St. Cyr said, "Her first. Her right away, as soon as possible. And then later on if necessary, Alfonse Gam."
Weary, cold fright filled Johnny Barefoot.
"Take a match," Harvey said, picking up the four matches, arranging and rearranging them in his hand and then holding out the four even tops to the people in the room. "Go ahead, Johnny. You got here last so I'll have you go first."
"Not me," he said.
"Then we'll draw without you," Gertrude Harvey said, and picked a match. Phil held the remaining ones out to St. Cyr and he drew one also. Two remained in Phil Harvey's hand.
"I was in love with her," Johnny said. "I still am."
Nodding, Phil Harvey said, "Yes, I know."
His heart leaden, Johnny said, "Okay. I'll draw." Reaching, he selected one of the two matches.
It was the broken one.
"I got it," he said. "It's me."
"Can you do it?" Claude St. Cyr asked him.
He was silent for a time. And then he shrugged and said, "Sure. I can do it. Why not?" Why not indeed? he asked himself. A woman that I was falling in love with; certainly I can murder her. Because it has to be done. There is no other way out for us.
"It may not be as difficult as we think," St. Cyr said. "We've consulted some of Phil's technicians and we picked up some interesting advice. Most of their transmissions are coming from nearby, not a light-week away by any means. I'll tell you how we know. Their transmissions have kept up with changing events. For example, your suicide-attempt at the Antler Hotel. There was no time-lapse there or anywhere else!'
"And they're not supernatural, Johnny," Gertrude Harvey said.
"So the first thing to do," St. Cyr continued, "is to find their base here on Earth or at least here in the solar system. It could be Gam's guinea fowl ranch on Io. Try there, if you find she's left the hospital."
"Okay," Johnny said, nodding slightly.
"How about a drink?" Phil Harvey said to him.
Johnny nodded.
The four of them, seated in a circle, drank, slowly and in silence.
"Do you have a gun?" St. Cyr asked.
"Yes." Rising to his feet he set his glass down.
"Good luck," Gertrude said, after him.
Johnny opened the front door and stepped outside alone, out into the dark, cold evening.
ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET
AT THE OFFICES of Concord Military Service Consultants, Jesse Slade looked through the window at the street below and saw everything denied him in the way of freedom, flowers and grass, the opportunity for a long and unencumbered walk into new places. He sighed.
"Sorry, sir," the client opposite his desk mumbled apologetically. "I guess I'm boring you."
"Not at all," Slade said, reawakening to his onerous duties. "Let's see…" He examined the papers which the client, a Mr. Walter Grossbein, had presented to him. "Now you feel, Mr. Grossbein, that your most favorable chance to elude military service lies in the area of a chronic ear-trouble deemed by civilian doctors in the past acute labyrinthitis. Hmmm." Slade studied the pertinent documents.
His duties—and he did not enjoy them—lay in locating for clients of the firm a way out of military service. The war against the Things had not been conducted properly, of late; many casualties from the Proxima region had been reported—and with the reports had come a rush of business for Concord Military Service Consultants.
"Mr. Grossbein," Slade said thoughtfully, "I noticed when you entered my office that you tended to list to one side."
"Did I?" Mr. Grossbein asked, surprised.
"Yes, and I thought to myself, That man has a severe impairment of his sense of balance. That's related to the ear, you know, Mr. Grossbein. Hearing, from an evolutionary standpoint, is an outgrowth of the sense of balance. Some water creatures of a low order incorporate a grain of sand and make use of it as a drop-weight within their fluid body, and by that method tell if they're going up or down."
Mr. Grossbein said, "I believe I understand."
"Say it, then," Jesse Slade said.
"I—frequently list to one side or another as I walk."
"And at night?"
Mr. Grossbein frowned, and then said happily, "I, uh, find it almost impossible to orient myself at night, in the dark, when I can't see."
"Fine," Jesse Slade said, and begin writing on the client's military service form B-30. "I think this will get you an exemption," he said.
Happily, the client said, "I can't thank you enough."
Oh yes you can, Jesse Slade thought to himself. You can thank us to the tune of fifty dollars. After all, without us you might be a pale, lifeless corpse in some gully on a distant planet, not far from now.
And, thinking about distant planets, Jesse Slade felt once more the yearning. The need to escape from his small office and the process of dealing with gold-bricking clients whom he had to face, day after day.
There must be another life than this, Slade said to himself. Can this really be all there is to existence?
Far down the street outside his office window a neon sign glowed night and day. Muse Enterprises, the sign read, and Jesse Slade knew what it meant. I'm going in there, he said to himself. Today. When I'm on my ten-thirty coffee break; I won't even wait for lunch time.
As he put on his coat, Mr. Hnatt, his supervisor, entered the office and said, "Say, Slade, what's up? Why the fierce trapped look?"
"Um, I'm getting out, Mr. Hnatt," Slade told him. "Escaping. I've told fifteen thousand men how to escape military service; now it's my turn."
Mr. Hnatt clapped him on the back. "Good idea, Slade; you're overworked. Take a vacation. Take a time-travel adventure to some distant civilization—it'll do you good."
"Thanks, Mr. Hnatt," Slade said, "I'll do just that." And left his office as fast as his feet would carry him, out of the building and down the street to the glowing neon sign of Muse Enterprises.
The girl behind the counter, blonde-haired, with dark green eyes and a figure that impressed him more for its engineering aspects, its suspension so to speak, smiled at him and said, "Our Mr. Manville will see you in a moment, Mr. Slade. Please be seated. You'll find authentic nineteenth century Harper's Weeklies over on the table, there." She added, "And some twentieth century Mad Comics, those great classics of lampoonery equal to Hogarth."
Tensely, Mr. Slade seated himself and tried to read; he found an article in Harper's Weekly telling that the Panama Canal was impossible and had already been abandoned by its French designers—that held his attention for a moment (the reasoning was so logical, so convincing) but after a few moments his old ennui and restlessness, like a chronic fog, returned. Rising to his feet he once more approached the desk.
"Mr. Manville isn't here yet?" he asked hopefully.
From behind him a male voice said, "You, there at the counter."
Slade turned. And found himself facing a tall, dark-haired man with an intense expression, eyes blazing.
"You," the man said, "are in the wrong century."
Slade gulped.
Striding toward him, the dark-haired man said, "I am Manville, sir." He held out his hand and they shook. "You must go away," Manville said. "Do you understand, sir? As soon as possible."
"But I want to use your services," Slade mumbled.
Manville's eyes flashed. "I mean away into the past. What's your name?" He gestured emphatically. "Wait, it's coming to me. Jesse Slade, of Concord, up the street, there."
"Right," Slade said, impressed.
"All right, now down to business," Mr. Manville said. "Into my office." To the exceptionally-constructed girl at the counter he said, "No one is to disturb us, Miss Frib."
"Yes, Mr. Manville," Miss Frib said. "I'll see to that, don't you fear, sir."
"I know that, Miss Frib." Mr. Manville ushered Slade into a well-furnished inner office. Old maps and prints decorated the walls; the furniture—Slade gaped. Early American, with wood pegs instead of nails. New England maple and worth a
fortune.
"Is it all right…" he began.
"Yes, you may actually sit on that Directorate chair," Mr. Manville told him. "But be careful; it scoots out from under you if you lean forward. We keep meaning to put rubber casters on it or some such thing." He looked irritated now, at having to discuss such trifles. "Mr. Slade," he said brusquely, "I'll speak plainly; obviously you're a man of high intellect and we can skip the customary circumlocutions."
"Yes," Slade said, "please do."
"Our time-travel arrangements are of a specific nature; hence the name 'Muse.' Do you grasp the meaning, here?"
"Urn," Slade said, at a loss but trying. "Let's see. A muse is an organism that functions to—"
"That inspires," Mr. Manville broke in impatiently. "Slade, you are—let's face it—not a creative man. That's why you feel bored and unfulfilled. Do you paint? Compose? Make welded iron sculpture out of spaceship bodies and discarded lawn chairs? You don't. You do nothing; you're utterly passive. Correct?"
Slade nodded. "You've hit it, Mr. Manville."
"I've hit nothing," Mr. Manville said irritably. "You don't follow me, Slade. Nothing will make you creative because you don't have it within you. You're too ordinary. I'm not going to get you started finger-painting or basket-weaving; I'm no Jungian analyst who believes art is the answer." Leaning back he pointed his finger at Slade. "Look, Slade. We can help you, but you must be willing to help yourself first. Since you're not creative, the best you can hope for—and we can assist you here—is to inspire others who are creative. Do you see?"
After a moment Slade said, "I see, Mr. Manville. I do."
"Right," Manville said, nodding. "Now, you can inspire a famous musician, like Mozart or Beethoven, or a scientist such as Albert Einstein, or a sculptor such as Sir Jacob Epstein—any one of a number of people, writers, musicians, poets. You could, for example, meet Sir Edward Gibbon during his travels to the Mediterranean and fall into a casual conversation with him and say something to this order… Hmmm, look at the ruins of this ancient civilization all around us. I wonder, how does a mighty empire such as Rome come to fall into decay? Fall into ruin … fall apart…"
"Good Lord," Slade said fervently, "I see, Manville; I get it. I repeat the word 'fall' over and over again to Gibbon, and due to me he gets the idea of his great history of Rome, the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. And—" He felt himself tremble. "I helped."
"'Helped'?" Manville said. "Slade, that's hardly the word. Without you there would have been no such work. You, Slade, could be Sir Edward's muse." He leaned back, got out an Upmann cigar, circa 1915, and lit up.
"I think," Slade said, "I'd like to mull this over. I want to be sure I inspire the proper person; I mean, they all deserve to be inspired, but—"
"But you want to find the person in terms of your own psychic needs," Manville agreed, puffing fragrant blue smoke. "Take our brochure." He passed a large shiny multi-color 3-D pop-up booklet to Slade. "Take this home, read it, and come back to us when you're ready."
Slade said, "God bless you, Mr. Manville."
"And calm down," Manville said. "The world isn't going to end … we know that here at Muse because we've looked." He smiled, and Slade managed to smile back.
Two days later Jesse Slade returned to Muse Enterprises. "Mr. Manville," he said, "I know whom I want to inspire." He took a deep breath. "I've thought and thought and what would mean to the most to me would be if I could go back to Vienna and inspire Ludwig van Beethoven with the idea for the Choral Symphony, you know, that theme in the fourth movement that the baritone sings that goes bum-bum de-da de-da bum-bum, daughters of Elysium; you know." He flushed. "I'm no musician, but all my life I've admired the Beethoven Ninth and especially—
"It's been done," Manville said.
"Eh?" He did not understand.
"It's been taken, Mr. Slade." Manville looked impatient as he sat at his great oak rolltop desk, circa 1910. Bringing out a thick metal-staved black binder he turned the pages. "Two years ago a Mrs. Ruby Welch of Montpelier, Idaho went back to Vienna and inspired Beethoven with the theme for the choral movement of his Ninth." Manville slammed the binder shut and regarded Slade. "Well? What's your second choice?"
Stammering, Slade said, "I'd—have to think. Give me time."
Examining his watch, Manville said shortly, "I'll give you two hours. Until three this afternoon. Good day, Slade." He rose to his feet, and Slade automatically rose, too.
An hour later, in his cramped office at Concord Military Service Consultants, Jesse Slade realized in a flashing single instant who and what he wanted to inspire. At once he put on his coat, excused himself to sympathetic Mr. Hnatt, and hurried down the street to Muse Enterprises.
"Well, Mr. Slade," Manville said, seeing him enter. "Back so soon. Come into the office." He strode ahead, leading the way. "All right, let's have it." He shut the door after the two of them.
Jesse Slade licked his dry lips and then, coughing, said, "Mr. Manville, I want to go back and inspire—well, let me explain. You know the great science fiction of the golden age, between 1930 and 1970?"
"Yes, yes," Manville said impatiently, scowling as he listened.
"When I was in college," Slade said, "getting my M.A. in English lit, I had to read a good deal of twentieth century science fiction, of course. Of the greats there were three writers who stood out. The first was Robert Heinlein with his future history. The second, Isaac Asimov with his Foundation epic series. And—" He took a deep, shuddering breath. "The man I did my paper on. Jack Dowland. Of the three of them, Dowland was considered the greatest. His future history of the world began to appear in 1957, in both magazine form—as short stories—and in book form, as complete novels. By 1963, Dowland was regarded as—"
Mr. Manville said, "Hmmm." Getting out the black binder, he began to thumb through it. "Twentieth century science fiction … a rather specialized interest—fortunately for you. Let's see."
"I hope," Slade said quietly, "it hasn't been taken."
"Here is one client," Mr. Manville said. "Leo Parks of Vacaville, California. He went back and inspired A. E. van Vogt to avoid love stories and westerns and try science fiction." Turning more pages, Mr. Manville said, "And last year a client of Muse Enterprises, Miss Julie Oxenblut of Kansas City, Kansas asked to be permitted to inspire Robert Heinlein in his future history … was it Heinlein you said, Mr. Slade?"
"No," Slade said, "it was Jack Dowland, the greatest of the three. Heinlein was great, but I did much research on this, Mr. Manville, and Dowland was greater."
"No, it hasn't been done," Manville decided, closing up the black binder. From his desk drawer he brought out a form. "You fill this out, Mr. Slade," he said, "and then we'll begin to roll on this matter. Do you know the year and the place at which Jack Dowland began work on his future history of the world?"
"I do," Slade said. "He was living in a little town on the then Route 40 in Nevada, a town called Purpleblossom, consisted of three gas stations, a cafe, a bar, and a general store. Dowland had moved there to get atmosphere; he wanted to write stories of the Old West in the form of TV scripts. He hoped to make a good deal of money."
"I see you know your subject," Manville said, impressed.
Slade continued, "While living in Purpleblossom he did write a number of TV western scripts but somehow he found them unsatisfactory. In any case, he remained there, trying other fields such as children's books and articles on teen-age pre-marital sex for the slick magazines of the times … and then, all at once, in the year 1956, he suddenly turned to science fiction and immediately produced the greatest novelette seen to date in that field. That was the consensus gentium of the time, Mr. Manville, and I have read the story and I agree. It was called THE FATHER ON THE WALL and it still appears in anthologies now and then; it's the kind of story that will never die. And the magazine in which it appeared, Fantasy & Science Fiction, will always be remembered for having published Dowland's first epic in its August 1957 issue."
Nodding, Mr. Manville said, "And this is the magnus opus which you wish to inspire. This, and all that followed."
"You have it right, sir," Mr. Slade said.
"Fill out your form," Manville said, "and we'll do the rest." He smiled at Slade and Slade, confident, smiled back.
The operator of the time-ship, a short, heavy-set, crew-cut young man with strong features, said briskly to Slade, "Okay, bud; you ready or not? Make up your mind."
Slade, for one last time, inspected his twentieth century suit which Muse Enterprises had provided him—one of the services for the rather high fee which he had found himself paying. Narrow necktie, cuffless trousers, and Ivy League striped shirt … yes, Slade decided, from what he knew of the period it was authentic, right down to the sharp-pointed Italian shoes and the colorful stretch socks. He would pass without any difficulty as a citizen of the U.S. of 1956, even in Purpleblossom, Nevada.
"Now listen," the operator said, as he fastened the safety belt around Slade's middle, "you got to remember a couple of things. First of all, the only way you can get back to 2040 is with me; you can't walk back. And second, you got to be careful not to change the past—I mean, stick to your one simple task of inspiring this individual, this Jack Dowland, and let it go at that."
"Of course," Slade said, puzzled at the admonition.
"Too many clients," the operator said, "you'd be surprised how many, go wild when they get back into the past; they get delusions of power and want to make all sorts of changes—eliminate wars, hunger and poverty—you know. Change history."
"I won't do that," Slade said. "I have no interest in abstract cosmic ventures on that order." To him, inspiring Jack Dowland was cosmic enough. And yet he could empathize enough to understand the temptation. In his own work he had seen all kinds of people.
The operator slammed shut the hatch of the time-ship, made certain that Slade was strapped in properly, and then took his own seat at the controls. He snapped a switch and a moment later Slade was on his way to his vacation from monotonous office work—back to 1956 and the nearest he would come to a creative act in his life.
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 191
