The remote control gadget lay on the table and the man contemplated a closer study of the rectangular and square buttons on its keypad; the sealed white envelope next to the remote along with the clear white spacesuit hanging from a hook on the door had one thing in common: the name 'Major Tom' was imprinted in grey lettering on both items. The man could only assume that they were addressed to him; this was probably his name, although he couldn't be too certain. It seemed like many hours had passed by with him seated in the middle of this circular communications chamber...at least that is what he thought it resembled with its extensive array of switches, monitors and processors which confirmed a progressive future of technological determination.
Two minutes ago, the song commenced through the two loudspeakers which were situated above the main operations console in front him, and it was then he noticed a further two speakers located directly behind him; his position in the middle of the floor was the centralised focal point for the audio to penetrate. The voice sounded very familiar including the lyrics which sang into the atmosphere; words that expressed a disturbing celluloid of life that included 'Sailors fighting in the dance hall', and 'Beating up the wrong guy' and then the line of lyrics that asked the insinuating question: 'Is there life on Mars?' Maybe that was it, the man thought to himself, just maybe he was on Mars; his surroundings did not appear out of place with such a potentially fitting conclusion.
He began to focus on the remote control on the table once again, thinking that maybe this was the mechanism that controlled the distinguished voice flowing from the loudspeakers. The light blue coverall was not offering any further resolve and neither were his bare feet; the hairless head that he tentatively brushed with his fingertips only presented an adrenalin rush of confused amazement. The fatigue sensation soon overrode his bewilderment once again; his head drooping into the palm of his left hand followed by the incessant shaking from side to side. He was limited in his ability to lift his right arm; a dead weight; he was also experiencing a stabbing pain in the calf muscle of his right leg. The distinguished voice from the loudspeakers continued to proclaim 'But the film is a saddening bore', and then the thought suddenly occurred to him: a movie set. Yes, he is in a studio; fine actor that he is. The cameras and the crew were not present but the props were in abundance; it had been a nice thought. Try again.
The two monitors on the console separated by a section of dials peered out like the bulging eyes of an electronic dinosaur. The man slowly lifted his head and identified the face taking shape within the map of hardware controls in front of him. A slight apprehension was met with this realisation until the monitors' graphic illustrations detracted from its overpowering features. He rose from the chair and cautiously moved towards the visuals on screen to see if an immediate answer could be recognised. The robotic model diagrams could not unearth any fragments of information in his brain that would cement his awareness of the moment and the reality of his existence. The data that accompanied the mechanical drawings on screen read as follows: 'Mighty Robot' wind-up made by Yonezawa, Japan... 'MR-45' Robot made by Masudaya, Japan...'Mr. Mercury' Robot made by Marx... 'Mr. Amaze-A-Matic' made by Hasbro Industries... 'Nomura Spaceman' made in Japan... END.
The screen to the far left of the central monitors bore the distinctive label of 'reference data – on demand' and the man began to read the transfixed paragraph of words pertaining to 'remote controls': An electronic device used for the remote operation of a machine. The Telekino was presented at the Paris Academy of Science in 1903 and consisted of a robot that executed commands transmitted by electromagnetic waves.
A striking image on the monitor screen situated on the far right of the console featured the robotic appearance of a green face with a protruding eyeball that was being dislodged by the aid of a surgical instrument. The year 1980 intermittently flashed in-between each subsequent image which also featured sexy, purple-wigged females in silver catsuits – enchanting, he thought, not usually aware of having such thoughts and feelings. The man soon discovered that the transmission was from a space-related television series entitled UFO. However, the thought occurred to him that perhaps nineteen-hundred and eighty was the current year of life and maybe the outside world resembled large office buildings, sleek business cars, aircraft being launched from underneath the sea, a world of interceptors, and... green men in red space suits?
Nothing seemed to be plausible; everything appeared nonsensical. The ticking chunter of the printing device spewed forth the text of its source on flimsy white paper as the song on the loudspeakers climaxed into a tapering piano instrumental. A ghost-like image of a man's face appeared on the monitor screen above the printer. The mascara-laden eyes appeared one minute open and the next minute shut; the process was unremitting. The glowing bonnet of red hair was prominently vibrant in the image. The man turned away from the monitor and tore off the print-out and profoundly studied the data: 'The Rise & Fall of Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders from Mars'.... Sales forecast for 1972... 'Aladdin Sane'... Sales forecast for 1973... END. The man suddenly noticed the current year printed at the bottom of the sheet which stated 1971; he could not comprehend the information throughout his mind's procedural process.
The man staggered along the console to where a thick type-written dossier was placed and he began to flick through several pages before he observed the title on the front cover: The ARPANET to The INTERNET – property of the United States Department of Defense. What does this mean? What is it exactly? The immediate questions came rushing to the situation. The man was too tired to search for any instantaneous solutions; time to sit down once more. From his position in the centre of the room the face of the electronic dinosaur took shape again; The ARPANET must be the name given to this hi-tech creature thought the man, and perhaps it was controlled by the remote device on the table? His left arm was now the focus of his attention. He hesitantly rolled back his sleeve with the index finger and thumb of his right hand which caused a slight grimace to his face; a clear plastic wrist band came into view along with the name 'Major Tom' which was hand-written in black ink on the inside paper fob. The man assumed it was his name, but no recollection could be had. Where did he get a name like that? At least it was a start, he thought. He then rolled back the sleeve of his right arm with the index finger and thumb of his left hand: no watch. He surveyed the scenario: dials, switches, and monitors but no sign of anything that represented time.
Turning his head to the right towards the wall in the hope of viewing a clock face, it suddenly happened: the uncontrollable convulsion that jerked his head backwards. The next thing he knew his head was hanging down on his chest and opening his eyes he looked up, blinked and tried to comprehend the sudden occurrence. The feeling was soon eradicated as he got up from the chair once more and walked over to the table of items that conspired to confuse his memory even further: the music book entitled The Rise & Fall of Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders from Mars featured the chord structures of several songs along with an illustration of several objects which included a five year calendar, an electric eye, a ray gun, a cigarette, a radio and a document with the heading 'Women's Social & Political Union'.
The convulsion repeated its wrenching menace of the man's body. This time, when he lifted his head to continue his observations he noticed the square plastic case with the colour illustration insert of the perplexed pale features. The man experienced déjà-vu when he read the name on the cover: David Bowie. The name did sound familiar and the title of Hunky Dory might as well have been written in French. He picked up the case and opened it to reveal a silver disc which had the term compact disc printed on it. He had never seen music presented in this form before; surely he would remember playing something like this? What had happened to vinyl?
He placed the case back on the table and then picked up the remote control and was about to press one of the buttons when the title of The Man Who Fell To Earth distracted his intention. He took hold of the book that the title was printed upon and flicked through the pages; the glossy sheen of total whiteness gave no indication as to the contents within the book – it simply hadn't been written.
The acoustic guitar stood upright in its stand next to the table; the note attachment had been inserted between the strings and the fret board. The man unfolded the note and read the words to himself: LEARN TO PLAY AT LEAST 3 CHORDS. What is this all about? It occurred to him that the music book would be a beneficial place to start if he was to undertake such a request. The tape recording system was the final item on the table that he observed; he smiled to himself with the knowledge that the remote control would operate this metallic silver monstrosity that emerged to be somewhat old-fashioned compared to the other forms of technology that surrounded him. He was about to place his hands on the remote once again when the impact of the next convulsion shook his stance.
The closed door in front of him became his immediate view as he lifted his head. He then walked over to the door with the hope of a revelation that may reveal itself...the revelation of who he was. The turning of the handle was done at a slow pace; a nervous disposition became the prominent force in this simple task. The handle turned full circle before a click signalled the cue to pull and then open the door. The darkness that came forth began to fuel his uneasy temperament and with the door now fully wide open he entered between the light of the room and the grey shimmering of total darkness. He reached out his hand and suddenly he could feel the soft feather-like material that made him flinch and almost jump backwards; the light switch was eventually found on the left panel on the wall and the orange wig brightly hung from a steel hanger in front of him. A number of shirts of varying colours were placed on a rack along with several pairs of shiny silver trousers and jackets.
He walked back to the table and heard the printer busying itself at the console. He picked up the remote once again and then it happened: his whole body shook whilst his left leg collapsed from underneath him and as he fell to the floor his hand pressed against the buttons on the remote. Suddenly, his voice stuttered the audible letter of 'B...B...B...' which transformed into the word 'Boogie' continuously looping from what could only be described as his voice box transistor. The chunter of the printer on the console spewed forth another sheet of data which read:
'Memo from David Robert Jones STOP Further to my previous creations of 'David Bowie' and 'Major Tom', progress shall now commence on the creation of 'Ziggy Stardust' STOP Furthermore, the prospective android blueprints for 'Aladdin Sane' and 'Halloween Jack' shall be released shortly STOP A copy of this memo is enclosed in the white envelope on the table STOP We must remember to let all the children boogie STOP'