Quail reaches out and shuts the clock off. Then he sits up in bed.
He swings his legs out from under the covers and sits on the edge of
the bed. He puts on his glasses and sits, lost in thought.
He is a good-looking but conventional man in his early thirties. He
seems rather in awe of his wife, who is attractive and rather off-hand
towards him. Kirsten pulls on her robe, lights a cigarette, sits
fishing for her slippers.
QUAIL I dreamed about Mars again... it was bizarre, yet is was so
KIRSTEN (casual) It's your time of the month again.
Quail looks at her quizzically.
KIRSTEN (continuing; world-weary air) At least once a month. Douglas
Quail's obsession. For twelve years you've been talking about Mars.
QUAIL People do go to Mars, you know.
KIRSTEN That's right, Douglas. But not you. Not us.
Quail looks crestfallen.
KIRSTEN (continuing; disdainful) As it is, we can barely scrape by on
your lousy ten thousand a week.
She leaves the room. He meditates on what she said, depressed.
4INT. KITCHENETTE - MORNING
Quail and Kirsten sit at a small table, eating breakfast. On the WALL
is projected the front page of a NEWSPAPER.
Drinking his coffee, Quail studies the wall with the air of a man who
had his "node stuck in a newspaper," ignoring his wife.
The newspaper headline reads: "RIOTING ON MARS OVER WATER TAX."
His wife is reading a different article: "Four Women Rape Man in Park."
KIRSTEN (mumbling) What do they expect ... the way men dress these days
... then they scream rape.
Quail is absorbed in his own paper and doesn't hear her.
QUAIL You know -- let's really do it.
KIRSTEN Rape men in the park?
QUAIL No. Go to Mars.
KIRSTEN (withering) Go to hell.
QUAIL We can pool our savings and I've got some sick leave coming,
besides my regular vacation...