Philip Dick - Martian Time-Slip

Unlocking the bottom drawer of his desk, Arnie got out the little battery-powered encoding dictation machine and set it up for use. Into it he said, “Anne, I’d like to meet with you and talk. That committee has too many women on it, and it’s going the wrong way. For example, the last ad in the Times worries me because--“ He broke off, for the encoding machine had groaned to a stop. He poked at it, and the reels turned slowly and then once more settled back into silence.

Thought it was fixed, Arnie thought angrily. Can’t those jerks fix nothing? Maybe he would have to go to the black market and buy, at an enormous price, another. He winced at the thought.

The not-too-good-looking secretary from the pool, who had been sitting quietly across from him waiting, now responded to his nod. She produced her pencil and pad and began as he dictated.

“Usually,” Arnie Kott said, “I can understand how hard it is to keep things running, what with no parts hardly, and the way the local weather affects metal and wiring. However, I’m fed up with asking for competent repair service on a vital item like my encoding machine. I just got to have it, that’s all. So if you guys can’t keep it working, I’m going to disband you and withdraw your franchise to practice the craft of repairing within the settlement, and I’ll rely on outside service for our maintenance.” He nodded once more, and the girl ceased writing.

“Shall I take the encoder over to the repair department, Mr. Kott?” she asked. “I’d be happy to, sir.”

“Naw,” Arnie grumbled. “Just run along.”

As she departed, Arnie once more picked up his New York Times and again read. Back home on Earth you could buy a new encoder for almost nothing; in fact, back home you could--hell. Look at the stuff being advertised . . . from old Roman coins to fur coats to camping equipment to diamonds to rocket ships to crabgrass poison. Jeez!

However, his immediate problem was how to contact his ex-wife without the use of his encoder. Maybe I can just drop by and see her, Arnie said to himself. Good excuse to get out of the office.

He picked up the telephone and called for a ‘copter to be made ready up above him on the roof of the Union Hall, and then he finished off the remains of his breakfast, wiped his mouth hurriedly, and set off for the elevator.

“Hi, Arnie,” the ‘copter pilot greeted him, a pleasantfaced young man from the pilot pool.

“Hi, my boy,” Arnie said, as the pilot assisted him into the special leather seat which he had had made at the settlement’s fabric and upholstery shop. As the pilot got into the seat ahead of him Arnie leaned back comfortably, crossed his legs, and said, “Now you just take off and I’ll direct you in flight. And take it easy because I’m in no hurry. It looks like a nice day.”

“Real nice day,” the pilot said, as the blades of the ‘copter began to rotate. “Except for that haze over around the F.D.R. Range.”

They had hardly gotten into the air when the ‘copter’s loudspeaker came on. “Emergency announcement. There is a small party of Bleekmen out on the open desert at gyrocompass point 4.65003 dying from exposure and lack of water. Ships north of Lewistown are instructed to direct their flights to that point with all possible speed and give assistance. United Nations law requires all commercial and private ships to respond.” The announcement was repeated in the crisp voice of the UN announcer, speaking from the UN transmitter on the artificial satellite somewhere overhead.

Feeling the ‘copter alter its course, Arnie said, “Aw, come on, my boy.”

“I have to respond, sir,” the pilot said. “It’s the law.”

Chrissake, Arnie thought with disgust. He made a mental note to have the boy sacked or at least suspended as soon as they got back from their trip.

Now they were above the desert, moving at good speed toward the intersect which the UN announcer had given. Bleekmen niggers, Arnie thought. We have to drop everything we’re doing to bail them out, the damn fools--can’t they trot across their own desert? Haven’t they been doing it without our help for five thousand years?

As Jack Bohlen started to lower his Yee Company repairship toward McAuliff’s dairy ranch below, he heard the UN announcer come on with the emergency notification, the like of which Bohlen had heard many times before and which never failed to chill him.

“. . . Party of Bleekmen out on the open desert,” the matter-of-fact voice declared. “. . . Dying from exposure and lack of water. Ships north of Lewistown--“

I’ve got it, Jack Bohlen said to himself. He cut his mike on and said, “Yee Company repairship close by gyrocompass point 4.65003, ready to respond at once. Should reach them in two or three minutes.” He swung his ‘copter south, away from McAuliff ‘s ranch, getting a golden-moment sort of satisfaction at the thought of McAuliff’s indignation right now as he saw the ‘copter swing away and guessed the reason. No one had less use for the Bleekmen than did the big ranchers; the poverty-stricken, nomadic natives were constantly showing up at the ranches for food, water, medical help, and sometimes just a plain old-fashioned handout, and nothing seemed to madden the prosperous dairymen more than to be used by the creatures whose land they had appropriated.

Another ‘copter was responding, now. The pilot was saying, “I am just outside Lewistown at gyrocompass point 4.78995 and will respond as soon as possible. I have rations aboard including fifty gallons of water.” He gave his identification and then rang off.

The dairy ranch with its cows fell away to the north, and Jack Bohlen was gazing intently down at the open desert once more, seeking to catch sight of the party of Bleekmen. Sure enough, there they were. Five of them, in the shade cast by a small hill of stone. They were not moving. Possibly they were already dead. The UN satellite, in its swing across the sky, had discovered them, and yet it could not help them. Their mentors were powerless. And we who can help them-- what do we care? Jack thought. The Bleekmen were dying out anyhow, the remnants getting more tattered and despairing every year. They were wards of the UN, protected by them. Some protection, Jack thought.

But what could be done for a waning race? Time had run out for the natives of Mars long before the first Soviet ship had appeared in the sky with its television cameras grinding away, back in the ‘60s. No human group had conspired to exterminate them; it had not been necessary. And anyhow they had been a vast curiosity, at first. Here was a discovery worth the billions spent in the task of reaching Mars. Here was an extraterrestrial race.

He landed the ‘copter on the flat sand close by the party of Bleekmen, switched off the blades, opened the door, and stepped out.

The hot morning sun beat down on him as he walked across the sand toward the unmoving Bleekmen. They were alive; they had their eyes open and were watching him.

“Rains are falling from me onto your valuable persons,” he called to them, the proper Bleekman greeting in the Bleeky dialect.

Close to them now he saw that the party consisted of one wrinkled old couple, a young male and female, no doubt husband and wife, and their infant. A family, obviously, which had set out across the desert alone on foot, probably seeking water or food; perhaps the oasis at which they had been subsisting had dried up. It was typical of the plight of the Bleekmen, this conclusion to their trek. Here they lay, unable to go on any farther; they had withered away to something resembling heaps of dried vegetable matter and they would have died soon had not the UN satellite spotted them.

Rising to his feet slowly, the young Bleekman male genuflected and said in a wavering, frail voice, “The rains falling from your wonderful presence envigor and restore us, Mister.”