Ubik (14 page)

Now the clutch, he said to himself. Over on the left. With his foot he located it. Clutch down to the floor, then shift the lever into gear. He tried it—and obtained a horrid clashing noise, metal whirring against metal. Evidently, he had managed to let up on the clutch. He tried it again. This time he successfully got it into gear.

Lurching, the car moved forward; it bucked and shuddered but it moved. It limped erratically up the street, and he felt within him a certain measured renewal of optimism. And now let’s see if we can find the goddam airfield, he said to himself. Before it’s too late, before we’re back to the days of the Gnome rotary engine with its revolving outside cylinders and its castor-oil lubricant. Good for fifty miles of hedge-hopping flight at seventy-five miles per hour.

An hour later he arrived at the airfield, parked and surveyed the hangars, the windsock, the old biplanes with their huge wooden props. What a sight, he reflected. An indistinct page out of history. Re-created remnants of another millennium, lacking any connection with the familiar, real world. A phantasm that had drifted into sight only momentarily; this, too, would be gone soon: it would no more survive than had contemporary artifacts. The process of devolution would sweep this away like it had everything else.

He got shakily from the LaSalle—feeling acutely carsick—and trudged toward the main buildings of the airfield.

“What can I charter with this?” he asked, laying all his money out on the counter before the first official-looking person he caught sight of. “I want to get to Des Moines as quickly as possible. I want to take off right away.”

The field official, bald-headed, with a waxed mustache and small, round, gold-rimmed eyeglasses, inspected the bills silently. “Hey, Sam,” he called with a turn of his apple-like round head. “Come here and look at this money.”

A second individual, wearing a striped shirt with billowing sleeves, shiny seersucker trousers and canvas shoes, stumped over. “Fake money,” he said after he had taken his look. “Play money. Not George Washington and not Alexander Hamilton.” Both officials scrutinized Joe.

Joe said, “I have a ’39 LaSalle parked in the parking lot. I’ll trade it for a one-way flight to Des Moines on any plane that’ll get me there. Does that interest you?”

Presently the official with the little gold-rimmed glasses said meditatively, “Maybe Oggie Brent would be interested.”

“Brent?” the official in the seersucker pants said, raising his eyebrows. “You mean that Jenny of his? That plane’s over twenty years old. It wouldn’t get to Philadelphia.”

“How about McGee?”

“Sure, but he’s in Newark.”

“Then, maybe Sandy Jespersen. That Curtiss-Wright of his would make it to Iowa. Sooner or later.” To Joe the official said, “Go out by hangar three and look for a red and white Curtiss biplane. You’ll see a little short guy, sort of fat, fiddling around with it. If he don’t take you up on it nobody here will, unless you want to wait till tomorrow for Ike McGee to come back here in his Fokker trimotor.”

“Thanks,” Joe said, and left the building; he strode rapidly toward hangar three, already seeing what looked like a red and white Curtiss-Wright biplane. At least I won’t be making the trip in a World War JN training plane, he said to himself. And then he thought,
How did I know that “Jenny” is a nickname for a JN trainer?
Good god, he thought. Elements of this period appear to be developing corresponding coordinates in my mind. No wonder I was able to drive the LaSalle; I’m beginning to phase mentally with this time-continuum in earnest!

A short fat man with red hair puttered with an oily rag at the wheels of his biplane; he glanced up as Joe approached.

“Are you Mr. Jespersen?” Joe asked.

“That’s right.” The man surveyed him, obviously mystified by Joe’s clothes, which had not reverted. “What can I do for you?” Joe told him.

“You want to trade a LaSalle, a new LaSalle, for a one-way trip to Des Moines?” Jespersen cogitated, his brows knitting. “Might as well be both ways; I got to fly back here anyway. Okay, I’ll take a look at it. But I’m not promising anything; I haven’t made up my mind.”

Together they made their way to the parking lot.

“I don’t see any ’39 LaSalle,” Jespersen said suspiciously.

The man was right. The LaSalle had disappeared. In its place Joe saw a fabric-top Ford coupé, a tinny and small car, very old, 1929, he guessed. A black 1929 Model-A Ford. Nearly worthless; he could tell that from Jespersen’s expression.

Obviously, it was now hopeless. He would never get to Des Moines. And, as Runciter had pointed out in his TV commercial, this meant death—the same death that had overtaken Wendy and Al.

It would be only a matter of time.

Better, he thought, to die another way. Ubik, he thought. He opened the door of his Ford and got in.

There, on the seat beside him, rested the bottle which he had received in the mail. He picked it up—

And discovered something which did not really surprise him. The bottle, like the car, had again regressed. Seamless and flat, with scratch marks on it, the kind of bottle made in a wooden mold. Very old indeed; the cap appeared to be handmade, a soft tin screw-type dating from the late nineteenth century. The label, too, had changed; holding the bottle up, he read the words printed on it.

ELIXIR OF UBIQUE. GUARANTEED TO RESTORE LOST MANLINESS AND TO BANISH VAPORS OF ALL KNOWN KINDS AS WELL AS TO RELIEVE REPRODUCTIVE COMPLAINTS IN BOTH MEN AND WOMEN. A BENEFICENT AID TO MANKIND WHEN SEDULOUSLY EMPLOYED AS INDICATED.

And, in smaller type, a further inscription; he had to squint in order to read the smudged, minute script.

Don’t do it, Joe. There’s another way.

Keep trying. You’ll find it. Lots of luck.

Runciter, he realized. Still playing his sadistic cat-and-mouse games with us. Goading us into keeping going a little longer. Delaying the end as long as possible. God knows why. Maybe, he thought, Runciter enjoys our torment. But that isn’t like him; that’s not the Glen Runciter I knew.

However, Joe put the Elixir of Ubique bottle down, abandoning the idea of making use of it.

And wondered what Runciter’s elusive, hinted at other way might be.

ELEVEN

Taken as directed, Ubik provides uninterrupted sleep without morning-after grogginess. You awaken fresh, ready to tackle all those little annoying problems facing you. Do not exceed recommended dosage.

“Hey, that bottle you have,” Jespersen said; he peered into the car, an unusual note in his voice. “Can I look at it?”

Joe Chip wordlessly passed the aviator the flat bottle of Elixir of Ubique.

“My grandmother used to talk about this,” Jespersen said, holding the bottle up to the light. “Where’d you get it? They haven’t made this since around the time of the Civil War.”

“I inherited it,” Joe said.

“You must have. Yeah, you don’t see these handmade flasks any more. The company never put out very many of these in the first place. This medicine was invented in San Francisco around 1850. Never sold in stores; the customers had to order it made up. It came in three strengths. This what you have here, this is the strongest of the three.” He eyed Joe. “Do you know what’s in this?”

“Sure,” Joe said. “Oil of peppermint, zinc oxide, sodium citrate, charcoal—”

“Let it go,” Jespersen interrupted. Frowning, he appeared to be busily turning something over in his mind. Then, at last, his expression changed. He had come to a decision. “I’ll fly you to Des Moines in exchange for this flask of Elixir of Ubique. Let’s get started; I want to do as much of the flying as possible in daylight.” He strode away from the ’29 Ford, taking the bottle with him.

Ten minutes later the Curtiss-Wright biplane had been gassed, the prop manually spun, and, with Joe Chip and Jespersen aboard, it began weaving an erratic, sloppy path down the runway, bouncing into the air and then collapsing back again. Joe gritted his teeth and hung on.

“We’re carrying so much weight,” Jespersen said without emotion; he did not seem alarmed. The plane at last wobbled up into the air, leaving the runway permanently behind; noisily it droned over the rooftops of buildings, on its way west.

Joe yelled, “How long will it take to get there?”

“Depends on how much tailwind we get. Hard to say. Probably around noon tomorrow if our luck holds out.”

“Will you tell me now,” Joe yelled, “what’s in the bottle?”

“Gold flakes suspended in a base composed mostly of mineral oil,” the pilot yelled back.

“How much gold? Very much?”

Jespersen turned his head and grinned without answering. He did not have to say; it was obvious.

The old Curtiss-Wright biplane blurpled on, in the general direction of Iowa.

At three in the afternoon the following day they reached the airfield at Des Moines. Having landed the plane, the pilot sauntered off for parts unknown, carrying his flask of gold flakes with him. With aching, cramped stiffness, Joe climbed from the plane, stood for a time rubbing his numb legs, and then unsteadily headed toward the airport office, as little of it as there was.

“Can I use your phone?” he asked an elderly rustic official who sat hunched over a weather map, absorbed in what he was doing.

“If you got a nickel.” The official, with a jerk of his cowlick head, indicated the public phone.

Joe sorted through his money, casting out all the coins which had Runciter’s profile on them; at last he found an authentic buffalo nickel of the period and laid it before the elderly official.

“Ump,” the official grunted without looking up.

Locating the local phone book, Joe extracted from it the number of the Simple Shepherd Mortuary. He gave the number to the operator, and presently his party responded.

“Simple Shepherd Mortuary. Mr. Bliss speaking.”

“I’m here to attend the services for Glen Runciter,” Joe said. “Am I too late?” He prayed silently that he was not.

“Services for Mr. Runciter are in progress right now,” Mr. Bliss said. “Where are you, sir? Would you like us to send a vehicle to fetch you?” He seemed fussily disapproving.

“I’m at the airport,” Joe said.

“You should have arrived earlier,” Mr. Bliss chided. “I doubt very much if you’ll be able to attend any of the service. However, Mr. Runciter will be lying in state for the balance of today and tomorrow morning. Watch for our car, Mr.—”

“Chip,” Joe said.

“Yes, you have been expected. Several of the bereaved have asked that we maintain a vigil for you as well as for Mr. Hammond and a”—he paused—“a Miss Wright. Are they with you?”

“No,” Joe said. He hung up, then seated himself on a curved, polished wooden bench where he could watch cars approaching the airport. Anyhow, he said to himself, I’m here in time to join the rest of the group. They haven’t left town yet, and that’s what matters.

The elderly official called, “Mister, come over here a sec.”

Getting up, Joe crossed the waiting room. “What’s wrong?”

“This nickel you gave me.” The official had been scrutinizing it all this time.

“It’s a buffalo nickel,” Joe said. “Isn’t that the right coin for this period?”

“This nickel is dated 1940.” The elderly official eyed him unblinkingly.

With a groan Joe got out his remaining coins, again sorted among them; at last he found a 1938 nickel and tossed it down before the official. “Keep them both,” he said, and once more seated himself on the polished, curved bench.

“We get counterfeit money every now and then,” the official said.

Joe said nothing; he turned his attention to the semi-highboy Audiola radio playing by itself off in a corner of the waiting room. The announcer was plugging a toothpaste called Ipana. I wonder how long I’m going to have to wait here, Joe asked himself. It made him nervous, now that he had come so close physically to the inertials. I’d hate to make it this far, he thought, within a few miles, and then—He stopped his thoughts at that point and simply sat.

Half an hour later a 1930 Willys-Knight 87 put-putted onto the airfield’s parking lot; a hempen home-spun individual wearing a conspicuously black suit emerged and shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand in order to see into the waiting room.

Joe approached him. “Are you Mr. Bliss?” he asked.

“Certainly, I am.” Bliss briefly shook hands with him, meanwhile emitting a strong smell of Sen-sen, then got back at once into the Willys-Knight and restarted the motor. “Come along, Mr. Chip. Please hurry. We may still be able to attend a part of the service. Father Abernathy generally speaks quite a while on such important occasions as this.”

Joe got into the front seat beside Mr. Bliss. A moment later they clanked onto the road leading to downtown Des Moines, rushing along at speeds sometimes reaching forty miles an hour.

“You’re an employee of Mr. Runciter?” Bliss asked.

“Right,” Joe said.

“Unusual line of business that Mr. Runciter was in. I’m not quite sure I understand it.” Bliss honked at a red setter which had ventured onto the asphalt pavement; the dog retreated, giving the Willys-Knight its pompous right of way. “What does ‘psionic’ mean? Several of Mr. Runciter’s employees have used the term.”

“Parapsychological powers,” Joe said. “Mental force operating directly, without any intervening physical agency.”

“Mystical powers, you mean? Like knowing the future? The reason I ask that is that several of you people have talked about the future as if it already exists. Not to me; they didn’t say anything about it except to each other, but I overheard—you know how it is. Are you people mediums, is that it?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What do you foresee about the war in Europe?”

Joe said, “Germany and Japan will lose. The United States will get into it on December 7th, 1941.” He lapsed into silence then, not feeling inclined to discuss it; he had his own problems to occupy his attention.

“I’m a Shriner, myself,” Bliss said.

What is the rest of the group experiencing? Joe wondered. This reality? The United States of 1939? Or, when I rejoin them, will my regression be reversed, placing me at a later period? A good question. Because, collectively, they would have to find their way back fifty-three years, to the reasonable and proper form-constituents of contemporary, unregressed time. If the group as a whole had experienced the same amount of regression as he had, then his joining them would not help him or them—except in one regard: He might be spared the ordeal of undergoing further world decay. On the other hand, this reality of 1939 seemed fairly stable; in the last twenty-four hours it had managed to remain virtually constant. But, he reflected, that might be due to my drawing nearer to the group.

On the other hand, the 1939 jar of Ubik liver and kidney balm had reverted back an additional eighty-odd years: from spray can to jar to wooden-mold bottle within a few hours. Like the 1908 cage elevator which Al alone had seen—

But that wasn’t so. The short, fat pilot, Sandy Jespersen, had also seen the wooden-mold bottle, the Elixir of Ubique, as it had become finally.
This was not a private vision; it had, in fact, gotten him here to Des Moines
. And the pilot had seen the reversion of the LaSalle as well. Something entirely different had overtaken Al, it would seem. At least, he hoped so. Prayed so.

Suppose, he reflected, we can’t reverse our regression; suppose we remain here the balance of our lives.
Is that so bad?
We can get used to nine-tube screen-grid highboy Philco radios, although they won’t really be necessary, inasmuch as the superheterodyne circuit has already been invented—although I haven’t as yet run across one. We can learn to drive American Austin motorcars selling for $445—a sum that had popped into his mind seemingly at random but which, he intuited, was correct. Once we get jobs and earn money of this period, he said to himself, we won’t be traveling aboard antique Curtiss-Wright biplanes; after all, four years ago, in 1935, transpacific service by four-engine China clippers was inaugurated. The Ford trimotor is an eleven-year-old plane by now; to these people it’s a relic, and the biplane I came here on is—even to them—a museum piece. That LaSalle I had, before it reverted, was a considerable piece of machinery; I felt real satisfaction driving it.

“What about Russia?” Mr. Bliss was asking. “In the war, I mean. Do we wipe out those Reds? Can you see that far ahead?”

Joe said, “Russia will fight on the same side as the U.S.A.” And all the other objects and entities and artifacts of this world, he mulled. Medicine will be a major drawback; let’s see—just about now they should be using the sulfa drugs. It’s going to be serious for us when we become ill. And—dental work isn’t going to be much fun either; they’re still working with hot drills and novocaine. Fluoride toothpastes haven’t even come into being; that’s another twenty years in the future.

“On our side?” Bliss sputtered. “The Communists? That’s impossible; they’ve got that pact with the Nazis.”

“Germany will violate that pact,” Joe said. “Hitler will attack the Soviet Union in June 1941.”

“And wipe it out, I hope.”

Startled out of his preoccupations, Joe turned to look closely at Mr. Bliss driving his nine-year-old Willys-Knight.

Bliss said, “Those Communists are the real menace, not the Germans. Take the treatment of the Jews. You know who makes a lot out of that? Jews in this country, a lot of them not citizens but refugees living on public welfare. I think the Nazis certainly have been a little extreme in some of the things they’ve done to the Jews, but basically there’s been the Jewish question for a long time, and something, although maybe not so vile as those concentration camps, had to be done about it. We have a similar problem here in the United States, both with Jews and with the niggers. Eventually we’re going to have to do something about both.”

“I never actually heard the term ‘nigger’ used,” Joe said, and found himself appraising this era a little differently, all at once. I forgot about this, he realized.

“Lindbergh is the one who’s right about Germany,” Bliss said. “Have you ever listened to him speak? I don’t mean what the newspapers write it up like, but actually—” He slowed the car to a stop for a semaphore-style stop signal. “Take Senator Borah and Senator Nye. If it wasn’t for them, Roosevelt would be selling munitions to England and getting us into a war that’s not our war. Roosevelt is so darn interested in repealing the arms embargo clause of the neutrality bill; he wants us to get into the war. The American people aren’t going to support him. The American people aren’t interested in fighting England’s war or anybody else’s war.” The signal clanged and a green semaphore swung out. Bliss shifted into low gear and the Willys-Knight bumbled forward, melding with downtown Des Moines’ midday traffic.

“You’re not going to enjoy the next five years,” Joe said.

“Why not? The whole state of Iowa is behind me in what I believe. You know what I think about you employees of Mr. Runciter? From what you’ve said and from what those others said, what I overheard, I think you’re professional agitators.” Bliss glanced at Joe with uncowed bravado.

Joe said nothing; he watched the oldtime brick and wood and concrete buildings go by, the quaint cars—most of which appeared to be black—and wondered if he was the only one of the group who had been confronted by this particular aspect of the world of 1939. In New York, he told himself, it’ll be different; this is the Bible Belt, the isolationist Middle West. We won’t be living here; we’ll be on either the East Coast or the West.

But instinctively he sensed that a major problem for all of them had exposed itself just now. We know too much, he realized, to live comfortably in this time segment. If we had regressed twenty years, or thirty years, we could probably make the psychological transition; it might not be interesting to once more live through the Gemini spacewalks and the creaking first Apollo flights, but at least it would be possible. But at this point in time—

They’re still listening to ten-inch 78 records of “Two Black Crows.” And Joe Penner. And “Mert and Marge.” The Depression is still going on. In our time we maintain colonies on Mars, on Luna; we’re perfecting workable interstellar flight—these people have not been able to cope with the Dust Bowl of Oklahoma.

This is a world that lives in terms of William Jennings Bryan’s oratory; the Scopes “Monkey Trial” is a vivid reality here. He thought, There is no way we can adapt to their viewpoint, their moral, political, sociological environment. To them we’re professional agitators, more alien than the Nazis, probably even more of a menace than the Communist Party. We’re the most dangerous agitators that this time segment has yet had to deal with. Bliss is absolutely right.