Vintage PKD

by Philip K. Dick

  “Was it me?” Addison Doug asked.

  “You better believe it,” the security agent said.

  The funeral procession moved with aching solemnity down Pennsylvania Avenue, three flag-draped caskets and dozens of black limousines passing between rows of heavily coated, shivering mourners. A low haze hung over the day, gray outlines of buildings faded into the rain-drenched murk of the Washington March day.

  Scrutinizing the lead Cadillac through prismatic binoculars, TV’s top news and public-events commentator, Henry Cassidy, droned on at his vast unseen audience, “. . . sad recollections of that earlier train among the wheatfields carrying the coffin of Abraham Lincoln back to burial and the nation’s capital. And what a sad day this is, and what appropriate weather, with its dour overcast and sprinkles!” In his monitor he saw the zoomar lens pan up on the fourth Cadillac, as it followed those with the caskets of the dead tempunauts.

  His engineer tapped him on the arm.

  “We appear to be focusing on three unfamiliar figures so far not identified, riding together,” Henry Cassidy said into his neck mike, nodding agreement. “So far I’m unable to quite make them out. Are your location and vision any better from where you’re placed, Everett?” he inquired of his colleague and pressed the button that notified Everett Branton to replace him on the air.

  “Why, Henry,” Branton said in a voice of growing excitement, “I believe we’re actually eyewitness to the three American tempunauts as they remanifest themselves on their historic journey into the future!”

  “Does this signify,” Cassidy said, “that somehow they have managed to solve and overcome the—”

  “Afraid not, Henry,” Branton said in his slow, regretful voice. “What we’re eyewitnessing to our complete surprise consists of the Western world’s first verified glimpse of what the technical people refer to as Emergence Time Activity.”

  “Ah, yes, ETA,” Cassidy said brightly, reading it off the official script the Federal authorities had handed to him before air time.

  “Right, Henry. Contrary to what might seem to be the case at first sight, these are not—repeat not—our three brave tempunauts as such, as we would ordinarily experience them—”

  “I grasp it now, Everett,” Cassidy broke in excitedly, since his authorized script read CASS BREAKS IN EXCITEDLY. “Our three tempunauts have momentarily been suspended in their historic voyage to the future, which we believe will span across a time-continuum roughly a century from now . . . It would seem that the overwhelming grief and drama of this unanticipated day of mourning has caused them to—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Henry,” Everett Branton said, “but I think, since the procession has momentarily halted on its slow march forward, that we might be able to—”

  “No!” Cassidy said, as a note was handed him in a swift scribble, reading: Do not interview nauts. Urgent. Dis. previous inst. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to . . .” he continued, “. . . to speak briefly with tempunauts Benz, Crayne, and Doug, as you had hoped, Everett. As we had all briefly hoped to.” He wildly waved the boom-mike back; it had already begun to swing out expectantly toward the stopped Cadillac. Cassidy shook his head violently at the mike technician and his engineer.

  Perceiving the boom-mike swinging at them Addison Doug stood up in the back of the open Cadillac. Cassidy groaned. He wants to speak, he realized. Didn’t they reinstruct him? Why am I the only one they get across to? Other boom-mikes representing other networks plus radio station interviewers on foot now were rushing out to thrust up their microphones into the faces of the three tempunauts, especially Addison Doug’s. Doug was already beginning to speak, in response to a question shouted up to him by a reporter. With his boom-mike off, Cassidy couldn’t hear the question, nor Doug’s answer. With reluctance, he signaled for his own boom-mike to trigger on.

  “. . . before,” Doug was saying loudly.

  “In what manner, ‘All this has happened before’?” the radio reporter, standing close to the car, was saying.

  “I mean,” U.S. tempunaut Addison Doug declared, his face red and strained, “that I have stood here in this spot and said again and again, and all of you have viewed this parade and our deaths at reentry endless times, a closed cycle of trapped time which must be broken.”

  “Are you seeking,” another reporter jabbered up at Addison Doug, “for a solution to the reentry implosion disaster which can be applied in retrospect so that when you do return to the past you will be able to correct the malfunction and avoid the tragedy which cost—or for you three, will cost—your lives?”

  Tempunaut Benz said, “We are doing that, yes.”

  “Trying to ascertain the cause of the violent implosion and eliminate the cause before we return,” tempunaut Crayne added, nodding. “We have learned already that, for reasons unknown, a mass of nearly one hundred pounds of miscellaneous Volkswagen motor parts, including cylinders, the head . . .”

  This is awful, Cassidy thought. “This is amazing!” he said aloud, into his neck mike. “The already tragically deceased U.S. tempunauts, with a determination that could emerge only from the rigorous training and discipline to which they were subjected—and we wondered why at the time but can clearly see why now—have already analyzed the mechanical slip-up responsible, evidently, for their own deaths, and have begun the laborious process of sifting through and eliminating causes of that slip-up so that they can return to their original launch site and reenter without mishap.”

  “One wonders,” Branton mumbled onto the air and into his feedback earphone, “what the consequences of this alteration of the near past will be. If in reentry they do not implode and are not killed, then they will not—well, it’s too complex for me, Henry, these time paradoxes that Dr. Fein at the Time Extrusion Labs in Pasadena has so frequently and eloquently brought to our attention.”

  Into all the microphones available, of all sorts, tempunaut Addison Doug was saying, more quietly now, “We must not eliminate the cause of reentry implosion. The only way out of this trap is for us to die. Death is the only solution for this. For the three of us.” He was interrupted as the procession of Cadillacs began to move forward.

  Shutting off his mike momentarily, Henry Cassidy said to his engineer, “Is he nuts?”

  “Only time will tell,” his engineer said in a hard-to-hear voice.

  “An extraordinary moment in the history of the United States’s involvement in time travel,” Cassidy said, then, into his now live mike. “Only time will tell—if you will pardon the inadvertent pun— whether tempunaut Doug’s cryptic remarks uttered impromptu at this moment of supreme suffering for him, as in a sense to a lesser degree it is for all of us, are the words of a man deranged by grief or an accurate insight into the macabre dilemma that in theoretical terms we knew all along might eventually confront—confront and strike down with its lethal blow—a time-travel launch, either ours or the Russians’.”

  He segued, then, to a commercial.

  “You know,” Branton’s voice muttered in his ear, not on the air but just to the control room and to him, “if he’s right they ought to let the poor bastards die.”

  “They ought to release them,” Cassidy agreed. “My God, the way Doug looked and talked, you’d imagine he’d gone through this for a thousand years and then some! I wouldn’t be in his shoes for anything.”

  “I’ll bet you fifty bucks,” Branton said, “they have gone through this before. Many times.

  “Then we have, too,” Cassidy said.

  Rain fell now, making all the lined-up mourners shiny. Their faces, their eyes, even their clothes—everything glistened in wet reflections of broken, fractured light, bent and sparkling, as, from gathering gray formless layers above them, the day darkened.

  “Are we on the air?” Branton asked.

  Who knows? Cassidy thought. He wished the day would end.

  The Soviet chrononaut N. Gauki lifted both hands impassionedly and spoke to the Americans across the table fro
m him in a voice of extreme urgency. “It is the opinion of myself and my colleague R. Plenya, who for his pioneering achievements in time travel has been certified a Hero of the Soviet People, and rightly so, that based on our own experience and on theoretical material developed both in your own academic circles and in the Soviet Academy of Sciences of the USSR, we believe that tempunaut A. Doug’s fears may be justified. And his deliberate destruction of himself and his teammates at reentry, by hauling a huge mass of auto back with him from ETA, in violation of his orders, should be regarded as the act of a desperate man with no other means of escape. Of course, the decision is up to you. We have only advisory position in this matter.”

  Addison Doug played with his cigarette lighter on the table and did not look up. His ears hummed, and he wondered what that meant. It had an electronic quality. Maybe we’re within the module again, he thought. But he didn’t perceive it; he felt the reality of the people around him, the table, the blue plastic lighter between his fingers. No smoking in the module during reentry, he thought. He put the lighter carefully away in his pocket.

  “We’ve developed no concrete evidence whatsoever,” General Toad said, “that a closed time loop has been set up. There’s only the subjective feelings of fatigue on the part of Mr. Doug. Just his belief that he’s done all this repeatedly. As he says, it is very probably psychological in nature.” He rooted, piglike, among the papers before him. “I have a report, not disclosed to the media, from four psychiatrists at Yale on his psychological makeup. Although unusually stable, there is a tendency toward cyclothymia on his part, culminating in acute depression. This naturally was taken into account long before the launch, but it was calculated that the joyful qualities of the two others in the team would offset this functionally. Anyhow, that depressive tendency in him is exceptionally high, now.” He held the paper out, but no one at the table accepted it. “Isn’t it true, Dr. Fein,” he said, “that an acutely depressed person experiences time in a peculiar way, that is, circular time, time repeating itself, getting nowhere, around and around? The person gets so psychotic that he refuses to let go of the past. Reruns it in his head constantly.”

  “But you see,” Dr. Fein said, “this subjective sensation of being trapped is perhaps all we would have.” This was the research physicist whose basic work had laid the theoretical foundation for the project. “If a closed loop did unfortunately lock into being.”

  “The general,” Addison Doug said, “is using words he doesn’t understand.”

  “I researched the one I was unfamiliar with,” General Toad said. “The technical psychiatric terms . . . I know what they mean.”

  To Addison Doug, Benz said, “Where’d you get all those VW parts, Addi?”

  “I don’t have them yet,” Addison Doug said.

  “Probably picked up the first junk he could lay his hands on,” Crayne said. “Whatever was available, just before we started back.”

  “Will start back,” Addison Doug corrected.

  “Here are my instructions to the three of you,” General Toad said. “You are not in any way to attempt to cause damage or implosion or malfunction during reentry, either by lugging back extra mass or by any other method that enters your mind. You are to return as scheduled and in replica of the prior simulations. This especially applies to you, Mr. Doug.” The phone by his right arm buzzed. He frowned, picked up the receiver. An interval passed, and then he scowled deeply and set the receiver back down, loudly.

  “You’ve been overruled,” Dr. Fein said.

  “Yes, I have,” General Toad said. “And I must say at this time that I am personally glad because my decision was an unpleasant one.”

  “Then we can arrange for implosion at reentry,” Benz said after a pause.

  “The three of you are to make the decision,” General Toad said. “Since it involves your lives. It’s been entirely left up to you. Whichever way you want it. If you’re convinced you’re in a closed time loop, and you believe a massive implosion at reentry will abolish it—” He ceased talking, as tempunaut Doug rose to his feet. “Are you going to make another speech, Doug?” he said.

  “I just want to thank everyone involved,” Addison Doug said. “For letting us decide.” He gazed haggard-faced and wearily around at all the individuals seated at the table. “I really appreciate it.”

  “You know,” Benz said slowly, “blowing us up at reentry could add nothing to the chances of abolishing a closed loop. In fact that could do it, Doug.”

  “Not if it kills us all,” Crayne said.

  “You agree with Addi?” Benz said.

  “Dead is dead,” Crayne said. “I’ve been pondering it. What other way is more likely to get us out of this? Than if we’re dead? What possible other way?”

  “You may be in no loop,” Dr. Fein pointed out.

  “But we may be,” Crayne said.

  Doug, still on his feet, said to Crayne and Benz, “Could we include Merry Lou in our decision-making?”

  “Why?” Benz said.

  “I can’t think too clearly anymore,” Doug said. “Merry Lou can help me; I depend on her.”

  “Sure,” Crayne said. Benz, too, nodded.

  General Toad examined his wristwatch stoically and said, “Gentlemen, this concludes our discussion.”

  Soviet chrononaut Gauki removed his headphones and neck mike and hurried toward the three U.S. tempunauts, his hand extended; he was apparently saying something in Russian, but none of them could understand it. They moved away somberly, clustering close.

  “In my opinion you’re nuts, Addi,” Benz said. “But it would appear that I’m the minority now.”

  “If he is right,” Crayne said, “if—one chance in a billion—if we are going back again and again forever, that would justify it.”

  “Could we go see Merry Lou?” Addison Doug said. “Drive over to her place now?”

  “She’s waiting outside,” Crayne said.

  Striding up to stand beside the three tempunauts, General Toad said, “You know, what made the determination go the way it did was the public reaction to how you, Doug, looked and behaved during the funeral procession. The NSC advisors came to the conclusion that the public would, like you, rather be certain it’s over for all of you. That it’s more of a relief to them to know you’re free of your mission than to save the project and obtain a perfect reentry. I guess you really made a lasting impression on them, Doug. That whining you did.” He walked away, then, leaving the three of them standing there alone.

  “Forget him,” Crayne said to Addison Doug. “Forget everyone like him. We’ve got to do what we have to.”

  “Merry Lou will explain it to me,” Doug said. She would know what to do, what would be right.

  “I’ll go get her,” Crayne said, “and after that the four of us can drive somewhere, maybe to her place, and decide what to do. Okay?”

  “Thank you,” Addison Doug said, nodding; he glanced around for her hopefully, wondering where she was. In the next room, perhaps, somewhere close. “I appreciate that,” he said.

  Benz and Crayne eyed each other. He saw that, but did not know what it meant. He knew only that he needed someone, Merry Lou most of all, to help him understand what the situation was. And what to finalize on to get them out of it.

  Merry Lou drove them north from Los Angeles in the superfast lane of the freeway toward Ventura, and after that inland to Ojai. The four of them said very little. Merry Lou drove well, as always; leaning against her, Addison Doug felt himself relax into a temporary sort of peace.

  “There’s nothing like having a chick drive you,” Crayne said, after many miles had passed in silence.

  “It’s an aristocratic sensation,” Benz murmured. “To have a woman do the driving. Like you’re nobility being chauffeured.”

  Merry Lou said, “Until she runs into something. Some big slow object.”

  Addison Doug said, “When you saw me trudging up to your place . . . up the redwood round path the other day. What
did you think? Tell me honestly.”

  “You looked,” the girl said, “as if you’d done it many times. You looked worn and tired and—ready to die. At the end.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry, but that’s how you looked, Addi. I thought to myself, he knows the way too well.”

  “Like I’d done it too many times.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then you vote for implosion,” Addison Doug said.

  “Well—”

  “Be honest with me,” he said.

  Merry Lou said, “Look in the back seat. The box on the floor.”

  With a flashlight from the glove compartment the three men examined the box. Addison Doug, with fear, saw its contents. VW motor parts, rusty and worn. Still oily.

  “I got them from behind a foreign-car garage near my place,” Merry Lou said. “On the way to Pasadena. The first junk I saw that seemed as if it’d be heavy enough. I had heard them say on TV at launch time that anything over fifty pounds up to—”

  “It’ll do it,” Addison Doug said. “It did do it.”

  “So there’s no point in going to your place,” Crayne said. “It’s decided. We might as well head south toward the module. And initiate the procedure for getting out of ETA. And back to reentry.” His voice was heavy but evenly pitched. “Thanks for your vote, Miss Hawkins.”

  She said, “You are all so tired.”

  “I’m not,” Benz said. “I’m mad. Mad as hell.”

  “At me?” Addison Doug said.

  “I don’t know,” Benz said. “It’s just—Hell.” He lapsed into brooding silence then. Hunched over, baffled and inert. Withdrawn as far as possible from the others in the car.

  At the next freeway junction she turned the car south. A sense of freedom seemed now to fill her, and Addison Doug felt some of the weight, the fatigue, ebbing already.

  On the wrist of each of the three men the emergency alert receiver buzzed its warning tone; they all started.