The Broken Bubble

by Philip Kindred Dick

  “You mean us,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “Them. What do you mean, us? What do we have for them to bomb?”

  “Your lives,” he said.

  “I don’t care. What difference does it make? What do we have to look forward to?” She plodded along, past the animals in their cages. “I read in a book about frontier women. They churned butter and they made their own clothes.”

  “Would you like that?”

  Ponderously, she said, “Who does that anymore?” She had a point.

  “You know,” she said, “I know a girl, a Jewish girl. And she went to Israel. And she worked on a farm. And she was out there in the desert . . . she carried a gun while she worked. And they all ate together, and everything they owned belonged to all of them, and they didn’t get any money, they were part of this—” She hesitated. “I don’t know the name. It’s a Jewish word. Sort of a community settlement. And before that, she used to live like us, sitting around doing nothing, wasting her time with nothing to do. Like we all used to walk down to the show together on Saturday night, me and her and a bunch of girlfriends, and just sit there in the show, and usually it was a love picture—you know?—where they finally get together in the end, the good guy and the good girl, and you see him kissing her and everything’s wonderful. And they have this place up sort of in the country, with a lot of furniture and one of those big windows.”

  “And two new cars. And the furniture is sort of blond and modem.”

  “Well,” he said, “there are houses like that.”

  Art, ahead of them, pointed and said, “H-h-hey, look over that way.”

  Speeding along the street beyond the Zoo was a red-and-white convertible; in it were four boys, well dressed. The car was new and shiny, and the boys wore sweaters and their hair was neatly combed. With a scream of tires, the convertible turned a corner and disappeared.

  “Bactrians,” Art said.

  “Never mind,” Rachael said.

  “They were, though.”

  She said to Jim, “Did you know, I was engaged to Bill Bratton. When I was in high school. We went steady for a couple of months.”

  “He’s president of the Bactrians,” Art explained. “Their families have a lot of d-d-dough; his father’s an attorney. A-a-and they have real new cars and they have these d-d-dances.”

  Rachael said, “Bill used to take me dancing up to these expensive supper clubs. Sometimes we’d drive over into Mann County and up along the highway. We’d have dinner and then we’d dance. I even wore his club pin.”

  “How’d you meet him?” Jim asked.

  “At a school dance. They all used to come into the gym in a group, with their shoes shined and their hair combed; they looked pretty good.”

  “They danced good,” Art said. “They took instructions.”

  “Bill liked to rumba,” Rachael said, “and mambo, and I guess now they’re real good at the cha-cha-cha. And I liked to dance, so I used to go around with him. Art never could dance very good. I even had dinner one time up at the Brattons’ home, up on Nob Hill. They have a sort of mansion, with a gardener to take care of the lawns, and a library and a lot of rooms, and this huge table; there must have been twenty people sitting at it. And then later on, Bill got into a lot of trouble up in San Rafael.”

  “Yeah,” Art said, “they made a mistake because the police up there d-d-don’t know who Bratton is, and they put a whole lot of B-b-bactrians in jail one night.”

  “They were driving through San Rafael,” Rachael said. “They cut up the tires of cars and pushed some cars down a hill, and they beat up some people going home—it was real late—and the car they were in was stolen. But the police caught them on Highway 1 near Olema. And they had beer in the car. And usually their families could get them off, but not this time. And some of them paid a lot of fines and one kid, I guess he was over twenty-one, went to jail for a year. Bill got a suspended sentence. I wasn’t going around with him then. I stopped going around with him because of this initiation thing. They were down at Cannel, and I went along with Bill. I stayed at night with these girls, but during the day we went around and had a lot of fun. And then they wanted to make these guys they were initiating do these things . . . it was disgusting and I left, and that was the last time I went out with him. It was really awful. I mean, it wasn’t like people; I can’t say what some of the things were. But finally one kid was killed and then there wasn’t so much of that.”

  “Boy,” Art said, “their families sure p-p-pulled a lot of strings to get them off.”

  “Are there many clubs like that?” Jim said. “Among the upper-class kids?”

  Rachael said, “Most of the kids from good homes belong to one club or another. They have pins and dances and initiations. And the trouble is, the reason the clubs are so strong, is that their fathers used to belong to them. And the dances are held in those big houses up on Nob Hill. The parents sort of sponsor them. They have a lot of money. Like the Bactrian pin costs around fifty dollars.”

  Ahead of them were the bear cages. They found a place to buy hot coffee and a place to sit. Rachael seemed tired from the walking; her shoulders drooped. Across from their bench, children gathered to view the bears. One bear lay back on its rump, clutching its hind feet with its forepaws and rocking grotesquely from side to side. The sight seemed to make Rachael uncomfortable.

  “What’s the m-m-matter?” Art asked, bending over her.

  “Nothing. It just bothers me.”

  Art said, “Mm-maybe we ought to get back. So she can start fixing d-d-dinner.” As they drove back toward the apartment on Fillmore, Rachael said, “Who is Pat?”

  “My ex-wife,” he said. “She works down at KOIF.”

  “Is that that woman with the b-b-black hair?” Art said. “I think I saw her, she’s real cute. Real cool-looking.”

  “It must be funny,” Rachael said, “not being married to somebody and still seeing them.”

  “It can be tough,” he said. “Does she like to work?”

  “She likes her job.”

  Rachael said, “I think if a man loves a woman he should never leave her or go around with anybody else.”

  “Sometimes,” Jim said, “the woman doesn’t want to have any more to do with him.” Rachael nodded.

  “Had you thought of that?” he asked her. “No,” she said.

  “I was very much in love with Pat,” he said. “In some respects I still am. But she wanted something that I couldn’t give her.”

  “How do you feel when you see her?” Rachael asked. “Do you still want to help her and do things for her and take care of her?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But I’m realistic enough to accept the fact that I can’t. One of these days she’s going to get married to the station business manager, a fellow named Bob Posin.”

  He made a left turn onto Fillmore. Presently they were parked down the block from the house, and he was opening the car door for Rachael and Art. “Don’t be too disappointed,” Rachael said, “if I don’t cook as well as Pat.” He was amused. “Okay, little Mrs. Wife.”

  The apartment was below street level, and the living room was cool and damp. Pipes ran along the walls. How few pieces of furniture, he thought. A heavy round oak table was the largest piece, and then two chairs, and the couch, and a dresser on which was a television set, an obsolete twelve-inch Emerson with a rabbit-ears antenna. Standing up in the corner were printer’s dummies, titled Phantasmagoria in huge Gothic type. Rachael went at once to the kitchen and began preparing the meal. Throwing himself down on the couch, Art lit a cigarette and began to smoke nervously. The man of the house, Jim thought, was feeling the gravity of his position.

  “Not bad,” Jim said, meaning the apartment.

  “We been living h-h-here since we got married.” Art puffed more and more rapidly; clouds of cigarette smoke obscured him. With a sigh, he drew in his feet and shifted about on the sofa.

  Rachael appeared at the kitchen doorway, looking
for dishes. She, too, was anxious, and he thought to himself that this was an occasion for both of them. Probably she had little opportunity to cook for company, to play out her role as hostess.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  “Don’t make any,” he said.

  “It’s made; I just have to heat it up.”

  “Okay,” he said, “thanks.” When she had returned to the kitchen, he said to Art, “How much do you pay for this?”

  “Fifty-five dollars a month,” Art said. He asked how much the two of them earned.

  “Counting what I g-g-get,” Art said, “we make around a hundred and fifty a month.” Jim thought: And over a third of it goes for rent. “They really have you,” he said, “on rent.”

  “Yeah,” Art said fatalistically. “But this isn’t bad for these days. Some places we saw, they w-w-wanted sixty and seventy. And they weren’t as good as this.”

  “How are you going to get along when the baby comes? Have you made any plans?” Art shuffled his feet. “We’ll be okay.”

  “What’re you going to buy food with? She can’t keep on working.” In the kitchen, Rachael shut off the water and came to the doorway. Her eyes, dilated and dark, fixed on him “That’s what his brother says.”

  He was cowed. “But what’s the answer? You earn two-thirds of your combined income; that’ll cease when you quit your job.”

  “Do you have any money?” Rachael said.

  “Some.”

  “Well,” she said, “why don’t you give it to us?” Then she smiled. “You’re all white. I scared you.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But not the money.”

  “I know. You’d give it to us, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would,” he said. “But you wouldn’t take it.”

  She returned to the kitchen. “We hardly even know you.”

  “You do,” he said.

  “Not real well. Not that well.”

  Art said, “We got l-l-lots of money. We got over a h-h-hundred bucks saved up.”

  “Let me match it,” he said suddenly.

  “Aw, ha, no. Hell.” Art laughed anxiously.

  “Come on,” he said, wanting to.

  “Hell, no,” Art said.

  But he needed to. “What can I do?” he said.

  “For what?” Rachael said, appearing with the pot of coffee.

  “I’d like to do something to help.”

  Neither of them answered. They were both a little surly. Like cats, he thought. Like the puma at the zoo. He had pestered them too much.

  “You haven’t got the slightest ability to deal with your problems,” he said. “You’re living here in this slum without money—you’re not living like adults. You’re living like God knows what.”

  “Because we don’t have any money?” Rachael said.

  He said, “I’m afraid something’ll happen to you. And there’s nothing I can do; I can’t help you.” Powerless, he thought. He was power less to affect their lives, to alter things in any manner. His program was gone, his contact with them; he did nothing, no work, no act that had any meaning. How futile it made him feel. How superfluous. “Can’t I buy yoti something?” he said.

  “Just drink your coffee,” she said, placing the cup before him.

  “Do you understand how I feel?” he demanded, ignoring the coffee.

  Standing before him with the coffeepot, she said, “You can buy something for the baby. Some clothes. When the time comes, I’ll write out what size and color.”

  Returning to the kitchen, she seated herself at the table; with her recipe books open, she prepared dinner.

  7

  On Saturday night a visitor rapped at Ludwig Grimmelman’s locked metal door.

  “Who is it?” Grimmelman said, not recognizing the knock. From a wall rack, he took down an Army M1 rifle; sweeping up the secret documents and reports he had been preparing, he stuffed them into a briefcase, closed the snap, and pushed them into a hiding place. He turned off the light and stood in darkness, hearing his own breathing. “What do you want?”

  “Mr. Grimmelman?” the voice said, a man’s voice.

  Grimmelman went to a side window, unfastened the catch, raised it, and peered out A man was standing in the outside stairwell, a heavyset man in a topcoat, wearing a hat and a pressed suit. He was middleaged; he seemed to be a salesman, probably an insurance salesman.

  Putting his light back on, Grimmelman unlocked and opened the door. “I’m busy. I refuse to buy anything.”

  The man said, “I’m Raif Brown. From the FBI.” He flapped open a black leather identification folder. “I’d like to step in a moment and discuss a matter with you. If I may.”

  “What’s this about?” He backed away as Mr. Brown entered.

  “About a fellow you might know.” Brown glanced about the room. “Quite a place you’ve got here.” He strolled leisurely.

  “Nut fellow?”

  “Ever heard of an individual by the name of Kendelman? Leon Kendelman? We thought you might know him. Here’s his picture.” Mr. Brown, from the deep pocket of his topcoat, brought forth a packet; he opened the packet and handed Grimmelman a snapshot, blurred, indistinct. But nonetheless the snapshot was familiar. “Why?” Grimmelman demanded. “Draft evasion.”

  Grimmelman returned the snapshot. “No, I never saw him. And anyhow your organization is infiltrated by Communists; It’s no use talking to you, it goes straight to MVD hatchet men in the Labor School and around the PW.”

  “You never saw this individual?”

  “No.”

  “Positive?”

  “No, I never saw him.” He was terrified, because the snapshot, taken from a distance with a telescopic lens, was of him.

  Mr. Brown said, “May I see your draft card?”

  The card was in a locked box under the table, along with other papers. Larsen, the printer whom Art worked for, had done it; at one time Larsen had been an organizer for a splinter Trotskyist organization of which Grimmelman had been a member.

  Studying the card, Mr. Brown said, “You’re twenty-six?”

  “Yes,” he said, “born in Warsaw, naturalized in 1932.”

  “You’re 4-F,” Mr. Brown said, returning the card. “How’d you work that? You look all right to me.”

  “Hernia,” Grimmelman said.

  “And you’re positive you don’t know this Kendelman?”

  Actually there was no Kendelman. He had registered under that name, and he used it now and then in covert political work, undercover work such as spying on Fascist student groups, Stalinist fronts, and for taking out library books he did not mean to return. “Positive,” he said.

  He wished Mr. Brown the FBI man would leave. He wished it more than anything else on earth; the wish became a passion. In fact, if Mr. Brown did not leave, he would fall dead in his tracks; the sense of danger was too much. He could not bear it.

  “Quite a place you got here,” Mr. Brown said, picking up some photostats of Pravda. “You’re interested in politics, Mr. Grimmelman?”

  Mr. Brown showed no sign of leaving. On the contrary, the more he saw, the more interested he seemed to become.

  Joe Mantila said, “He says—it’s time to get out the Horch. He says we’re supposed to go start it up and make sure the engine’s tuned.” He leaned from the window of his ‘39 Plymouth toward Art Emmanual, who stood at the curb. Behind the Plymouth other cars, the traffic along Fillmore, honked and flashed their headlights, and swung around. “I’ll go get Heinke; you can come now or we’ll pick you up on the way back—”

  “Pick me up on the way back,” Art said.

  “Okay, that’ll be in around fifteen minutes.” Mantila held his watch up to the light from the cars behind. “Ten-five.”

  Art walked back up the path and down the steps to the apartment. Behind him the Plymouth, popping and sputtering, gunned off and was gone. The nighttime traffic resumed its regular flow.

  Closing the front door, he said to Rachael
, “We can’t go out tonight. I have to do something.”

  She said, “Was that about Grimmelman?” She had put on a coat, and now, in the bathroom, she was combing her hair. They had been about to leave for the bowling alley; she liked to watch the players and be where there was noise and activity and kids her own age. Especially on Saturday night.

  “It looks like we might be doing something,” Art said. He was uneasy; he knew how she felt about Grimmelman and the Organization.

  “It’s up to you,” she said. “But he’s so—peculiar. I mean, he sits up there all day; he never goes out. Is that really what you want?”

  “I got a lot invested in the Horch,” he said. It had been his job to supply parts for engine repair. “There’s something wrong with him,” she said, taking off her coat. “That’s what Nat says.”

  “I think you go over there,” she said, “because you can’t find anything else to do. If you had something else, you’d do it instead.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he mumbled, standing first on one foot and then the other. “When will you be back tonight?”

  “Probably late.” He did not really want to go. But he had to. “Will you be okay?” he asked hesitantly.

  “I might go to a show.”

  “I’d kind of feel better if you stayed home.”

  “Okay,” she said, “I will. Could we sometime play poker again?” That was an eternal love of hers; she played a tight game, without talk or motion, straight or draw poker with no variations and no cards wild. Usually she won a dollar or two. She had frightened off most of Art’s high school friends, who liked to play goofy, extravagant games with a great deal of horseplay. Once she had slapped Ferde Heinke and knocked off his glasses because, in dealing, he had kiddingly turned over a card.