Philip Dick - Martian Time-Slip

Your association did not cause either of you to prosper, Dr. Glaub observed to himself.

With the help of the master circuit he got both Bohlen and the Steiner boy into his ‘copter, and presently he was flying back to New Israel and Camp B-G.

Hunched over, his hands clenched, Bohlen said, “Let me tell you what happened.”

“Please do,” Dr. Glaub said, feeling--at last--in control.

Jack Bohlen said in an uneven voice, “I went to the school to pick up my son. I took Manfred.” He twisted in his seat to look at the Steiner boy, who had not come out of his catalepsy; the boy lay rolled up on the floor of the ‘copter, as inert as a carving. “Manfred got away from me. And then--communication between me and the school broke down. All I could hear was--“ He broke off.

“Folie a deux,” Glaub murmured. Madness of two.

Bohlen said, “Instead of the school, I heard him . I heard his words coming from the Teachers.” He was silent, then.

“Manfred has a powerful personality,” Dr. Glaub said. “It is a drain on one’s resources to be around him for long. I think it would be well for you, for your own health, to abandon this project. I think you risk too much.”

“I have to see Arnie tonight,” Bohlen said in a ragged, harsh whisper.

“What about yourself? What’s going to become of you?”

Bohlen said nothing.

“I can treat you,” Dr. Glaub said, “at this stage of your difficulty. Later on--I’m not so sure.”

“In there, in that damn school,” Bohlen said, “I got completely confused; I didn’t know what to do. I kept going on, looking for someone who I could still talk to. Who wasn’t like--him.” He gestured toward the boy.

“It is a massive problem for the schizophrenic to relate to the school,” Glaub said. “The schizophrenic, such as yourself, very often deals with people through their unconscious. The teaching machines, of course, have no shadow personalities; what they are is all on the surface. Since the schizophrenic is accustomed constantly to ignore the surface and look beneath--he draws a blank. He is simply unable to understand them.”

Bohlen said, “I couldn’t understand anything they said; it was all just that--meaningless talk Manfred uses. That private language.”

“You’re fortunate you could come out of it,” Dr. Glaub said.

“I know.”

“So now what will it be for you, Bohlen? Rest and recovery? Or more of this dangerous contact with a child so unstable that--“

“I have no choice,” Jack Bohlen said.

“That’s right. You have no choice; you must withdraw.”

Bohlen said, “But I learned something. I learned how great the stakes are for me personally, in all this. Now I know what it would be like to be cut off from the world, isolated, the way Manfred is. I’d do anything to avoid that. I have no intention of giving up now.” With shaking hands he got a cigarette from his pocket and lit up.

“The prognosis for you is not good,” Dr. Glaub said.

Jack Bohlen nodded.

“There’s been a remission of your difficulty, due no doubt to your being removed from the environment of the school. Shall I be blunt? There’s no telling how long you’ll be able to function; perhaps another ten minutes, another hour-- possibly until tonight, and then you may well find yourself enduring a worse collapse. The nocturnal hours are especially bad, are they not?”

“Yes,” Bohlen said.

“I can do two things for you. I can take Manfred back to Camp B-G and I can represent you at Arnie’s tonight, be there as your official psychiatrist. I do that all the time; it’s my business. Give me a retainer and I’ll drop you off at your home.”

“Maybe after tonight,” Bohlen said. “Maybe you can represent me later on, if this gets worse. But tonight I’m taking Manfred with me to see Arnie Kott.”

Dr. Glaub shrugged. Impervious to suggestion, he realized. A sign of autism. Jack Bohlen could not be persuaded; he was too cut off already to hear and understand. Language for him had become a hollow ritual, signifying nothing.

“My boy David,” Bohlen said all at once. “I have to go back there to the school and pick him up. And my Yee Company ‘copter; it’s there, too.” His eyes had become clearer, now, as if he were emerging from his state.

“Don’t go back there,” Dr. Glaub urged him.

“Take me back.”

“Then don’t go down into the school; stay up on the field. I’ll have them send up your son--you can sit in your ‘copter until he’s up. That would be safe for you, perhaps. I’ll deal with the master circuit for you.” Dr. Glaub felt a rush of sympathy for this man, for his dogged instincts to go on in his own manner.

“Thanks,” Bohlen said. “I’d appreciate that.” He shot a smile at the doctor, and Glaub smiled back.

Arnie Kott said plaintively, “Where’s Jack Bohlen?” It was six o’clock in the evening, and Arnie sat by himself in his living room, drinking a slightly too sweet Old Fashioned which Helio had fixed.

At this moment his tame Bleekman was in the kitchen preparing a dinner entirely of black-market goodies, all from Arnie’s new stock. Reflecting that he now obtained his spread at wholesale prices, Arnie felt good. What an improvement on the old system, where Norbert Steiner made all the profit! Arnie sipped his drink and waited for his guests to arrive. In the corner, music emerged from the speakers, subtle and yet pervasive; it filled the room and lulled Goodmember Kott.

He was still in that trancelike mood when the noise of the telephone startled him awake.

“Arnie, this is Scott.”

“Oh?” Arnie said, not pleased; he preferred to deal through his cunning code system. “Look, I’ve got a vital business meeting tonight here, and unless you’ve got something--“

“This is important, all right,” Scott said. “There’s somebody else hoeing away at our row.”

Puzzled, Arnie said, “What?” And then he understood what Scott Temple meant. “You mean the goodies?”

“Yes,” Scott said. “And he’s all set up. He’s got his field, his incoming rockets, his route--he must have taken over Stein--“

“Don’t talk any further,” Arnie interrupted. “Come on over here right away.”

“Will do.” The phone clicked as Scott rang off.

How do you like that, Arnie said to himself. Just as I’m getting good and started, some bugger horns in. And I mean, I didn’t even want to get into this black-market business in the first place--why didn’t this guy tell me he wanted to take over where Steiner left off? But it’s too late now; I’m in it, and nobody’s going to force me out.

Half an hour later Scott appeared at the door, agitated; he paced about Arnie Kott’s living room, eating hors d’oeuvres and talking away at a great rate. “He’s a real pro, this guy; must have been in the business before sometime--he’s already gone all over Mars, to practically everybody, including isolated houses way out in the goddamn fringes, to those housewives out there who only buy maybe one jar of something; so he’s leaving no stone unturned. There won’t be any room for us, and we’re just barely beginning to get our operation moving. This guy, let’s face it, is running rings around us.”

“I see,” Arnie said, rubbing the bald part of his scalp.

“We’ve got to do something, Arnie.”

“Do you know where his base of operations is?”

“No, but it’s probably in the F.D.R. Mountains; that’s where Norb Steiner had his field. We’ll look there first.” In his memo book, Scott made a note of that.

“Find his field,” Arnie said, “and let me know. And I’ll have a Lewistown police ship out there.”

“Then he’ll know who’s against him.”