Martian Time-Slip

by Philip Kindred Dick

  “Arnie,” Scott was saying. “Speak up. Arnie, you there?”

  It’s the schizophrenic confusion, Arnie realized. It’s basically a breakdown in time-sense. Now I’m getting it because that kid has it.

  “Chrissake!” Scott said, outraged.

  With difficulty, Arnie broke his chain of thought and said, “Uh, Scott. Listen. I got an inside scoop; we have to act on this right now, you understand?” In detail, he told Scott about the UN and the F.D.R. Mountains. “So you can see,” he wound up, “it’s worth it to us to buy in with all we got, and pronto. You agree?”

  “You’re sure of this scoop?” Scott said.

  “Yeah, I am! I am!”

  “How come? Frankly, Arnie, I like you, but I know you get crazy schemes, you’re always flying off at a tangent. I’d hate to get stuck with that dog’s breakfast F.D.R. land.”

  Arnie said, “Take my word for it.”

  “I can’t.”

  He could not believe his ears. ‘We been working together for years, and it’s always been on a word-of-mouth confidence basis,” he choked. “What’s going on, Scott?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you,” Scott said calmly. “How come a man of your business experience could bite on this phony nothing so-called scoop? The scoop is that the F.D.R. range is worthless, and you know it; I know you know it. Everybody knows it. So what are you up to?”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Why should I trust you? Prove you got real inside scoop stuff here, and not just your usual hot air.”

  With difficulty, Arnie said, “Hell, man, if I could prove it, you wouldn’t have to trust me; it wouldn’t involve trust. O.K. I’ll go into this alone, and when you find out what you missed, blame yourself, not me.” He slammed down the phone, shaking with rage and despair. What a thing to happen! He couldn’t believe it; Scott Temple, the one person in the world he could do business with over the phone. The rest of them you could throw in the ocean, they were such crooks. . . .

  It’s a misunderstanding, he told himself. But based on a deep, fundamental, insidious distrust. A schizophrenic distrust.

  A collapse, he realized, of the ability to communicate.

  Standing up, he said aloud, “I guess I got to go to Pax Grove myself and see the abstract people. Put in my claim.” And then he remembered. He would have to first stake his claim, actually go to the site, in the F.D.R. Mountains. And everything in him shrieked out in rebellion at that. At that hideous place, where the building would one day appear.

  Well, there was no way out. First have a stake made for him in one of the Union shops, then take a ‘copter and head for the Henry Wallace.

  It seemed, thinking about it, an agonizingly difficult series of actions to accomplish. How could he do all that? First he would have to find some Union metal worker who could engrave his name for him on the stake; that might take days. Who did he know in the shops here in Lewistown who could do it for him? And if he didn’t know the guy, how could he trust him?

  At last, as if swimming against an intolerable current, he managed to lift the receiver from the hook and place the call to the shop.

  I’m so tired I can hardly move, he realized. Why? What have I done so far today? His body felt crushed flat with fatigue. If only I could get some rest, he thought to himself. If only I could sleep.

  It was late in the afternoon before Arnie Kott was able to procure the metal stake with his name engraved on it from the Union shop and make arrangements for a WWU ‘copter to fly him to the F.D.R. Mountains.

  “Hi, Arnie,” the pilot greeted him, a pleasant-faced young man from the Union’s pilot pool.

  “Hi, my boy,” Arnie murmured, as the pilot assisted him into the comfortable, special leather seat which had been built for him at the settlement’s fabric and upholstery shop. As the pilot got into the seat ahead of him, Arnie said, “Now let’s hurry because I’m late; I got to get all the way there and then to the abstract office at Pax Grove.”

  And I know we won’t make it, he said to himself. There just isn’t enough time.

  16

  The Water Workers’ Union ‘copter with Goodmember Arnie Kott in it had hardly gotten into the air when the loudspeaker came on.

  “Emergency announcement. There is a small party of Bleekmen out on the open desert at gyrocompass point 4.65003 dying from exposure and lack of water. Ships north of Lewistown are instructed to direct their flights to that point with all possible speed and give assistance. United Nations law requires all commercial and private ships to respond.”

  The announcement was repeated in the crisp voice of the UN announcer, speaking from the UN transmitter on the artificial satellite somewhere overhead.

  Feeling the ‘copter alter course, Arnie said, “Aw, come on, my boy.” It was the last straw. They would never get to the F.D.R. range, let alone to Pax Grove and the abstract office.

  “I have to respond, Sir,” the pilot said. “It’s the law.”

  Now they were above the desert, moving at good speed toward the intersect which the UN announcer had given. Niggers, Arnie thought. We have to drop everything we’re doing to bail them out, the damn fools--and the worst part of it is that now I will meet Jack Bohlen. It can’t be avoided. I forgot about it: now it is too late.

  Patting his coat pocket he found the gun still there. That made him a little more cheerful; he kept his hand on it as the ‘copter lowered for its landing. Hope we can beat him here, he thought. But to his dismay he saw that the Yee Company ‘copter had landed ahead of him, and Jack Bohlen was already busy giving water to the five Bleekmen. Damn it, he thought.

  “Do you need me?” Arnie’s pilot called down from his seat. “If not I’ll go on.”

  In answer Jack Bohlen called back, “I don’t have much water for them.” He mopped his face with his handkerchief, sweating in the hot sun.

  “O.K. ,” the pilot said, and switched off his blades.

  To his pilot, Arnie said, “Tell him to step over here.”

  Hopping out with a five-gallon water can, the pilot strode over to Jack, and after a moment Jack ceased attending to the Bleekmen and walked toward Arnie Kott.

  “You wanted me?” Jack said, standing there looking up at Arnie.

  “Yes,” Arnie said. “I’m going to kill you.” He brought out his pistol and aimed it at Jack Bohlen.

  The Bleekmen had been filling their paka eggshells with water; now they stopped. A young male, dark and skinny, almost naked under the ruddy Martian sun, reached backward, behind him, to his quiver of poisoned arrows; he drew an arrow forward, fitting it onto his bow, and in a single motion he fired the arrow. Arnie Kott saw nothing; he felt a sharp pain, and looked down to see the arrow protruding from his chest, slightly below the breast bone.

  They read minds, Arnie thought. Intentions. He tried to pull the arrow out, but it would not budge. And then he realized that he was already dying. It was poisoned, and he felt it entering his limbs, stopping his circulation, rising upward to invest his brain and mind.

  Jack Bohlen, standing below him, said, “Why would you want to kill me? You don’t even know who I am.”

  “Sure I do,” Arnie managed to grunt. “You’re going to fix my encoder, and take Doreen away from me, and your father will steal all I’ve got, all that matters to me, the F.D.R. range and what’s coming.” He shut his eyes and rested.

  “You must be crazy,” Jack Bohlen said.

  “Naw,” Arnie said. “I know the future.”

  “Let me get you to a doctor,” Jack Bohlen said, leaping up into the ‘copter, pushing aside the dazed young pilot to inspect the protruding arrow. “They can give you an antidote if they get you in time.” He clicked on the motor; the blades of the ‘copter began to turn slowly and then more quickly.

  “Take me to the Henry Wallace,” Arnie muttered. “So I can drive my claim stake.”

  Jack Bohlen eyed him. “You’re Arnie Kott, aren’t you?” Getting the pilot out of the way, he seated himself a
t the controls, and at once the ‘copter began to rise into the air. “I’ll take you to Lewistown; it’s closest and they know you there.”

  Saying nothing, Arnie lay back, his eyes still shut. It had all gone wrong. He had not staked his claim and he had not done anything to Jack Bohlen. And now it was over.

  Those Bleekmen, Arnie thought as he felt Bohlen lifting him from the ‘copter. This was Lewistown; he saw, through pain-darkened eyes, buildings and people. It’s those Bleekmen’s fault, from the start; if it wasn’t for them I never would have met Jack Bohlen. I blame them for the whole thing.

  Why wasn’t he dead yet? He wondered as Bohlen carried him across the hospital’s roof field to the emergency descent ramp. A lot of time had passed; the poison surely had gone all through him. And yet he still felt, thought, understood . . . perhaps I can’t die back here in the past, he said to himself; maybe I got to linger on, unable to die and unable to return to my own time.

  How did that young Bleekman catch on so fast? They don’t ordinarily use their arrows on Earth people; it’s a capital crime. It means the end of them.

  Maybe, he thought, they were expecting me. They conspired to save Bohlen because he gave them food and water. Arnie thought, I bet they’re the ones who gave him the water witch. Of course. And when they gave it to him they knew. They knew about all this, even back then, at the very beginning.

  I’m helpless in this terrible damn schizophrenic past of Manfred Steiner’s. Let me back to my own world, my own time; I just want to get out of here, I don’t want to stake my claim or harm anybody. I just want to be back at Dirty Knobby, in the cavern with that goddamn boy. Like I was. Please, Arnie thought. Manfred!

  They--someone--was wheeling him up a dark hall on a cart of some kind. Voices. Door opening, gleaming metal: surgical instruments. He saw masked faces, felt them lay him on a table . . . help me, Manfred, he shouted down deep inside himself. They’re going to kill me! You have to take me back. Do it now or forget it, because--

  A mask of emptiness and total darkness appeared above him and was lowered. No, Arnie cried out. It’s not over; it can’t be the end of me. Manfred, for God’s sake, before this goes further and it’s too late, too late.

  I must see the bright normal reality once more, where there is not this schizophrenic killing and alienation and bestial lust and death.

  Help me get away from death, back where I belong once more

  Help, Manfred

  Help me

  A voice said, “Get up, Mister, your time has expired.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “More cigarettes, Mister.” The dirty, ancient Bleekman priest, in his gray, cobweb-like robes, bent over him, pawing at him, whining his litany again and again against his ear. “If you want to stay,. Mister, you have to pay me.” He scratched at Arnie’s coat, searching.

  Sitting up, Arnie looked for Manfred. The boy was gone.

  “Get away from me,” Arnie said, rising to his feet; he put his hands to his chest and felt nothing, no arrow there.

  He went unsteadily to the mouth of the cavern and squeezed out through the crack, into the cold midmorning sunlight of Mars.

  “Manfred!” he yelled. No sign of the boy. Well, he thought, anyhow, I am back in the real world. That’s what matters.

  And he had lost his desire to get Jack Bohlen. He had lost his desire, too, to buy into the land development of these mountains. And he can have Doreen Anderton, for all I care, Arnie said to himself as he started toward the trail up which they had previously come. But I’ll keep my word to Manfred; I’ll mail him to Earth first chance I get, and maybe the change’ll cure him, or maybe they have better psychiatrists back Home by now. Anyhow, he won’t wind up at that AM-WEB.

  As he made his way down the trail, still searching for Manfred, he saw a ‘copter flying low overhead and circling. Maybe they saw where the boy went, he said to himself. Both of them, Jack and Doreen, must have been watching all this time. Halting, he waved his arms at the ‘copter, indicating that he wanted it to land.

  The ‘copter dropped cautiously until it rested up the trail from him, in the wide place before the entrance to Dirty Knobby. The door slid aside, and a man stepped out.

  “I’m looking for that kid,” Arnie began. And then he saw that it was not Jack Bohlen. It was a man he had never seen before. Good-looking, dark-haired, with wild, emotional eyes, a man who came toward him on a dead run, at the same time waving something that glinted in the sunlight.

  “You’re Arnie Kott,” the man called to him in a shrill voice.

  “Yeah, so what?” Arnie said.

  “You destroyed my field,” the man shrieked at him, and, raising the gun, fired.

  The first bullet missed Arnie. Who are you and why are you shooting at me? Arnie Kott wondered, as he groped in his coat for his own gun. He found it, brought it out, fired back at the running man. Then it came to him who this was; this was the feeble little black-market operator who had been trying to horn in. The one we gave that lesson to, Arnie said to himself.

  The running man dodged, fell, rolled over, and fired from where he lay. Arnie’s shot had missed him, too. The shot whistled so close to Arnie this time that for a moment he thought he was hit; he put his hand instinctively to his chest. No, he realized, you didn’t get me, you bastard. Raising his pistol, Arnie aimed and prepared to fire once more at the figure.

  The world blew up around him. The sun fell from the sky; it dropped into darkness, and with it went Arnie Kott.

  After a long time the prone figure stirred. The wild-eyed man crept to his feet cautiously, stood studying Arnie, and then started toward him. As he walked he held his pistol with both hands and aimed it.

  A buzzing from above made him peer up. A shadow had swept over him and now a second ‘copter bumped to a landing between him and Arnie. The ‘copter cut the two men off from one another and Arnie Kott could no longer see the miserable little black-market operator. Out of the ‘copter leaped Jack Bohlen. He ran over to Arnie and bent down.

  “Get that guy,” Arnie whispered.

  “Can’t,” Jack said, and pointed. The black-market operator had taken off; his ‘copter rose above Dirty Knobby, floundered, then lurched forward, cleared the peak, and was gone. “Forget about him. You’re badly shot--think about yourself.”

  Arnie whispered, “Don’t worry about it, Jack. Listen to me.” He caught hold of Jack’s shirt and dragged him down so that Jack’s ear was close by. “I’ll tell you a secret,” Arnie said. “Something I’ve discovered. This is another of those schizophrenic worlds. All this goddamn schizophrenic hate and lust and death, it already happened to me once and it couldn’t kill me. First time, it was one of those poisoned arrows in the chest; now this. I’m not worried.” He shut his eyes, struggling to keep himself conscious. “Just dig up that kid, he’s around somewhere. Ask him and he’ll tell you.”

  “You’re wrong, Arnie,” Jack said, bending down beside him.

  “Wrong how?” He could barely see Bohlen, now; the scene had sunk into twilight, and Jack’s shape was dim and wraith-like.

  You can’t fool me, Arnie thought. I know I’m still in Manfred’s mind; pretty soon I’ll wake up and I won’t be shot, I’ll be O.K. again, and I’ll find my way back to my own world where things like this don’t happen. Isn’t that right? He tried to speak but was unable to.

  Appearing beside Jack, Doreen Anderton said, “He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

  Jack said nothing. He was trying to get Arnie Kott over his shoulder so that he could lug him to the ‘copter.

  Just another of those gubble-gubble worlds, Arnie said to himself as he felt Jack lift him. It sure taught me a lesson, too. I won’t do a nutty thing like this again. He tried to explain that, as Jack carried him to the ‘copter. You just did this, he wanted to say. Took me to the hospital at Lewistown to get the arrow out. Don’t you remember?

  “There’s no chance,” Jack said to Doreen as he set Arnie inside the ‘copter, “of
saving him.” He panted for breath as he seated himself at the controls.

  Sure there is, Arnie thought with indignation. What’s the matter with you, aren’t you trying? Better try, goddamn you. He made an attempt to speak, to tell Jack that, but he could not; he could say nothing.

  The ‘copter began to rise from the ground, laboring under the weight of the three people.

  During the flight back to Lewistown, Arnie Kott died.

  Jack Bohlen had Doreen take the controls, and he sat beside the dead man, thinking to himself that Arnie had died still believing he was lost in the dark currents of the Steiner boy’s mind. Maybe it’s for the best, Jack thought. Maybe it made it easier for him, at the last.

  The realization that Arnie Kott was dead filled him, to his incredulity, with grief. It doesn’t seem right, he said to himself as he sat by the dead man. It’s too harsh; Arnie didn’t deserve it, for what he did--the things he did were bad but not that bad.

  “What was it he was saying to you?” Doreen asked. She seemed to be quite calm, to have taken Arnie’s death in her stride; she piloted the ‘copter with matter-of-fact skill.

  Jack said, “He imagined this wasn’t real. That he was blundering about in a schizophrenic fantasy.”

  “Poor Arnie,” she said.

  “Do you know who that man was who shot him?”

  “Some enemy he must have made along the way somewhere.”

  They were both silent for a while.

  “We should look for Manfred,” Doreen said.

  “Yes,” Jack said. But I know where the boy is right now, he said to himself. He’s found some wild Bleekmen there in the mountains, and he’s with them; it’s obvious and certain, and it would have happened sooner or later in any case. He was not worried--he did not care--about Manfred. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, the boy was in a situation to which he might make an adjustment; he might, with the wild Bleekmen, discern a style of living which was genuinely his and not a pallid, tormented reflection of the lives of those around him, beings who were innately different from him and whom he could never resemble, no matter how hard he tried.