The Trip

When he turns the key in the door and walks into the house, they seem flustered by his appearance, even though they're expecting him. Richard is jogging up and down the stairs doing the last touches to his packing, a mound of suitcases and sports bags building steadily in the hall. Fiona comes out of the kitchen, trailed by the smell of onions and cooking wine.
'We're only going for two days,' says Sam to his mother, eyeing up the bags. She forces a laugh. It's taken a lot of work to get him to agree on this trip.
'Good to see you, Sam,' says Richard, stopping on his way down the stairs. 'How's everything?'
Sam shrugs, 'Ok.' He shifts his bag on his shoulder. 'Are you ... nearly ready?'
'Not too far off.' Light is pouring in through the window behind Richard. The house smells of furniture polish, and there are vacuum cleaner imprints on the carpet.
Dumbly, Sam waits for his father to stop loitering on the stairs and finish packing. His eyes flick to the clock in the hallway, which is ticking noisily, and, every so often, shows signs of initiating its hourly chime.
'We're going to be late,' he says.
Richard stares at the clock.
'Right,' he says and goes jogging back up the stairs to fetch something else.

In the car, Richard asks Sam if he's got any music he wants to play. This time, he has remembered to bring some, and fixes the program; light jazz, music he knows Richard will not dislike. While the music is playing Sam stares out the car window at the billboards advertising luxury items at affordable prices and holidays to the stars, notices that someone has daubed ‘FASCISTS’ in green spray-paint across a whole series of boards. Judging from the areas covered, the sprayer seems to have been agile, maybe in possession of a ladder. Sam's not bothered by the defacement, just wonders who would go round spraying posters. It's not something he could see himself doing.

Richard, creaking somewhat in a fashionably young brand of tracksuit, ponders conversation-openers. Eventually, he comes out with some routine queries about Sam's work and Sam answers them, gamely at first, jadedly as they go on and on.
'Where are the tickets?' he suddenly enquires.
'They should be ... ' says Richard rummaging in his coat pocket, pulls them out and passes them to Sam.
Sam turns the tickets over in his hands.
'Did you come in the BMW, I forgot to notice?'
'No.'
'Oh, why not?'
That tone. Sam hates it. He declines to answer, shakes his head.
'Are you excited to be going?' asks Richard, looking briefly at Sam, hoping that the thrust in his voice will force some enthusiasm into him.
'We've been before.'
'Yes, I know, but that was when you were very young.' Richard falls silent and reflective for a moment. 'It might have all changed.'

After they've parked and checked in, Richard asks Sam if he wants a drink at the bar while they wait for their flight, but Sam doesn't. While Richard sits down and starts rummaging amongst his numerous articles of hand luggage for his phone so he can call his wife and tell her they've arrived at the airport, Sam paces around. Outside, the conical craft is being fuelled. Sam wonders, as he always does when he flies, if he's going to die on the flight. It doesn't seem impossible, the craft looks so flimsy. Richard looks out the window as the craft's lower thrusters start to hum.
'Statistically, it's the safest way to travel,' he says.

Turning away from the window, Sam sees a work colleague, Carl, waiting in the lounge. He quickly averts his gaze, wondering what Carl is doing here, hoping he won't have to speak to him. He doesn't have a problem with Carl, but figures this trip is going to be stressful enough without having to deal with someone from work. The thought of his job makes life seem suddenly pointless.
His eyes move to the screen.
'Come on, we can board now.'

The flight to Mars takes forty-five minutes. Richard and Sam both flick through their flight magazines until they realise they contain nothing but ads and put them away. The woman strapped in two seats across from them has a cold. Richard glares at her warningly; she mustn't blow germs his way. Sam looks round to make sure Carl isn't seated on their tier. He isn't. Must have gone for the cheaper seats lower down. Satisfied the ill woman has got the message, Richard reclines in his chair and tries to gauge how it's going with his son. He's about to ask a question, but something holds him back. Perhaps Sam will be less withdrawn once they've arrived. He's afraid that Sam is so remote because he's with him. His son has never shown much interest in the things he likes. Still, the Martian showgirls are said to be quite something. Perhaps seeing them perform will prove a bonding experience.

'Welcome to Mars!' says the Arrivals receptionist. The comment is slightly superfluous, as there are holographic banners everywhere communicating this sentiment. The Martian Arrivals lounge is a vast bazaar, full of boutiques and stalls selling Martian goods at knockdown prices.
'Want to spend some credit?' asks the receptionist brightly. The sight of a pretty girl immediately animates Richard. 'Ooh, I should say so.' He flirts with her happily while Sam wonders at his father’s unfailingly Pavlovian response to the pretty girl. After a bit, the girl turns to Sam. 'Would you like to spend some credit?' Clearly expectant of an affirmative response, she's waving a packet of vouchers at him, on the front of which, a retirement-age couple are excitedly holding Martian sex toys. 'No thanks,' says Sam. The girl is now fully facing him, flirtatiously trying to insist. Sam turns away.
'I'd like to spend some credit!' says Richard bouncing between them.
'Come on, let's find the hotel,' says Sam and walks off.

Rides are passing, space trucks decked out to look like old London cabs, running up and down the wide corridors of the Martian complex. Despite the security of the protective windows, there are signs everywhere warning tourists to stay out of direct sunlight because of the risk of premature skin aging and cancer. The compound smells like an Airfix model. Noise booms artificially.
'High reverb levels; that's bad construction, that is,' says Richard, who used to work in construction.
Fake palm trees shade the walkways with their rubber leaves.
'You said that last time.'

In the hotel bedroom, while they're unpacking their stuff: 'Sam, I noticed,' says Richard expressively, 'that you didn't want to look round the bazaar.'
Sam gets up, walks into the living area, and stares out the window at the grainy-red Martian landscape. After a moment Richard follows him. Assuming an air of huge patience, and closing his eyes as he speaks, 'Did you consider that I might want to look round the bazaar?'
Richard has moved in on Sam and is trying to make eye contact. Sam wonders where he can go. He drifts over to the end of the room and looks out the window again.
'No,' he says.
The silence between them thickens.
'Do you really mean to tell me that?'
Sam hesitates. 'Uh-huh.'
Taking a deep breath, and explaining as if to a child, 'Well look at this way ... ' He pauses to collect himself, wondering why Sam has drifted away from him and is looking out the window, 'If I thought you'd wanted to do something, do you not think I would have asked you?'
On the other side of the room, Sam shrugs. Richard stares at him.
'Sam?'
'If you wanted to shop so much you should have stayed and shopped.'
Richard continues to stare at Sam.
'Right,' he says eventually.

'Martian Sunscape,' orders Sam. He has to shout as there's a live music act performing on a nearby stage. Loud music seems to be a constant at the Martian hotel, he's noticed. It booms out in the bar area, the restaurant, round the pool, whether via live act or speakers. In films he's watched, it's often like this too, but the central characters always seem to find a quiet place for real people to retreat to, somewhere they can escape the extras in the film and have a proper conversation. But there's no quiet place in the hotel's public spaces and, as usual, he feels like he's the only real person there.

'Martian Sunscape,' he shouts again, and suddenly notices he's standing next to Carl, who’s also waiting to be served. Hearing his voice, Carl turns to greet him.
'Hello, Sam, what are you doing here?' He makes it sound like he didn't know Sam was on Mars, but they've clocked each other a number of times since arriving.
'This and that,' says Sam, suddenly realising his father has materialised beside them and is smiling ingratiatingly. Reluctantly, Sam introduces him and they work at a conversation. Carl mainly talks work – he's been given a big new project to manage. Sam does likewise though less enthusiastically. Not really keeping his end up, thinks Richard, a hot swab of dissatisfaction in his stomach; the boy doesn't sell himself. Richard himself manages to interject briefly but decisively on the question of status: they've all got the money to be on Mars and are therefore the right kind of people.

'He seemed nice,' says Richard as they walk over to their dinner table.
Sam appears to consider this statement.
'Uh-huh.'
'Someone you work with on lots of big projects?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Is he … one of your special pals?'
'No,' says Sam. 'He's just someone I know.'

Next morning, Richard wakes early and phones his wife. They’ve reached Mars safely, it's going well, he reports. Max and Trillian are having another baby, she tells him, but the line’s faulty and breaks up before she can give him the full details. Pondering this oddly unsatisfactory news, he has fruit and cereal for breakfast, takes his vitamin tablets, does some light jogging on the complimentary exercise machine. Then he waits for Sam to wake up.

When Sam comes into the living room he greets Richard noncommittally before pouring out some coffee. He doesn't sit down at the breakfast table, but moves over to stare out the window while he drinks it, with his back to Richard.
'Sam ... would you like some orange juice?'
'No thanks.'
'Fresh juice is good for you. Keeps you healthy. Full of good nutrients. Go on ... have some orange juice.'
Sam walks over to the table and pours himself some more coffee. He tentatively sits down, then gets up and goes over to stand by the window again.
The noise of a cleaning drone starts up in the hallway.

'Sam ... your mother and I have noticed ... ' Richard pauses to see if he's got Sam's attention. Apparently, he hasn’t. 'Your mother and I have noticed ... ' he repeats a little louder.
Sam glances at him warily.
'Well, you know that your mother and I love you very much ... ' Richard hesitates. 'Your mother and I love you very much, and ... Well, take for example, what happened when we arrived. When we arrived, you didn't want to shop. Now, would you say that was ... normal?'
Sam shrugs. He can see where this is going. He understands all about Richard, while at the same time aware Richard knows nothing about him.
'Because, I wouldn't have said it was normal. And, in general, you seem so ... well, you don't seem ... Ok, let me put it another way: Do you know what facilities Mars has to offer?'
Sam shrugs again.
'I'm referring, Sam, to a very good facility for people who aren't quite ... ’ Sip of orange juice. ‘You know, Sam, what a good reputation the Drechsler clinic has for helping people who, perhaps, aren't enjoying life as much as they could be – and, for a young person like you it is very important to enjoy your life.'

In the silence that ensues, Sam digests what his father has said. It was true, the Drechsler clinic did have a reputation. It had been specially developed for people demonstrating aberrant behaviour patterns. Anyone who dropped below grade six on the Bloom scale, and had the money to pay for treatment, was a viable patient. There were enforced referrals too. So-called 'Sickos', people who refused to work. 'Zombies', who would do nothing but sit and stare, as if something had seized up inside. At first, these new states only seemed to affect young people. A young person's disease, it was called. But then older people started getting it too. They were sent to Drechsler in increasing numbers for rehabilitation. Some said they never left. From them, the clinic had acquired its nickname – 'The Zombie Farm'.

'Just a thought, Sam,' says Richard, feeling satisfied he's said enough for the moment, and relieved to have finally broached the matter. 'Worth a thought, eh?'

At the afternoon show the Martian showgirls strip and there are dwarves and acrobats and holograms of constellations bursting in and out of existence. Richard and Sam don't bother staying for the onstage orgy because, as Richard says, they can catch that any time on Earth. Instead they go to the Peace Garden, which has just been transferred from Earth to Mars owing to a lack of space on Earth. The trees and plants are drenched in a blue light which makes them look alien, but Sam seems happier wandering through the park. He shows no interest in wanting to join up with the crowd of younger people who are also inspecting the park, and, though Richard is initially troubled by this, he’s glad Sam has chosen to stay with him. It is, he reflects, a long time since he’s seen non-artificial vegetation.

On the walk back to the hotel, they run into Carl, accompanied by a blond female whom he introduces as his fiancée, Jess. The encounter proves instantly invigorating for Richard. Jess shakes Sam's hand limply, politely deflects Richard's attentions, waits for Sam to initiate a conversation. Though cool, she's a little friendly. 'We often come to Mars,' she tells him. 'There are so many nice things for us to do here.'
'Did you fly in with Carl?' Sam asks, knowing she didn't. For a moment, it looks like she's going to lie and say she did. There’s something antipathetic about her, but he can’t quite pinpoint it. She wears her coupledom with Carl like a badge. Doesn't have much sense of herself, Sam concludes. Experimentally, he offers her a short smile, which she returns.
'Well, let's hope we see a lot more of each other,' Richard's saying to Carl, before turning to beam at Jess. Sam steers him away still beaming at her over his shoulder.

'Pretty girl,' says Richard, when they're back in their apartment.
Sam grunts.
'Didn't you think she was pretty?'
'She was alright.'
'I'm surprised you haven't found yourself a pretty young fiancée like that.'
Sam grunts again. A creeping sensation of boredom is settling on him.
'I bet those two get up to all kinds of fun,' says Richard suggestively.
'Yeah?'
Richard stares at Sam intently, but Sam isn’t looking at him.

'Oh, tell you what, I've got something to show you.' After unzipping various bags and rummaging extensively through each of them, Richard pulls out a new palm-computer. 'What do you think of this?'
Sam examines it. It's expensive, the latest version. The sensation of boredom is becoming insistent. 'Very nice,' he says weakly.
'It's got all the latest functions,' says Richard brightly, taking it from him, setting the functions going.
'Great.'
Clearly dissatisfied by this response, Richard plays with the palm-computer by himself for a moment before switching it off and putting it carefully back in the bag.

‘Just tell me how these pictures make you feel.’
Credit. ‘Happy.’
A naked woman. ‘Happy.’
A work-station, very much like his own, fitted with computer and screen. ‘Happy.’
A bazaar. ‘Happy.’
As he responds to the pictures, his reactions are checked against a series of read-outs provided by the sensitive equipment he’s wired up to. Richard is also wired up and taking the same test in an adjacent cubicle separated by a transparent sheet of plastic. It had taken less persuading than he'd anticipated for Sam to agree on a visit to the Drechsler clinic. In the end, he’d almost seemed keen on the idea. Every so often Richard forces himself to smile at Sam in what he hopes is an encouraging manner. He has agreed to take the test with him in a supportive gesture encouraged by his son, but is finding it unexpectedly stressful.

Initially, they had had difficulty finding the clinic. So important was the work done there deemed to be, it had been upgraded using the latest military technology. Stealth paneling on the exterior walls ensured that the clinic blended in with the Martian landscape. 'Looks like an alien spaceship,' Sam had said. Richard, who didn't much care for sci-fi, had nodded sagely. ‘Must have cost a bomb just to ship the graphite up here from Earth.’

'How do you think it went?'
Sam thinks about it. 'Well,' he says. 'It went well.' Of course he'd lied his arse off, knew 'happy' was the expected response, though if anyone actually felt happy when confronted with a picture of their work-station, he couldn't imagine.
'I found it quite easy,' says Richard in a strained voice. His eyes twinkle chaotically.
'Yeah? Which bits?'
'Well, the ... '
They're interrupted by one of the white-coated medical staff, accompanied by two security guards. Sam eyes the guards up warily, noting the truncheons hanging slack at their sides.
‘Oh goodness, that was quick,’ jokes Richard. ‘Got the results already?’
‘Hello, I’m Dr Mendes.’ The doctor grants them a tight smile. 'Mr Elliman, would you come with us, please?' Something in the tone of his voice, coupled with the silent but oppressive presence of the security guards, leaves little room for alternatives.
Richard puts a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder. ‘Good luck, son, hope it goes well.’ His mind flicks to the solitary return to the hotel, the flight home. He hates travelling on his own.
'Not Sam, Mr Elliman. It's actually you we want to talk to right now.' Dr Mendes looks down, starts rummaging in his white coat pocket, produces a pen.
'Oh, I see,' says Richard, and, assuming they want to talk to him about his son’s test results, gets up to go with them. Beaming one last time at Sam, he's led off with, Sam later reflects, the quiet complicity of a child.