The Ambassador by Edwina Currie Page A

Thank heavens they’ve abandoned those foolish ideas about holidays on Mars. It’s fine for the fanatics, but I have to run a commercial operation. Such an inhospitable dump, Mars, and two weeks travelling there, and back. No sick bags – they don’t work in zero gravity, so use your imagination. Total familiarity with other passengers’ nasty little habits. Everything passing through a tube – and they pinch. Ouch! Not a luxury trip. Who the heck would want to go if they didn’t have to? Nobody, that’s who.’
    ‘Next century, maybe,’ Matt ventured.
    The assistant sniffed. ‘I’ve handled travel arrangements for research scientists required to do a tour of duty at the Mars station. They hate it, I can tell you. It’s about as nice as a week outdoors in aboriginal Borneo. And I don’t recommend that, either.’
    The two Americans rose and left, Matt clutching his ticket, a dazed look on his face. Outside, his carrier bag reminded him of other tasks. The young man squared his shoulders. ‘Sorry, sir. The recycling shed. This way.’
     
    The blue filters overhead cut the power of the sun’s rays and lent an almost ethereal feel to the mall, as if it were situated in the lower reaches of some delicate Botticelli heaven. Muzak floated over their heads. Even the cameras were painted pale blue and silver, reflecting the mellow light. The business of shopping was designed to be a delightful pastime, which helped explain why, despite vidphones and electronic catalogues, individuals chose to come in large numbers, to bring their families, meet their friends and spend the whole day over it.
    Strether and Matt left the upper levels, found the escalator down and descended five floors, until they were around forty metres underground.
    The light here was dimmer. Matt turned a corner. As they pushed open the big door they were assailed by mega-music: crashing metallic thunder that rattled their ear-drums and set their teeth on edge. There was no point in shouting. Matt darted about until he found the proprietor, a big, pale-faced bear of a man with frizzy grey hair tied in a topknot. Then he waved his arms vigorously to gain his attention. At last the man noticed his visitors, and turned down the volume.
    The underground warehouse was cavernous, its walls lined with metal cupboards, some half closed, others without doors, spewing out a disorderly jumble of parts, keyboards, wiring, computer towers, white, black, beige, translucent and psychedelically coloured. On the floors were heaps of broken items: bits of monitors and screens in one corner, printers elsewhere, circuit boards, loudspeakers, cooling fans. A mini-mountain of joysticks testified to aeons wasted in playing outdated games. Dustbins carried smaller parts in slightly better condition, presumably awaiting recycling. Strether could see floppy-disk drives, modems, diskettes in all sizes. An ancient supermarket trolley held copper wire, another a stack of shiny aluminium disk hard drives. In a plastic tray hundreds of tiny squares identified themselves as Intel Pentium chips. A shrink-wrapped pallet of interfaxes had been half stripped. On a workshop bench lay an ancient Apple Mac, its innards spilled out, a light winking on a console board. Above on the wall was a sign:
    WELCOME TO THE CHIP SHOP !
    WHERE ALL GOOD COMPUTERS GO TO DIE .
     
    The bear ambled over and offered a grubby paw. ‘Hi. Wotcha brought?’
    Matt opened his package. ‘Three empty toners and a broken hologram screen.’
    The man examined them cursorily. ‘Five euros the lot.’
    ‘Fine. I wasn’t expecting anything. Just like to ensure they’re safely disposed of.’
    ‘Put it in the charity box?’ the bear asked hopefully. Matt nodded. The man grinned and rubbed his greasy palm over his hair. ‘Yeah. Thanks. There’s still lead in them screens, you know. Don’t want to see them end up in landfill.’
    Strether picked his way cautiously among the debris. ‘Where do you get this