The Mars Escort Service

It was inevitable. During the California Gold Rush, for example, cottage industries sprang up around the prospectors and speculators like dandelions: assayers, innkeepers, merchants, farriers…and whorehouses. Where the women came from and why, well, the answer to that is probably as old and mysterious as the profession itself. Whatever their motives, the lure of riches, the dream of meeting Prince Charming, the pioneering spirit, the ladies of the evening are there. No matter how remote or adventurous the enterprise, be it the California Gold Rush, the Alaska Oil Boom, Los Alamos or North Hollywood, the women always seem to come from somewhere.

The year was 2112. I’d been on Mars for 10 years. You know those science fiction stories in which the expeditions are co-ed, with a sustainable breeding cohort being sent to populate a distant planet? Still the stuff of science fiction. Space exploration is still a man’s world. Sorry, that’s just the way it is. Sending a school teacher into earth orbit is one thing, but that’s a parlor trick compared to establishing an outpost on Mars.

What’s more, of all the technological hurdles we’ve overcome to get this far—atmosphere, bio-sustainability, power generation—the most intractable problem remains human reproduction. Think about it. Just being a stewardess can make it almost impossible to have children. As a consequence, the business of establishing and growing an outpost on Mars demands a continuing stream of imported personnel, sufficient to compensate for the predictably high casualty rate and then some.

And as the enterprise grows, roles become more differentiated and service industries develop. Every Manhattan Project has to have a cafeteria. So I shouldn’t have been surprised as I was browsing through http://www.YP.com.mar to find the listing: Olympus Mounds Escort Service. The most beautiful girls on the planet!

I Skyped the number: 1-800-WORMHOLE. A pretty blond android came on the screen. “Olympus Mounds! My name is Europa! What can I do for you?”

My heart sank. “So, Europa,” I asked, “we’re talking about robots here?”

“We have whatever you need. Cybernetic girls, virtual-reality girls, flesh-and-blood girls…”

“You actually have flesh-and-blood girls?”

“Yes, we do. The demand is overwhelming, of course. Cindy is currently booking for summer of 2116. If you have an immediate need, I suggest our Virtual Reality Little Texas Whorehouse.”

“I get the picture. Unfortunately, a VR experience can’t very well accompany me to the annual Charity Ball, can it?”

“In that case, may I suggest Marscia, our most advanced, sexiest android. Guaranteed to be impossible to distinguish from the real thing if you stay away from topics like quantum physics or post-partum depression.”

“Excuse me? ‘Topics like quantum physics or post-partum depression?’ What category of topic would that be?”

“Topics requiring a higher IQ than Marilyn Monroe’s.”

“Aha. Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Is Marscia available June 32^nd? And what would the price be for, say, six hours?”

“You’re in luck. We had a cancellation. Marscia is available on the 32^nd. Including sales tax, that would be 1.2193435 million Meuros per hour.”

“Wow! That’s surprisingly affordable! Let’s do it!”

“Yes, sir! We take Visa or MarsterCard.”

© 2012 Douglas J. Westberg. All Rights Reserved.