your kid, man,” said Alex.
Lewis handed him a curled and faded hologram. A tiny gap-toothed kid beamed back at him. “That’s Tay.”
“Cute.”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you leave?” asked Alex.
“Why does anyone leave?”
“Comedians are very needy,” said Carlton. “Since they are largely kids themselves, they need twice the attention of the normal male and they have problems competing with a real child.”
They both looked at him.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Erm. It’s something I read.”
“You take the tin man, okay?” said Lewis.
They finally passed through customs and got their temporary transit stamp. Lewis headed off towards the long lines awaiting transport. Alex watched him go, then headed for the vidphones. They were busy. He was debating whether to head over to Sammy unannounced when he spotted a familiar figure. He was very tall, with black shiny hair, bushy eyebrows, and a big droopy walrus mustache. The man was looking around, obviously expecting to be met. “Peter McTurk,” said Alex.
For a second a hunted look appeared in the man’s eyes before he recognized Alex, a big smile lit up his face, and he said in a broad Scottish accent, “Alex Muscroft, however are you, you old reprobate? How great to see you.” Alex found himself pulled into a big bear hug. The guy felt like iron.
“You been working out then, Peter?” said Alex when he was finally released.
“Oh, you know me.”
The odd thing was he didn’t really. He had bumped into McTurk on many occasions, but he couldn’t tell you what he did.
“I move things about a bit” was the most revealing he had ever been,
“How’s the comedy business?” he said now. “Still with the tall man?”
“Lewis. Yes.”
“How is he?”
“You know, still in therapy.”
“Well, he’s funny. It’s a curse, they tell me. So what the hell brings you to this godforsaken backwater?”
“Main Beam’s down,” said Alex.
“Aye, so it is.” McTurk was looking around distracted. “Everybody and his mother are here,” he muttered. “Well, I mustn’t keep you. Sure you’re very busy.”
“Good to see you.”
“Aye. You too. Mebbe we can have a bevy later. A swift half at the Parrot Club?”
“Sounds great.”
“Hey, boyyo,” said McTurk. “You’re not staying long, are you?”
“Coupla days. Why?”
“Oh, rumors. Nothing concrete,” he said vaguely. “Things are a wee bit fragile. Better safe than sorry.” He winked. “Just marking your card. You didn’t hear it from me now, okay? Oh, here’s my welcoming party. See you.” He turned and strode off towards a group of men. They looked far from welcoming. A collection of short hair and scowls. Serious muscle, Alex thought. What the hell’s McTurk up to?
He found a free vidphone and connected to Sammy’s apartment.
“Alex Muscroft, is that really you?”
“In the flesh, my dear.”
“Do not remind me of the flesh, Alex, unless you intend to press it.”
“Can I come up?”
“You remember the apartment?”
“Only the bedroom.”
She laughed and hung up. Great, thought Alex.