Martian Time-Slip (23 page)

Jack said, “You could be right.” He felt bad, just to hear her say it. It rang so true; it was so plausible.

“You never talked to Helio,” Doreen said. “He's the most cynical, bitter person I ever met. He's even sardonic with Arnie; he hates everybody. I mean, he's really twisted inside.”

“Did I ask Arnie to take the boy? Or was it his idea?”

“Arnie suggested it. At first you wouldn't agree. But you had become so—inert and withdrawn. It was late and we all had drunk a lot—do you remember that?”

He nodded.

“Arnie serves that Black Label Jack Daniel's. I must have drunk a whole fifth of it alone.” She shook her head mournfully. “Nobody else on Mars has the liquor Arnie has; I'll miss it.”

“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 Helio 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 he 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,” Helio 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.

“His suffering is like our own, like all other persons’. But in him it is worse, for he has his preknowledge, which we lack. It is a terrible knowledge to have. No wonder he has become—dark within.”

“Yeah, he's as dark as you are,” Arnie said, “and not outside, either, but like you said—inside. How can you stand him?”

“I stand everything,” the Bleekman said.

“You know what I think?” Arnie said. “I think he does more than just see into time. I think he controls time.”

The Bleekman's eyes became opaque. He shrugged.

“Doesn't he?” Arnie persisted. “Listen, Heliogabalus, you black bastard; this kid fooled around with last night. I know it. He saw it in advance and he tried to tamper with it. Was he trying to make it not happen? He was trying to halt time.”

“Perhaps,” Helio said.

“That's quite a talent,” Arnie said. “Maybe he could go back into the past, like he wants to, and maybe alter the present. You keep working with him, keep after this. Listen, has that Doreen Anderton called or stopped by this morning? I want to talk to her.”

“No.”

“You think I'm nuts? As to what I imagine about this kid and his possible abilities?”

“You are driven by rage, Mister,” the Bleekman said. “A man driven by rage may stumble, in his passion, onto truth.”

“What crap,” Arnie said, disgusted. “Can't you just say yes or no? Do you have to babble like you do?”

Helio said, “Mister, I will tell you something about Mr. Bohlen, whom you wish to injure. He is very venerable—”

“Vulnerable,” Arnie corrected.

“Thank you. He is frail, easily hurt. It should be easy for you to put an end to him. However, he has with him a charm, given to him by someone who loves him or perhaps by several who love him. A Bleekman water witch charm. It may guarantee him safety.”

After an interval, Arnie said, “We'll see.”

“Yes,” Helio said in a voice which Arnie had never heard him use before. “We will have to wait and see what strength still lives in such ancient items.”

“The living proof that such junk is just so much worthless crap is you yourself. That you'd rather be here, taking orders from me, serving me my food and sweeping the floor and hanging up my coat, than roaming around out on that Martian desert like you were when I found you. Out there like a dying beast, begging for water.”

“Hmm,” the Bleekman murmured. “Possibly so.”

“And keep that in mind,” Arnie said. Or you might find yourself back out there again, with your paka eggs and your arrows, stumbling along going nowhere, nowhere at all, he thought to himself. I'm doing you a big favor, letting you live here like a human.

In the early afternoon Arnie Kott received a message from Scott Temple. He placed it on the spindle of his decoding equipment, and soon he was listening to the message.

“We located this character's field, Arnie, out in the F.D.R. range, all right. He wasn't there, but a slave rocket had just landed; in fact, that's how we found it right off—we followed the trail of the rocket in. Anyhow, the guy had a large storage shed full of goodies; we took all the goodies, and they're in our warehouse now. Then we planted a seed-type A-weapon and blew up the field and the shed and all the equipment lying around.”

Good deal, Arnie thought.

“And, like you said, so he'd realize who he's up against, we left a message. We stuck a note up on the remains of the landing field guidance tower that said,
Arnie Kott doesn't like what you stand for.
How does that strike you, Arnie?”

“That strikes me fine,” Arnie said aloud, although it did seem a little—what was the word? Corny.

The message continued, “And he'll discover it when he gets back. And I thought—this is my idea, subject to your correction—that we'd take a trip out there later in the week, just to be sure he's not rebuilding. Some of these independent operators are sort of screwy, like those guys last year that tried to set up their own telephone system. Anyhow, I believe that takes care of it. And by the way—he was using Norb Steiner's old gear; we found records around with Steiner's name on them. So you were right. It's a good thing we moved right onto this guy, because he could have been trouble.”

The message ended. Arnie put the reel on his encoder, seated himself at the mike, and answered.

“Scott, you did good. Thanks. I trust we've heard the last from that guy, and I approve your confiscating his stock; we can use it all. Drop by some evening and have a drink.” He stopped the mechanism, then, and rewound the reel.

From the kitchen came the insistent, muffled sound of Heliogabalus reading aloud to Manfred Steiner. Hearing it, Arnie felt irritation, and then his resentment toward the Bleekman surged up. Why'd you let me get mixed up with Jack Bohlen when you could read the kid's mind? he demanded. Why didn't you speak up?

He felt outright hatred for Heliogabalus. You betrayed me, too, he said to himself. Like the rest of them, Anne and Jack and Doreen; all of them.

Going to the kitchen door he yelled in, “You getting results, or aren't you?”

Heliogabalus lowered his book and said, “Mister, this requires time and effort.”

“Time!” Arnie said. “Hell, that's the whole problem. Send him back into the past, say two years ago, and have him buy the Henry Wallace in my name—can you do that?”

There was no answer. The question, to Heliogabalus, was too absurd even to consider. Flushing, Arnie slammed the kitchen door shut and stalked back into the living room.

Then have him send me back into the past, Arnie said to himself. This time-travel ability must be worth something; why can't I get the kind of results I want? What's the matter with everyone?

They're making me wait just to annoy me, he said to himself.

And, he decided, I'm not going to wait much longer.

By one o'clock in the afternoon still no service calls had come in from the Yee Company. Jack Bohlen, waiting by the phone in Doreen Anderton's apartment, knew that something was wrong.