Counter-Clock World

by Philip K. Dick

  “Any. Just another woman. You’re frankly in bed with her. In your dream, I mean. Okay. Is this a sin?”

  “It is,” R.C. decided, “if after you wake up you think back to it, the dream, and you enjoy thinking about it.”

  Tinbane continued, “Okay, suppose the idea comes into your head as to how you could hurt another person, take advantage of him; and you don’t do it, naturally, because he’s your friend, you see what I mean? I mean, you don’t do that to someone you like; that’s axiomatic. But isn’t there something wrong if you have the idea, just the idea?”

  “You’ve got the wrong man to talk to,” R.C. said. “Wait until Father Faine gets back; ask him.”

  “Yeah, but you’re here and he’s not.” And he felt the urgency of the problem; it probed at him, making him move and talk, forcing him to follow—not his own logic—but its logic.

  “Everybody,” R.C. said, “has hostile impulses, toward everybody, at some time or another. Like sometimes I feel like taking a swing at Seb, or more often Bob Lindy; Lindy really gets my goat. And then even sometimes—” R.C. lowered his voice. “You know, Seb’s wife, Lotta; she comes in here a lot of times. Not for any reason but just to—you know; sort of hang around and talk. She’s sweet, but goddam it, sometimes she drives me nuts. Sometimes she can be a real pest.”

  Tinbane said, “She’s nice.”

  “Sure she’s nice. They don’t come any nicer. But isn’t that the point you were trying to make? Okay; a nice person like that and I feel like bouncing an ashtray off her head because she’s so—” He gesticulated. “Dependent. Hanging on Seb all the time. And he’s so goddam much older than her. And with this anti-time, this Hobart Phase, she’s getting younger and younger; pretty soon she’ll be a teenager and then she’ll be in grammar school, and about the time he’s back to his prime of say around my age she’ll be a baby. A baby!” He stared at Officer Tinbane.

  “That’s a point,” Tinbane conceded.

  “She was older, of course, when he married her. More mature. You didn’t know her then; you weren’t on this beat. She was full-grown, fully like a real woman; hell, she was a real woman. But now—” He shrugged. “You can see what that damn Hobart Phase does.”

  Tinbane said, “Are you sure? I think you had to be already dead and be reborn to get younger.”

  “Christ,” R.C. said, “don’t you understand anti-time at all? Listen; I knew her. She was older, I was older; we all were. I think—you know what I think? You’ve got a mental block against facing it, because you’re young now, too young, in fact; you, too, can’t afford to get any younger. You can’t be a cop if you do.”

  “You’re full of food.” He felt terrific anger, swift and terrible. “Maybe anti-time affects you a little if you haven’t died, maybe sort of stabilizing you, but it’s not like the deaders. Like Seb was. Sure, I admit he’s growing younger, but not Lotta. I’ve known her for—” He calculated mentally. “Almost a year. She’s matured.”

  An aircar landed on the roof above them; down the stairs came Bob Lindy, Sebastian Hermes, and Father Faine. “A good job,” Sebastian said, seeing Officer Tinbane. “By Dr. Sign. He’s with him—the old-born—at Citizens’ Emergency.” He sighed. “I’m beat.” Seating himself on a cane-bottomed chair he picked a cigaret butt from a nearby ashtray, lit it, and began puffing smoke into it. “Well, Joe Tinbane; what’s the good word? Any new unkillings?” He laughed; they all did.

  Tinbane said, “I wanted to talk to Father Faine about a— religious matter. Personal.” To Father Faine he said, “Can you come out with me to the squad car so we can sit and I can consult you?”

  “Yes indeed,” Father Faine said; he followed Tinbane back into the front room of the establishment, past Cheryl Vale, who was still talking on the phone, and out where Tinbane had parked the squad car.

  For a moment they sat in silence. Then Father Faine said, “Does it have to do with adultery?” Like Seb he, too, was undoubtedly slightly psionic.

  “Hell no,” Tinbane said. “It has to do with certain thoughts I’ve had, not like any I ever had before. You see—there’s this situation I can profit from. But at someone else’s expense. Now, whose good should come first? If theirs, then why? Why not mine? I’m a person, too. I don’t get it.” He lapsed into brooding stillness again. “Okay, so it does have to do with a woman, but the adultery part isn’t the part I’m talking about; it’s about hurting her, this girl. I’ve got a hold over her where I think—I just think; I don’t know—I could make her go to bed with me.” He wondered if Father Faine’s mild telepathic ability would enable him to distinguish the image of Lotta Hermes; he hoped to hell not . . . but then of course the pastor was pledged to silence. Still, it would be awkward.

  “Do you love her?” Father Faine asked.

  That stopped him. Cold. “Yes,” he said finally. It was true; he did. It had never entered his conscious thoughts, but there it was. So this was the spur goading him; from this came the baffling thought processes.

  “Is she married?”

  “No,” he said. Just to play it safe.

  Father Faine said presently, “But she doesn’t love you.”

  “Oh hell no; she loves her husband.” He realized, then, instantly, what he had said, and how easily Father Faine could decipher why he had said she wasn’t married; he would know it had to be Lotta. “And he’s a good friend of mine,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt him.” But I do really love her, he thought. And that hurts; that’s what’s making me feel the way I do; when you love someone you want to be with her, you want to have her as your wife or girl friend. It’s natural; it’s biologic.

  Father Faine said, “Be careful that you don’t tell me the names. I don’t know how much you know about the rite of confession, but it is always obligatory not to mention names.”

  “I’m not confessing!” He felt indignation. “I’m just asking for your professional opinion.” Was he confessing—a sin? In a sense, yes; he was asking for help but he was also requesting absolution. Forgiveness for what he had thought, for what he might do; forgiveness for being what he was in essence; this was his essence talking, this part of him that longed for Lotta Hermes and was willing to navigate any difficult series of maneuverings to acquire her, like a salmon flopping and flapping its way against the tidal currents.

  “Man,” Father Faine said, “is on the one hand an animal, with animal passions. It’s not our fault, not your fault for having illicit yearnings that transgress God’s moral law.”

  “Yes, but I have a higher nature,” he said, bitingly. But it doesn’t get in the way, he thought; that’s not the real conflict. There really is no part of me rejecting this.

  What I want, he realized, is not advice on what is right, or even absolution. I want a blueprint by which this thing can be brought about!

  “I can’t help you there,” Father Faine said. Somewhat sadly. Startled, aware of the near-psionic reading of his mind, he said, “You sure can figure out what a person’s thinking.” He wished, now, to terminate the discussion; Father Faine, however, was not ready to let him go: he had, he realized, to pay the price of consulting him.

  Father Faine said, “You’re not afraid of doing wrong; you’re afraid of trying to do wrong and failing, and having everyone know. The girl you want, her husband, you’re afraid you’ll fail and there they’ll be, a united front against you, shutting you out.” His tone was critical and upbraiding. “You have, you say, a certain hold over this girl; suppose you make the try and she jumps the wrong way, gets frightened and huddles up to her husband—which isn’t so unnatural—and you’re a—” He gestured. “I think the phrase is, ‘a horse’s mouth.’”

  Over the radio of the squad car the police announcer babbled briefly to another team in another part of Los Angeles. Tinbane, however, said, “That’s for me; I have to get moving.” He opened the door of the car, and Father Faine got out. “Thanks a lot, Father,” he said, formally and correctly.

  The door clos
ed; Father Faine departed, back into the building.

  Tinbane roared up into the sky, away from the Flask of Hermes Vitarium. For the time being.

  Seeing Father Faine reenter the store, Sebastian Hermes noted his troubled, dour expression and said, “He must have some problem.”

  “We all do,” Father Faine said vaguely, opaque in his thoughts.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Sebastian said, to him and to Bob Lindy at work at his bench. “I’ve been monitoring the bug I put on the Anarch Peak’s grave and I believe I’ve picked up heartbeats. Very faint and irregular, but my intuition tells me there’s something there; we’re very close.”

  “Ought to be worth a million poscreds,” Lindy said.

  Sebastian said, “Lotta picked up a good deal of info at the Library. She did us a good job.” He had wondered, in fact, how, given her timidity, she had managed. “I know about all there is to know regarding this Anarch Peak. He was a really great man. Nothing like this Ray Roberts; the complete opposite, actually. We’ll be doing the world a service and in particular the population of the Free Negro Municipality.” He exhaled cigaret smoke vigorously, in agitation; the cigaret in his hand grew longer and longer. “The trouble is,” he declared, “she’s got to go back to the Library again; this time I want all she can get on that nut Ray Roberts.”

  “Why?” Bob Lindy asked.

  Sebastian gestured for complete attention. “Roberts is both a threat and at the same time potentially our greatest buyer.” He turned to the expert, R.C. Buckley. “Aren’t I right?”

  R.C. digested the subject in his mind for a time. “Like you say, we’ll know better if Lotta can get us more background on him; a lot of what you read in the ’papes about TV stars and politicians and religious figures just ain’t so. But yes; I think you’re right. The Anarch founded the Udi cult; it’s reasonable that nobody’ll want him as badly as they.” He concluded, “Of course, as you point out they may kill him again right away.”

  “Is that our worry?” Lindy said. “What they do with Anarch after they get him isn’t our affair; our responsibility ends when we transfer ownership and collect the fee.”

  Cheryl Vale, listening, said, “That’s awful. The Anarch was such a good man.”

  “Wait, wait,” Sebastian said. “Wait for what Lotta brings back from the Library. Maybe Roberts isn’t that bad. Maybe we can do perfectly legal, ethical business with him.” His instinct—that they had on their hands a possibly monumental strike—remained undimmed.

  Father Faine said, “Lotta isn’t going to enjoy that, having to go back to the Library again. That place has traumatized her.”

  “She did it once,” Sebastian said. “And it didn’t kill her.” But underneath he felt guilt; maybe he should go himself. But— the Library baffled him, too. Perhaps, he reflected moodily, that was why he had dispatched his wife to do the research job in the first instance . . . his job, actually. And Lotta would know it; yet still she went.

  That quality in her made her appealing. And yet it offered a way by which to take advantage of her, a way he had to guard against and decline. The decision lay with him, not with her. Sometimes he declined successfully and other times, as in the case of the Library, he yielded to his own fears; he spared himself and let her suffer. And for this he periodically hated himself . . . as, to a certain extent, he did now.

  “One thing,” Father Faine was saying, “that may not have occurred to you, Sebastian. Allowing for human jealousies, Ray Roberts may resent the rebirth of Anarch Peak, but in his organization there may be those joyfully anticipating Peak’s return.”

  “A splinter group,” Sebastian said, mulling.

  “Through your police buddy, Officer Tinbane, perhaps you can get in touch with them.” To R.C. Buckley, Father Faine said, “It seems to me that’s your job; that’s what we pay you for.”

  “Sure, sure,” R.C. agreed, nodding vigorously; he got out his notebook, made a few jottings. “I’ll look into it.”

  Bob Lindy, wearing the earphones of the monitoring device which Sebastian had installed at the Anarch’s grave, said suddenly, “Hey, I think you’re right. I do pick up heartbeats; like you say, irregular and weak, but they’re getting stronger.”

  “Let me listen,” R.C. Buckley said, going over to Lindy impatiently. He, too, like Sebastian, scented the quarry. “Yep,” he agreed, after a time; he removed the earphones, offered them to Father Faine.

  Sebastian said abruptly, “Let’s go dig him up; let’s not wait.”

  “It’s against the law,” Father Faine reminded him, “to do any excavating prior to hearing the actual and perfect very voice.”

  “Laws,” R.C. said disgustedly. “Okay, Father, if you want to obey the letter of the law let’s contact Ray Roberts; according to law we have the right to sell to the highest bidder. That’s established business practice, in this business.”

  At the store’s vidphone, Cheryl Vale called to Sebastian. “Mr. Hermes, I have a long-distance call for you personally.” She put her hand over the receiver. “I don’t know who it is. All I know is that the call originated in Italy.”

  “Italy,” Sebastian said, puzzled. To R.C. Buckley he said, “Take a look in our inventory card-file and see if we own anybody of Italian extraction.” He walked over beside Miss Vale and took the receiver from her. “This is Sebastian Hermes,” he said. “Who am I speaking to?”

  To him, as to Cheryl Vale, the face on the small screen was unfamiliar. A Caucasian with long, neatly waved black hair and an intense, thorough gaze. “You don’t know me, Mr. Hermes,” the man said, “and up to now I have never had the pleasure of speaking to you.” He had a mild Italian accent and his speech was formal, measured. “Nice talking to you, sir.”

  “Nice talking to you, too,” Sebastian said. “You are Signor—”

  “Tony,” the dark-haired Italian said. “Never mind my last name; at the moment it isn’t important. We understand, Mr. Hermes, that you own rights to the late Anarch Peak. Or the formerly late Anarch Peak, if that’s the case. Which is it, Mr. Hermes?”

  Sebastian hesitated, then said, “Yes, my firm owns the rights to the individual in question. Are you in the market for him?”

  “Very much so,” Tony said.

  “May I ask whom you represent?”

  “An interested principal,” Tony said. “Not connected with Udi. And that’s important. You understand, don’t you, that Ray Roberts is a killer and it is essential to keep the Anarch Peak out of his hands? That there is a law both in the Western United States and in Italy which makes it a felony to transfer ownership of an old-born to anyone you reasonably anticipate might harm him? Are you conscious of this, Mr. Hermes?”

  “I’ll let you talk to Mr. Buckley,” Sebastian said, nettled; this part of the enterprise was not his pipe of sogum. “He’s our sales representative; just a moment.” He passed the receiver to R.C., who at once sprang into action.

  “R.C. Buckley here,” he intoned. “Uh, yes, Tony; your source of info is accurate; we do have the Anarch Peak in our inventory; he’s currently recovering from rebirth pains at the finest hospital we could locate for him. Naturally I can’t tell you its name; you understand that.” He winked at Sebastian. “May I ask, sir, what your source of information is? We’ve kept this matter somewhat private . . . because of various conflicting interests involved; as an instance Ray Roberts, whom I believe you mentioned.” He paused, waiting.

  Sebastian thought, How could anybody know? Only the six of us here, our organization, know. Lotta, he thought, then. She knows, too. Could she have told anyone? Well, it had to come to light eventually, if they expected to sell the Anarch. But this soon, before they had actual physical custody—this made it imperative, he realized, to get the Anarch out of the ground with no delay, law or no law. I’ll bet it was Lotta, he thought. Damn her.

  Leading Bob Lindy off to the workshop area of the store, he said to him, “Now we’re forced to go ahead. As soon as R.C. is off the phone g
et on it and round up Dr. Sign; you and he and Father Faine meet me at Forest Knolls Cemetery; I’m taking off right now.” He felt the urgency of it. “I’ll see you there. And make it quick; explain the situation to Sign.” He slapped Lindy on the back, then strode up the stairs to the roof field parking area, where his aircar reposed.

  In a moment he was airborne and on his way to the small, nearly abandoned cemetery where the Anarch Peak lay.

  6

  Only in a perfect flight from nothingness is Being to be found in all its purity.

  —St. Bonaventura

  Forest Knolls, Sebastian thought. The cemetery abandoned by everyone, obviously picked with great care by those who had buried the Anarch. They must have believed Alex Hobart and his theorem that time was about to reverse itself; they— those who loved the Anarch—must have anticipated this exact situation.

  He wondered how long and how hard Ray Roberts’ crack corps had hunted for the grave. Not long nor hard enough, evidently.

  The cemetery, a brief flickering quad of green, sped by below; Sebastian reversed the flight of his aircar, coasted back down, and came to rest in what had once been a gravel parking area of the cemetery but which now had become overgrown, like the graves, with rank and frightening weeds.

  Even in daytime it was a forbidding place. Despite the nascent life beneath the ground potentially crying out for aid. Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened, he thought in quotation from some vaguely remembered portion of the Bible. And the tongues of the dead unstopped. A lovely passage; and now so factually, accurately true. Who would have thought? All those centuries, regarded as a pretty and comforting fable by the world’s intellectuals, something to lull people into accepting their fate. The understanding that, as predicted, it would one day be literally true, that it was not a myth—

  Making his way past the less impressive gravestones he came at last to the ornate granite monument for Thomas Peak, 1921–1971.

  The grave—thank god—remained as he had last seen it. Untouched. No one in sight, no one to witness this illegal act.