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And Martin was disgusted, he said: nobody on Mars uses printers anymore, it's so 1990's.
 

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The Lady says, "well know it all you get her a Dell Desktop then."
Sure Matin, you think this is so easy, call em up and say,
" I got 4 printers instead of a Dell Desk top and see!"
 
After school some went home and the rest of the children
played with rubber bouncing balls in after school care.
and they have new ink cartridges in their printers.
 
“Maitland!” He turned to face the Senior Partner, “how are things?

Reflexively he said, “Good, everything is good.”

“Can I have a quiet word?” Maitland was ushered into an empty conference room, the door surreptitiously closed behind them. “Look, a little bird told me you are having trouble sleeping, is everything alright at home?”

Taken aback, Maitland was momentarily taken off guard, “Yes, yes,” he lied, “everything is good, great in fact.”

“Good, good. Nothing I need to know?”

“No, nothing.”

“So, what happened?”

“Oh,” he searched his memory for excuses, “just some food we had delivered.”

“Yeah, I get it.” The Partner put his arm around Maitland’s shoulder, and it struck him that this casual embrace was more than he had received from any of his loved ones in recent times, “we need you fully fit, ready to go!”

Maitland smiled theatrically, “Don’t worry, Lennon’s on sale again.” He said.

“So, there IS Life on Mars, good, let’s get on it!” With that the partner slapped him on the back, opened the door, and exited, all in one gloriously choreographed movement, as though it were an action he rehearsed each and every day.

Suddenly alone, completely alone in a room with no immediate purpose, Maitland was allowed a moment of reflection. How had his sleep patterns entered into the office lexicon? Who had he told, what had been said about it? Were the minute details of the associates lives examined in the corner offices for any indication of variance from norm? Perhaps they took surreptitious samples from the urinals, checked pulse and heart rates by obscure technique in their handshakes, and were able to judge a temperature by looking at the gloss of skin?

Maitland was now reminded of his discomfort from the early morning. This brief pep-talk had brought a weight to events, if not a clear memory of the event itself, as though the significance far outweighed any literal retelling. He was disappointed, hoping that his behaviour had been a moment easily dismissed.

Had his wife called to tell the Senior Partners, and if so, who else knew? Confused, and a little disoriented, he looked up at the air-conditioning ducts as they detected the temperature rise from his being in the room, and sought to normalize the environment. Was the technology he used each day programmed to report to people with authority in his life any nuance or change in behaviours or tastes? Perhaps they were part of a huge diagnostic system that weighed up probabilities and possibilities, alerting those most invested should the chances of an outcome drop in or out of a specified range?

He wondered if these questions were the root of his waking. Had he only now become aware of some conspiracy of success, some perverse realisation that exposed the inner workings of chance?

It was the waking, that was the root of it. He felt an anxiety growing at the back of his mind. What if he woke this evening, what should he do? He began to make plans of how he could best spend his time, knowing that the actual event was far more dangerous and unpredictable than he was willing to admit. If it was as simple as scheduling this waking event, then it would be far easier to manage it, as all things required management. Perhaps by deliberately waking early, he would catch this internal intruder in the act, exposing their motive.

He had already opened his tablet and was making an entry into his calendar. As he did so his secretary was alerted by the coffee machine which had realigned itself to the early rising, the heating system adjusted its settings, and he became available for others should they request him.

Satisfied he was about to close the tablet when he noticed an alert on his email application. Opening it he saw only a single folder with unread mail – the Junk folder. He puzzled over the lack of subject – the reason it had been routed to this location. On a whim he opened it, expecting the offer of a loan, drugs, or a tempting deal on exercise equipment. Instead he read:

“Maitland, it’s me.”
 
VaughanJB said:
“Maitland!” He turned to face the Senior Partner, “how are things?

Reflexively he said, “Good, everything is good.”

“Can I have a quiet word?” Maitland was ushered into an empty conference room, the door surreptitiously closed behind them. “Look, a little bird told me you are having trouble sleeping, is everything alright at home?”

Taken aback, Maitland was momentarily taken off guard, “Yes, yes,” he lied, “everything is good, great in fact.”

“Good, good. Nothing I need to know?”

“No, nothing.”

“So, what happened?”

“Oh,” he searched his memory for excuses, “just some food we had delivered.”

“Yeah, I get it.” The Partner put his arm around Maitland’s shoulder, and it struck him that this casual embrace was more than he had received from any of his loved ones in recent times, “we need you fully fit, ready to go!”

Maitland smiled theatrically, “Don’t worry, Lennon’s on sale again.” He said.

“So, there IS Life on Mars, good, let’s get on it!” With that the partner slapped him on the back, opened the door, and exited, all in one gloriously choreographed movement, as though it were an action he rehearsed each and every day.

Suddenly alone, completely alone in a room with no immediate purpose, Maitland was allowed a moment of reflection. How had his sleep patterns entered into the office lexicon? Who had he told, what had been said about it? Were the minute details of the associates lives examined in the corner offices for any indication of variance from norm? Perhaps they took surreptitious samples from the urinals, checked pulse and heart rates by obscure technique in their handshakes, and were able to judge a temperature by looking at the gloss of skin?

Maitland was now reminded of his discomfort from the early morning. This brief pep-talk had brought a weight to events, if not a clear memory of the event itself, as though the significance far outweighed any literal retelling. He was disappointed, hoping that his behaviour had been a moment easily dismissed.

Had his wife called to tell the Senior Partners, and if so, who else knew? Confused, and a little disoriented, he looked up at the air-conditioning ducts as they detected the temperature rise from his being in the room, and sought to normalize the environment. Was the technology he used each day programmed to report to people with authority in his life any nuance or change in behaviours or tastes? Perhaps they were part of a huge diagnostic system that weighed up probabilities and possibilities, alerting those most invested should the chances of an outcome drop in or out of a specified range?

He wondered if these questions were the root of his waking. Had he only now become aware of some conspiracy of success, some perverse realisation that exposed the inner workings of chance?

It was the waking, that was the root of it. He felt an anxiety growing at the back of his mind. What if he woke this evening, what should he do? He began to make plans of how he could best spend his time, knowing that the actual event was far more dangerous and unpredictable than he was willing to admit. If it was as simple as scheduling this waking event, then it would be far easier to manage it, as all things required management. Perhaps by deliberately waking early, he would catch this internal intruder in the act, exposing their motive.

He had already opened his tablet and was making an entry into his calendar. As he did so his secretary was alerted by the coffee machine which had realigned itself to the early rising, the heating system adjusted its settings, and he became available for others should they request him.

Satisfied he was about to close the tablet when he noticed an alert on his email application. Opening it he saw only a single folder with unread mail – the Junk folder. He puzzled over the lack of subject – the reason it had been routed to this location. On a whim he opened it, expecting the offer of a loan, drugs, or a tempting deal on exercise equipment. Instead he read:

“Maitland, it’s me.”
Click to expand...
Shocked, he stood, overturning his chair. He moved toward the window.
Aloud, he murmured, "It can't be."
 

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