Martian Time-Slip

by Philip Kindred Dick

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked her. “Why’s the policeman talking to your mom?”

  The Steiner girl glanced at him and then bolted off, leaving him.

  I’ll bet I know what it is, David thought. Mr. Steiner has been arrested because he did something illegal. He felt excited and he jumped up and down. I wonder what he did. Turning, he ran back the way he had come, hopped once more across the ditch of water, and at last threw open the door to his own house.

  “Mom!” he shouted, running from room to room. “Hey, you know how you and Dad always are talking about Mr. Steiner being outside the law, I mean in his work? Well, you know what?”

  His mother was nowhere to be found; she must have gone visiting, he realized. For instance, Mrs. Henessy who lived within walking distance north along the ditch; often his mom was gone most of the day visiting other ladies, drinking coffee with them and exchanging gossip. Well, they’re really missing out, David declared to himself. He ran to the window and looked out, to be sure of not missing anything.

  The policeman and Mrs. Steiner had gone outside, now, and both were walking slowly to the police ‘copter. Mrs. Steiner held a big handkerchief to her face, and the policeman had hold of her shoulder, as if he was a relative or something. Fascinated, David watched the two of them get into the ‘copter. The Steiner girls stood together in a small group, their faces peculiar. The policeman went over and spoke to them, and then he returned to the ‘copter--and then he noticed David. He beckoned to him to come outdoors, and David, feeling fright, did so; he emerged from the house, blinking in the sunlight, and step by step approached the policeman with his shining helmet and his armband and the gun at his waist.

  “What’s your name, son?” the policeman asked, with an accent.

  “David Bohlen.” His knees shook.

  “Is Mother or Father home, David?”

  “No,” he said, “just me.”

  “When your parents return, you tell them to keep watch on the Steiner children until Mrs. Steiner is back.” The policeman started up the motor of the ‘copter, and the blades began to turn. “You do that, David? Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” David said, noticing that the policeman had on the blue stripe which meant he was Swedish. The boy knew all the identifying marks which the different UN units wore. He wondered how fast the police ‘copter could go; it looked like a special fast job, and he wished he could ride in it: he was no longer frightened of the policeman and he wished they could talk more. But the policeman was leaving; the ‘copter rose from the ground, and torrents of wind and sand blew around David, forcing him to turn away and put his arm across his face.

  The four Steiner girls still stood gathered together, none of them speaking. One, the oldest, was crying; tears ran down her cheeks but she made no sound. The smallest, who was only three, smiled shyly at David.

  “You want to help me with my dam?” David called to them. “You can come over; the policeman told me it was O.K.”

  After a moment the youngest Steiner girl came toward him, and then the others followed.

  “What did your dad do?” David asked the oldest girl. She was twelve, older than he. “The policeman said you could say,” he added.

  There was no answer; the girl merely stared at him.

  “If you tell me,” David said, “I won’t tell anyone. I promise to keep it a secret.”

  Sunbathing out on June Henessy’s fenced, envined patio, sipping iced tea and drowsily conversing, Silvia Bohlen heard the radio from within the Henessy house give the late afternoon news.

  Beside her, June raised herself up and said, “Say, isn’t he the man who lives next door to you?”

  “Shh,” Silvia said, intently listening to the announcer. But there was no more, only the brief mention: Norbert Steiner, a dealer in health foods, had committed suicide on a downtown New Israel street by throwing himself in the path of a bus. It was the same Steiner, all right; it was their neighbor, she knew it at once.

  “How dreadful,” June said, sitting up and fastening the straps of her polka-dot cotton halter. “I only saw him a couple of times, but--“

  “He was a dreadful little man,” Silvia said. “I’m not surprised he did it.” And yet she felt horrified. She could not believe it. She got to her feet, saying, “With four children-- he left her to take care of four children! Isn’t that dreadful? What’s going to happen to them? They’re so helpless anyhow.”

  “I heard,”June said, “that he deals on the black market. Had you heard that? Maybe they were closing in on him.”

  Silvia said, “I better go right home and see if there’s anything I can do for Mrs. Steiner. Maybe I can take the children for a while.” Could it have been my fault? she asked herself. Could he have done it because I refused them that water, this morning? It could be, because he was there; he had not gone to work yet.

  So maybe it is our fault, she thought. The way we treated them--which of us has ever been really nice to them and accepted them? But they are such dreadful whining people, always asking for help, begging and borrowing . . . who could respect them?

  Going into the house she changed, in the bedroom, to her slacks and T-shirt. June Henessy followed along with her.

  “Yes,” June said, “you’re right--we all have to pitch in and help where we can. I wonder if she’ll stay on or if she’ll go back to Earth. I’d go back--I’m practically ready to go back anyhow, it’s so dull here.”

  Getting her purse and cigarettes, Silvia said goodbye to June and set out on the walk back down the ditch to her own home. Breathless, she arrived in time to see the police ‘copter disappearing into the sky. That was them notifying her, she decided. In the backyard she found David with the four Steiner girls; they were busy playing.

  “Did they take Mrs. Steiner with them?” she called to David.

  The boy scrambled at once to his feet and came up to her excitedly. “Mom, she went along with him. I’m taking care of the girls.”

  That’s what I was afraid of, Silvia thought. The four girls still sat at the dam, playing a slow-motion, apathetic game with the mud and water, none of them looking up or greeting her; they seemed inert, no doubt from the shock of learning about their father’s death. Only the smallest one showed any signs of reviving, and she probably had not comprehended the news in the first place. Already, Silvia thought, that little man’s death has reached out and touched others, and the coldness is spreading. She felt the chill in her own heart. And I did not even like him, she thought.

  The sight of the four Steiner girls made her quake. Am I going to have to take on these pudding-y, plump, vapid, low-class children? she asked herself. The answering thought thrust its way up, tossing every other consideration aside: I don’t want to! She felt panic, because it was obvious that she had no choice; even now they were playing on her land, in her garden--she had them already.

  Hopefully, the smallest girl asked, “Miz Bohlen, could we have some more water for our dam?”

  Water, always wanting water, Silvia thought. Always leeching on us, as if it was a trait born into them. She ignored the child and said instead to her son, “Come into the house--I want to talk to you.”

  Together, they went indoors, where the girls could not overhear.

  “David,” she said, “their father is dead, it came over the radio. That’s why the police came and took her. We’ll have to help out for a while.” She tried to smile, but it was impossible. “However much we may dislike the Steiners--“

  David burst out--“I don’t dislike them, Mom. How come he died? Did he have a heart attack? Was he set on by wild Bleekmen, could that be?”

  “It doesn’t matter how he happened to die; what we have to think of now is what we can do for those girls.” Her mind was empty; she could think of nothing. All she knew was that she did not want to have the girls near her. “What should we do?” she asked David.

  “Maybe fix them lunch. They told me they didn’t have any; she was just about to fix it.�
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  Silvia went out from the house and down the path. “I’m going to fix lunch, girls, for any of you who want it. Over at your house.” She waited a moment and then started toward the Steiner house. When she looked back she saw that only the smallest child was following.

  The oldest girl said in a tear-choked voice, “No, thank you.”

  “You’d better eat,” Silvia said, but she was relieved. “Come along,” she said to the little girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Betty,” the little girl said shyly. “Could I have a egg sandwich? And cocoa?”

  “We’ll see what there is,” Silvia said.

  Later, while the child ate her egg sandwich and drank her cocoa, Silvia took the opportunity to explore the Steiner house. In the bedroom she came upon something which interested her: a picture of a small boy with dark, enormous, luminous eyes and curly hair; he looked, Silvia thought, like a despairing creature from some other world, some divine and yet dreadful place beyond their own.

  Carrying the picture into the kitchen she asked little Betty who the boy was.

  “That’s my brother Manfred,” Betty answered, her mouth full of egg and bread. Then she began to giggle. Between the giggles a few hesitant words emerged, and Silvia caught the fact that the girls were not supposed to mention their brother to anyone.

  “Why doesn’t he live with you?” Silvia asked, full of curiosity.

  “He’s at camp,” Betty said. “Because he can’t talk.”

  “What a shame,” Silvia said, and she thought, At that camp in New Israel, no doubt. No wonder the girls aren’t supposed to mention him; he’s one of those anomalous children you hear of but never see. The thought made her sad. Unglimpsed tragedy in the Steiner household; she had never guessed. And it was in New Israel that Mr. Steiner had taken his life. Undoubtedly he had been visiting his son.

  Then it has nothing to do with us, she decided as she returned the picture to its place in the bedroom. Mr. Steiner’s decision was based on a personal matter. So she felt relieved.

  Strange, she thought, how one has the immediate reaction of guilt and responsibility when one hears of a suicide. If only I hadn’t done this, or had done that. . . I could have averted it. I’m at fault. And it was not so in this situation, not at all; she was a total outsider to the Steiners, sharing no part of their actual life, only imagining, in a fit of neurotic guilt, that she did so.

  “Do you ever see your brother?” she asked Betty.

  “I think I saw him last year,” Betty said hesitantly. “He was playing tag, and there were a lot of other boys bigger than me.”

  Now, silently, the three older Steiner girls filed into the kitchen and stood by the table. At last the eldest burst out, “We changed our mind, we would like lunch.”

  “All right,” Silvia said. “You can help me crack the eggs and peel them. Why don’t you go and get David, and I’ll feed him at the same time? Wouldn’t that be fun, to all eat together?”

  They nodded mutely.

  Walking up the main street of New Israel, Arnie Kott saw a crowd ahead and cars pulled to a halt at the curb, and he paused momentarily before turning in the direction of Anne Esterhazy’s Contemporary Arts Gift Shop. Something up, he said to himself. Robbery? Street brawl?

  However, he did not have time to investigate. He continued on his way and arrived presently at the small modern shop which his ex-wife ran; hands in his trouser pockets, he sauntered in.

  “Anybody home?” he called jovially.

  No one there. She must have taken off to see the excitement, Arnie said to himself. Some business sense; didn’t even lock up the store.

  A moment later Anne came hurrying breathlessly back into the store. “Arnie,” she said in surprise, seeing him. “Oh my God, do you know what happened? I was just talking to him, just talking, not more than an hour ago. And now he’s dead.” Tears filled her eyes. She collapsed onto a chair, found a Kleenex, and blew her nose. “It’s just terrible,” she said in a muffled voice. “And it wasn’t an accident; he did it deliberately.”

  “Oh, so that’s what’s going on,” Arnie said, wishing now that he had gone on and taken a look. “Who do you mean?”

  “You wouldn’t know him. He has a child at the camp; that’s how I met him.” She rubbed her eyes and sat for a time, while Arnie meandered about the store. “Well,” she said at last, “what can I do for you? It’s nice to see you.”

  “My goddamn encoder broke down,” Arnie said. “You know how hard it is to get decent repair service. What could I do but come by? What do you say to having lunch with me? Lock up the store a little while.”

  “Of course,” she said distractedly. “Just let me go wash my face. I feel as if it was me. I saw him, Arnie. The bus rolled right over him; they have such mass, they just can’t stop. I would like some lunch--I want to get out of here.” She hurried into the washroom--and closed the door.

  Soon afterwards the two of them were walking up the sidewalk together.

  “Why do people take their own lives?” Anne asked. “I keep thinking I could have prevented it. I sold him a flute for his boy. He still had the flute; I saw it with his suitcases on the curb--he never gave it to his son. Is that the reason, something to do with the flute? I debated between the flute and--“

  “Cut it out,” Arnie said. “It’s not your fault. Listen, if a man is going to take his life nothing can stop him. And you can’t cause a person to do it; it’s in his bloodstream, it’s his destiny. They work themselves up to doing it years in advance, and then it’s just like a sudden inspiration; all of a sudden-- wham. They do it, see?” He wrapped his arm around her and patted her.

  She nodded.

  “Now, I mean, we’ve got a kid there at Camp B-G, but it doesn’t get us down,” Arnie went on. “It’s not the end of the world, right? We go on. Where do you want to eat? How’s that place across the street, that Red Fox? Any good? I’d like some fried prawns, but hell, it’s been almost a year since I saw them. This transportation problem has got to be licked or nobody is emigrating.”

  “Not the Red Fox,” Anne said. “I loathe the man who runs it. Let’s try that place on the corner; it’s new, I haven’t ever eaten in there. I hear it’s supposed to be good.”

  As they sat at a table in the restaurant, waiting for their food to come, Arnie went on and developed his point. “One thing, when you hear about a suicide, you can be sure the guy knows this: he knows he’s not a useful member of society. That’s the real truth he’s facing about himself, that’s what does it, knowing you’re not important to anybody. If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that. It’s nature’s way--the expendable are removed, by their own hand, too. So I don’t lose any sleep when I hear of a suicide, and you’d be surprised how many so-called natural deaths here on Mars are actually suicides; I mean, this is a harsh environment. This place weeds out the fit from the unfit.”

  Anne Esterhazy nodded but did not seem cheered up.

  “Now this guy--“ Arnie continued.

  “Steiner,” Anne said.

  “Steiner!” He stared at her. “Norbert Steiner, the blackmarket operator?” His voice rose.

  “He sold health foods.”

  “That’s the guy!” He was flabbergasted. “Oh, no, not Steiner.” Good grief, he got all his goodies from Steiner; he was utterly dependent on the man.

  The waiter appeared with their food.

  “This is awful,” Arnie said, “I mean, really awful. What am I going to do?” Every party he threw, every time he had a cozy two-person dinner arranged for himself and some girl, for instance Marty or especially of late Doreen . . . It was just too goddamn much in one day, this and his encoder, both together.

  “Don’t you think,” Anne said, “it might have something to do with him being German? There’s been so much sorrow in Germans since that drug plague, those children born with flippers. I’ve talked to some who’ve said openly they thought it was God’s punishment on them for what was done during the Nazi
period. And these weren’t religious men, these were businessmen, one here on Mars, the other at Home.”

  “That damn stupid Steiner,” Arnie said. “That cabbage head.”

  “Eat your food, Arnie.” She began to unfold her napkin. “The soup looks good.”

  “I can’t eat,” he said. “I don’t want this siop.” He pushed his soup bowl away.

  “You’re still just like a big baby,” Anne said. “Still having your tantrums.” Her voice was soft and compassionate.

  “Hell,” he said, “sometimes I feel like I’ve got the weight of the entire planet on me, and you call me a baby!” He glared at her in baffled outrage.

  “I didn’t know that Norbert Steiner was involved in the black market,” Anne said.

  “Naturally you wouldn’t, you and your lady-committees. What do you know about the world around you? That’s why I’m here--I read that last ad you had in the Times and it stank. You have to stop giving out that crap like you do; it repels intelligent people--it’s just for other cranks like yourself.”

  “Please,” Anne said. “Eat your food. Calm down.”

  “I’m going to assign a man from my Hall to look over your material before you distribute it. A professional.”

  “Are you?” she said mildly.

  “We’ve got a real problem--we’re not getting the skilled people to come over from Earth any more, the people we need. We’re rotting--everybody knows that. We’re falling apart.”

  Smiling, Anne said, “Somebody will take Mr. Steiner’s place; there must be other black-market operators.”

  Arnie said, “You’re deliberately misunderstanding me so as to make me look greedy and small, whereas actually I’m one of the most responsible members of the entire colonization attempt here on Mars, and that’s why our marriage broke down, because of your belittling me out of jealousy and competitiveness. I don’t know why I came over here today--it’s impossible for you to work things out on a rational basis, you have to inflict personalities into everything.”