The hot midday Nevada sun beat down, blinding him; Slade squinted, peered about nervously for the town of Purpleblossom. All he saw was dull rock and sand, the open desert with a single narrow road passing among the Joshua plants.
"To the right," the operator of the time-ship said, pointing. "You can walk there in ten minutes. You understand your contract, I hope. Better get it out and read it."
From the breast pocket of his 1950-style coat, Slade brought the long yellow contract form with Muse Enterprises. "It says you'll give me thirty-six hours. That you'll pick me up in this spot and that it's my responsibility to be here; if I'm not, and can't be brought back to my own time, the company is not liable."
"Right," the operator said, and re-entered the time-ship. "Good luck, Mr. Slade. Or, as I should call you, Jack Dowland's muse." He grinned, half in derision, half in friendly sympathy, and then the hatch shut after him.
Jesse Slade was alone on the Nevada desert, a quarter mile outside the tiny town of Purpleblossom.
He began to walk, perspiring, wiping his neck with his handkerchief.
There was no problem to locating Jack Dowland's house, since only seven houses existed in the town. Slade stepped up onto the rickety wooden porch, glancing at the yard with its trash can, clothes line, discarded plumbing fixtures … parked in the driveway he saw a dilapidated car of some archaic sort—archaic even for the year 1956.
He rang the bell, adjusted his tie nervously, and once more in his mind rehearsed what he intended to say. At this point in his life, Jack Dowland had written no science fiction; that was important to remember—it was in fact the entire point. This was the critical nexus in his life—history, this fateful ringing of his doorbell. Of course Dowland did not know that. What was he doing within the house? Writing? Reading the funnies of a Reno newspaper? Sleeping?
Footsteps. Tautly, Slade prepared himself.
The door opened. A young woman wearing light-weight cotton trousers, her hair tied back with a ribbon, surveyed him calmly. What small, pretty feet she had, Slade noticed. She wore slippers; her skin was smooth and shiny, and he found himself gazing intently, unaccustomed to seeing so much of a woman exposed. Both ankles were completely bare.
"Yes?" the woman asked pleasantly but a trifle wearily. He saw now that she had been vacuuming; there in the living room was a tank type G.E. vacuum cleaner … its existence here proving that historians were wrong; the tank type cleaner had not vanished in 1950 as was thought.
Slade, thoroughly prepared, said smoothly, "Mrs. Dowland?" The woman nodded. Now a small child appeared to peep at him past its mother. "I'm a fan of your husband's monumental—" Oops, he thought, that wasn't right. "Ahem," he corrected himself, using a twentieth century expression often found in books of that period. "Tsk-tsk," he said. "What I mean to say is this, madam. I know well the works of your husband Jack. I am here by means of a lengthy drive across the desert badlands to observe him in his habitat." He smiled hopefully.
"You know Jack's work?" She seemed surprised, but thoroughly pleased.
"On the telly," Slade said. "Fine scripts of his." He nodded.
"You're English, are you?" Mrs. Dowland said. "Well, did you want to come in?" She held the door wide. "Jack is working right now up in the attic … the children's noise bothers him. But I know he'd like to stop and talk to you, especially since you drove so far. You're Mr.—"
"Slade," Slade said. "Nice abode you possess, here."
"Thank you." She led the way into a dark, cool kitchen in the center of which he saw a round plastic table with wax milk carton, melmac plate, sugar bowl, two coffee cups and other amusing objects thereon. "JACK!" she called at the foot of a flight of stairs. "THERE'S A FAN OF YOURS HERE; HE WANTS TO SEE YOU!"
Far off above them a door opened. The sound of a person's steps, and then, as Slade stood rigidly, Jack Dowland appeared, young and good-looking, with slightly-thinning brown hair, wearing a sweater and slacks, his lean, intelligent face beclouded with a frown. "I'm at work," he said curtly. "Even though I do it at home it's a job like any other." He gazed at Slade. "What do you want? What do you mean you're a 'fan' of my work? What work? Christ, it's been two months since I sold anything; I'm about ready to go out of my mind."
Slade said, "Jack Dowland, that is because you have yet to find your proper genre." He heard his voice tremble; this was the moment.
"Would you like a beer, Mr. Slade?" Mrs. Dowland asked.
"Thank you, miss," Slade said. "Jack Dowland," he said, "I am here to inspire you."
"Where are you from?" Dowland said suspiciously. "And how come you're wearing your tie that funny way?"
"Funny in what respect?" Slade asked, feeling nervous.
"With the knot at the bottom instead of up around your adam's apple." Dowland walked around him, now, studying him critically. "And why's your head shaved? You're too young to be bald."
"The custom of this period," Slade said feebly. "Demands a shaved head. At least in New York."
"Shaved head my ass," Dowland said. "Say, what are you, some kind of a crank? What do you want?"
"I want to praise you," Slade said. He felt angry now; a new emotion, indignation, filled him—he was not being treated properly and he knew it.
"Jack Dowland," he said, stuttering a little, "I know more about your work than you do; I know your proper genre is science fiction and not television westerns. Better listen to me; I'm your muse." He was silent, then, breathing noisily and with difficulty.
Dowland stared at him, and then threw back his head and laughed.
Also smiling, Mrs. Dowland said, "Well, I knew Jack had a muse but I assumed it was female. Aren't all muses female?"
"No," Slade said angrily. "Leon Parks of Vacaville, California, who inspired A. E. van Vogt, was male." He seated himself at the plastic table, his legs being too wobbly, now, to support him. "Listen to me, Jack Dowland—"
"For God's sake," Dowland said, "either call me Jack or Dowland but not both; it's not natural the way you're talking. Are you on tea or something?" He sniffed intently.
"Tea," Slade echoed, not understanding. "No, just a beer, please."
Dowland said, "Well get to the point. I'm anxious to be back at work. Even if it's done at home it is work."
It was now time for Slade to deliver his encomium. He had prepared it carefully; clearing his throat he began. "Jack, if I may call you that, I wonder why the hell you haven't tried science fiction. I figure that—"
"I'll tell you why," Jack Dowland broke in. He paced back and forth, his hands in his trousers pockets. "Because there's going to be a hydrogen war. The future's black. Who wants to write about it? Keeerist." He shook his head. "And anyhow who reads that stuff? Adolescents with skin trouble. Misfits. And it's junk. Name me one good science fiction story, just one. I picked up a magazine on a bus once when I was in Utah. Trash! I wouldn't write that trash even if it paid well, and I looked into it and it doesn't pay well—around one half cent a word. And who can live on that?" Disgustedly, he started toward the stairs. "I'm going back to work."
"Wait," Slade said, feeling desperate. All was going wrong. "Hear me out, Jack Dowland."
"There you go with that funny talk again," Dowland said. But he paused, waiting. "Well?" he demanded.
Slade said, "Mr. Dowland, I am from the future." He was not supposed to say that—Mr. Manville had warned him severely—but it seemed at the moment to be the only way out for him, the only thing that would stop Jack Dowland from walking off.
"What?" Dowland said loudly. "The what?"
"I am a time-traveler," Slade said feebly, and was silent.
Dowland walked back toward him.
When he arrived at the time-ship, Slade found the short-set operator seated on the ground before it, reading a newspaper. The operator glanced up, grinned and said, "Back safe and sound, Mr. Slade. Come on, let's go." He opened the hatch and guided Slade within.
"Take me back," Slade said. "Just take me back."
"What's the matter? Didn't you enjoy your inspiring?"
"I just want to go back to my own time," Slade said.
"Okay," the operator said, raising an eyebrow. He strapped Slade into his seat and then took his own beside him.
When they reached Muse Enterprises, Mr. Manville was waiting for them. "Slade," he said, "come inside." His face was dark. "I have a few words to say to you."
When they were alone in Manville's office, Slade began, "He was in a bad mood, Mr. Manville. Don't blame me." He hung his head, feeling empty and futile.
"You—" Manville stared down at him in disbelief. "You failed to inspire him! That's never happened before!"
"Maybe I can go back again," Slade said.
"My God," Manville said, "you not only didn't inspire him—you turned him against science fiction."
"How did you find this out?" Slade said. He had hoped to keep it quiet, make it his own secret to carry with him to the grave.
Manville said bitingly, "All I had to do was keep my eye on the reference books dealing with literature of the twentieth century. Half an hour after you left, the entire texts on Jack Dowland, including the half-page devoted to his biography in the Britannica—vanished."
Slade said nothing; he stared at the floor.
"So I researched it," Manville said. "I had the computers at the University of California look up all extant citations on Jack Dowland."
"Were there any?" Slade mumbled.
"Yes," Manville said. "There were a couple. Minute, in rarified technical articles dealing comprehensively and exhaustively with that period. Because of you, Jack Dowland is now completely unknown to the public—and was so even during his own day." He waved a finger at Slade, panting with wrath. "Because of you, Jack Dowland never wrote his epic future history of mankind. Because of your so-called 'inspiration' he continued to write scripts for TV westerns—and died at forty-six an utterly anonymous hack."
"No science fiction at all?" Slade asked, incredulous. Had he done that badly? He couldn't believe it; true, Dowland had bitterly repulsed every suggestion Slade had made—true, he had gone back up to his attic in a peculiar frame of mind after Slade had made his point. But—
"All right," Manville said, "there exists one science fiction work by Jack Dowland. Tiny, mediocre and totally unknown." Reaching into his desk drawer he grabbed out a yellowed, ancient magazine which he tossed to Slade. "One short story called ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET, under the pen name Philip K. Dick. Nobody read it then, nobody reads it now—it was an account of a visit to Dowland by—" He glared furiously at Slade. "By a well-intentioned idiot from the future with deranged visions of inspiring him to write a mythological history of the world to come. Well, Slade? What do you say?"
Slade said heavily, "He used my visit as the basis for the story. Obviously."
"And it made him the only money he ever earned as a science fiction writer—dissapointingly little, barely enough to justify his effort and time. You're in the story, I'm in the story—Lord, Slade, you must have told him everything."
"I did," Slade said. "To convince him."
"Well, he wasn't convinced; he thought you were a nut of some kind. He wrote the story obviously in a bitter frame of mind. Let me ask you this: was he busy working when you arrived?"
"Yes," Slade said, "but Mrs. Dowland said—"
"There is—was—no Mrs. Dowland! Dowland never married! That must have been a neighbor's wife whom Dowland was having an affair with. No wonder he was furious; you broke in on his assignation with that girl, whoever she was. She's in the story, too; he put everything in and then gave up his house in Purpleblossom, Nevada and moved to Dodge City, Kansas."
There was silence.
"Um," Slade said at last, "well, could I try again? With someone else? I was thinking on the way back about Paul Ehrlich and his magic bullet, his discovery of the cure for—"
"Listen," Manville said. "I've been thinking, too. You're going back but not to inspire Doctor Ehrlich or Beethoven or Dowland or anybody like that, anybody useful to society."
With dread, Slade glanced up.
"You're going back," Manville said between his teeth, "to uninspire people like Adolf Hitler and Karl Marx and Sanrome Clinger—"
"You mean you think I'm so ineffectual…" Slade mumbled.
"Exactly. We'll start with Hitler in his period of imprisonment after his first abortive attempt to seize power in Bavaria. The period in which he dictated Mein Kampf to Rudolf Hess. I've discussed this with my superiors and it's all worked out; you'll be there as a fellow prisoner, you understand? And you'll recommend to Adolf Hitler, just as you recommended to Jack Dowland, that he write. In this case, a detailed autobiography laying out in detail his political program for the world. And if everything goes right—"
"I understand," Slade murmured, staring at the floor again. "It's a—I'd say an inspired idea, but I'm afraid I've given onus to that word by now."
"Don't credit me with the idea," Manville said. "I got it out of Dowland's wretched story, ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET; that's how he resolved it at the end." He turned the pages of the ancient magazine until he came to the part he wanted. "Read that, Slade. You'll find that it carries you up to your encounter with me, and then you go off to do research on the Nazi Party so that you can best uninspire Adolf Hitler not to write his autobiography and hence possibly prevent World War Two. And if you fail to uninspire Hitler, we'll try you on Stalin, and if you fail to uninspire Stalin, then—"
"All right," Slade muttered, "I understand; you don't have to spell it out to me."
"And you'll do it," Manville said, "because in ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET you agree. So it's all decided already."
Slade nodded. "Anything. To make amends."
To him Manville said, "You idiot. How could you have done so badly?"
"It was an off-day for me," Slade said. "I'm sure I could do better the next time." Maybe with Hitler, he thought. Maybe I can do a terrific job of uninspiring him, better than anyone else ever did in uninspiring anyone in history.
"We'll call you the null-muse," Manville said.
"Clever idea," Slade said.
Wearily, Manville said, "Don't compliment me; compliment Jack Dowland. It was in his story, too. At the very last."
"And that's how it ends?" Slade asked.
"No," Manville said, "it ends with me presenting you with a bill—the costs of sending you back to uninspire Adolf Hitler. Five hundred dollars, in advance." He held out his hand. "Just in case you never get back here."
Resignedly, in misery, Jesse Slade reached as slowly as possible into his twentieth century coat pocket for his wallet.
THE DAYS OF PERKY PAT
AT TEN IN THE MORNING a terrific horn, familiar to him, hooted Sam Regan out of his sleep, and he cursed the careboy upstairs; he knew the racket was deliberate. The careboy, circling, wanted to be certain that flukers—and not merely wild animals—got the care parcels that were to be dropped.
We'll get them, we'll get them, Sam Regan said to himself as he zipped his dust-proof overalls, put his feet into boots and then grumpily sauntered as slowly as possible toward the ramp. Several other flukers joined him, all showing similar irritation.
"He's early today," Tod Morrison complained. "And I'll bet it's all staples, sugar and flour and lard—nothing interesting like say candy."
"We ought to be grateful," Norman Schein said.
"Grateful!" Tod halted to stare at him. "GRATEFUL?"
"Yes," Schein said. "What do you think we'd be eating without them: If they hadn't seen the clouds ten years ago."
"Well," Tod said sullenly, "I just don't like them to come early; I actually don't exactly mind their coming, as such."
As he put his shoulders against the lid at the top of the ramp, Schein said genially, "That's mighty tolerant of you, Tod boy. I'm sure the careboys would be pleased to hear your sentiments."
Of the three of them, Sam Regan was the last to reach the surface; he did not like the upstairs at
all, and he did not care who knew it. And anyhow, no one could compel him to leave the safety of the Pinole Fluke-pit; it was entirely his business, and he noted now that a number of his fellow flukers had elected to remain below in their quarters, confident that those who did answer the horn would bring them back something.
"It's bright," Tod murmured, blinking in the sun.
The care ship sparkled close overhead, set against the gray sky as if hanging from an uneasy thread. Good pilot, this drop, Tod decided. He, or rather it, just lazily handles it, in no hurry. Tod waved at the care ship, and once more the huge horn burst out its din, making him clap his hands to his ears. Hey, a joke's a joke, he said to himself. And then the horn ceased; the careboy had relented.
"Wave to him to drop," Norm Schein said to Tod. "You've got the wigwag."
"Sure," Tod said, and began laboriously flapping the red flag, which the Martian creatures had long ago provided, back and forth, back and forth.
A projectile slid from the underpart of the ship, tossed out stabilizers, spiraled toward the ground.
"Sheoot," Sam Regan said with disgust. "It is staples; they don't have the parachute." He turned away, not interested.
How miserable the upstairs looked today, he thought as he surveyed the scene surrounding him. There, to the right, the uncompleted house which someone—not far from their pit—had begun to build out of lumber salvaged from Vallejo, ten miles to the north. Animals or radiation dust had gotten the builder, and so his work remained where it was; it would never be put to use. And, Sam Regan saw, an unusually heavy precipitate had formed since last he had been up here, Thursday morning or perhaps Friday; he had lost exact track. The darn dust, he thought. Just rocks, pieces of rubble, and the dust. World's becoming a dusty object with no one to whisk it off regularly. How about you? he asked silently of the Martian careboy flying in slow circles overhead. Isn't your technology limitless? Can't you appear some morning with a dust rag a million miles in surface area and restore our planet to pristine newness?
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 192
