Philip Dick: The Complete Stories of Philip K. Dick Vol. 4:

Couldn't find no one to put up his bail.

Blame Max Fischer! Blame Max Fischer!"

Rags explained, "That's the chorus, 'Blame Max Fischer!' Okay?"

"All right," Hada said, nodding.

"The Lord came along, said, Max, I'm mad.

Casting that man in jail, that was bad.

Blame Max Fischer! the good Lord cried.

Poor Jim Briskin, his rights denied.

Blame Max Fischer! I'm here to tell;

Good Lord say, Him go straight to hell.

Repent, Max Fischer! There's only one route:

Get on my good side; let Jim-Jam out."

Rags explained to Hada, "Now here's what's going to happen." He cleared his throat:

"Bad Max Fischer, he saw the light,

Told Leon Lait, We got to do right.

Sent a message down to turn that key,

Open that door and let Jim-Jam free.

Old Jim Briskin saw an end to his plight;

Jail door open now, lets in the light.

"That's all," Rags informed Hada. "It's a sort of holler type of folk song, a spiritual where you tap your foot. Do you like it?"

Hada managed to nod. "Oh sure. Anything's fine."

"Shall I tell Mr. Kaminsky you want me to air it over CULTURE?"

"Air away," Hada said. He did not care; the death of Zoe still weighed on his mind – he felt responsible, because after all it had been his bodyguards who had done it, and the fact that Zoe had been insane, had been trying to destroy him, did not seem to matter. It was still a human life; it was still murder. "Listen," he said to Rags on impulse, "I want you to make up another song, now."

With sympathy, Rags said, "I know, Mr. Hada. A ballad about the sad death of your former wife Zoe. I been thinking about that and I have a ballad all ready. Listen:

"There once was a lady fair to see and hear;

Wander, spirit, over field and star,

Sorrowful, but forgiving from afar.

That spirit knows who did her in.

It was a stranger, not her kin.

It was Max Fischer who knew her not -"

Hada interrupted, "Don't whitewash me, Rags; I'm to blame. Don't put everything on Max as if he's a whipping boy."

Seated in the corner of the office, listening quietly, Dr. Yasumi now spoke up. "And also too much credit to President Fischer in your ballads, Rags. In ballad of Jim-Jam's release from jail, you specifically give credit to Max Fischer for ethical change of heart. This will not do. The credit for Jim-Jam's release must go to Hada. Listen, Rags; I have composed a poem for this occasion."

Dr. Yasumi chanted:

"News clown nestles not in jail.

A friend, Sebastian Hada, got him free.

He loves that friend, regards him well.

Knows whom to honor, and to seek."

"Exactly thirty-two syllables," Dr. Yasumi explained modestly. "Old-style Japanese-type haiku poetry does not have to rhyme as do U.S.-English ballads, however must get right to the point, which in this matter is all-important." To Rags he said, "You make my haiku into ballad, okay? In your typical fashion, in rhythmic, rhyming couplets, et cetera, and so on."

"I counted thirty-three syllables," Rags said. "Anyhow, I'm a creative artist; I'm not used to being told what to compose." He turned to Hada. "Who'm I working for, you or him? Not him, as far as I know."

"Do as he says," Hada told Rags. "He's a brilliant man."

Sullenly, Rags murmured, "Okay, but I didn't expect this sort of job when I signed the contract." He retired to a far corner of the office to brood, think, and compose.

"What are you involved with, here, Doctor?" Hada asked.

"We'll see," Dr. Yasumi said mysteriously. "Theory about psi power of this balladeer, here. May pay off, may not."

"You seem to feel that the exact wording of Rags's ballads is very important," Hada said.

"That's right," Dr. Yasumi agreed. "As in legal document. You wait, Hada; you find out – if I right – eventually. If I wrong, doesn't matter anyhow." He smiled encouragingly at Hada.

The phone in President Max Fischer's office rang. It was the Attorney General, his cousin, calling in agitation. "Max, I went over to the federal pen where Jim-Jam is, to see about quashing the charges against him like you were talking about -" Leon hesitated. "He's gone, Max. He's not in there anymore." Leon sounded wildly nervous.

"How'd he get out?" Max said, more baffled than angry.

"Art Heaviside, Hada's attorney, found a way; I don't know yet what it is – I have to see Circuit Court Judge Dale Winthrop, about it; he signed the release order an hour or so ago. I have an appointment with Winthrop… as soon as I've seen him, I'll call you back."

"I'll be darned," Max said slowly. "Well, we were too late." He hung up the phone reflexively and then stood deep in thought. What has Hada got going for him? he asked himself. Something I don't understand.

And now the thing to watch for, he realized, is Jim Briskin showing up on TV. On CULTURE's network.

With relief he saw on the screen – not Jim Briskin but a folksinger plucking away on a banjo.

And then he realized that the folksinger was singing about him.

"Bad Max Fischer, he saw the light,

Told Leon Lait, We got to do right.

Sent a message down to turn that key."

Listening, Max Fischer said aloud, "My God, that's exactly what happened! That's exactly what I did!" Eerie, he thought. What's it mean, this ballad singer on CULTURE who sings about what I'm doing – secret matters that he couldn't possibly know about!

Telepathic maybe, Max thought. That must be it.

Now the folksinger was narrating and plucking about Sebastian Hada, how Hada had been personally responsible for getting Jim-Jam Briskin out of jail. And it's true, Max said to himself. When Leon Lait got there to the federal pen, he found Briskin gone because of Art Heaviside's activity… I better listen pretty carefully to this singer, because for some reason he seems to know more than I do.

But the singer now had finished.

The CULTURE announcer was saying, "That was a brief interlude of political ballads by the world-renowned Ragland Park. Mr. Park, you'll be pleased to hear, will appear on this channel every hour for five minutes of new ballads, composed here in culture's studios for the occasion. Mr. Park will be watching the teletypers and will compose his ballads to -"

Max switched the set off then.

Like calypso, Max realized. New ballads. God, he thought dismally. Suppose Parks sings about Unicephalon 40-D coming back.

I have a feeling, he thought, that what Ragland Park sings turns out to be true. It's one of those psionic talents.

And they, the opposition, are making use of this.

On the other hand, he thought, I might have a few psionic talents of my own. Because if I didn't, I wouldn't have gotten as far as I have.

Seated before the TV set, he switched it on once again and waited, chewing his lower lip and pondering what he should do. As yet he could come up with nothing. But I will, sooner or later, he said to himself. And before they come up with the idea of bringing Unicephalon 40-D back…

Dr. Yasumi said, "I have solved what Ragland Park's psi talent is, Hada. You care to know?"

"I'm more interested in the fact that Jim-Jam is out of jail," Hada answered. He put down the receiver of the telephone, almost unable to believe the news. "He'll be here right away," he said to Dr. Yasumi. "He's on his way direct, by monorail. We'll see that he gets to Callisto, where Max has no jurisdiction, so they can't possibly rearrest him." His mind swirled with plans. Rubbing his hands together, he said rapidly, "Jim-Jam can broadcast from our transmitter on Callisto. And he can live at my demesne there – that'll be beer and skittles for him – I know he'll agree."