Martian Time-Slip

by Philip Kindred Dick

  In a faint but controlled voice Doreen said, “Arnie, listen. If you push Jack too far and injure him, I’ll never go to bed with you again. I promise.”

  “Everybody’s protecting him, no wonder he’s sick.”

  “He’s a good person.”

  “He better be a good technician, too; he better have that kid’s mind spread out like a road map for me to read.”

  They faced each other.

  Shaking her head, Doreen turned away, picking up her drink, and moved off, her back to Arnie. “O.K. I can’t tell you what to do. You can pick up a dozen women as good in bed as me; what am I to big Arnie Kott?” Her voice was bleak and envenomed.

  He followed after her awkwardly. “Hell, Dor, you’re unique, I swear, you’re incredible, like what a swell smooth back you got, that dress you wore here, it showed it.” He stroked her neck. “A knockout, even by Home standards.”

  The door chimes sounded.

  “That’s him,” Arnie said, moving at once toward the door.

  He opened the door, and there stood Jack Bohlen, looking tired. With him was a boy who danced unceasingly about on tiptoe, from one side of Jack to the other, his eyes shining, taking in everything and yet not focusing on any one thing. The boy at once slithered past Arnie and into the living room, where Arnie lost sight of him.

  Disconcerted, Arnie said to Jack Bohlen, “Enter.”

  “Thanks, Arnie,” Jack said, coming in. Arnie shut the door, and the two of them looked around for Manfred.

  “He went in the kitchen,” Doreen said.

  Sure enough, when Arnie opened the kitchen door, there stood the boy, raptly observing Heliogabalus. “What’s the matter?” Arnie said to the boy. “You never saw a Bleekman before?”

  The boy said nothing.

  “What’s that dessert you’re making, Helio?” Arnie said.

  “Flan,” Heliogabalus said. “A filipino dish, a custard with a caramel sauce. From Mrs. Rombauer’s cookbook.”

  “Manfred,” Arnie said, “this here is Heliogabalus.”

  Standing at the kitchen doorway, Doreen and Jack watched, too. The boy seemed deeply affected by the Bleekman, Arnie noticed. As if under a spell, he followed with his eyes every move Helio made. With painstaking care, Helio was pouring the flan into molds which he carried to the freezing compartment of the refrigerator.

  Almost shyly, Manfred said, “Hello.”

  “Hey,” Arnie said. “He said an actual word.”

  Helio said in a cross voice, “I must ask all of you to leave the kitchen. Your presence makes me self-conscious so that I cannot work.” He glared at them until, one by one, they left the kitchen. The door, shut from within, swung closed after them, cutting off the sight of Helio at his job.

  “He’s sort of odd,” Arnie apologized. “But he sure can cook.”

  Jack said to Doreen, “That’s the first time I’ve heard Manfred do that.” He seemed impressed, and he walked off by himself, ignoring the rest of them, to stand at the window.

  Joining him, Arnie said, “What do you want to drink?”

  “Bourbon and water.”

  “I’ll fix it,” Arnie said. “I can’t bother Helio with trivia like this.” He laughed, but Jack did not.

  The three of them sat with their drinks, for a time. Manfred, given some old magazines to read, stretched out on the carpet, once more oblivious to their presence.

  “Wait’ll you taste this meal,” Arnie said.

  “Smells wonderful,” Doreen said.

  “All black market,” Arnie said.

  Both Doreen and Jack, together on the couch, nodded.

  “This is a big night,” Arnie said.

  Again they nodded.

  Raising his drink, Arnie said, “Here’s to communication. Without which there wouldn’t be a goddamn nothin’.”

  Somberly, Jack said, “I’ll drink to that, Arnie.” However, he had already finished his drink; he gazed at the empty glass, evidently at a loss.

  “I’ll get you another,” Arnie said, taking it from him.

  At the sideboard, as he fixed a fresh drink for Jack, he saw that Manfred had grown bored with the magazines; once more the boy was on his feet, roaming around the room. Maybe he’d like to cut out and paste, Arnie decided. He gave Jack his fresh drink and then went into the kitchen.

  “Helio, get some glue and scissors for the kid, and some paper for him to paste things on.”

  Helio had finished with the flan; his work evidently was done, and he had seated himself with a copy of Life. With reluctance he got up and went in search of glue, scissors, and paper.

  “Funny kid, isn’t he?” Arnie said to Helio, when the Bleekman returned. “What’s your opinion about him, is it the same as mine?”

  “Children are all alike,” Helio said, and went out of the kitchen, leaving Arnie alone.

  Arnie followed. “We’ll eat pretty soon,” he announced. “Everybody had some of these Danish blue cheese hors d’oeuvres? Anybody need anything at all?”

  The phone rang. Doreen, who was closest, answered it. She handed it to Arnie. “For you. A man.”

  It was Dr. Glaub again. “Mr. Kott,” Dr. Glaub said in a thin, unnatural voice, “it is essential to my integrity to protect my patients. Two can play at this bullying game. As you know, your out-of-wedlock child Sam Esterhazy is at Camp B-G, where I am in attendance.”

  Arnie groaned.

  “If you do not treat Jack Bohlen fairly,” Glaub continued, “if you apply your inhumane, cruel, aggressive, domineering tactics on him, I will retaliate by discharging Sam Esterhazy from Camp B-G on the grounds that he is mentally retarded. Is that comprehended?”

  “Oh, Christ, anything you say,” Arnie groaned. “I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow. Go to bed or something. Take a pill. Just get off me.” He slammed down the phone.

  The tape on the tape transport had reached its end; the music had ceased a long time ago. Arnie stalked over to his tape library and snatched up a box at random. That doctor, he said to himself. I’ll get him, but not now. No time now. There must be something the matter with him; he must have some wild hair up his bung.

  Examining the box he read:

  W. A. Mozart, Symphony 40 in G mol., K. 550

  “I love Mozart,” he said to Doreen, Jack Bohlen, and the Steiner boy. “I’ll put this on.” He removed the reel of tape from the box and put it on the transport; he fiddled with the knobs of the amplifier until he could hear the hiss of the tape as it passed through the head. “Bruno Walter conducting,” he told his guests. “A great rarity from the golden age of recordings.”

  A hideous racket of screeches and shrieks issued from the speakers. Noises like the convulsions of the dead, Arnie thought in horror. He ran to shut off the tape transport.

  Seated on the carpet, snipping pictures from the magazines with his scissors and pasting them into new configurations, Manfred Steiner heard the noise and glanced up. He saw Mr. Kott hurry to the tape machine to shut it off. How blurred Mr. Kott became, Manfred noticed. It was hard to see him when he moved so swiftly; it was as if in some way he had managed to disappear from the room and then reappear in another spot. The boy felt frightened.

  The noise, too, frightened him. He looked to the couch where Mr. Bohlen sat, to see if he were upset. But Mr. Bohlen remained where he was with Doreen Anderton, interlinked with her in a fashion that made the boy cringe with concern. How could two people stand being so close? It was, to Manf red, as if their separate identities had flowed together, and the idea that such a muddling could be terrified him. He pretended not to see; he saw past them, at the safe, unblended wall.

  The voice of Mr. Kott broke over the boy, harsh and jagged tones that he did not understand. Then Doreen Anderton spoke, and then Jack Bohlen; they were all chattering in a chaos, now, and the boy clapped his hands to his ears. All at once, without warning of any kind, Mr. Kott shot across the room and vanished entirely.

  Where had he gone? No matter where he looked the boy
could not find him. He began to tremble, wondering what was going to happen. And then he saw, to his bewilderment, that Mr. Kott had reappeared in the room where the food was; he was chattering to the dark figure there.

  The dark figure, with rhythmic grace, ebbed from his spot on top of the high stool, flowed step by step across the room and got a glass from the cabinet. Awed by the movement of the man, Manfred looked directly at him, and at that moment the dark man looked back, meeting his gaze.

  “You must die,” the dark man said to him in a far-off voice. “Then you will be reborn. Do you see, child? There is nothing for you as you are now, because something went wrong and you cannot see or hear or feel. No one can help you. Do you see, child?”

  “Yes,” Manfred said.

  The dark figure glided to the sink, put some powder and water into the glass, presented it to Mr. Kott, who drank down the contents, chattering all the while. How beautiful the dark figure was. Why can’t I be like that? Manfred thought. No one else looked like that.

  His glimpse, his contact with the shadow-like man, was cut off. Doreen Anderton had passed between them as she ran into the kitchen and began talking in high-pitched tones. Once more Manfred put his hands to his ears, but he could not shut out the noise.

  He looked ahead, to escape. He got away from the sound and the harsh, blurred comings and goings.

  Ahead of him a mountain path stretched out. The sky overhead was heavy and red, and then he saw dots: hundreds of gigantic specks that grew and came closer. Things rained down from them, men with unnatural thoughts. The men struck the ground and dashed about in circles. They drew lines, and then great things like slugs landed, one after another, without thoughts of any sort, and began digging.

  He saw a hole as large as a world; the earth disappeared and became black, empty, and nothing. . . . Into the hole the men jumped one by one, until none of them were left. He was alone, with the silent world-hole.

  At the rim of the hole he peeped down. At the bottom, in the nothing, a twisted creature unwound as if released. It snaked up, became wide, contained square space, and grew color.

  I am in you, Manfred thought. Once again.

  A voice said, “He has been here at AM-WEB longer than anyone else. He was here when the rest of us came. He is extremely old.”

  “Does he like it?”

  “Who knows? He can’t walk or feed himself. The records were lost in that fire. Possibly he’s two hundred years old. They amputated his limbs and of course most of his internal organs were taken out on entry. Mostly he complains about hay fever.”

  No, Manfred thought. I can’t stand it; my nose burns. I can’t breathe. Is this the start of life, what the dark shadowfigure promised? A new beginning where I will be different and someone can help me?

  Please help me, he said. I need someone, anyone. I can’t wait here forever; it must be done soon or not at all. If it is not done I will grow and become the world-hole, and the hole will eat up everything.

  The hole, beneath AM-WEB, waited to be all those who walked above, or had ever walked above; it waited to be everyone and everything. And only Manfred Steiner held it back.

  Setting down his empty glass, Jack Bohlen felt the coming apart of every piece of his body. “We’re out of booze,” he managed to say to the girl beside him.

  To him, Doreen said in a rapid whisper, “Jack, you must remember, you’ve got friends. I’m your friend, Dr. Glaub called--he’s your friend.” She looked into his face anxiously. “Will you be O.K.?”

  “God sake,” Arnie yelled. “I got to hear how you’ve done, Jack. Can’t you give me anything?” With envy he faced the two of them; Doreen drew away from Jack imperceptibly. “Are you two just going to sit there necking and whispering? I don’t feel good.” He left them, then, going into the kitchen.

  Leaning toward Jack until her lips almost touched his, Doreen whispered, “I love you.”

  He tried to smile at her. But his face had become stiff; it would not yield. “Thanks,” he said, wanting her to know how much it meant to him. He kissed her on the mouth. Her lips were warm, soft with love; they gave what they had to him, holding nothing back.

  Her eyes full of tears, she said, “I feel you sliding away farther and farther into yourself again.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m O.K.” But it was not so; he knew it.

  “Gubble gubble,” the girl said.

  Jack closed his eyes. I can’t get away, he thought. It has closed over me completely.

  When he opened his eyes he found that Doreen had gotten up from the couch and was going into the kitchen. Voices, hers and Arnie’s, drifted to him where he sat.

  “Gubble gubble gubble.”

  “Gubble.”

  Turning toward the boy who sat snipping at his magazines on the rug, Jack said to him, “Can you hear me? Can you understand me?”

  Manfred glanced up and smiled.

  “Talk to me,” Jack said. “Help me.”

  There was no response.

  Getting to his feet, Jack made his way to the tape recorder; he began inspecting it, his back to the room. Would I be alive now, he asked himself, if I had listened to Dr. Glaub? If I hadn’t come here, had let him represent me? Probably not. Like the earlier attack: it would have happened anyhow. It is a process which must unfold; it must work itself out to its conclusion.

  The next he knew he was standing on a black, empty sidewalk. The room, the people around him, were gone; he was alone.

  Buildings, gray, upright surfaces on both sides. Was this AM-WEB? He looked about frantically. Lights, here and there; he was in a town, and now he recognized it as Lewistown. He began to walk.

  “Wait,” a voice, a woman’s voice, called.

  From the entrance of a building a woman in a fur wrap hurried, her high heels striking the pavement and setting up echoes. Jack stopped.

  “It didn’t go so bad after all,” she said, catching up with him, out of breath. “Thank God it’s over; you were so tense-- I felt it all evening. Arnie is dreadfully upset by the news about the co-op; they’re so rich and powerful, they make him feel so little.”

  Together, they walked in no particular direction, the girl holding on to his arm.

  “And he did say,” she said, “that he’s going to keep you on as his repairman; I’m positive he means it. He’s sore, though, Jack. All the way through him. I know; I can tell.”

  He tried to remember, but he could not.

  “Say something,” Doreen begged.

  After a bit he said, “He--would make a bad enemy.”

  “I’m afraid that’s so.” She glanced up into his face. “Shall we go to my place? Or do you want to stop somewhere and get a drink?”

  “Let’s just walk,” Jack Bohlen said.

  “Do you still love me?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Are you afraid of Arnie? He may try to get revenge on you, for--he doesn’t understand about your father; he thinks that on some level you must have--“ She shook her head. “Jack, he will try to get back at you; he does blame you. He’s so goddamn primitive.”

  “Yes,” Jack said.

  “_Say_ something,” Doreen said. “You’re just like wood, like you’re not alive. Was it so terrible? It wasn’t, was it? You seemed to pull yourself together.”

  With effort he said, “I’m--not afraid of what he’ll do.”

  “Would you leave your wife for me, Jack? You said you loved me. Maybe we could emigrate back to Earth, or something.”

  Together, they wandered on.

  13

  For Otto Zitte it was as if life had once more opened up; since Norb Steiner’s death he moved about Mars as in the old days, making his deliveries, selling, meeting people face to face and gabbing with them.

  And, most particularly, he had already encountered several good-looking women, lonely housewives stranded out in the desert in their homes day after day, yearning for companionship . . . so to speak.

  So far he had not bee
n able to call at Mrs. Silvia Bohlen’s house. But he knew exactly where it was; he had marked it on his map.

  Today he intended to go there.

  For the occasion he put on his best suit: a single-breasted gray English sharkskin suit he had not worn for years. The shoes, regrettably, were local, and so was the shirt. But the tie: ah. It had just arrived from New York, the latest in bright, cheerful colors; it divided at the bottom into a wild fork shape. Holding it up before him he admired it. Then he put it on and admired it there, too.

  His long dark hair shone. He felt happy and confident. This day begins it all afresh for me, with a woman like Silvia, he said to himself as he put on his wool topcoat, picked up his suitcases, and marched from the storage shed--now made over into truly comfortable living quarters--to the ‘copter.

  In a great soaring arc he lifted the ‘copter into the sky and turned it east. The bleak F.D.R. Mountains fell away behind him; he passed over the desert, saw at last the George Washington Canal by which he oriented himself. Following it, he approached the smaller canal system which branched from it, and soon he was above the junction of the William Butler Yeats and the Herodotus, near which the Bohlens lived.

  Both those women, he ruminated, are attractive, that June Henessy and Silvia Bohlen, but of the two of them, Silvia’s more to my liking; she has that sleepy, sultry quality that a deeply emotional woman always has. June is too pert and frisky; that kind talks on and on, sort of wiseguy-like. I want a woman who’s a good listener.

  He recalled the trouble he had gotten into before. Wonder what her husband’s like, he wondered. Must inquire. A lot of these men take the pioneer life seriously, especially the ones living far out from town; keep guns in their houses and so forth.

  However, that was the risk one ran, and it was worth it.

  Just in case trouble did occur, Otto Zitte had a gun of his own, a small pistol, .22 caliber, which he kept in a hidden side-pocket of one of his suitcases. It was there now, and fully loaded.