Now Wait for Last Year

by Philip K. Dick

  Presently he shook his head no.

  “A shame. You need it. Too bad I can’t do it for you, too, but one’s enough. Anyhow you’re not my type. But good luck—maybe someday you’ll find someone like me.” Opening the door, she disappeared. He stood alone in the corridor, feeling futile. And, all at once, extremely lonely.

  I wonder what became of the analyst’s files? he thought mechanically, turning his mind back to his job. No doubt Gino had them destroyed, so as not to fall into ’Star hands.

  That’s right, he thought. It is about four a.m. when it hits the hardest. But there’s no one else like you, he thought. So that’s that.

  “Dr. Sweetscent?”

  He glanced up. A Secret Service man had approached him. “Yes.”

  “Doctor, there’s a woman outside who says she’s your wife; she wants to be admitted to the building.”

  “It can’t be,” Eric said, with fear.

  “You want to come with me and see if you can identify her, please?”

  Automatically he fell in beside the Secret Service man. “Tell her to go away,” he said. No, he thought, that won’t do; you don’t handle your problems like that, like a child waving a wand. “I have no doubt it’s Kathy,” he said. “Followed me here after all. In the name of God—what dreadful luck. Did you ever feel this way?” he asked the Secret Service man. “Did you ever find yourself unable to live with someone you had to live with?”

  “Nope,” the Secret Service man said unfeelingly, leading the way.

  10

  His wife stood in a corner of the outside compound which was the White House receiving room, reading a homeopape, the New York Times; she wore a dark coat and a good deal of make-up. Her skin, however, looked pale and her eyes seemed enormous, filled with anguish.

  As he entered the compound she glanced up and said, “I’m reading about you; it seems you operated on Molinari and saved his life. Congratulations.” She smiled at him but it was a bleak, trembling smile. “Take me somewhere and buy me a cup of coffee; I have a lot to tell you.”

  “You’ve got nothing to tell me,” he said, unable to keep his stunned dismay out of his voice.

  “I had a major insight after you left,” Kathy said.

  “So did I. It was that we’d done the right thing by splitting up.”

  “That’s strange, because my insight was just the opposite,” she said.

  “I see that. Obviously. You’re here. Listen: by law I don’t have to live with you. All I’m required to do—”

  “You ought to listen to what I have to say,” Kathy said steadily. “It wouldn’t be morally right for you just to walk off; that’s too easy.”

  He sighed. Useful philosophy by which to achieve one’s goals. But nevertheless he was snared. “Okay,” he agreed. “I can’t do that, just as I couldn’t honestly deny you’re my wife. So let’s have the coffee.” He felt fatalistic. Perhaps it was an attenuated form of his self-destructive instinct. In any case he had given in; taking her arm, he guided her along the passage, past the White House guards, toward the nearest cafeteria. “You look bad,” he said. “Your color. And you’re so tense.”

  “I’ve had a bad time,” she admitted, “since you left. I guess I’m really dependent on you.”

  “Symbiosis,” he said. “Unhealthy.

  ” “It’s not that!”

  “Sure it is. This proves it. No, I’m not going to go back with you on the old basis.” He felt—at least for the moment—determined; he was prepared to fight it out, here and now. Eyeing her, he said, “Kathy, you look quite sick.”

  “That’s because you’ve been hanging around the Mole; you’re getting used to a sick environment. I’m perfectly well, just a little tired.”

  But she looked—smaller. As if something in her had dwindled away, as if she had dried up. It was almost—age. Yet not quite. Could their separation have done this much damage? He doubted it. His wife, since he had seen her last, had become frail, and he did not like this; despite his animosity he felt concern.

  “You better get a multiphasic,” he said. “A complete checkup.”

  “Christ,” Kathy said, “I’m okay. I mean, I’ll be okay, if you and I can iron out our misunderstanding and—”

  “The termination of a relationship,” he said, “is not a misunderstanding. It’s a reorganization of life.” He got his coffee cup and hers, filled both from the dispenser, paid the robant cashier.

  When they had seated themselves at a table, Kathy lit a cigarette and said, “All right, suppose I admit it; without you I’m completely falling apart. Do you care?”

  “I care, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “You’d just let me fade away and perish.”

  “I have one sick man who occupies all my time and attention. I can’t heal you too.” Especially, he thought, when I don’t genuinely want to.

  “But all you have to do is—” She sighed, sipped her coffee glumly; her hand trembled, he noticed, in an almost pseudo Parkinsonism. “Nothing. Just accept me back. Then I’ll be well.”

  “No,” he said. “I frankly don’t believe it. You’re sicker than that; there’s some other cause.” I’m not in the medical profession by mistake, he thought. I can spot a thoroughgoing illness pattern when I see it. But he could not diagnose it beyond that. “I think you know what ails you,” he said bluntly. “You could tell me if you cared to. This makes me more wary than ever; you’re not telling me all that you should, you’re not being honest or responsible, and that’s a hell of a basis on which to—”

  “Okay!” She stared at him. “I’m sick; I admit it! But let’s just say it’s my business; you don’t have to worry.”

  “I’d say,” he said, “that there’s been neurological damage.”

  Her head jerked; what color she had now drained from her face.

  “I think,” he said suddenly, “that I’m going to do something I genuinely think may be premature and overly drastic, but I’ll try it and see what comes of it. I’m going to have you arrested.”

  “Good God why?” Panic stricken, she gazed at him, now speechless; her hands lifted in defense, then fell back.

  He rose, walked over to a cafeteria employee. “Miss,” he said, “would you have a Secret Service man come to my table?” He pointed to his table.

  “Yes sir,” the woman said, blinking but unperturbed. She turned to a busboy, who, without further discussion, scampered off into the kitchen.

  Eric returned to his table, reseated himself opposite Kathy. He resumed sipping his coffee, trying to keep himself calm and at the same time bracing himself for the scene that lay ahead. “My rationale,” he said, “is that it’s for your own good. Of course I don’t know yet. But I think it’ll turn out that way. And I think you know it.”

  Blanched, wizened with fright, Kathy implored, “I’ll leave, Eric; I’ll go back to San Diego—okay?”

  “No,” he said. “You got yourself into this by coming here; you made it my business. So you’ll have to suffer the consequences. As they say.” He felt completely rational and in control; it was a bad situation but he sensed the possibilities of something imminent which was far worse.

  Kathy said huskily, “Okay, Eric. I’ll tell you what it is. I’ve got myself addicted to JJ-180. That’s the drug I told you about, the drug we all, including Marm Hastings, took. Now you know. I have nothing more to say; that covers it. And I’ve taken it once since. And just one exposure is addicting. As you no doubt realize; after all, you are a doctor.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Jonas Ackerman.”

  “You got it through Tijuana Fur & Dye? From our subsidiary?”

  “Y-yes.” She did not meet his gaze. Presently she added, “That’s why Jonas knows; he got it for me—but don’t tell anybody that. Please.”

  Eric said, “I won’t.” His mind had begun to function properly again, thank God. Was this the drug which Don Festenburg had obliquely referred to? The term JJ-180 roused dormant memories;
he tried to straighten them out. “You made a hell of a mistake,” he said, “from what I remember hearing about Frohedadrine, as it’s also called. Yes, Hazeltine makes it.”

  At the table a Secret Service man appeared. “Yes, doctor?”

  “I just wanted to inform you that this woman is my wife, as she says. And I’d like to have her cleared to remain here with me.”

  “All right, doctor. We’ll run a routine security probe on her. But I’m certain it’s okay.” The Secret Service man nodded and departed.

  “Thanks,” Kathy said presently.

  “I consider addiction to such a toxic drug a major illness,” Eric said. “In this day and age worse than cancer or a massive cardiac arrest. It’s obvious I can’t dump you. You’ll probably have to enter a hospital; you’re probably aware of that already. I’ll contact Hazeltine, find out all they know … but you understand it may be hopeless.”

  “Yes.” She ducked her head in a spasmodic nod.

  “Anyhow, you seem to have a great deal of courage.” He reached out, took hold of her hand; it was dry and cold. Lifeless. He let it go. “That has always been one thing I’ve admired in you—you’re not a coward. Of course that’s how you got yourself into this in the first place, by having the guts to try some new substance. Well, so now we’re back together.” Glued fast to each other by your possibly fatal drug habit, he thought with morose despair. What a reason to resume our marriage. It was just a little too much for him.

  “You’re a good egg, too,” Kathy said.

  “Do you have any more of the stuff?”

  She hesitated. “N-no.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I won’t give it up. I’d rather leave you and try to make it on my own.” Her fear had become, momentarily, obstinate defiance. “Look, if I’m hooked on JJ-180 I can’t give you the supply I possess—that’s what it means to be hooked! I don’t want to take any more; I have to take it. Anyhow, there’s not much.” She shuddered. “It makes me wish I were dead; that goes without saying. God, I don’t know how I got myself into this.”

  “What’s the experience like? I understand it involves time.”

  “Yes, you lose your fixed point of reference; you pass easily back and forth. What I’d like to do is put myself at the service of someone or something, find a use for the period that I’m in the hands of. Could the Secretary use me? Eric, maybe I could get us out of the war; I could warn Molinari before he signs the Pact of Peace.” Her eyes glowed with hope. “Isn’t it worth trying?”

  “Maybe so.” However, he recalled Festenburg’s statements on the subject; perhaps Molinari had use of JJ-180 already. But the Mole clearly had not tried—or been able—to find a route back to pre-pact days. Perhaps the drug affected each person uniquely. Many stimulant, hallucinogenic drugs did.

  “Can I get access to him through you?” Kathy asked.

  “I—suppose so.” But something sprang to life inside him and made him wary. “It would take time. Right now he’s recovering from the kidney operation, as you seem to know.”

  She shook her head then, nodding with pain. “Jesus, I feel awful, Eric. Like I’m not going to survive. You know … impending disaster. Give me a bunch of tranquilizers; it might help a little.” She held out her hand and again he saw how badly it shook. Even worse, it seemed, than before.

  “I’ll put you in the building’s infirmary,” he decided, rising to his feet. “For the time being. While I figure out what to do. I’d prefer not to give you any medication, though; it might further potentiate the drug. With a new substance you never—”

  Kathy broke in, “Want to know what I did, Eric, while you were off getting the Secret Service? I dropped a cap of JJ-180 into your coffee cup. Don’t laugh; I’m serious. It’s true, and you’ve drunk it. So you’re addicted now. The effects should begin anytime; you’d better get out of this cafeteria and to your own conapt, because they’re enormous.” Her voice was flat and drab. “I did it because I thought you were going to have me arrested; you said you were and I believed you. So it’s your own fault. I’m sorry … I wish I hadn’t, but anyhow now you have a motive for curing me; you’ve got to find a solution. I just couldn’t depend on your sheer goodwill; we’ve had too much trouble between us. Isn’t that so?”

  He managed to say, “I’ve heard that about addicts in general; they like to hook other people.”

  “Do you forgive me?” Kathy asked, also rising.

  “No,” he said. He felt wrathful and dizzy. Not only do I not forgive you, he thought, but I’ll do everything I can to deny you a cure; nothing means anything to me now except getting back at you. Even my own cure. He felt pure, absolute hate for her. Yes, this was what she would do; this was his wife. This was precisely why he had tried to get away.

  “We’re in this together,” Kathy said.

  As steadily as possible he walked toward the exit of the cafeteria, step by step, past the tables, people. Leaving her.

  He almost made it. He almost.

  Everything returned. But totally different. New. Changed.

  Across from him Don Festenburg leaned back, said, “You’re lucky. But I’d better explain this. Here. The calendar.” He pushed a brass object; across the desk Eric saw. “You’ve moved slightly over one year ahead.” Eric stared. Sightlessly. Ornate inscriptions. “This is June 17, 2056. You’re one of the happy few the drug affects this way. Most of them wander off into the past and get bogged down in manufacturing alternate universes; you know, playing God until at last the nerve destruction is too great and they degenerate to random twitches.”

  Eric tried to think of something useful to say. Could not.

  “Save yourself the effort,” Festenburg said, seeing him struggle. “I can do the talking; you’ll only be here a few minutes so let me get it said. A year ago, when you were given JJ-180 in the building cafeteria, I was fortunate enough to get in on the flurry; your wife became hysterical and you of course—disappeared. She was taken in tow by the Secret Service and she admitted her addiction and what she had done.”

  “Oh.” The room dropped and rose as he reflexively nodded.

  “So that—you’re feeling better? So anyhow, but now Kathy is cured, but we won’t go into that; it hardly matters.”

  “What about—”

  “Yes, your problem. Your addiction. There was no cure then, a year ago. However, you’ll be gratified to hear that there is now. It came into being a couple of months ago, and I’ve been waiting for you to show up—so much more is known about JJ-180 now that I was privileged to compute almost to the minute when and where you’d appear.” Reaching into his rumpled coat pocket, Festenburg brought out a small glass bottle. “This is the antidote which TF&D’s subsidiary now manufactures. Would you like it? If you took it now, twenty milligrams, you’d be free of your addiction even after you return to your own time.” He smiled, his sallow face wrinkling unnaturally. “But—there are problems.”

  Eric said, “How is the war going?”

  Deprecatingly, Festenburg said, “What do you care? Good God, Sweetscent; your life depends on this bottle—you don’t know what addiction to that stuff is like!”

  “Is Molinari still alive?”

  Festenburg shook his head. “Minutes he’s got and he wants to know about the Mole’s state of health. Listen.” He leaned toward Eric, his mouth turned down poutingly, his face puffy with agitation. “I want to make a deal, doctor. I’m asking astonishingly little in return for these medication tablets. Please do business with me; the next time you take the drug—if you’re not cured—you’ll go ten years into the future and that’ll be too late, too far.”

  Eric said, “Too late for you, but not for me. The cure will still exist.”

  “You won’t even ask what I want in return?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Eric shrugged. “I don’t feel comfortable; I’m being subjected to pressure and I don’t care for that—I’ll take my chances with the drug w
ithout you.” It was sufficient merely to know that a cure existed. Such knowledge obliterated his anxiety and left him free to do as he liked. “Obviously, my best bet is to use the drug as often as physiologically possible, two or three times, going farther into the future each time, and then when its destructive effects become too great—”

  “Even one use,” Festenburg said between his clenched teeth, “causes irreversible brain damage. You damn fool—you’ve already used it too much. You saw your wife; you want that damage for yourself?”

  After a moment, considering deeply, Eric said, “For what I’ll get out of it, yes. By the time I’ve used it twice I’ll know the outcome of the war and if the outcome is unfavorable possibly I’ll be in a position to advise Molinari how it could be avoided. What’s my health compared to that?” He was silent then; it seemed perfectly clear to him. There was nothing to discuss; he sat waiting for the effects of the drug to wear off. He waited to return to his own time.

  Opening the glass bottle, Festenburg poured out the white tablets; he dropped them to the floor and ground them to dust under his heel.

  “Did it occur to you,” Festenburg said, “that within the next ten years Terra may be so destroyed in the war that TF&D’s subsidiary may no longer be in a position to supply this antidote?”

  It had not occurred to him; although jolted, he managed not to show it. “We’ll see,” he murmured.

  “Frankly I have no knowledge of the future. However, I have knowledge of the past—of your future, this last year.” He produced a homeopape, which he turned toward Eric and spread out on the desk. “Six months following your experience in the White House cafeteria. It’ll interest you.”

  Eric scanned the lead article and its headline.

  SWEETSCENT IMPLICATED AS PRIME MOVER

  IN DOCTOR’S PLOT AGAINST ACTING UN SECRETARY

  DONALD FESTENBURG, HELD BY SECRET SERVICE

  Abruptly Festenburg whipped the newspaper away, crumpling it and tossing it behind him. “I’m not saying what became of Molinari—find that out for yourself, since you’re uninterested in reaching a rational agreement with me.”