The Worst Man on Mars
A Room with a Small View

Rare indeed was the occasion when Flint Dugdale found himself pondering the mysteries of the Universe. This might have been the perfect moment. As he peered out of the lift’s small viewing window, his bloodshot eyes took in the awe-inspiring sight of Mars, the Sun, Mayflower III – all set against the stardust of deep space – and the elevator’s super-laser light-cable plunging to the surface below. However, a swig from his can of Stallion extra-strong lager elicited a huge belch that misted the glass with beer vapour, obscuring the view and with it the opportunity for deep and meaningful thoughts.

Just then, a glitch in the super-laser power supply caused the lift to lurch and Brian Brush to bump against Flint’s beer drinking arm. Instinctively, Dugdale’s Saturday night, testosterone-fuelled, reactions kicked in and, with his free hand, he grabbed the weedy scientist by the lapels.

“Oi, watch where yer goin’, four eyes. Yer’ve spilt me beer. Say yer sorry, or I’ll plaster yer goggles over yer ugly mug.”

“Sorry,” said Brian meekly, pushing his heavy glasses up the bridge of his nose and turning his face away to avoid the draught of beer-breath.

Flint flung the planetary scientist away, although, in the crush, Brian travelled only a few inches before barrelling into Zak.

“Now, listen up,” announced Dugdale. “At bottom ert elevator I’ll be takin’ t’first ‘istoric steps on Mars and makin’ me ‘istoric speech. If any of you lot bollocks-up me big moment, I’ll piggin’ well skewer yer ‘ead and stick it on top o’ dome as a warning. ’Ave I made meself clear?”

Most of the colonists murmured an uneasy consent, apart from Harry Fortune whose upside down head appeared between Brian’s knees. “I’ve always felt I should be the one taking the first historic steps on Mars. After all, I’m the most famous one here and the people of Earth will expect to see me appear first.”

Just for a moment it might have been possible to hear a pin drop, were it not for Tarquin noisily chomping the soft centre of the mint humbug in his mouth. The lift became tense as Flint stared ambiguously at Harry’s legs. Then a gush of laughter splurged from the commander’s mouth. In an instant, the whole lift was laughing. Zak, Miss Leach, Mr Snuggles, everyone joined in.

With his tears floating into the lift, Flint slapped Harry on the back of his calves. “Chuffin’ Nora, Barry Fortnum, I always thought you wert unfunniest comedian alive but that joke were a reet cracker. The thought of a useless twonk like you takin’ t’first steps on Mars. Comedy gold.”

Harry said nothing, but merely added Dugdale, not for the first time, to his long mental list of those who had mocked him and who would find themselves on the receiving end of one his more vitriolic poems.

As Dugdale’s laughter subsided he caught sight of the large fishbowl-like object that Tarquin was holding. His smile vanished. “What the chuff is that?”

“It’s a space helmet, sir.”

“I thought I told yer: No personal possessions.”

“It’s not mine; it’s NAFA property,” retorted the ten-year old.

“Cheeky beggar. What d’yer want an ’elmet for? There’s air in ’ere. And on t’base.”

Delphinia cuddled her boy with two protective arms and sprang to his defence. “You can’t be too careful, commander. And my little space cub knows that.”

Dugdale scowled, but made no response.

Far below on Mars, last-minute preparations were being made in Botany Base. The Polish robotniki were working their electro-motive socks off, each giving vent to a continual stream of curses in Polish swear-lite. Maciek, brandishing his mastic gun, was filling in the gaps around the glazing gaskets of the BioDome. Andrzej was unclogging the water filtration system. Rysio was wiring up a cooker and microwave oven in the kitchen. And Witek was installing the central heating units. All the while the base was filling with oxygen, and only a little was leaking out. The English robots were hard at work, too. They were busy pinning tinsel to the walls, hanging up ‘Welcome humans’ banners and stringing bunting across the ceilings. Ero was gaffer-taping Stallion posters to the walls where they would be in shot of the cameras recording the historic arrival, although his overenthusiastic use of tape was obscuring much of the ads.

In the entrance hall, in front of the space elevator doors, a ramshackle group of robots were being taken through their paces in a last-minute dress rehearsal. This was the ‘Welcoming Committee,’ under the supervision of a HarVard hologram, smartly dressed in a black tuxedo, his hair slicked back, and a conductor’s baton in his right hand.

“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. <Hurrah for humans!> <Humans are our heroes.> <Happiness for Homo sapiens.>

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.

<What’s up, HarV?> asked Tude.

“Slight dimensioning error.”

<How so?>

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

<You mean NAFA made the lift too big?> asked Tude.

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

<New metres versus old?> asked Dura.

HarVard nodded.

<NAFA are always making that mistake,> said Dura. <What are they like?>

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