Now Wait for Last Year

by Philip K. Dick

  “Lots of luck,” he said.

  “Luck? I don’t need luck; I need skill, and I think I have skill. I learned a lot during that episode under the effects of that drug. I wish I could tell you what it is; it’s an incredible drug, Eric—it changes your entire perception of the universe and especially of other people. You don’t ever view them the same again. You ought to try it. It would help you.”

  “Nothing,” he said, “would help me.”

  His words, in his ears, sounded like an epitaph.

  He had almost finished packing—and had long since eaten—when the doorbell of the conapt rang. It was Otto Dorf, already here with the military ’copter, and Eric soberly went to open the door for him.

  Glancing about the conapt, Dorf said, “Did you have an opportunity to say goodbye to your wife, doctor?”

  “Yes.” He added, “She’s gone now; I’m alone.” He closed his suitcase and carried it and its companion to the door. “I’m ready.” Dorf picked up one suitcase and together they walked to the elevator. “She did not take it very well,” he remarked to Dorf as they presently descended. “I’m unmarried, doctor,” Dorf said. “I wouldn’t know.” His manner was correct and formal.

  In the parked ’copter another man waited. He held out his hand as Eric ascended the rungs. “Doctor; it’s good to meet you.” The man, hidden in the shadows, explained, “I’m Harry Teagarden, chief of the Secretary’s medical staff. I’m glad you’re joining us; the Secretary hadn’t informed me in advance but that’s no matter—he invariably acts on impulse.”

  Eric shook hands with him, his mind still on Kathy. “Sweetscent.”

  “How did Molinari’s condition strike you when you met him?”

  “He seemed tired.”

  Teagarden said, “He’s dying.”

  Glancing at him swiftly, Eric said, “From what? In this day and age, with artiforgs available—”

  “I am familiar with current surgical techniques; believe me.” Teagarden’s tone was dry. “You saw how fatalistic he is. He wants to be punished, obviously, for leading us into this war.” Teagarden was silent as the ’copter ascended into the night sky and then he continued, “Did it ever occur to you that Molinari engineered the losing of this war? That he wants to fail? I don’t think even his most rabid political enemies have tried that idea out. The reason I’m saying this to you is that we don’t have bales of time. Right at this moment Molinari is in Cheyenne suffering from a massive attack of his acute gastritis—or whatever you care to call it. From your holiday at Wash-35. He’s flat on his back.”

  “Any internal bleeding?”

  “Not yet. Or perhaps there has been and Molinari hasn’t told us. With him it’s possible; he’s naturally secretive. Essentially he trusts nobody.”

  “And you’re positive there’s no malignancy?”

  “We can’t find any. But Molinari doesn’t allow us to conduct as many tests as we’d like; he bolts. Too busy. Papers to sign, speeches to write, bills to present to the General Assembly. He tries to run everything singlehandedly. He can’t seem to delegate authority and then when he does he sets up overlapping organizations that immediately compete—it’s his way of protecting himself.” Teagarden glanced curiously at Eric. “What did he say to you at Wash-35?”

  “Not much.” He did not intend to disclose the contents of their discussion. Molinari had beyond doubt meant it for his ears exclusively. In fact, Eric realized, that was the cardinal reason for his being brought to Cheyenne. He had something to offer Molinari that the other medics did not, a strange contribution for a doctor to be making … he wondered how Teagarden would react if he were to tell him. Probably—and for good reason—Teagarden would have him put under arrest. And shot.

  “I know why you’re going to be with us,” Teagarden said.

  Eric grunted. “You do?” He doubted it.

  “Molinari is simply following his instinctive bias, having us double-checked by infusing new blood into our staff. But no one objects; in fact we’re grateful—we’re all overworked. You know, of course, that the Secretary has a huge family, even larger than that of Virgil Ackerman, your paterfamilias-style former employer.”

  “I believe I’ve read it’s three uncles, six cousins, an aunt, a sister, an elderly brother who—”

  “And they’re all in residence at Cheyenne,” Teagarden said. “Constantly so. Hanging around him, trying to wangle little favors, better meals, quarters, servants—you get the pic. And—” He paused. “I should add there’s a mistress.”

  That, Eric did not know. It had never been mentioned, even in the press hostile to the Secretary.

  “Her name is Mary Reineke. He met her before his wife’s death. On paper Mary’s listed as a personal secretary. I like her. She’s done a lot for him, both before and after his wife’s death. Without her he probably wouldn’t have survived. The ’Starmen loathe her … I don’t quite know why. Perhaps I’ve missed out on some fact.”

  “How old is she?” The Secretary, Eric guessed, was in his late forties or early fifties.

  “As young as its humanly possible to be. Prepare yourself, doctor.” Teagarden chuckled. “When he met her she was in high school. Working in the late afternoons as a typist. Perhaps she handed him a document … nobody knows for sure, but they did meet over some routine business matter.”

  “Can his illness be discussed with her?”

  “Absolutely. She’s the one—the only one—who’s been able to get him to take phenobarbital and, when we tried it, pathabamate. Phenobarb made him sleepy, he said, and path made his mouth dry. So of course he dropped them down a waste chute; he quit. Mary made him go back on. She’s Italian. As he is. She can bawl him out in a way he remembers from his childhood, from his mama, perhaps … or his sister or aunt; they all bawl him out and he tolerates it, but he doesn’t listen, except to Mary. She lives in a concealed apt in Cheyenne guarded by lines of Secret Service men—because of the ’Star people. Molinari dreads the day they’ll—” Teagarden broke off.

  “They’ll what?”

  “Kill her or maim her. Or weed out half her mental processes, turn her into a debrained vegetable; they’ve got a spectrum of techniques they can make use of. You didn’t know our dealings with the ally were so rough at the top, did you?” Teagarden smiled. “It’s a rough war. That’s how Lilistar acts toward us, our superior ally beside which we’re a flea. So imagine how the enemy, the reegs, would treat us if our defense line cracked and they managed to pour in.”

  For a time they rode in silence; no one cared to speak.

  “What do you think would happen,” Eric said finally, “if Molinari passed out of the pic?”

  “Well, it would go one of two ways. Either we’d get someone more pro-Lilistar or we wouldn’t. What other choices are there, and why do you ask? Do you believe we’re going to lose our patient? If we do, doctor, we also lose our jobs and possibly our lives. Your one justification for existence—and mine—is the continual viable presence of one overweight, middle-aged Italian who lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming, with his enormous family and his eighteen-year-old mistress, who has stomach pains and enjoys eating a late-evening snack of batter-fried giant prawns with mustard and horseradish. I don’t care what they told you or what you signed; you’re not going to be inserting any more artiforgs into Virgil Ackerman for a long time; there won’t be the opportunity because keeping Gino Molinari alive is a full-time task.” Teagarden seemed irritable and upset now; his voice, in the darkness of the ’copter cab, was jerky. “It’s too much for me, Sweetscent. You won’t have any other life but Molinari; he’ll talk your ear off, deliver practice speeches to you on every topic on Earth—ask your opinion about everything from contraception to mushrooms—how to cook them—to God to what would you do if, and so forth. For a dictator—and you realize that’s what he is, only we don’t like to use the name—he’s an anomaly. First of all he’s probably the greatest political strategist alive; how else do you suppose he rose to be UN Secreta
ry General? It took him twenty years, and fighting all the way; he dislodged every political opponent he met, from every country on Terra. Then he got mixed up with Lilistar. That’s called foreign policy. On foreign policy the master strategist failed, because at that point a strange occlusion entered his mind. You know what it’s called? Ignorance. Molinari spent all his time learning how to knee people in the groin, and with Freneksy that isn’t called for. He could no more deal with Freneksy than you or I could—possibly worse.”

  “I see,” Eric said.

  “But Molinari went ahead anyhow. He bluffed. He signed the Pact of Peace which got us into the war. And here’s where Molinari differs from all the fat, overblown, strutting dictators in the past. He took the blame on his own shoulders; he didn’t fire a foreign minister here or shoot a policy adviser from the State there. He did it and he knows it. And it’s killing him, by quarter inches, day in, day out. Starting from the gut. He loves Terra. He loves people, all of them, washed and unwashed; he loves his wretched pack of sponging relatives. He shoots people, arrests people, but he doesn’t like it. Molinari is a complex man, doctor. So complex that—”

  Dorf interrupted drily, “A mixture of Lincoln and Mussolini.”

  “He’s a different person with everyone he meets,” Teagarden continued. “Christ, he’s done things so rotten, so goddam wicked that they’d make your hair stand on end. He’s had to. Some of them will never be made public, even by his political foes. And he’s suffered because of doing them. Did you ever know anyone who really accepted responsibility, guilt and blame, before? Do you? Does your wife?”

  “Probably not,” Eric admitted.

  “If you or I ever really accepted the moral responsibility for what we’ve done in our lifetime—we’d drop dead or go mad. Living creatures weren’t made to understand what they do. Take the animals we’ve run over on the road, or the animals we eat. When I was a kid it was my monthly job to go out and poison rats. Did you ever watch a poisoned animal die? And not just one but scores of them, month after month. I don’t feel it. The blame. The load. Fortunately it doesn’t register—it can’t, because if it did there’d be no way I could go on. And that’s how the entire human race gets by. All but the Mole. As they call him.” Teagarden added,“ ‘Lincoln and Mussolini.’ I was thinking more of One Other, back about two thousand years.”

  “This is the first time,” Eric said, “I ever heard anyone compare Gino Molinari to Christ. Even in his captive press.”

  “Perhaps,” Teagarden said, “it’s because I’m the first person you’ve ever talked to who’s been around the Mole twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Don’t tell Mary Reineke about your comparison,” Dorf said. “She’ll tell you he’s a bastard. A pig in bed and at the table, a lewd middle-aged man with rape in his eye, who ought to be in jail. She tolerates him … because she’s charitable.” Dorf laughed sharply.

  “No,” Teagarden said, “that’s not what Mary would say … except when she’s sore, which is about a fourth of the time. I don’t know what Mary Reineke would say; maybe she wouldn’t even try. She just accepts him as he is; she tries to improve him, but even if he doesn’t improve—and he won’t—she loves him anyhow. Have you ever known that other kind of woman? Who saw possibilities in you? And with the right kind of help from her—”

  “Yes,” Eric said. He wished to see the subject changed; it made him think about Kathy. And he did not care to.

  The ’copter droned on toward Cheyenne.

  In bed alone Kathy lay half sleeping as morning sunlight ignited the variegated textures of her bedroom. All the colors so familiar to her in her married life with Eric now became distinguished one from another as the light advanced. Here, where she lived, Kathy had established potent spirits of the past, trapped within the concoctions of other periods: a lamp from early New England, a chest of drawers that was authentic bird’s-eye maple, a Hepplewhite cabinet…. She lay with her eyes half open, aware of each object and all the connecting strands involved in her acquisition of them. Each was a triumph over a rival; some competing collector had failed, and it did not seem farfetched to regard this collection as a graveyard, with the ghosts of the defeated persisting in the vicinity. She did not mind their activity in her home life; after all, she was tougher than they.

  “Eric,” she said sleepily, “for chrissake get up and put on the coffee. And help me out of bed. Push or speak.” She turned toward him, but no one was there. Instantly she sat up. Then she got up from the bed, walked barefoot to the closet for her robe, shivering.

  She was putting on a light gray sweater, tugging it with difficulty over her head, when she realized that a man stood watching her. As she had dressed he had lounged in the doorway, making no move to announce his presence; he was enjoying the sight of her dressing, but now he shifted, stood upright and said, “Mrs. Sweetscent?” He was perhaps thirty, with a dark, rough muzzle and eyes which did not encourage her sense of well-being. In addition he wore a drab-gray uniform and she knew what he was: a member of Lilistar’s secret police operating on Terra. It was the first time in her life that she had ever run into one of them.

  “Yes,” she said, almost soundlessly. She continued dressing, sitting on the bed to slip on her shoes, not taking her eyes from him. “I’m Kathy Sweetscent, Dr. Eric Sweetscent’s wife, and if you don’t—”

  “Your husband is in Cheyenne.”

  “Is he?” She rose to her feet. “I have to fix breakfast; please let me by. And let me see your warrant for coming in here.” She held out her hand, waiting.

  “My warrant,” the Lilistar grayman said, “calls for me to search this conapt for an illegal drug, JJ-180. Frohedadrine. If you have any, hand it over and we’ll go directly to the police barracks at Santa Monica.” He consulted his notebook. “Last night in Tijuana at 45 Avila Street you used the drug orally in the company of—”

  “May I call my attorney?”

  “No.”

  “You mean I have no legal rights at all?”

  “This is wartime.”

  She felt afraid. Nevertheless she managed to speak with reasonable calm. “May I call my employer and tell him I won’t be in?”

  The gray policeman nodded. So she went to the vidphone and dialed Virgil Ackerman at his home in San Fernando. Presently his birdlike, weathered face appeared, owlishly waking in a fuss of confusion. “Oh, Kathy. Where’s the clock?” Virgil peered about.

  Kathy said, “Help me, Mr. Ackerman. The Lilistar—” She ceased, because the grayman had broken the connection with a swift movement of his hand. Shrugging, she hung up.

  “Mrs. Sweetscent,” the grayman said, “I’d like to introduce Mr. Roger Corning to you.” He made a motion and into the apartment, from the hall, came a ’Starman dressed in an ordinary business suit, a briefcase under his arm. “Mr. Corning, this is Kathy Sweetscent, Dr. Sweetscent’s wife.”

  “Who are you?” Kathy said.

  “Someone who can get you off the hook, dear,” Corning said pleasantly. “May we sit down in your living room and discuss this?”

  Going into the kitchen, she twisted the knob for soft-boiled eggs, toast, and coffee without cream. “There’s no JJ-180 in this apt. Unless you put it here yourself during the night.” The food was ready; she carried it to the table on its throw-away tray and seated herself. The smell of the coffee vanquished the remnants of fear and bewilderment in her; she felt capable again and not so intimidated.

  Corning said, “We have a permanent photographic sequence of your evening at 45 Avila Street. From the moment you followed Bruce Himmel up the stairs and inside. Your initial words were, ‘Hello, Bruce. It looks as if this is an all-TF&D—’ ”

  “Not quite,” Kathy said. “I called him Brucie. I always call him Brucie because he’s so hebephrenic and dumb.” She drank her coffee, her hand steady as it held the throw-away cup. “Does your photographic sequence prove what was in the capsules we took, Mr. Gorning?”

  “Corning,” he corrected go
od-naturedly. “No, Katherine, it doesn’t. But the testimony of two of the other participants does. Or will when it’s entered under oath before a military tribunal.” He explained, “This falls outside the jurisdiction of your civilian courts. We ourselves will handle all details of the prosecution.”

  “Why is that?” she inquired.

  “JJ-180 can only be acquired from the enemy. Therefore your use of it—and we can establish this before our tribunal—constitutes intercourse with the enemy. In time of war the tribunal’s demand naturally would be death.” To the gray-uniformed policeman Corning said, “Do you have Mr. Plout’s deposition with you?”

  “It’s in the ’copter.” The grayman started toward the door.

  “I thought there was something subhuman about Chris Plout,” Kathy said. “Now I’m meditating about the others … who else last night had a subhuman quality? Hastings? No. Simon Ild? No, he—”

  “All this can be avoided,” Corning said.

  “But I don’t want to avoid it,” Kathy said. “Mr. Ackerman heard me on the vidphone; TF&D will send an attorney. Mr. Ackerman is a friend of Secretary Molinari; I don’t think—”

  “We can kill you, Kathy,” Corning said. “By nightfall, The tribunal can meet this morning; it’s all arranged.”

  After a time—she had ceased eating—Kathy said, “Why? I’m that important? What is there in JJ-180? I—” She hesitated. “What I tried last night didn’t do so very much.” All at once she wished like hell that Eric had not left. This wouldn’t have happened with him here, she realized. They would have been afraid.

  Soundlessly, she began to cry; she sat hunched over at her plate, tears sliding down her cheeks and dropping to disappear. She did not even try to cover her face; she put her hand to her forehead, rested leaning against her arm, saying nothing.——it, she thought.