Martian Time-Slip

13

For Otto Zitte it was as if life had once more opened up; since Norb Steiner’s death he moved about Mars as in the old days, making his deliveries, selling, meeting people face to face and gabbing with them.

And, most particularly, he had already encountered several good-looking women, lonely housewives stranded out in the desert in their homes day after day, yearning for companionship . . . so to speak.

So far he had not been able to call at Mrs. Silvia Bohlen’s house. But he knew exactly where it was; he had marked it on his map.

Today he intended to go there.

For the occasion he put on his best suit: a single-breasted gray English sharkskin suit he had not worn for years. The shoes, regrettably, were local, and so was the shirt. But the tie: ah. It had just arrived from New York, the latest in bright, cheerful colors; it divided at the bottom into a wild fork shape. Holding it up before him he admired it. Then he put it on and admired it there, too.

His long dark hair shone. He felt happy and confident. This day begins it all afresh for me, with a woman like Silvia, he said to himself as he put on his wool topcoat, picked up his suitcases, and marched from the storage shed--now made over into truly comfortable living quarters--to the ‘copter.

In a great soaring arc he lifted the ‘copter into the sky and turned it east. The bleak F.D.R. Mountains fell away behind him; he passed over the desert, saw at last the George Washington Canal by which he oriented himself. Following it, he approached the smaller canal system which branched from it, and soon he was above the junction of the William Butler Yeats and the Herodotus, near which the Bohlens lived.

Both those women, he ruminated, are attractive, that June Henessy and Silvia Bohlen, but of the two of them, Silvia’s more to my liking; she has that sleepy, sultry quality that a deeply emotional woman always has. June is too pert and frisky; that kind talks on and on, sort of wiseguy-like. I want a woman who’s a good listener.

He recalled the trouble he had gotten into before. Wonder what her husband’s like, he wondered. Must inquire. A lot of these men take the pioneer life seriously, especially the ones living far out from town; keep guns in their houses and so forth.

However, that was the risk one ran, and it was worth it.

Just in case trouble did occur, Otto Zitte had a gun of his own, a small pistol, .22 caliber, which he kept in a hidden side-pocket of one of his suitcases. It was there now, and fully loaded.

Nobody messes around with me, he said to himself. If they want trouble--they’ll soon find it.

Cheered by that thought, he dipped his ‘copter, scouted out the land below--there was no ‘copter parked at the Bohlen house--and prepared to land.

It was innate caution which caused him to park the ‘copter over a mile from the Bohlen house, at the entrance of a service canal. From there he hiked on foot, willing to endure the weight of the suitcase; there was no alternative. A number of houses stood between him and the Bohlen place, but he did not pause to knock at any door; he went directly along the canal without halting.

When he neared the Bohlen place he slowed, regaining his wind. He eyed the nearby houses carefully. . . from the one right next door there came the racket of small children. Peopie home, there. So he approached the Bohlen place from the opposite side, walking silently and in a line which kept him entirely hidden from the house where he heard the children’s voices.

He arrived, stepped up on the porch, rang the bell.

Someone peeped out at him from behind the red drapes of the living-room window. Otto maintained a formal, correct smile on his face, one that would do in any eventuality.

The front door opened; there stood Silvia Bohlen, with her hair expertly done, lipstick, wearing a jersey sweater and tight pink capri pants, sandals on her feet. Her toenails were painted a bright scarlet; he noticed that from the corner of his eye. Obviously, she had fixed herself up in expectation of his visit. However, she of course assumed a bland, detached pose; she regarded him in akrof silence, holding on to the door knob.

“Mrs. Bohlen,” he said in his most intimate tone of voice. Bowing, he said, “Passage across barren miles of desert wastelands finds its just reward in seeing you once more at last. Would you be interested in seeing our special in kangarootail soup? It is incredible and delightful, a food never before available on Mars at any price. I have come straight here to you with it, seeing that you are qualified in judging fine foods and can discriminate the worthy without consulting the expense.” And all this time, as he reeled off his set speech, he edged himself and his wares toward the open door.

A trifle stiffly and hesitantly, Silvia said, “Uh, come in.” She let the door swing freely open, and he at once passed on inside and laid his suitcases on the floor by the low table in the living room.

A boy’s bow and quiver of arrows caught his eye. “Is your young son about?” he inquired.

“No,” Silvia said, moving edgily about the room with her arms folded before her. “He’s at the school today.” She tried to smile. “And my father-in-law went into town; he won’t be home until very late.”

Well, Otto thought; I see.

“Please be seated,” he urged her. “So that I may display to you properly, don’t you agree?” In one motion, he moved a chair, and Silvia perched on the edge of it, her arms still hugged about her, lips pressed together. How tense she is, he observed. It was a good sign because it meant that she was fully aware of the meaning of all that went on, his visit here, the absence of her son, the fact that she had carefully closed the front door; the living-room drapes still shut, he noticed.

Silvia blurted out, “Would you like coffee?” She bolted from her chair and dived into the kitchen. A moment later she reappeared with a tray on which was a pot of coffee, sugar, cream, two china cups.

“Thank you,” he purred. During her absence he had drawn another chair up beside hers.

They drank coffee.

“Are you not frightened to live out here alone so much of the time?” he asked. “In this desolate region?”

She glanced at him sideways. “Golly, I guess I’m used to it.”

“What part of Earth are you from originally?”

“St. Louis.”

“It is much different here. A new, freer life. Where one can cast off the shackles and be oneself; do you agree? The old mores and customs, an antiquated Old World, best forgotten in its own dust. Here--“ He glanced about the living room, with its commonplace furnishings; he had seen such chairs, carpeting, bric-a-brac hundreds of times, in similar homes. “Here we see the clash of the extraordinary, the pulse, Mrs. Bohlen, of opportunity which strikes the brave person only once--once--in his lifetime.”

“What else do you have beside kangaroo-tail soup?”

“Well,” he said, frowning inwardly, “quail eggs; very good. Real cow butter. Sour cream. Smoked oysters. Here--you please bring forth ordinary soda crackers and I will supply the butter and caviar, as a treat.” He smiled at her, and was rewarded by a spontaneous, beaming smile in return; her eyes sparkled with anticipation and she hopped impulsively to her feet to go scampering, like a little child, to the kitchen.

Presently they sat together, huddled over the table, scraping the black, oily fish eggs from the tiny jar onto crackers.

“There’s nothing like genuine caviar,” Silvia said, sighing. “I only had it once before in my life, at a restaurant in San Francisco.”

“Observe what else I have.” From his suitcase he produced a bottle. “Green Hungarian, from the Buena Vista Winery in California; the oldest winery in that state!”

They sipped wine from long-stemmed glasses. (He had brought the glasses, too.) Silvia lay back against the couch, her eyes half-closed. “Oh, dear. This is like a fantasy. It can’t really be happening.”

“But it is.” Otto set his glass down and leaned over her. She breathed slowly, regularly, as if asleep; but she was watching him fixedly. She knew exactly what was going on. And as he bent nearer and nearer she did not stir; she did not try to slide away.

The food and wine, he reckoned as he took hold of her, had set him back--in retail value--almost a hundred UN dollars. It was well worth it, to him, at least.

His old story, repeating itself. Again, it was not union scale. It was much more, Otto thought a little later on, when they had moved from the living room to the bedroom with its window shades pulled down, the room in unstirring gloom, silent and receptive to them, made, as he well knew, for just such happenings as this.

“Nothing like this,” Silvia murmured, “has ever happened before in my entire life.” Her voice was full of contentment and acquiescence, as if emerging from far away. “Am I drunk, is that it? Oh, my Lord.”

For a long time, then, she was silent.

“Am I out of my niind?” she murmured, later on. “I must be insane. I just can’t believe it, I know it isn’t real. So how can it matter, how can what you do in a dream be wrong?”

After that, she said nothing at all.

She was exactly the kind he liked: the kind that didn’t talk a lot.

What is insanity? Jack Bohlen thought. It was, for him, the fact that somewhere he had lost Manf red Steiner and did not remember how or when. He remembered almost nothing of the night before, at Arnie Kott’s place; piece by piece, from what Doreen told him, he had managed to patch together an image of what had taken place. Insanity--to have to construct a picture of one’s life, by making inquiries of others.

But the lapse in memory was a symptom of a deeper disturbance. It indicated that his psyche had taken an abrupt leap ahead in time. And this had taken place after a period in which he had lived through, several times, on some unconscious level, that very section which was now missing.

He had sat, he realized, in Arnie Kott’s living room again and again, experiencing that evening before it arrived; and then, when at last it had taken place in actuality, he had bypassed it. The fundamental disturbance in time-sense, which Dr. Glaub believed was the basis of schizophrenia, was now harassing him.

That evening at Arnie’s had taken place, and had existed for him. . . but out of sequence.

In any case, there was no way that it could be restored. For it now lay in the past. And a disturbance of the sense of past time was not symptomatic of schizophrenia but of compulsive-obsessive neurosis. His problem--as a schizophrenic--lay entirely with the future.

And his future, as he now saw it, consisted mostly of Arnie Kott and Arnie’s instinctive drive for revenge.

What chance do we have against Arnie? he asked himself.

Almost none.

Turning from the window of Doreen’s living room, he walked slowly into the bedroom and gazed down at her as she lay, still asleep, in the big, rumpled double bed.

While he stood there looking at her, she woke, saw him, smiled up at him. “I was having the strangest dream,” she said. “In the dream I was conducting the Bach B minor Mass, the Kyrie part. It was in four-four time. But when I was right in the middle, someone came along and took away my baton and said it wasn’t in four-four time.” She frowned. “But it really is. Why would I be conducting that? I don’t even like the Bach B minor Mass. Arnie has a tape of it; he plays it all the time, very late in the evening.”

He thought of the dreams he had been having of late, vague forms that shifted, flitted away; something to do with a tall building of many rooms, hawks or vultures circling endlessly overhead. And some dreadful thing in a cupboard. . . he had not seen it, had only felt its presence there.

“Dreams usually relate to the future,” Doreen said. “They have to do with the potential in a person. Arnie wants to start a symphony orchestra at Lewistown; he’s been talking to Bosley Touvim at New Israel. Maybe I’ll be the conductor; maybe that’s what my dream means.” She slid from the bed and stood up, naked and slim and smooth.

“Doreen,” he said steadily, “I don’t remember last night. What became of Manfred?”

“He stayed with Arnie. Because he has to go back to Camp B-G, now, and Arnie said he’d take him. He goes to New Israel all the time to visit his own boy there, Sam Esterhazy. He’s going there today, he told you.” After a pause she said, “Jack . . . have you ever had amnesia before?”

“No,” he said.

“It’s probably due to the shock of quarreling with Arnie; it’s awfully hard on a person to tangle with Arnie, I’ve noticed.”

“Maybe that’s it,” he said.

“What about breakfast?” Now she began getting fresh clothes from her dresser drawers, a blouse, underwear. “I’ll cook bacon and eggs--delicious canned Danish bacon.” She hesitated and then she said, “More of Arnie’s black-market goodies. But they really are good.”

“It’s fine with me,” he said.

“After we went to bed last night I lay awake for hours wondering what Arnie will do. To us, I mean. I think it’ll be your job, Jack; I think he’ll put pressure on Mr. Yee to let you go. You must be prepared for that. We both must be. And of course, he’ll just dump me; that’s obvious. But I don’t mind--I have you.”

“Yes that’s so, you do have me,” he said, as by reflex.

“The vengeance of Arnie Kott,” Doreen said, as she washed her face in the bathroom. “But he’s so human; it’s not so scary. I prefer him to that Manfred; I really couldn’t stand that child. Last night was a nightmare--I kept feeling awful cold squishy tendrils drifting around the room and in my mind . . . intimations of filth and evil that didn’t seem to be either in me or outside of me--just nearby. I know where they came from.” After a moment she finished, “It was that child. It was his thoughts.”

Presently she was frying the bacon and heating coffee; he set the table, and then they sat down to eat. The food smelled good, and he felt much better, tasting it and seeing it and smelling it, and being aware of the girl across from him, with her red hair, long and heavy and sleek, tied back with a gay ribbon.

“Is your son at all like Manfred?” she asked.

“Oh, hell, no.”

“Does he take after you or--“

“Silvia,” he said. “He takes after his mother.”

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“I would say so.”

“You know, Jack, last night when I was lying there awake and thinking . . . I thought, Maybe Arnie won’t turn Manfred over to Camp B-G. What would he do with him, with a creature like that? Arnie’s very imaginative. Now this scheme to buy into the F.D.R. land is over. . . maybe he’ll find an entirely new use for Manfred’s precognition. It occurred to me--you’ll laugh. Maybe he’ll be able to contact Manfred through Heliogabalus, that tame Bleekman of his.” She was quiet, then, eating breakfast and staring down at the plate.

Jack said, “You could be right.” He felt bad, just to hear her say it. It rang so true; it was so plausible.

“You never talked to Helio,” Doreen said. “He’s the most cynical, bitter person I ever met. He’s even sardonic with Arnie; he hates everybody. I mean, he’s really twisted inside.”

“Did I ask Arnie to take the boy? Or was it his idea?”

“Arnie suggested it. At first you wouldn’t agree. But you had become so--inert and withdrawn. It was late and we all had drunk a lot--do you remember that?”

He nodded.

“Arnie serves that Black Label Jack Daniel’s. I must have drunk a whole fifth of it alone.” She shook her head mournfully. “Nobody else on Mars has the liquor Arnie has; I’ll miss it.”

“There isn’t much I can do along that line,” Jack said.

“I know. That’s O.K. I don’t expect you to; I don’t expect anything, in fact. It all happened so fast last night; one minute we were all working together, you and I and Arnie--then, it seemed like all of a sudden, it was obvious that we were on opposite sides, that we’d never be together again, not as friends, anyhow. It’s sad.” She put up the side of her hand and rubbed at her eye. A tear slid down her cheek. “Jesus. I’m crying,” she said with anger.

“If we could go back and relive last night--“

“I wouldn’t change it,” she said. “I don’t regret anything. And you shouldn’t either.”

“Thanks,” he said. He took hold of her hand. “I’ll do the best I can by you. As the guy said, I’m not much but I’m all I have.”

She smiled, and, after a moment, resumed eating her breakfast.

At the front counter of her shop, Anne Esterhazy wrapped a package for mailing. As she began addressing the label, a man strode into the store; she glanced up, saw him, a tall, thin man wearing glasses much too large for him. Memory brought distaste as she recognized Dr. Glaub.

“Mrs. Esterhazy,” Dr. Glaub said, “I want to talk to you, if I may. I regret our altercation; I behaved in a regressive, oral-sucking fashion, and I’d like to apologize.”

She said coolly, “What do you want, Doctor? I’m busy.”

Lowering his voice, he said in a rapid monotone, “Mrs. Esterhazy, this has to do with Arnie Kott and a project he has with an anomalous boy whom he took from the camp. I want you to use your influence over Mr. Kott and your great zeal for humanitarian causes to see that a severe cruelty is not done to an innocent, introverted schizoid individual who was drawn into Mr. Kott’s scheme due to his line of work. This man--“

“Wait,” she interrupted. “I can’t follow.” She beckoned him to accompany her to the rear of the store, where no one entering would overhear.

“This man, Jack Bohlen,” Dr. Glaub said, even more rapidly than before, “could become permanently psychotic as a result of Kott’s desire for revenge, and I ask you, Mrs. Esterhazy--“ He pleaded on and on.

Oh, good grief, she thought. Another cause that somebody wants to enlist me in--don’t I have enough already?

But she listened; she had no choice. And it was her nature.

On and on mumbled Dr. Glaub, and gradually she began to build up an idea of the situation which he was trying to describe. It was clear that he held a grudge against Arnie. And yet--there was more. Dr. Glaub was a curious mixture of the idealistic and the childishly envious, a queer sort of person, Anne Esterhazy thought as she listened.

“Yes,” she said at one point, “that does sound like Arnie.”

“I thought of going to the police,” Dr. Glaub rambled on. “Or to the UN authorities, and then I thought of you, so I came here.” He peered at her, disingenuously but with determination.

At ten o’clock that morning Arnie Kott entered the front office of the Yee Company at Bunchewood Park. An elongated, intelligent-looking Chinese in his late thirties approached him and asked what he wished.

“I am Mr. Yee.” They shook hands.

“This guy Bohlen that I’m leasing from you.”

“Oh, yes. Isn’t he a top-drawer repairman? Naturally, he is.” Mr. Yee regarded him with shrewd caution.

Arnie said, “I like him so much I want to buy his contract from you.” He got out his checkbook. “Give me the price.”

“Oh, we must keep Mr. Bohlen,” Mr. Yee protested, throwing up his hands. “No, sir, we can only lease him, not ever part with him.”

“Name me the price.” You skinny, smart cookie, Arnie thought.

“To part with Mr. Bohlen--we couldn’t replace him!”

Arnie waited.

Considering, Mr. Yee said, “I suppose I could go over our records. But it would take hours to determine Mr. Bohlen’s even approximate value.”

Arnie waited, checkbook in hand.

After he had purchased Jack Bohlen’s work contract from the Yee Company, Arnie Kott flew back home to Lewistown. He found Hello with Manfred, in the living room together; Helio was reading aloud to the boy from a book. “What’s all this mumbo-jumbo?” Arnie demanded.

Helio, lowering his book, said, “This child has a speech impediment which I am overcoming.”

“Bull,” Arnie said, “you’ll never overcome it.” He took off his coat and held it out to Helio. After a pause the Bleekman reluctantly laid down the book and accepted the coat; he moved off to hang it in the hall closet.

From the corner of his eye Manfred seemed to be looking at Arnie.

“How you doin’, kid,” Arnie said in a friendly voice. He whacked the boy on the back. “Listen, you want to go back to that nuthouse, that no-good Camp B-G? Or do you want to stay with me? I’ll give you ten minutes to decide.”

To himself, Arnie thought, You’re staying with me, no matter what you decide. You crazy fruity dumb kid, you and your dancing around on your toes and not talking and not noticing anybody. And your future-reading talent, which I know you got down there in that fruity brain of yours, which last night proved there’s no doubt of.

Returning, Helio said, “He wants to stay with you, Mister.”

“Sure he does,” Arnie said, pleased.

“His thoughts,” Helio said, “are as clear as plastic to me, and mine likewise to him. We are both prisoners, Mister, in a hostile land.”

At that Arnie laughed loud and long.

“Truth always amuses the ignorant,” Helio said.

“O.K. ,” Arnie said, “so I’m ignorant. I just get a kick out of you liking this warped kid, that’s all. No offense. So you got something in common, you two? I’m not surprised.” He swept up the book which Helio had been reading. “Pascal,” he read. “_Provincial Letters_. Christ on the cross, what’s the point of this? Is there a point?”

“The rhythms,” Helio said, with patience. “Great prose establishes a cadence which attracts and holds the boy’s wandering attention.”

“Why does it wander?”

“From dread.”

“Dread of what?”

“Of death,” Helio said.

Sobered, Arnie said, “Oh. Well. His death? Or just death in general?”

“This boy experiences his own old age, his lying in a dilapidated state, decades from now, in an old persons’ home which is yet to be built here on Mars, a place of decay which be loathes beyond expression. In this future place he passes empty, weary years, bedridden--an object, not a person, kept alive through stupid legalities. When he tries to fix his eyes on the present, he almost at once is smitten by that dread vision of himself once again.”

“Tell me about this old persons’ home,” Arnie said.

“It is to be built soon,” Helio said. “Not for that purpose, but as a vast dormitory for immigrants to Mars.”

“Yeah,” Arnie said, recognizing it. “In the F.D.R. range.”

“The people arrive,” Hello said, “and settle, and live, and drive the wild Bleekmen from their last refuge. In turn, the Bleekmen put a curse on the land, sterile as it is. The Earth settlers fail; their buildings deteriorate year after year. Settlers return to Earth faster than they come here. At last this other use is made of the building: it becomes a home for the aged, for the poor, the senile and infirm.”

“Why doesn’t he talk? Explain that.”

“To escape from his dread vision he retreats back to happier days, days inside his mother’s body where there is no one else, no change, no time, no suffering. The womb life. He directs himself there, to the only happiness he has ever known. Mister, he refuses to leave that dear spot.”

“I see,” Arnie said, only half-believing the Bleekman.

“His suffering is like our own, like all other persons’. But in him it is worse, for he has his preknowledge, which we lack. It is a terrible knowledge to have. No wonder he has become--dark within.”

“Yeah, he’s as dark as you are,” Arnie said, “and not outside, either, but like you said--inside. How can you stand him?”

“I stand everything,” the Bleekman said.

“You know what I think?” Arnie said. “I think he does more than just see into time. I think he controls time.”

The Bleekman’s eyes became opaque. He shrugged.

“Doesn’t he?” Arnie persisted. “Listen, Heliogabalus, you black bastard; this kid fooled around with last night. I know it. He saw it in advance and he tried to tamper with it. Was he trying to make it not happen? He was trying to halt time.”

“Perhaps,” Helio said.

“That’s quite a talent,” Arnie said. “Maybe he could go back into the past, like he wants to, and maybe alter the present. You keep working with him, keep after this. Listen, has that Doreen Anderton called or stopped by this morning? I want to talk to her.”

“No.”

“You think I’m nuts? As to what I imagine about this kid and his possible abilities?”

“You are driven by rage, Mister,” the Bleekman said. “A man driven by rage may stumble, in his passion, onto truth.”

“What crap,” Arnie said, disgusted. “Can’t you just say yes or no? Do you have to babble like you do?”

Helio said, “Mister, I will tell you something about Mr. Bohlen, whom you wish to injure. He is very venerable--“

“Vulnerable,” Arnie corrected.

“Thank you. He is frail, easily hurt. It should be easy for you to put an end to him. However, he has with him a charm, given to him by someone who loves him or perhaps by several who love him. A Bleekman water witch charm. It may guarantee him safety.”

After an interval, Arnie said, “We’ll see.”

“Yes,” Helio said in a voice which Arnie had never heard him use before. “We will have to wait and see what strength still lives in such ancient items.”

“The living proof that such junk is just so much worthless crap is you yourself. That you’d rather be here, taking orders from me, serving me my food and sweeping the floor and hanging up my coat, than roaming around out on that Martian desert like you were when I found you. Out there like a dying beast, begging for water.”

“Hmm,” the Bleekman murmured. “Possibly so.”

“And keep that in mind,” Arnie said. Or you might find yourself back out there again, with your paka eggs and your arrows, stumbling along going nowhere, nowhere at all, he thought to himself. I’m doing you a big favor, letting you live here like a human.

In the early afternoon Arnie Kott received a message from Scott Temple. He placed it on the spindle of his decoding equipment, and soon he was listening to the message.

“We located this character’s field, Arnie, out in the F.D.R. range, all right. He wasn’t there, but a slave rocket had just landed; in fact, that’s how we found it right off--we followed the trail of the rocket in. Anyhow, the guy had a large storage shed full of goodies; we took all the goodies, and they’re in our warehouse now. Then we planted a seed-type A-weapon and blew up the field and the shed and all the equipment lying around.”

Good deal, Arnie thought.

“And, like you said, so he’d realize who he’s up against, we left a message. We stuck a note up on the remains of the landing field guidance tower that said, Arnie Kott doesn’t like what you stand for. How does that strike you, Arnie?”

“That strikes me fine,” Arnie said aloud, although it did seem a little--what was the word? Corny.

The message continued, “And he’ll discover it when he gets back. And I thought--this is my idea, subject to your correction--that we’d take a trip out there later in the week, just to be sure he’s not rebuilding. Some of these independent operators are sort of screwy, like those guys last year that tried to set up their own telephone system. Anyhow, I believe that takes care of it. And by the way--he was using Norb Steiner’s old gear; we found records around with Steiner’s name on them. So you were right. It’s a good thing we moved right onto this guy, because he could have been trouble.”

The message ended. Arnie put the reel on his encoder, seated himself at the mike, and answered.

“Scott, you did good. Thanks. I trust we’ve heard the last from that guy, and I approve your confiscating his stock; we can use it all. Drop by some evening and have a drink.” He stopped the mechanism, then, and rewound the reel.

From the kitchen came the insistent, muffled sound of Heliogabalus reading aloud to Manfred Steiner. Hearing it, Arnie felt irritation, and then his resentment toward the Bleekman surged up. Why’d you let me get mixed up with Jack Bohlen when you could read the kid’s mind? he demanded. Why didn’t you speak up?

He felt outright hatred for Heliogabalus. You betrayed me, too, he said to himself. Like the rest of them, Anne and Jack and Doreen; all of them.

Going to the kitchen door he yelled in, “You getting results, or aren’t you?”

Heliogabalus lowered his book and said, “Mister, this requires time and effort.”

“Time!” Arnie said. “Hell, that’s the whole problem. Send him back into the past, say two years ago, and have him buy the Henry Wallace in my name--can you do that?”

There was no answer. The question, to Heliogabalus, was too absurd even to consider. Flushing, Arnie slammed the kitchen door shut and stalked back into the living room.

Then have him send me back into the past, Arnie said to himself. This time-travel ability must be worth something; why can’t I get the kind of results I want? What’s the matter with everyone?

They’re making me wait just to annoy me, he said to himself.

And, he decided, I’m not going to wait much longer.

By one o’clock in the afternoon still no service calls had come in from the Yee Company. Jack Bohlen, waiting by the phone in Doreen Anderton’s apartment, knew that something was wrong.

At one-thirty he phoned Mr. Yee.

“I assumed that Mr. Kott would inform you, Jack,” Mr. Yee said in his prosaic manner. “You are no longer my employee, Jack; you are his. Thank you for your fine service record.”

Demoralized by the news, Jack said, “Kott bought my contract?”

“That is the case, Jack.”

Jack hung up the phone.

“What did he say?” Doreen asked, watching him wideeyed.

“I’m Arnie’s.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I better call him and find out. It doesn’t look as if he’s going to call me.” Playing with me, he thought. Sadistic games . . . enjoying himself, perhaps.

“There’s no use telephoning him,” Doreen said. “He never says anything on the phone. We’ll have to go over to his place. I want to go along; please let me.”

“O.K.,” he said, going to the closet to get his coat. “Let’s go.” he said to her.