Philip Dick - The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch

“I came here to ask your advice,” he said. “But now I’ve decided it’s unnecessary.” He wandered to the window, set his bulging sample case down, and gazed out.

“Do you mind if I go on working? I had a good idea, or at least it seemed good at the time.” She rubbed her forehead, then massaged her eyes. “Now I don’t know, and I feel so tired. I wonder if it has to do with E Therapy.”

“Evolution therapy? You’re taking that?” He spun at once to scrutinize her; had she changed physically?

It seemed to him—but this was perhaps because he had not seen her for so long—that her features had coarsened.

Age , he thought. But –

“How’s it working?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve just had one session. But you know, my mind feels so muddy. I can’t seem to think properly; all my ideas get scrambled up together.”

“I think you had better knock off on that therapy. Even if it is the rage; even if it is what everybody who is anybody does.”

“Maybe so. But they seem so satisfied. Richard and Dr. Denkmal.” She hung her head, an old familiar response. “They’d know, wouldn’t they?”

“Nobody knows; it’s uncharted. Knock it off. And you always let people walk all over you.” He made his tone commanding; he had used that tone with her countless times during their years together, and generally it had worked. Not always.

And this time, he saw, was one of them; she got that stubborn look in her eyes, the refusal to be normally passive. “I think it’s up to me,” she said with dignity. “And I intend to continue.”

Shrugging, he roamed about the conapt. He had no power over her; nor did he care. But was that true? Did he really not care? An image appeared in his mind, of Emily devolving… and at the same time trying to work on her pots, trying to be creative. It was funny—and dreadfuI.

“Listen,” he said roughly. “If that guy actually loves you—”

“But I told you,” Emily said. “It’s my decision.” She returned to her wheel; a great tall pot was being thrown, and he walked over to get a good look at it. A nice one, he decided. And yet—familiar. Hadn’t she done such a pot already? He said nothing, however; he merely studied it. “What do you suppose you’re going to do?” Emily asked. “Who could you work for?” She seemed sympathetic and it made him remember how, recently, he had blocked the sale of her pots to P. P. Layouts. Easily, she could have held a great animosity toward him, but it was typical of her not to. And of course she knew that it was he who had turned Hnatt down.

He said, “My future may be decided. I got a draft notice.”

“Good grief. You on Mars; I can’t picture it.”

“I can chew Can-D,” he said. “Only—” Instead of having a Perky Pat layout, he thought, maybe I’ll have an Emily layout. And spend time, in fantasy, back with you, back to the life I deliberately, moronically, turned my back on. The only really good period of my life, when I was genuinely happy. But of course I didn’t know it, because I had nothing to compare it to… as I have now. “Is there any chance,” he said, “that you’d like to come?”

She stared at him and he stared back, both of them dumfounded by what he had proposed.

“I mean it,” he said.

“When did you decide that?”

“It doesn’t matter when I decided it,” he said. “All that matters is that that’s how I feel.”

“It also matters how I feel,” Emily said quietly; she then resumed potting. “And I’m perfectly happy married to Richard. We get along just swell.” Her face was placid; beyond doubt she meant every word of it. He was damned, doomed, consigned to the void which he had hollowed out for himself. And he deserved it. They both knew that, without either saying it.

“I guess I’ll go,” he said.

Emily didn’t protest that, either. She merely nodded.

“I hope in the name of God,” he said, “that you’re not devolving. I think you are, personally. I can see it, in your face for instance. Look in the mirror.” With that he departed; the door shut after him. Instantly he regretted what he had said, and yet it might be a good thing… It might help her , he thought. Because I could see it. And I don’t want that; nobody does. Not even that jackass of a husband of hers that she prefers over me… for reasons I’ll never know, except perhaps that marriage to him has the aspect of destiny. She’s fated to live with Richard Hnatt, fated never to be my wife again; you can’t reverse the flow of time.

You can when you chew Can-D, he thought. Or the new product, Chew-Z. All the colonists do. It’s not available on Earth but it is on Mars or Venus or Ganymede, any of the frontier colonies.

If everything else fails, there’s that.

And perhaps it already had failed. Because—

In the last analysis he could not go to Palmer Eldritch. Not after what the man had done—or tried to do—to Leo. He realized this as he stood outdoors waiting for a cab. Beyond him the midday street shimmered and he thought, Maybe I ’ ll step out there. Would anyone find me before I died? Probably not. It would be as good a way as any …

So there goes my last hope of employment. It would amuse Leo that I’d balk here. He’d be surprised and probably pleased.

Just for the hell of it, he decided, I’ll call Eldritch, ask him, see if he would give me a job.

He found a vidphone booth and put through a call to Eldritch’s demesne on Luna.

“This is Barney Mayerson,” he explained. “Previously top Pre-Fash consultant to Leo Bulero; as a matter of fact I was second in command at P. P. Layouts.”

Eldritch’s personnel manager frowned and said, “Well? What do you want?”

“I’d like to see about a job with you.”

“We’re not hiring any Pre-Fash consultants. Sorry.”

“Would you ask Mr. Eldritch, please?”

“Mr. Eldritch has already expressed himself on the matter.”

Barney hung up. He left the vidphone booth.

He was not really surprised.

If they had said, Come to Luna for an interview , would I have gone? Yes, he realized. I’d have gone but at some point I’d have pulled out. Once I had firmly established that they’d give me the job.

Returning to the vidphone booth he called his UN selective service board. “This is Mr. Barney Mayerson.” He gave them his official code-ident number. “I received my notice the other day. I’d like to waive the formalities and go right in. I’m anxious to emigrate.”

“The physical can’t be bypassed,” the UN bureaucrat informed him. “Nor can the mental. But if you choose you may come by any time, right now if you wish, and take both.”

“Okay,” he said. “I will.”

“And since you are volunteering, Mr. Mayerson, you get to pick—”

“Any planet or moon is fine with me,” he said. He rang off, left the booth, found a cab, and gave it the address of the selective service board near his conapt building.

As the cab hummed above downtown New York another cab rose and zipped ahead of it, wig-wagging its side fins in a rocking motion.

“They are trying to contact us,” the autonomic circuit of his own cab informed him. “Do you wish to respond?”

“No,” Barney said. “Speed up.” And then he changed his mind. “Can you ask them who they are?”

“By radio, perhaps.” The cab was silent a moment and then it stated, “They claim to have a message for you from Palmer Eldritch; he wants to tell you that he will accept you as an employee and for you not to—”

“Let’s have that again,” Barney said.

“Mr. Palmer Eldritch, whom they represent, will employ you as you recently requested. Although they have a general rule—”