Philip Dick - Now Wait for Last Year

A tiny Terran-controlled state might function for a limited time in the Cheyenne vicinity, shelled and bombed day and night by the 'Starmen. But then it, too, would capitulate. Its shield of Jupiter-obtained rexeroid compounds would not protect it forever – and Molinari knew that. Terra would become a conquered state, supplying war materiel and slave labor to Lilistar. And the war would go on.

And the irony was this: as a slave planet Terra would be able to contribute more to the war effort than she did now as a quasi-independent entity. And no one recognized this more than did the Mole. Hence his entire foreign policy; this explained everything that he did.

'By the way,' Willy K said, and there was a trace of amusement in his voice. 'Your former employer, Virgil Ackerman, is still alive; he still governs Tijuana Fur & Dye. He is two hundred and thirty years old and retains twenty org-trans surgeons within call. I believe I have read that he has gone through four matched sets of kidneys, five livers, spleens, and undetermined numbers of hearts—'

'I feel sick,' Eric said, and rocked back and forth.

The drug is wearing off.' Willy K floated toward a chair. 'Miss Ceeg, assist him, please!'

'I'm okay,' Eric said thickly. His head ached and nausea staggered him. All the lines, the surfaces around him, had become astigmatic; under him the chair felt unreal and then, abruptly, he fell, lay on his side.

'The transition is difficult,' Willy K said. 'Apparently we can't help him, Miss Ceeg. Good luck to your Secretary, doctor. I can appreciate what a great service he performed for your people. Perhaps I will write a letter to the New York Times, conveying this knowledge.'

A prism of primal colors tapped at Eric like an illuminated wind; it was, he thought, the wind of life blowing over him, sweeping him where it desired without regard for his small wishes. And then the winds became black; they were no longer the winds of life but the opaque smoke of death.

He saw, projected as a pseudo environment around him, a travesty of his injured nervous system; the multitudes of conduits were visibly corrupted, had turned inky as the drug's damage spread throughout him and established its grim self. A voiceless bird, some carrion eater of the storm, sat on his chest, croaking in the silence left behind as the winds receded from him. The bird remained and he felt its dunglike claws penetrate his lungs, his chest cavity, and then his abdominal cavity. Nothing within him remained untouched; it had all been disfigured and even the antidote had not stopped this. As long as he lived he would never regain the purity of the original organism.

This was the price exacted from him by the deciding forces.

Dragging himself to a crouched position, he saw that he inhabited an empty waiting room. No one had seen him and he was free to get up and go. He rose to his feet, steadied himself by means of a chrome and leather chair.

The magazines, in the nearby rack, were in English. And on their covers, laughing Terrans. Not reegs.

'Did you want something?' A male voice, lisping slightly. A Hazeltine employee wearing florid, fashionable robes.

'No,' Eric said. This was his own time; he recognized the trappings of 2055. Thanks just the same.'

A moment later he had made his way painfully outdoors in the direction of the sidewalk, down the path of redwood-rounds.

What he wanted was a cab, a place to sit down and rest. As he made his trip back to Cheyenne. He had gotten what he wanted; presumably he was no longer an addict and if he cared to he could also free his wife. And in addition he had viewed a world over which the shadow of Lilistar did not obtain.

'Ferry you somewhere, sir?' An autonomic cab drifted toward him.

'Yes,' he said, and walked toward it.

Suppose an entire planet took the drug, he thought as he boarded. A mass fugue away from our dismal, ever narrowing world of reality. Suppose Tijuana Fur & Dye gave the order to produce it in enormous quantity, distributed it, through the government's help, to everyone. Would that be a moral solution? Are we entitled to that?

Anyhow it couldn't be done. The 'Starmen would move in first.

'Where to sir?' the cab's circuit inquired.

He decided to use it for the entire trip; it would take only a few minutes longer. To Cheyenne.'

'I can't, sir. Not there.' It sounded nervous. 'Request another—'

'Why not?' He came awake instantly.

'Because as is well known all Cheyenne belongs to them. To the enemy.' It added, 'And traffic into enemy areas is illegal, as you know.'

'What enemy?'

'The traitor Gino Molinari,' the cab answered. 'Who sought to betray the war effort; you know, sir. The former UN Secretary who conspired with reeg agents to—'

'What is the date?' Eric demanded.

'June 15, 2056.'

He had – possibly through the action of the antidote – failed to make it to his own time; it was one year later and there was nothing he could do about it. And he had saved no more of the drug; the rest had been given to Kathy at the Airfield, and so he was stuck here in what obviously was 'Star-dominated territory. Like most of Terra.

And yet Gino Molinari was alive! He still hung on; Cheyenne had not fallen in a day or a week – perhaps the reegs had been able to bring in reinforcements to assist the Secret Service.

He could find out from the cab. As they flew along.

And Don Festenburg could have told me this, he realized, because this is precisely the time period at which I encountered him there in his office with the phony homeopape and mock-up UN Secretary uniform.

'Just head west,' he told the cab. I've got to get back to Cheyenne, he realized. Somehow, by some route.

'Yes sir,' the cab said. 'And by the way, sir, you failed to show me your travel permit. May I see it now? Just a formality, of course.'

'What travel permit?' But he knew; it would be an issue of the governing 'Star occupation agency, and without their permission Terrans could not come and go. This was a conquered planet and very much still at war.

'Please, sir,' the cab said. It had begun to descend once more. 'Otherwise I am required to carry you to the nearest 'Star military police barracks; that is one mile east. A short trip from here.'

'I'll bet it is,' Eric agreed. 'From any point, not just from here. I'll bet they're all over.'

The cab dropped lower and lower. 'Right you are, sir. They're very convenient.' It clicked off its engine and coasted.

'I'll tell you what,' Eric said as the cab's wheels touched the ground; it slid to a gradual halt at the curb and he saw, just ahead, an ominous structure with armed guards at the entrance. The guards wore the gray of Lilistar. 'I'll make a deal with you.'

'What deal?' the cab said, with suspicion.

'My travel permit is back at Hazeltine Corporation – remember, where you picked me up? Along with my wallet. All my money's there, too. If you turn me over to the 'Star military police my money won't be worth anything to me; you know what they'll do.'

'Yes sir,' the cab agreed. 'You'll be put to death. It's the new law, passed by decree on the tenth of May. Unauthorized travel by—'

'So why not give my money to you? As a tip. You take me back to Hazeltine Corporation, I'll pick up my wallet, I'll show you my travel permit so you won't have to bring me here again. And you can have the money. You can see how I'd benefit by the deal and how you would too.'

'We'd both gain,' the cab agreed. Its autonomic circuit clicked .rapidly as it calculated. 'How much money do you have, sir?'

'I'm a courier for Hazeltine. In my wallet there's about twenty-five thousand dollars.'

'I see! In occupation scrip or in pre-ocupation UN banknotes?'

'The latter of course.'