Philip Dick - Time Out of Joint

The screen showed him riding along.

"Fine," the young man wearing shorts and undershirt said. He got out his electric shaver, snapped it on, and, watching the screen, finished shaving.

The highway patrolman on the screen began pursuing a car. After a while he caught up with the car and waved it to a stop at the side of the road. The young man, shaving reflexively, studied the expression on the highway patrolman's face.

The highway patrolman said, "All right, may I see your driver's license please?"

The young man said, "All right, may I see your driver's license please?"

The door of the trapped car opened and a middle-aged man wearing a white shirt and unpressed slacks got out, reaching into his pocket. "What's the matter, officer?" he said.

The highway patrolman said, "Are you aware that this is a limited speed zone, sir?"

The young man said, "Are you aware that this is a limited speed zone, sir?"

The driver said, "Sure, I was only doing forty-five, like it said back there on the sign." He passed his wallet to the highway patrolman, who took it and studied the license. On the screen a blow-up of the license appeared. It remained until the young man had finished shaving, dabbed after-shave lotion in his face, rinsed out his mouth with antibax, squirted deodorant under his arms, and started to find his shirt. Then the license vanished.

"Your license has expired, mister," the highway patrolman said.

As he slid his shirt from the hanger the young man said, "Your license has expired, mister."

The telephone rang. He leaped over to the tape-transport, struck the idle-key, and called, "Hello."

From the wall the muted voice said, "He is now talking to Wade Schulmann."

"Okay," the young man said.

The phone clicked off. He started up the tape again, this time at fast forward wind. When he stopped it and returned it to the play position, the highway patrolman was walking around a car and saying to the lady driver,

"Would you please press down with your foot on the brake pedal."

"I don't see what this is all about," the lady driver said. "I'm in a hurry and this is a ridiculous inconvenience. I know a little about law, furthermore."

The young man tied his tie, looped his heavy leather belt, strapped on his pistol and holster. "I'm sorry, mister," he said as he stuck on his visored cap. "Your tail light isn't showing. You're not permitted to drive without a proper tail light. You'll have to park your car. Could I see your license?"

As he was putting on his coat, the telephone rang again.

"Hello," he said, peering at himself in the mirror.

"He's walking to the car with Wade Schulmann and Philip Burns," the muted voice said.

"Okay," the young man said. Going to the tape-transport he halted an inch of tape that showed the highway patrolman, close-up, front-view, and then, at the mirror, he compared himself with him. Darn good, he decided.

"Now they're entering the Standard Station," the muted voice said. "Get ready to leave."

"I'm on my way," he said. He closed the door after him, walked up the dark concrete ramp to the parked motorcycle. Getting onto the seat he jumped with his full weight on the starter-pedal. The motor started. Hopping along he glided the motorcycle out onto the street, switched on the headlight, pressed the clutch down, put it in gear, let the clutch out as he gave the motor gas. With a loud noise the motorcycle moved forward; he hung on inexpertly until it had gained speed, and then he relaxed and sat back. At the first intersection he turned right, toward the highway.

He had got onto the highway before he realized that he had forgotten something. What was it? Some part of his uniform.

His sun-glasses.

Did he wear them at night? As he rode along the highway, past the cars and trucks, he tried to remember. Maybe to cut down the glare from oncoming headlights. Holding onto the handlebar with one hand he reached into his coat pocket. There they were. He lifted them out and fitted them onto his nose.

How dark, with the sun-glasses in place. For a moment he saw nothing, only blackness.

Maybe it was a mistake.

Taking off the sun-glasses he experimented, watching the road through them and then not through them. On his left, a big vehicle of some kind moved up abreast with him. He paid little attention to it. A trailer with a car pulling it; he speeded up his motorcyle to pass it. The trailer speeded up, too.

Damn, he said to himself. He had forgotten something, all right. His gloves. His bare hands, one gripping the handlebar, the other holding the sun-glasses, began to become numb with cold.

Time enough to go back? No, he decided.

Squinting, he peered for a sight of the yellow Ford pick-up truck. It would enter the highway at the signal light.

On his left, the trailer had got up so that it was ahead of him. He became aware that gradually it was pulling into his lane. Christ, he thought. Putting away the sun-glasses, he steered his motorcycle into the lane to his right. A horn sounded; there was a car directly on his right. He swerved back. At the same time, the trailer came sweeping at him. His hand flew to the horn. What horn? Did motorcycles have horns? Sirens. He bent to switch on the siren.

When the siren wailed on, the trailer ceased to press at him. It returned to its own lane. And the car on his right gave him more clearance.

Noticing that, he felt more confidence.

By the time he spotted the yellow Ford pick-up truck, he had begun to enjoy his job.

As soon as he heard the siren behind him, Ragle knew that they had made up their minds to get him. He did not slow down. But he did not speed up. He waited until he could tell for certain that it was a cycle, not a car, that had got on his tail. And he saw only one of them.

Now I've got to use my sense of time and space, he said to himself. My masterful talent.

He sized up the traffic-pattern around him, the positions and speeds of the cars. Then, when he had it fixed in mind, he cut sharply into the lane to his left, between two cars. The one behind slowed; it had no choice. Without any fuss he had wedged the pick-up truck into a dense pack of traffic. Then, in rapid succession, he lane-hopped until he had got ahead of a massive two-section rig that hid him from anything following. Meanwhile, the siren continued to wail. Now he could not tell exactly where the cycle was. And, he thought, he's undoubtedly lost sight of me.

Between the rig and the sedan ahead of him, his tail lights could not be seen. And, at night, the cop had only the tail lights to go on.

All at once the motorcycle shot by in the lane to his left. The cop turned his head and identified him. But he could not get near the pick-up truck; he had to go on. Traffic had not stopped. The drivers could not tell who was being pursued; they thought the motorcycle meant to go farther on.

Now he'll wait for me, Ragle guessed. At once he changed lanes, cutting over to the left-hand lane, so that there were two lanes of traffic between him and the motorcycle. He'll be off on the shoulder. Ragle slowed down so that cars behind him felt forced to pass on the right. The traffic to his right became heavy.

Momentarily he glimpsed the motorcycle parked off on the gravel shoulder. The cop, in his uniform, peered back. He did not see the pick-up truck, and a moment later Ragle was safe. Well past. Now he speeded up; for the first time he shot ahead of the other traffic.

Soon he saw the signal light that he wanted.

But he did not see the Seaside Station that he had been told to look for.

Odd, he thought.

I had better get off the highway, he said to himself. So that I don't get flagged down again. No doubt there is something I've violated; this truck doesn't have the proper-colored reflector strips on its rear bumper or some such device. Anything for an excuse, so that the machinery can go into motion, and all the forces can close in around me.