Philip Dick - Martian Time-Slip

In a faint but controlled voice Doreen said, “Arnie, listen. If you push Jack too far and injure him, I’ll never go to bed with you again. I promise.”

“Everybody’s protecting him, no wonder he’s sick.”

“He’s a good person.”

“He better be a good technician, too; he better have that kid’s mind spread out like a road map for me to read.”

They faced each other.

Shaking her head, Doreen turned away, picking up her drink, and moved off, her back to Arnie. “O.K. I can’t tell you what to do. You can pick up a dozen women as good in bed as me; what am I to big Arnie Kott?” Her voice was bleak and envenomed.

He followed after her awkwardly. “Hell, Dor, you’re unique, I swear, you’re incredible, like what a swell smooth back you got, that dress you wore here, it showed it.” He stroked her neck. “A knockout, even by Home standards.”

The door chimes sounded.

“That’s him,” Arnie said, moving at once toward the door.

He opened the door, and there stood Jack Bohlen, looking tired. With him was a boy who danced unceasingly about on tiptoe, from one side of Jack to the other, his eyes shining, taking in everything and yet not focusing on any one thing. The boy at once slithered past Arnie and into the living room, where Arnie lost sight of him.

Disconcerted, Arnie said to Jack Bohlen, “Enter.”

“Thanks, Arnie,” Jack said, coming in. Arnie shut the door, and the two of them looked around for Manfred.

“He went in the kitchen,” Doreen said.

Sure enough, when Arnie opened the kitchen door, there stood the boy, raptly observing Heliogabalus. “What’s the matter?” Arnie said to the boy. “You never saw a Bleekman before?”

The boy said nothing.

“What’s that dessert you’re making, Helio?” Arnie said.

“Flan,” Heliogabalus said. “A filipino dish, a custard with a caramel sauce. From Mrs. Rombauer’s cookbook.”

“Manfred,” Arnie said, “this here is Heliogabalus.”

Standing at the kitchen doorway, Doreen and Jack watched, too. The boy seemed deeply affected by the Bleekman, Arnie noticed. As if under a spell, he followed with his eyes every move Helio made. With painstaking care, Helio was pouring the flan into molds which he carried to the freezing compartment of the refrigerator.

Almost shyly, Manfred said, “Hello.”

“Hey,” Arnie said. “He said an actual word.”

Helio said in a cross voice, “I must ask all of you to leave the kitchen. Your presence makes me self-conscious so that I cannot work.” He glared at them until, one by one, they left the kitchen. The door, shut from within, swung closed after them, cutting off the sight of Helio at his job.

“He’s sort of odd,” Arnie apologized. “But he sure can cook.”

Jack said to Doreen, “That’s the first time I’ve heard Manfred do that.” He seemed impressed, and he walked off by himself, ignoring the rest of them, to stand at the window.

Joining him, Arnie said, “What do you want to drink?”

“Bourbon and water.”

“I’ll fix it,” Arnie said. “I can’t bother Helio with trivia like this.” He laughed, but Jack did not.

The three of them sat with their drinks, for a time. Manfred, given some old magazines to read, stretched out on the carpet, once more oblivious to their presence.

“Wait’ll you taste this meal,” Arnie said.

“Smells wonderful,” Doreen said.

“All black market,” Arnie said.

Both Doreen and Jack, together on the couch, nodded.

“This is a big night,” Arnie said.

Again they nodded.

Raising his drink, Arnie said, “Here’s to communication. Without which there wouldn’t be a goddamn nothin’.”

Somberly, Jack said, “I’ll drink to that, Arnie.” However, he had already finished his drink; he gazed at the empty glass, evidently at a loss.

“I’ll get you another,” Arnie said, taking it from him.

At the sideboard, as he fixed a fresh drink for Jack, he saw that Manfred had grown bored with the magazines; once more the boy was on his feet, roaming around the room. Maybe he’d like to cut out and paste, Arnie decided. He gave Jack his fresh drink and then went into the kitchen.

“Helio, get some glue and scissors for the kid, and some paper for him to paste things on.”

Helio had finished with the flan; his work evidently was done, and he had seated himself with a copy of Life. With reluctance he got up and went in search of glue, scissors, and paper.

“Funny kid, isn’t he?” Arnie said to Helio, when the Bleekman returned. “What’s your opinion about him, is it the same as mine?”

“Children are all alike,” Helio said, and went out of the kitchen, leaving Arnie alone.

Arnie followed. “We’ll eat pretty soon,” he announced. “Everybody had some of these Danish blue cheese hors d’oeuvres? Anybody need anything at all?”

The phone rang. Doreen, who was closest, answered it. She handed it to Arnie. “For you. A man.”

It was Dr. Glaub again. “Mr. Kott,” Dr. Glaub said in a thin, unnatural voice, “it is essential to my integrity to protect my patients. Two can play at this bullying game. As you know, your out-of-wedlock child Sam Esterhazy is at Camp B-G, where I am in attendance.”

Arnie groaned.

“If you do not treat Jack Bohlen fairly,” Glaub continued, “if you apply your inhumane, cruel, aggressive, domineering tactics on him, I will retaliate by discharging Sam Esterhazy from Camp B-G on the grounds that he is mentally retarded. Is that comprehended?”

“Oh, Christ, anything you say,” Arnie groaned. “I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow. Go to bed or something. Take a pill. Just get off me.” He slammed down the phone.

The tape on the tape transport had reached its end; the music had ceased a long time ago. Arnie stalked over to his tape library and snatched up a box at random. That doctor, he said to himself. I’ll get him, but not now. No time now. There must be something the matter with him; he must have some wild hair up his bung.

Examining the box he read:

W. A. Mozart, Symphony 40 in G mol., K. 550

“I love Mozart,” he said to Doreen, Jack Bohlen, and the Steiner boy. “I’ll put this on.” He removed the reel of tape from the box and put it on the transport; he fiddled with the knobs of the amplifier until he could hear the hiss of the tape as it passed through the head. “Bruno Walter conducting,” he told his guests. “A great rarity from the golden age of recordings.”

A hideous racket of screeches and shrieks issued from the speakers. Noises like the convulsions of the dead, Arnie thought in horror. He ran to shut off the tape transport.

Seated on the carpet, snipping pictures from the magazines with his scissors and pasting them into new configurations, Manfred Steiner heard the noise and glanced up. He saw Mr. Kott hurry to the tape machine to shut it off. How blurred Mr. Kott became, Manfred noticed. It was hard to see him when he moved so swiftly; it was as if in some way he had managed to disappear from the room and then reappear in another spot. The boy felt frightened.

The noise, too, frightened him. He looked to the couch where Mr. Bohlen sat, to see if he were upset. But Mr. Bohlen remained where he was with Doreen Anderton, interlinked with her in a fashion that made the boy cringe with concern. How could two people stand being so close? It was, to Manf red, as if their separate identities had flowed together, and the idea that such a muddling could be terrified him. He pretended not to see; he saw past them, at the safe, unblended wall.

The voice of Mr. Kott broke over the boy, harsh and jagged tones that he did not understand. Then Doreen Anderton spoke, and then Jack Bohlen; they were all chattering in a chaos, now, and the boy clapped his hands to his ears. All at once, without warning of any kind, Mr. Kott shot across the room and vanished entirely.