Philip Dick - Martian Time-Slip

“There isn’t much I can do along that line,” Jack said.

“I know. That’s O.K. I don’t expect you to; I don’t expect anything, in fact. It all happened so fast last night; one minute we were all working together, you and I and Arnie--then, it seemed like all of a sudden, it was obvious that we were on opposite sides, that we’d never be together again, not as friends, anyhow. It’s sad.” She put up the side of her hand and rubbed at her eye. A tear slid down her cheek. “Jesus. I’m crying,” she said with anger.

“If we could go back and relive last night--“

“I wouldn’t change it,” she said. “I don’t regret anything. And you shouldn’t either.”

“Thanks,” he said. He took hold of her hand. “I’ll do the best I can by you. As the guy said, I’m not much but I’m all I have.”

She smiled, and, after a moment, resumed eating her breakfast.

At the front counter of her shop, Anne Esterhazy wrapped a package for mailing. As she began addressing the label, a man strode into the store; she glanced up, saw him, a tall, thin man wearing glasses much too large for him. Memory brought distaste as she recognized Dr. Glaub.

“Mrs. Esterhazy,” Dr. Glaub said, “I want to talk to you, if I may. I regret our altercation; I behaved in a regressive, oral-sucking fashion, and I’d like to apologize.”

She said coolly, “What do you want, Doctor? I’m busy.”

Lowering his voice, he said in a rapid monotone, “Mrs. Esterhazy, this has to do with Arnie Kott and a project he has with an anomalous boy whom he took from the camp. I want you to use your influence over Mr. Kott and your great zeal for humanitarian causes to see that a severe cruelty is not done to an innocent, introverted schizoid individual who was drawn into Mr. Kott’s scheme due to his line of work. This man--“

“Wait,” she interrupted. “I can’t follow.” She beckoned him to accompany her to the rear of the store, where no one entering would overhear.

“This man, Jack Bohlen,” Dr. Glaub said, even more rapidly than before, “could become permanently psychotic as a result of Kott’s desire for revenge, and I ask you, Mrs. Esterhazy--“ He pleaded on and on.

Oh, good grief, she thought. Another cause that somebody wants to enlist me in--don’t I have enough already?

But she listened; she had no choice. And it was her nature.

On and on mumbled Dr. Glaub, and gradually she began to build up an idea of the situation which he was trying to describe. It was clear that he held a grudge against Arnie. And yet--there was more. Dr. Glaub was a curious mixture of the idealistic and the childishly envious, a queer sort of person, Anne Esterhazy thought as she listened.

“Yes,” she said at one point, “that does sound like Arnie.”

“I thought of going to the police,” Dr. Glaub rambled on. “Or to the UN authorities, and then I thought of you, so I came here.” He peered at her, disingenuously but with determination.

At ten o’clock that morning Arnie Kott entered the front office of the Yee Company at Bunchewood Park. An elongated, intelligent-looking Chinese in his late thirties approached him and asked what he wished.

“I am Mr. Yee.” They shook hands.

“This guy Bohlen that I’m leasing from you.”

“Oh, yes. Isn’t he a top-drawer repairman? Naturally, he is.” Mr. Yee regarded him with shrewd caution.

Arnie said, “I like him so much I want to buy his contract from you.” He got out his checkbook. “Give me the price.”

“Oh, we must keep Mr. Bohlen,” Mr. Yee protested, throwing up his hands. “No, sir, we can only lease him, not ever part with him.”

“Name me the price.” You skinny, smart cookie, Arnie thought.

“To part with Mr. Bohlen--we couldn’t replace him!”

Arnie waited.

Considering, Mr. Yee said, “I suppose I could go over our records. But it would take hours to determine Mr. Bohlen’s even approximate value.”

Arnie waited, checkbook in hand.

After he had purchased Jack Bohlen’s work contract from the Yee Company, Arnie Kott flew back home to Lewistown. He found Hello with Manfred, in the living room together; Helio was reading aloud to the boy from a book. “What’s all this mumbo-jumbo?” Arnie demanded.

Helio, lowering his book, said, “This child has a speech impediment which I am overcoming.”

“Bull,” Arnie said, “you’ll never overcome it.” He took off his coat and held it out to Helio. After a pause the Bleekman reluctantly laid down the book and accepted the coat; he moved off to hang it in the hall closet.

From the corner of his eye Manfred seemed to be looking at Arnie.

“How you doin’, kid,” Arnie said in a friendly voice. He whacked the boy on the back. “Listen, you want to go back to that nuthouse, that no-good Camp B-G? Or do you want to stay with me? I’ll give you ten minutes to decide.”

To himself, Arnie thought, You’re staying with me, no matter what you decide. You crazy fruity dumb kid, you and your dancing around on your toes and not talking and not noticing anybody. And your future-reading talent, which I know you got down there in that fruity brain of yours, which last night proved there’s no doubt of.

Returning, Helio said, “He wants to stay with you, Mister.”

“Sure he does,” Arnie said, pleased.

“His thoughts,” Helio said, “are as clear as plastic to me, and mine likewise to him. We are both prisoners, Mister, in a hostile land.”

At that Arnie laughed loud and long.

“Truth always amuses the ignorant,” Helio said.

“O.K. ,” Arnie said, “so I’m ignorant. I just get a kick out of you liking this warped kid, that’s all. No offense. So you got something in common, you two? I’m not surprised.” He swept up the book which Helio had been reading. “Pascal,” he read. “_Provincial Letters_. Christ on the cross, what’s the point of this? Is there a point?”

“The rhythms,” Helio said, with patience. “Great prose establishes a cadence which attracts and holds the boy’s wandering attention.”

“Why does it wander?”

“From dread.”

“Dread of what?”

“Of death,” Helio said.

Sobered, Arnie said, “Oh. Well. His death? Or just death in general?”

“This boy experiences his own old age, his lying in a dilapidated state, decades from now, in an old persons’ home which is yet to be built here on Mars, a place of decay which be loathes beyond expression. In this future place he passes empty, weary years, bedridden--an object, not a person, kept alive through stupid legalities. When he tries to fix his eyes on the present, he almost at once is smitten by that dread vision of himself once again.”

“Tell me about this old persons’ home,” Arnie said.

“It is to be built soon,” Helio said. “Not for that purpose, but as a vast dormitory for immigrants to Mars.”

“Yeah,” Arnie said, recognizing it. “In the F.D.R. range.”

“The people arrive,” Hello said, “and settle, and live, and drive the wild Bleekmen from their last refuge. In turn, the Bleekmen put a curse on the land, sterile as it is. The Earth settlers fail; their buildings deteriorate year after year. Settlers return to Earth faster than they come here. At last this other use is made of the building: it becomes a home for the aged, for the poor, the senile and infirm.”

“Why doesn’t he talk? Explain that.”

“To escape from his dread vision he retreats back to happier days, days inside his mother’s body where there is no one else, no change, no time, no suffering. The womb life. He directs himself there, to the only happiness he has ever known. Mister, he refuses to leave that dear spot.”

“I see,” Arnie said, only half-believing the Bleekman.