Martian Time-Slip

11

Inside Mr. Kott’s skin were dead bones, shiny and wet. Mr. Kott was a sack of bones, dirty and yet shiny-wet. His head was a skull that took in greens and bit them; inside him the greens became rotten things as something ate them to make them dead. Jack Bohlen, too, was a dead sack, teeming with gubbish. The outside that fooled almost everyone, it was painted pretty and smelled good, bent down over Miss Anderton, and he saw that; he saw it wanting her in a filthy fashion. It poured its wet, sticky self nearer and nearer to her, and the dead bug words popped from its mouth and fell on her. The dead bug words scampered off into the folds of her clothing, and some squeezed into her skin and entered her body.

“I love Mozart,” Mr. Kott said. “I’ll put this tape on.”

Her clothing itched her, it was full of hair and dust and the droppings of the bug words. She scratched at it and the clothing tore in strips. Digging her teeth into the strips, she chewed them away.

Fiddling with the knobs of the amplifier, Mr. Kott said, “Bruno Walter conducting. A great rarity from the golden age of recordings.”

A hideous racket of screeches and shrieks issued from somewhere in the room, and after a time she realized that it was her; she was convulsed from within, all the corpsethings in her were heaving and crawling, struggling out into the light of the room. God, how could she stop them? They emerged from her pores and scuttled off, dropping from strands of gummy web to the floor, to disappear into the cracks between the boards.

“Sorry,” Arnie Kott muttered.

“What a shock,” she said. “You should spare us, Arnie.” Getting up from the couch she pushed away the dark, badsmelling object that clung to her. “Your sense of humor--“ she said.

He turned and saw her as she stripped herself of the last of her clothing. He had put down the reel of tape, and now he came toward her, reaching out.

“Do it,” she said, and then they were both on the floor, together; he used his feet to remove his own clothing, hooking his toes into the fabric and tearing until it was away. Arms locked around each other, they rolled into the darkness beneath the stove and lay there, sweating and thumping, gulping in the dust and the heat and the damp of their own bodies. “Do it more,” she said, digging her knees into his sides to hurt him.

“An accident,” he said, squashing her against the floor, breathing into her face.

Eyes appeared beyond the edge of the stove; something peeped in at them as they lay together in the darkness-- something watched. It had put away its paste and scissors and magazines, dropped all that to watch this and gloat and savor each thump they made.

“Go away,” she gasped at it. But it did not go away. “More,” she said, then, and it laughed at her. It laughed and laughed, as she and the weight squashing her kept on. They could not stop.

Gubble me more, she said. Gubble gubble gubble me, put your gubbish into me, into my gubbish, you Gubbler. Gubble gubble, I like gubble! Don’t stop. Gubble, gubble gubble gubble, gubble!

As Jack Bohlen lowered the Yee Company ‘copter toward the landing field of the Public School directly below, he glanced at Manfred and wondered what the boy was thinking. Wrapped up in his thoughts, Manfred Steiner stared sightlessly out, his features twisted into a grimace that repelled Jack and made him instantly look away.

Why did he have anything to do with this boy? Jack wondered. Doreen was right; he was in over his head, and the unstable, schizophrenic aspects of his own personality were being stirred into life by the presence beside him. And yet he did not know how to get out; somehow it was too late, as if time had collapsed and left him here, for eternity, caught in a symbiosis with this unfortunate, mute creature who did nothing but rake over and inspect his own private world, again and again.

He had imbibed, on some level, Manfred’s world-view, and it was obviously bringing about the stealthy disintegration of his own.

Tonight, he thought. I have to keep going until tonight: somehow I must hold out until I can see Arnie Kott. Then I can jettison all this and return to my own space, my own world; I will never have to look at Manfred Steiner again.

Arnie, for Christ’s sake, save me, he thought.

“We’re here,” he said as the ‘copter bumped to a halt on the roof field. He switched off the motor.

At once Manfred moved to the door, eager to get out.

So you want to see this place, Jack thought. I wonder why. He got to his feet and went to unlock the door of the ‘copter; at once Manfred hopped out onto the roof and scampered toward the descent ramp, almost as if he knew the way by heart.

As Jack stepped from the ship the boy disappeared from sight. On his own he had hurried down the ramp and plunged into the school.

Doreen Anderton and Arnie Kott, Jack said to himself. The two people who mean the most to me, the friends with whom my contacts, my intimacy with life itself, is the strongest. And yet it’s right there that the boy has managed to infiltrate; he has unfastened me from my relationships where they are the strongest.

What’s left? he asked himself. Once I have been isolated there, the rest--my son, my wife, my father, Mr. Yee--all follow almost automatically, without a fight.

I can see what lies ahead for me if I continue to lose, step by step, to this completely psychotic boy. Now I can see what psychosis is: the utter alienation of perception from the objects of the outside world, especially the objects which matter: the warmhearted people there. And what takes their place? A dreadful preoccupation with--the endless ebb and flow of one’s own self. The changes emanating from within which affect only the inside world. It is a splitting apart of the two worlds, inner and outer, so that neither registers on the other. Both still exist, but each goes its own way.

It is the stopping of time. The end of experience, of anything new. Once the person becomes psychotic, nothing ever happens to him again.

And, he realized, I stand on the threshold of that. Perhaps I always did; it was implicit in me from the start. But this boy has led me a long way. Or, rather, because of him I have gone a long way.

A coagulated self, fixed and immense, which effaces everything else and occupies the entire field. Then the most minute change is examined with the greatest attention. That is Manfred’s state now; has been, from the beginning. The ultimate stage of the schizophrenic process.

“Manfred, wait,” he called, and followed slowly after the boy, down the ramp and into the Public School building.

Seated in June Henessy’s kitchen, sipping coffee, Silvia Bohlen discoursed on her problems of late.

“What’s so awful about them,” she said, meaning Erna Steiner and the Steiner children, “is that, let’s face it, they’re vulgar. We’re not supposed to talk in terms like that, but I’ve been forced to see so much of them that I can’t ignore it; my face has been rubbed in it every day.”

June Henessy, wearing white shorts and a skimpy halter, padded barefoot here and there in the house, watering from a glass pitcher her various indoor plants. “That’s really a weird boy. He’s the worst of all, isn’t he?”

Shuddering, Silvia said, “And he’s over all day long. Jack is working with him, you know, trying to make him part of the human race. I think myself they ought to just wipe out freaks and sports like that; it’s terribly destructive in the long run to let them live; it’s a false mercy to them and to us. That boy will have to be cared for for the rest of his life; he’ll never be out of an institution.”

Returning to the kitchen with the empty pitcher, June said, “I want to tell you what Tony did the other day.” Tony was her current lover; she had been having an affair with him for six months now, and she kept the other ladies, especially Silvia, up to date. “We had lunch together over at Geneva II, at a French restaurant he knows; we had escargots--you know, snails. They serve them to you in the shells and you get them out with a horrible-looking fork that has tines a foot long. Of course, that’s all black-market food; did you know that? That there’re restaurants serving exclusively black-market delicacies? I didn’t until Tony took me there. I can’t tell you the name of it, of course.”

“Snails,” Silvia said with aversion, thinking of all the wonderful dishes she herself would have ordered, if she had a lover and he had taken her out.

How would it be to have an affair? Difficult, but surely worth it, if she could keep it from her husband. The problem, of course, was David. And now Jack worked a good deal of the time at home, and her father-in-law was visiting as well. And she could never have him, her lover, at the house, because of Erna Steiner next door; the big baggy hausfrau would see, comprehend, and probably at once, out of a Prussian sense of duty, inform Jack. But then, wasn’t the risk part of it? Didn’t it help add that--flavor?

“What would your husband do if he found out?” she asked June. “Cut you to bits? Jack would.”

June said, “Mike has had several affairs of his own since we’ve been married. He’d be sore and possibly he’d give me a black eye and go off for a week or so with one of his girl friends, leaving me stuck with the kids, of course. But he’d get over it.”

To herself, Silvia wondered if Jack had ever had an affair. It did not seem probable. She wondered how she would feel if he had and she found out--would it end the marriage? Yes, she thought. I’d get a lawyer right away. Or would I? There’s no way to tell in advance . . . .

“How are you and your father-in-law getting along?” June asked.

“Oh, not badly. He and Jack and the Steiner boy are off somewhere today, taking a business trip. I don’t see much of Leo, actually; he came mainly on business--June, how many affairs have you had?”

“Six,” June Henessy said.

“Gee,” Silvia said. “And I haven’t had any.”

“Some women aren’t built for it.”

That sounded to Silvia like a rather personal, if not outright anatomical, insult. “What do you mean?”

“Aren’t constituted psychologically,” June explained glibly. “It takes a certain type of woman who can create and sustain a complex fiction, day after day. I enjoy it, what I make up to tell Mike. You’re different. You have a simple, direct sort of mind; deception isn’t your cup of tea. Anyhow, you have a nice husband.” She emphasized the authority of her judgment by a lifting of her eyebrows.

“Jack used to be gone all week long,” Silvia said. “I should have had one then. Now it would be so much harder.” She wished, fervently, that she had something creative or useful or exciting to do that would fill up the long empty afternoons; she was bored to death with sitting in some other woman’s kitchen drinking coffee hour after hour. No wonder so many women had affairs. It was that or madness.

“If you’re limited to your husband for emotional experience,” June Henessy said, “you have no basis of judgment; you’re more or less stuck with what he has to offer, but if you’ve gone to bed with other men you can tell better what your husband’s deficiencies are, and it’s much more possible for you to be objective about him. And what needs to be changed in him, you can insist that he change. And for your own part, you can see where you’ve been ineffective and with these other men you can learn how to improve yourself, so that you give your husband more satisfaction. I fail to see who loses by that.”

Put that way, it certainly sounded like a good healthy idea for all concerned. Even the husband benefited.

While she sat sipping her coffee and meditating about that, Silvia looked out the window and saw to her surprise a ‘copter landing. “Who’s that?” she asked June.

“Heaven’s sake, I don’t know,” June said, glancing out.

The ‘copter rolled to a halt near the house; the door opened and a dark-haired, good-looking man wearing a bright nylon shirt and necktie, slacks, and stylish European loafers stepped out. Behind him came a Bleekman who lugged two heavy suitcases.

Inside her, Silvia Bohlen felt her heart quiver as she watched the dark-haired man stroll toward the house, the Bleekman following with the suitcases. This was the way she imagined June’s Tony to look.

“Gosh,” June said. “I wonder who he is. A salesman?” A rap sounded at the front door and she went to open it. Silvia set down her cup and followed along. At the door June halted. “I feel sort of--undressed.” She put her hand nervously to her shorts. “You talk to him while I run into the bedroom and change. I wasn’t expecting anybody strange to drop by; you know, we have to be careful, we’re so isolated and our husbands are away--“ She darted off to the bedroom, her hair flying.

Silvia opened the door.

“Good day,” the good-looking man said, with a smile revealing perfect white Mediterranean teeth. He had a faint accent. “Are you the lady of the house?”

“I guess so,” Silvia said, feeling timid and ill at ease; she glanced down at her own self, wondering if she were dressed modestly enough to be standing out here talking to this man.

“I wish to introduce a very fine line of health foods which you may be familiar with,” the man said. He kept his eyes on her face, and yet Silvia had the distinct impression that somehow he managed at the same time to examine the rest of her detail by detail. Her self-consciousness grew, but she did not feel resentful; the man had a charming manner, simultaneously shy and yet oddly forthright.

“Health food,” she murmured. “Well, I--“

The man gave a nod, and his Bleekman stepped up, laid down one of the suitcases, and opened it. Baskets, bottles, packages . . . she was very much interested.

“Unhomogenized peanut butter,” the man declared. “Also dietetic sweets without calories, to keep your lovely slimness. Wheat germ. Yeast. Vitamin E; that is the vitamin of vitality . . . but of course for a young woman like yourself, not yet appropriate.” His voice purred along as he indicated one item after another; she found herself bending down beside him, so close to him that their shoulders touched. Quickly she drew away, startled into apprehension.

At the door, June put in a momentary appearance, now wearing a skirt and a wool sweater; she hung about for a moment and then drew back inside and shut the door. The man failed to notice her.

“Also,” he was saying, “there is much in the gourmet line that Miss might be interested in--these.” He held up a jar. Her breath left her: it was caviar.

“Good grief,” she said, magnetized. “Where did you get that?”

“Expensive, but well worth it.” The man’s dark eyes bored into hers. “Don’t you agree? Reminder of days at Home, soft candlelight and dance music by an orchestra . . . days of romance in a whirl of places delightful to the ear and eye.” He smiled long and openly at her.

Black market, she realized.

Her pulse hammered in her throat as she said, “Look, this isn’t my house. I live about a mile down along the canal.” She pointed. “I--am very much interested.”

The man’s smile seared her.

“You’ve never been by before, have you?” she said, now rattled and stammering. “I’ve never seen you. What’s your name? Your firm name.”

“I am Otto Zitte.” He handed her a card, which she scarcely glanced at; she could not take her eyes from his face. “My business is long established but has just recently--due to an unforeseen circumstance--been completely reorganized, so that now I am in a position to greet new customers direct. Such as yourself.”

“You’ll be by?”

“Yes, slightly later in the afternoon . . . and we can at leisure pore over a dazzling assortment of imported dainties of which I have exclusive distribution. Good afternoon.” He rose cat-like to his feet.

June Henessy had reappeared. “Hello,” she said in a low, cautious, interested voice.

“My card.” Otto Zitte held the embossed white square out to her. Now both ladies had his card; each read hers intently.

Smiling his astute, insinuating, brilliant smile, Otto Zitte beckoned to his tame Bleekman to lay out and open the other suitcase.

As he sat in his office at Camp Ben-Gurion, Dr. Milton Glaub heard a woman’s voice in the corridor, husky and full of authority but still unmistakably feminine. Listening, he heard the nurse defer to her, and he knew that it was Anne Esterhazy, come to visit her son Sam.

Opening the file he turned to E, and presently he had the folio Esterhazy, Samuel spread out before him on his desk.

It was interesting. The little boy had been born out of wedlock, a year or more after Mrs. Esterhazy had divorced Arnie Kott. And he had entered Camp B-G under her name, too. However it was undoubtedly Arnie Kott’s progeny; the folio contained a great packet of information on Arnie, for the examining doctors had taken that blood relationship for granted throughout.

Evidently, even though their marriage had long been over, Arnie and Anne Esterhazy still saw one another, enough in fact to produce a child. Their relationship therefore was not merely a business one.

For a time Dr. Glaub ruminated as to the possible uses that this information could be put to. Did Arnie have enemies? None that he knew of; everybody liked Arnie--that is, everyone but Dr. Milton Glaub. Evidently Dr. Glaub was the sole person on Mars to have suffered at Arnie’s hands, a realization that did not make Dr. Glaub feel any happier about it.

That man treated me in the most inhumane and cavalier fashion, he said to himself for the millionth time. But what could be done about it? He could still bill Arnie . . . hope to collect some trifle for his services. That, however, would not help. He wanted--was entitled to--much more. Again Dr. Glaub studied the folio. An odd sport, Samuel Esterhazy; he knew of no other case precisely like it. The boy seemed to be a throwback to some ancient line of near-man, or to some variant which had not survived: one which had lived partly in the water. It recalled to Glaub the theory being advanced by a number of anthropologists that man had descended from aquatic apes who had lived in the surf and shallows.

Sam’s I.Q., he noted, was only 73. A shame.

Especially so, he thought suddenly, in that Sam could beyond doubt be classified as mentally retarded rather than anomalous. Camp B-G had not been intended as an institution for the purely retarded, and its director, Susan Haynes, had sent back to their parents several pseudoautistic children who had turned out to be nothing more than standard imbeciles. The diagnostic problem had hampered their screening, of course. In the case of the Esterhazy boy, there were also the physical stigmata. . . .

No doubt of it, Dr. Glaub decided. I have the basis for it: I can send the Esterhazy child home. The Public School could teach him without trouble, could gear down to his level. It is only in the physical area that he could be called “anomalous,” and it is not our task here to care for the physically disabled.

But what is my motive? he asked himself.

Possibly I am doing it to get back at Arnie Kott for treating me in a cruel manner.

No, he decided, that does not seem probable; I am not the psychological type who would seek revenge--that would be more the anal-expulsive or perhaps the oral-biting type. And long ago he had classified himself as the late genital type, devoted to the mature genital strivings.

On the other hand, his altercation with Arnie Kott had admittedly caused him to probe into the Esterhazy child’s folio . . . so there was a small but finite causal connective.

Reading the folio through, he was struck once more by the bizarre relationship which it implied. Here they were, carrying on a sexual union years after their marriage had terminated. Why had they gotten divorced? Perhaps there had been a serious power-clash between them; Anne Esterhazy was clearly a domineering type of female with strong masculine components, what Jung called the “animusridden” woman. In successfully dealing with such a type, one had to play a definite role; one had to capture the position of authority right off the bat and never relinquish it. One had to be the ancestral spokesman, or else be quickly defeated.

Dr. Glaub put the folio away and then sauntered down the corridor to the playroom. He located Mrs. Esterhazy; she was playing beanbag with her boy. Walking over, he stood observing them until she became aware of him and paused.

“Hello, Dr. Glaub,” she said cheerfully.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Esterhazy. Um, when you’re finished visiting, may I see you in my office?”

It was rewarding to see the woman’s competent, selfsatisfied expression wilt with concern. “Of course, Dr. Glaub.”

Twenty minutes later he sat facing her across his desk.

“Mrs. Esterhazy, when your boy first came to Camp B-G, there was a good deal of doubt as to the nature of his problem. It was believed for some time that it lay in the realm of mental disturbance, possibly a traumatic neurosis or--“

The woman broke in, firmly. “Doctor, you’re going to tell me that since Sam has no problems except his defective learning ability, he is not to remain here; is that correct?”

“And the physical problem,” Dr. Glaub said.

“But that is not your concern.”

He made a gesture of resignation and agreement.

“When do I have to take him home?” She was whitefaced and trembling; her hands gripped her purse, clutched at it.

“Oh, three or four days. A week.”

Chewing her knuckle, Mrs. Esterhazy stared blindly down at the carpet of the office. Time passed. Then in a quavering voice she said, “Doctor, as you perhaps know, I have been active for some time in fighting a bill now before the UN which would close Camp B-G.” Her voice gained strength. “If I am forced to remove Sam, I will withdraw my assistance in this matter, and you can be certain that the bill will be passed. And I will inform Susan Haynes as to the reason why I am withdrawing my assistance.”

A slow cold wave of shock passed over Dr. Milton Glaub’s mind. He could think of nothing to say.

“You understand, Doctor?” Mrs. Esterhazy said.

He managed to nod.

Rising to her feet, Mrs. Esterhazy said, “Doctor, I have been in politics a long time. Arnie Kott considers me a do-gooder, an amateur, but I am not. Believe me, in certain areas I am quite shrewd politically.”

“Yes,” Dr. Glaub said, “I see that you are.” Automatically he too rose; he escorted her to the door of the office.

“Please don’t ever bring up this issue about Sam again,” the woman said, as she opened the door. “I find it too painful. It is much easier for me to regard him as anomalous.” She faced him squarely. “It is not within my capacity to think of him as retarded.” Turning, she walked swiftly off.

That did not work out too well, Dr. Glaub said to himself as he shakily closed his office door. The woman is obviously sadistic--strong hostility drives coupled with out-and-out aggression.

Seating himself at his desk he lit a cigarette and puffed at it despondently as he struggled to collect his aplomb.

When Jack Bohlen reached the bottom of the descent ramp he saw no sign of Manfred. Several children trotted by, no doubt on their way to their Teachers. He began to roam about, wondering where the boy had gone. And why so quickly? It was not good.

Ahead, a group of children had collected around a Teacher, a tall, white-haired, bushy-browed gentleman whom Jack recognized as Mark Twain. Manfred, however, was not among them.

As Jack started to walk past the Mark Twain it broke off its monolog to the children, puffed several times at its cigar, and called after Jack, “My friend, can I be of any assistance to you?”

Pausing, Jack said, “I’m looking for a little boy I brought here with me.”

“I know all the young fellows,” the Mark Twain Teaching Machine answered. “What is his name?”

“Manfred Steiner.” He described the boy as the teaching machine listened alertly.

“Hmm,” it said, when he had finished. It smoked for a moment and then once more lowered its cigar. “I believe you will find that young man over colloquizing with the Roman emperor Tiberius. Or at least so I am informed by the authorities in whose care this organization has been entrusted; I speak of the master circuit, sir.”

Tiberius. He had not realized that such figures were represented here at the Public School: the base and deranged personages of history. Evidently from his expression the Mark Twain understood his thoughts.

“Here in the school,” it informed him, “as examples not to be emulated but to be avoided with the most scrupulous zeal, you will find, sir, as you make your peregrinations about these halls, that many rascals, pirates, and scamps are on display, sermonizing in dolorous and lamentable tones their edifying histories for the enlightenment of the young.” The Mark Twain, again puffing on its cigar, winked at him. Disconcerted, Jack hurried on.

At the Immanuel Kant he halted to ask directions. Several pupils, in their teens, stood aside for him.

“The Tiberius,” it told him in heavily accented English, “can be found down that way.” It pointed with absolute authority; it did not have any doubts, and Jack hurried at once down that particular hail.

A moment later he found himself approaching the slight, white-haired, fragile-looking figure of the Roman emperor. It seemed to be musing as he came up to it, but before he could speak it turned its head in his direction.

“The boy whom you are searching for has passed on. He was yours, was he? An exceeding attractive youth.” Then it was silent, as if communing within itself. Actually, Jack knew, it was reconnecting itself with the master circuit of the school, which was now utilizing all the teaching machines in an attempt to locate Manfred for him. “He is talking to no one at this moment,” the Tiberius said presently.

Jack went on, then. A sightless, middle-aged female figure smiled past him; he did not know who it was, and no children were conversing with it. But all at once it said, “The boy you want is with Philip the Second of Spain.” It pointed to the corridor to the right, and then it said in a peculiar voice, “Kindly hurry; we would appreciate it if you would remove him from the school as soon as possible. Thank you very much.” It snapped off into silence. Jack hurried down the hall which it had pointed out.

Almost at once he turned a corridor and found himself before the bearded, ascetic figure of Philip the Second. Manfred was not there, but some intangible quality of his essence seemed still to hover in this area.

“He has only now departed, dear sir,” the teaching machine said. Its voice held the same note of peculiar urgency as had the female figure’s, a moment ago. “Kindly find him and remove him; it would be appreciated.”

Without waiting any longer, Jack plunged down the corridor, a chill fear biting at him as he ran.

“. . . Much appreciated,” a seated, white-robed figure said, as he passed it. And then, as he passed a gray-haired man in a frock coat, it, too, took up the school’s urgent litany. “. . . Soon as possible.”

He turned the corner. And there was Manfred.

The boy was alone, seated on the floor, resting against the wall, his head down, apparently deep in thought.

Bending down, Jack said, “Why did you run off?”

The boy gave no response. Jack touched him, but still there was no reaction.

“Are you all right?” Jack asked him.

All at once the boy stirred, rose to his feet, and stood facing Jack.

“What is it?” Jack demanded.

There was no answer. But the boy’s face was clouded with a blurred, distorted emotion that found no outlet; he gazed at Jack as if not seeing him. Totally absorbed in himself, unable to break out into the outside world.

“What happened?” Jack said. But he knew that he would never find out; no way existed for the creature before him to express itself. There was only silence, the total absence of communication between the two of them, the emptiness that could not be filled.

The boy looked away, then, and settled back down into a heap on the floor.

“You stay here,” Jack said to him. “I’ll have them go get David for me.” Warily, he moved away from the boy, but Manfred did not stir. When he reached a teaching machine, Jack said to it, “I would like to have David Bohlen, please; I’m his father. I’ll take him home.”

It was the Thomas Edison Teaching Machine, an elderly man who glanced up, startled, and cupped his ear. Jack repeated what he had said.

Nodding, it said, “Gubble gubble.”

Jack stared at it. And then he turned to look back at Manfred. The boy still sat slumped down, his back against the wall.

Again the Thomas Edison Teaching Machine opened its mouth and said to Jack, “Gubble gubble.” There was nothing more; it became silent.

Is it me? Jack asked himself. Is this the final psychotic breakdown for me? Or--

He could not believe the alternative; it simply was not possible.

Down the hall, another teaching machine was addressing a group of children; its voice came from a distance, echoing and metallic. Jack strained to listen.

“Gubble gubble,” it was saying to the children.

He closed his eyes. He knew in a moment of perfect awareness that his own psyche, his own perceptions, had not misinformed him; it was happening, what he heard and saw.

Manfred Steiner’s presence had invaded the structure of the Public School, penetrated its deepest being.