Philip Dick - The Unteleported Man

"How disgusting," Gretchen Borbman said. To the others she said, "A tin of Yucatán prophoz. The worst kind possible — fully automated, helium-battery powered, good for a five-year life span... is this what you had in mind, Mr. ben Applebaum, when you diddled me a moment ago?"

"No," he said. "I forgot Ihad these." Chilled, he thought, Have I had this all along? The cammed, hyper­minned UN weapon: the personnel variation of the time-warping construct which constituted the major device in Horst Bertold's arsenal. Naturally he retained it; the effectiveness of the camouflage lay beyond dispute — and had now been tested and ratified in prac­tice... it had even seemed to him, during the first moment of discovery, that this was exactly as it ap­peared to be: a box of prophoz and nothing more.

"Out of respect for decency and the women present here," the Hank Szantho eye-eater stated, "I believe you should put that obnoxiously specific tin away, Mr. ben Applebaum; don't you, on second thought, agree?"

"I suppose so," he said. And opened the tin.

Acrid smoke billowed about him, stinging his nos­trils. He halted, dropped into an instinctive crouch of self-defense; here, on the ninth planet of the Fomalhaut System, Rachmael ben Applebaum held the opened tin of Yucatán prophoz, studied the tiny, intricate con­trols of the time-warping instrument which the UN had provided him. More fun after done, he said to himself. Well, we'll see; we'll wait until we're done — we'll wait until we've found Freya.

That was his purpose, here at Whale's Mouth; noth­ing else mattered.

Directly before him a soldier appeared. Huge owl-like eyes fixed on him... he stared back; he and the THL soldier confronted each other, both shocked into im­mobility by surprise. And then Rachmael dropped, rolled.

Barely in time. The LSD dart, with a muffled pop, passed over his head and exploded somewhere behind him. Out of range.

Fumbling for the prophoz tin, he thought, Too soon; they picked me up almost at once. Standing over him, the THL soldier took careful aim; this time he would not miss. The grubby, professional fingers squeezed the trigger of the dart-launcher —

And Rachmael once more spun the controls of the time-warpage device.

"Genet," the maitre d' called sternly, with overtones of fussiness.

A waitress, wearing the lace stockings and partial jacket-vest now popular, approached; her right nipple, exposed, ornately capped by a complex Swiss construct which played semi-classical music continually and at the same time lit and relit in a series of lovely light-patterns, winked at Rachmael enticingly. "Yes, Caspar," the girl sighed, with a toss of her dark-blonde, high-piled natu­ral hair.

"Escort Mr. Applebaum to table twenty-three," the maitre d' told her, and ignored with haughty indiffer­ence the outraged line of customers who had been wait­ing god knew how long for a table.

"I don't want to — " Rachmael began, but the maitre d' cut him off.

"All arranged. She is waiting at twenty-three." He winked, then, at Rachmael, as if he knew everything. It was, Rachmael decided, a compliment; anyhow he had no choice but to accept it as that.

Through the noise and darkness of the Fox's Lair he followed the light-emitting useful nipple-assist of the waitress. By table after table they walked, and then, all at once, Genet halted.

There, seated in silence, smoking a cigarette, sat Freya Holm.

"You understand," Rachmael said as he took the chair beside her, "that this is the second time. That I've met you here." From her pack he took a cigarette, read the health-warning sticker, then lit up. At least it is for me, he realized. But I suppose not for you.

"No," Freya said, shaking her head. "I don't un­derstand. Do you want to explain it to me, or do you enjoy mystifying young ladies? "

Reaching into his pocket he groped for the tin of Yucatan prophoz...

And found nothing.

"Of course," he said, feeling hot prickles of chagrin ignite the back of his reddening neck. "I'm now back too far." Before the U.N. wep-x people provided me with it, he realized. So I can't use it again; I'm on my own, now. Exactly as I was when I sat here before. It was a darkly sobering realization; the rapprochement with Horst Bertold had not taken place — and possibly never would. The future — and that important moment had again become a portion of the future, not the past — was always in absolute flux. Everything that had been accomplished with Bertold — in fact everything that had been done period — had been expunged, wiped away.

Everything, too, which had gone wrong. That had been obliterated as well — hence his return, here to this spot, to this moment in his life, the moment when the first successful sortie against them had been carried out: the moment when Freya Holm had failed to transfer the deep-sleep components from her possession to his.

"... There is a strip of titanium within the righthand overleaf of the menu," Freya was saying softly to him. "The container of scent within my purse has a titanium-tropic ambulation-circuit; it will within one or two seconds register the presence of the strip and will then rotate itself out of my purse, which I've left open on purpose. It will travel across the underside of the menu. Do you see?"

"I see," Rachmael said, "but I can tell you that it's all a damn waste of technog and time; a robot operating for Ferry's interest is going to intercept the components and I'll never get my hands on them. Take my word for it." Because I know, he said savagely to himself, with overpowering wrath.

"In that case we have another plan." Freya Holm did not appear perturbed. "The Omphalos will be systemat­ically disassembled, reduced to sections small enough to pass through a Telpor station as luggage. On the far side, at Whale's Mouth, technicians from Lies Incorpo­rated will reassemble the ship, and, from the Fomalhaut system, you will travel across deep space back to Terra. How do you feel about that? Would you compromise in that extent? If we can't manage to get the components to you, as you say — "

"Be quiet." He had spotted the busboy who, carrying the chest-high load of dishes, would bump him at the crucial instant and acquire the vital deep-sleep com­ponents before he could transfer them to his cloak pocket. Now that I know, he mused, is it possible that I can deflect it? Does my advance knowledge equip me to deal with this action on the part of Theo Ferry? He did not know enough about time travel to be sure. But if the knowledge proved useless, then why did the UN regard the time-warping construct as a major weapon?

He had to assume — by the logical of the situation — that his prior knowledge would constitute, at least potentially, a decisive new factor; the original scene would not unroll mechanically, to the same termination.

Based on this realization it seemed evident that he should make at least one overt try to thwart the robot busboy. And if he failed — then he was no worse off then before, at the original encounter. And he had made a successful escape from the class of weevils, from the threat

See Note on page V

I can still obtain the deep-sleep components, he realized. Despite what the menu says. But —

Do I still want them?

There was nothing now to learn about Whale's Mouth; he had been there, seen it all.

Or had he?

"All I've seen," he said slowly, aloud, "is one para-world after another." Chilled, he realized, I still don't know which is real. The class, through its Control Sheila Quam, had been on the verge of determining which of the several possibilities was the authentic one. Had he waited fifteen minutes longer he would have found out.

A weak shock made his right hand tingle; the con­tainer of deep-sleep components within Freya's purse had responded to the strip of titanium in the menu and had already crawled across the underside of the page to make physical contact with him.