Martian Time-Slip

4

David Bohlen, building a dam of wet soil at the end of his family’s vegetable garden under the hot midafternoon Martian sun, saw the UN police ‘copter settle down and land before the Steiners’ house, and he knew instantly that something was going on.

A UN policeman in his blue uniform and shiny helmet stepped from the ‘copter and walked up the path to the Steiners’ front door, and when two of the little girls appeared the policeman greeted them. He then spoke to Mrs. Steiner and then he disappeared on inside, and the door shut after him.

David got to his feet and hurried from the garden, across the stretch of sand to the ditch; he leaped the ditch and crossed the patch of flat soil where Mrs. Steiner had tried unsuccessfully to raise pansies, and at the corner of the house he suddenly came upon one of the Steiner girls; she was standing inertly, picking apart a stalk of wur-weed, her face white. She looked as if she were going to be sick.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked her. “Why’s the policeman talking to your mom?”

The Steiner girl glanced at him and then bolted off, leaving him.

I’ll bet I know what it is, David thought. Mr. Steiner has been arrested because he did something illegal. He felt excited and he jumped up and down. I wonder what he did. Turning, he ran back the way he had come, hopped once more across the ditch of water, and at last threw open the door to his own house.

“Mom!” he shouted, running from room to room. “Hey, you know how you and Dad always are talking about Mr. Steiner being outside the law, I mean in his work? Well, you know what?”

His mother was nowhere to be found; she must have gone visiting, he realized. For instance, Mrs. Henessy who lived within walking distance north along the ditch; often his mom was gone most of the day visiting other ladies, drinking coffee with them and exchanging gossip. Well, they’re really missing out, David declared to himself. He ran to the window and looked out, to be sure of not missing anything.

The policeman and Mrs. Steiner had gone outside, now, and both were walking slowly to the police ‘copter. Mrs. Steiner held a big handkerchief to her face, and the policeman had hold of her shoulder, as if he was a relative or something. Fascinated, David watched the two of them get into the ‘copter. The Steiner girls stood together in a small group, their faces peculiar. The policeman went over and spoke to them, and then he returned to the ‘copter--and then he noticed David. He beckoned to him to come outdoors, and David, feeling fright, did so; he emerged from the house, blinking in the sunlight, and step by step approached the policeman with his shining helmet and his armband and the gun at his waist.

“What’s your name, son?” the policeman asked, with an accent.

“David Bohlen.” His knees shook.

“Is Mother or Father home, David?”

“No,” he said, “just me.”

“When your parents return, you tell them to keep watch on the Steiner children until Mrs. Steiner is back.” The policeman started up the motor of the ‘copter, and the blades began to turn. “You do that, David? Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” David said, noticing that the policeman had on the blue stripe which meant he was Swedish. The boy knew all the identifying marks which the different UN units wore. He wondered how fast the police ‘copter could go; it looked like a special fast job, and he wished he could ride in it: he was no longer frightened of the policeman and he wished they could talk more. But the policeman was leaving; the ‘copter rose from the ground, and torrents of wind and sand blew around David, forcing him to turn away and put his arm across his face.

The four Steiner girls still stood gathered together, none of them speaking. One, the oldest, was crying; tears ran down her cheeks but she made no sound. The smallest, who was only three, smiled shyly at David.

“You want to help me with my dam?” David called to them. “You can come over; the policeman told me it was O.K.”

After a moment the youngest Steiner girl came toward him, and then the others followed.

“What did your dad do?” David asked the oldest girl. She was twelve, older than he. “The policeman said you could say,” he added.

There was no answer; the girl merely stared at him.

“If you tell me,” David said, “I won’t tell anyone. I promise to keep it a secret.”

Sunbathing out on June Henessy’s fenced, envined patio, sipping iced tea and drowsily conversing, Silvia Bohlen heard the radio from within the Henessy house give the late afternoon news.

Beside her, June raised herself up and said, “Say, isn’t he the man who lives next door to you?”

“Shh,” Silvia said, intently listening to the announcer. But there was no more, only the brief mention: Norbert Steiner, a dealer in health foods, had committed suicide on a downtown New Israel street by throwing himself in the path of a bus. It was the same Steiner, all right; it was their neighbor, she knew it at once.

“How dreadful,” June said, sitting up and fastening the straps of her polka-dot cotton halter. “I only saw him a couple of times, but--“

“He was a dreadful little man,” Silvia said. “I’m not surprised he did it.” And yet she felt horrified. She could not believe it. She got to her feet, saying, “With four children-- he left her to take care of four children! Isn’t that dreadful? What’s going to happen to them? They’re so helpless anyhow.”

“I heard,”June said, “that he deals on the black market. Had you heard that? Maybe they were closing in on him.”

Silvia said, “I better go right home and see if there’s anything I can do for Mrs. Steiner. Maybe I can take the children for a while.” Could it have been my fault? she asked herself. Could he have done it because I refused them that water, this morning? It could be, because he was there; he had not gone to work yet.

So maybe it is our fault, she thought. The way we treated them--which of us has ever been really nice to them and accepted them? But they are such dreadful whining people, always asking for help, begging and borrowing . . . who could respect them?

Going into the house she changed, in the bedroom, to her slacks and T-shirt. June Henessy followed along with her.

“Yes,” June said, “you’re right--we all have to pitch in and help where we can. I wonder if she’ll stay on or if she’ll go back to Earth. I’d go back--I’m practically ready to go back anyhow, it’s so dull here.”

Getting her purse and cigarettes, Silvia said goodbye to June and set out on the walk back down the ditch to her own home. Breathless, she arrived in time to see the police ‘copter disappearing into the sky. That was them notifying her, she decided. In the backyard she found David with the four Steiner girls; they were busy playing.

“Did they take Mrs. Steiner with them?” she called to David.

The boy scrambled at once to his feet and came up to her excitedly. “Mom, she went along with him. I’m taking care of the girls.”

That’s what I was afraid of, Silvia thought. The four girls still sat at the dam, playing a slow-motion, apathetic game with the mud and water, none of them looking up or greeting her; they seemed inert, no doubt from the shock of learning about their father’s death. Only the smallest one showed any signs of reviving, and she probably had not comprehended the news in the first place. Already, Silvia thought, that little man’s death has reached out and touched others, and the coldness is spreading. She felt the chill in her own heart. And I did not even like him, she thought.

The sight of the four Steiner girls made her quake. Am I going to have to take on these pudding-y, plump, vapid, low-class children? she asked herself. The answering thought thrust its way up, tossing every other consideration aside: I don’t want to! She felt panic, because it was obvious that she had no choice; even now they were playing on her land, in her garden--she had them already.

Hopefully, the smallest girl asked, “Miz Bohlen, could we have some more water for our dam?”

Water, always wanting water, Silvia thought. Always leeching on us, as if it was a trait born into them. She ignored the child and said instead to her son, “Come into the house--I want to talk to you.”

Together, they went indoors, where the girls could not overhear.

“David,” she said, “their father is dead, it came over the radio. That’s why the police came and took her. We’ll have to help out for a while.” She tried to smile, but it was impossible. “However much we may dislike the Steiners--“

David burst out--“I don’t dislike them, Mom. How come he died? Did he have a heart attack? Was he set on by wild Bleekmen, could that be?”

“It doesn’t matter how he happened to die; what we have to think of now is what we can do for those girls.” Her mind was empty; she could think of nothing. All she knew was that she did not want to have the girls near her. “What should we do?” she asked David.

“Maybe fix them lunch. They told me they didn’t have any; she was just about to fix it.”

Silvia went out from the house and down the path. “I’m going to fix lunch, girls, for any of you who want it. Over at your house.” She waited a moment and then started toward the Steiner house. When she looked back she saw that only the smallest child was following.

The oldest girl said in a tear-choked voice, “No, thank you.”

“You’d better eat,” Silvia said, but she was relieved. “Come along,” she said to the little girl. “What’s your name?”

“Betty,” the little girl said shyly. “Could I have a egg sandwich? And cocoa?”

“We’ll see what there is,” Silvia said.

Later, while the child ate her egg sandwich and drank her cocoa, Silvia took the opportunity to explore the Steiner house. In the bedroom she came upon something which interested her: a picture of a small boy with dark, enormous, luminous eyes and curly hair; he looked, Silvia thought, like a despairing creature from some other world, some divine and yet dreadful place beyond their own.

Carrying the picture into the kitchen she asked little Betty who the boy was.

“That’s my brother Manfred,” Betty answered, her mouth full of egg and bread. Then she began to giggle. Between the giggles a few hesitant words emerged, and Silvia caught the fact that the girls were not supposed to mention their brother to anyone.

“Why doesn’t he live with you?” Silvia asked, full of curiosity.

“He’s at camp,” Betty said. “Because he can’t talk.”

“What a shame,” Silvia said, and she thought, At that camp in New Israel, no doubt. No wonder the girls aren’t supposed to mention him; he’s one of those anomalous children you hear of but never see. The thought made her sad. Unglimpsed tragedy in the Steiner household; she had never guessed. And it was in New Israel that Mr. Steiner had taken his life. Undoubtedly he had been visiting his son.

Then it has nothing to do with us, she decided as she returned the picture to its place in the bedroom. Mr. Steiner’s decision was based on a personal matter. So she felt relieved.

Strange, she thought, how one has the immediate reaction of guilt and responsibility when one hears of a suicide. If only I hadn’t done this, or had done that. . . I could have averted it. I’m at fault. And it was not so in this situation, not at all; she was a total outsider to the Steiners, sharing no part of their actual life, only imagining, in a fit of neurotic guilt, that she did so.

“Do you ever see your brother?” she asked Betty.

“I think I saw him last year,” Betty said hesitantly. “He was playing tag, and there were a lot of other boys bigger than me.”

Now, silently, the three older Steiner girls filed into the kitchen and stood by the table. At last the eldest burst out, “We changed our mind, we would like lunch.”

“All right,” Silvia said. “You can help me crack the eggs and peel them. Why don’t you go and get David, and I’ll feed him at the same time? Wouldn’t that be fun, to all eat together?”

They nodded mutely.

Walking up the main street of New Israel, Arnie Kott saw a crowd ahead and cars pulled to a halt at the curb, and he paused momentarily before turning in the direction of Anne Esterhazy’s Contemporary Arts Gift Shop. Something up, he said to himself. Robbery? Street brawl?

However, he did not have time to investigate. He continued on his way and arrived presently at the small modern shop which his ex-wife ran; hands in his trouser pockets, he sauntered in.

“Anybody home?” he called jovially.

No one there. She must have taken off to see the excitement, Arnie said to himself. Some business sense; didn’t even lock up the store.

A moment later Anne came hurrying breathlessly back into the store. “Arnie,” she said in surprise, seeing him. “Oh my God, do you know what happened? I was just talking to him, just talking, not more than an hour ago. And now he’s dead.” Tears filled her eyes. She collapsed onto a chair, found a Kleenex, and blew her nose. “It’s just terrible,” she said in a muffled voice. “And it wasn’t an accident; he did it deliberately.”

“Oh, so that’s what’s going on,” Arnie said, wishing now that he had gone on and taken a look. “Who do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t know him. He has a child at the camp; that’s how I met him.” She rubbed her eyes and sat for a time, while Arnie meandered about the store. “Well,” she said at last, “what can I do for you? It’s nice to see you.”

“My goddamn encoder broke down,” Arnie said. “You know how hard it is to get decent repair service. What could I do but come by? What do you say to having lunch with me? Lock up the store a little while.”

“Of course,” she said distractedly. “Just let me go wash my face. I feel as if it was me. I saw him, Arnie. The bus rolled right over him; they have such mass, they just can’t stop. I would like some lunch--I want to get out of here.” She hurried into the washroom--and closed the door.

Soon afterwards the two of them were walking up the sidewalk together.

“Why do people take their own lives?” Anne asked. “I keep thinking I could have prevented it. I sold him a flute for his boy. He still had the flute; I saw it with his suitcases on the curb--he never gave it to his son. Is that the reason, something to do with the flute? I debated between the flute and--“

“Cut it out,” Arnie said. “It’s not your fault. Listen, if a man is going to take his life nothing can stop him. And you can’t cause a person to do it; it’s in his bloodstream, it’s his destiny. They work themselves up to doing it years in advance, and then it’s just like a sudden inspiration; all of a sudden-- wham. They do it, see?” He wrapped his arm around her and patted her.

She nodded.

“Now, I mean, we’ve got a kid there at Camp B-G, but it doesn’t get us down,” Arnie went on. “It’s not the end of the world, right? We go on. Where do you want to eat? How’s that place across the street, that Red Fox? Any good? I’d like some fried prawns, but hell, it’s been almost a year since I saw them. This transportation problem has got to be licked or nobody is emigrating.”

“Not the Red Fox,” Anne said. “I loathe the man who runs it. Let’s try that place on the corner; it’s new, I haven’t ever eaten in there. I hear it’s supposed to be good.”

As they sat at a table in the restaurant, waiting for their food to come, Arnie went on and developed his point. “One thing, when you hear about a suicide, you can be sure the guy knows this: he knows he’s not a useful member of society. That’s the real truth he’s facing about himself, that’s what does it, knowing you’re not important to anybody. If there’s one thing I’m sure of it’s that. It’s nature’s way--the expendable are removed, by their own hand, too. So I don’t lose any sleep when I hear of a suicide, and you’d be surprised how many so-called natural deaths here on Mars are actually suicides; I mean, this is a harsh environment. This place weeds out the fit from the unfit.”

Anne Esterhazy nodded but did not seem cheered up.

“Now this guy--“ Arnie continued.

“Steiner,” Anne said.

“Steiner!” He stared at her. “Norbert Steiner, the blackmarket operator?” His voice rose.

“He sold health foods.”

“That’s the guy!” He was flabbergasted. “Oh, no, not Steiner.” Good grief, he got all his goodies from Steiner; he was utterly dependent on the man.

The waiter appeared with their food.

“This is awful,” Arnie said, “I mean, really awful. What am I going to do?” Every party he threw, every time he had a cozy two-person dinner arranged for himself and some girl, for instance Marty or especially of late Doreen . . . It was just too goddamn much in one day, this and his encoder, both together.

“Don’t you think,” Anne said, “it might have something to do with him being German? There’s been so much sorrow in Germans since that drug plague, those children born with flippers. I’ve talked to some who’ve said openly they thought it was God’s punishment on them for what was done during the Nazi period. And these weren’t religious men, these were businessmen, one here on Mars, the other at Home.”

“That damn stupid Steiner,” Arnie said. “That cabbage head.”

“Eat your food, Arnie.” She began to unfold her napkin. “The soup looks good.”

“I can’t eat,” he said. “I don’t want this siop.” He pushed his soup bowl away.

“You’re still just like a big baby,” Anne said. “Still having your tantrums.” Her voice was soft and compassionate.

“Hell,” he said, “sometimes I feel like I’ve got the weight of the entire planet on me, and you call me a baby!” He glared at her in baffled outrage.

“I didn’t know that Norbert Steiner was involved in the black market,” Anne said.

“Naturally you wouldn’t, you and your lady-committees. What do you know about the world around you? That’s why I’m here--I read that last ad you had in the Times and it stank. You have to stop giving out that crap like you do; it repels intelligent people--it’s just for other cranks like yourself.”

“Please,” Anne said. “Eat your food. Calm down.”

“I’m going to assign a man from my Hall to look over your material before you distribute it. A professional.”

“Are you?” she said mildly.

“We’ve got a real problem--we’re not getting the skilled people to come over from Earth any more, the people we need. We’re rotting--everybody knows that. We’re falling apart.”

Smiling, Anne said, “Somebody will take Mr. Steiner’s place; there must be other black-market operators.”

Arnie said, “You’re deliberately misunderstanding me so as to make me look greedy and small, whereas actually I’m one of the most responsible members of the entire colonization attempt here on Mars, and that’s why our marriage broke down, because of your belittling me out of jealousy and competitiveness. I don’t know why I came over here today--it’s impossible for you to work things out on a rational basis, you have to inflict personalities into everything.”

“Did you know there’s a bill before the UN to shut Camp B-G?” Anne said calmly.

“No,” Arnie said.

“Does it distress you to think of B-G being closed?”

“Hell, we’ll give Sam private individual care.”

“What about the other children there?”

“You changed the subject,” Arnie said. “Listen, Anne, you have to knuckle down to what you call masculine domination and let my people edit what you write. Honest to God, it does more harm than good--I hate to say this to your face but it’s the truth. You’re a worse friend than you would be an enemy, the way you go about things. You’re a dabbler! Like most women. You’re--irresponsible.” He wheezed with wrath. Her face showed no reaction; what he said had no effect on her.

“Can you bring any pressure to bear to help keep B-G open?” she asked. “Maybe we can make a deal. I want to see it kept open.”

“A cause,” Arnie said ferociously.

“Yes.”

“You want my blunt answer?”

She nodded, facing him coolly.

“I’ve been sorry ever since those Jews opened that camp.”

Anne said, “Bless you, honest blunt Arnie Kott, mankind’s friend.”

“It tells the entire world we’ve got nuts here on Mars, that if you travel across space to get here you’re apt to damage your sexual organs and give birth to a monster that would make those German flipper-people look like your next-door neighbor.”

“You and the gentleman who runs the Red Fox.”

“I’m just being hard-headedly realistic. We’re in a struggle for our life; we’ve got to keep people emigrating here or we’re dead on the vine, Anne. You know that. If we didn’t have Camp B-G we could advertise that away from Earth’s H-bomb-testing, contaminated atmosphere there are no abnormal births. I hoped to see that, but B-G spoils it.”

“Not B-G. The births themselves.”

“No one would be able to check up and show our abnormal births,” Arnie said, “without B-G.”

“You’d say it, knowing it’s not true, if you could get away with it, telling them back Home that they’re safer here--“

“Sure.” He nodded.

“That’s--immoral.”

“No. Listen. You’re the immoral one, you and those other ladies. By keeping Camp B-G open you’re--“

“Let’s not argue, we’ll never agree. Let’s eat, and then you go on back to Lewistown. I can’t take any more.”

They ate their meal in silence.

Dr. Milton Glaub, member of the psychiatric pool at Camp B-G, on loan from the Interplan Truckers’ Union settlement, sat by himself in his own office once more, back from B-G, his stint there over for today. In his hands he held a bill for roof repairs done on his home the month before. He had put off the work--it involved the use of the scraper which kept the sand from piling up--but finally the settlement building inspector had mailed him a thirty-day condemnation notice. So he had contacted the Roofing Maintenance workers, knowing that he could not pay, but seeing no alternative. He was broke. This had been the worst month so far.

If only Jean, his wife, could spend less. But the solution did not lie there, anyhow; the solution was to acquire more patients. The ITU paid him a monthly salary, but for every patient he received an additional fifty-dollar bonus: incentive, it was called. In actuality it meant the difference between debt and solvency. Nobody with a wife and children could possibly live on the salary offered to psychiatrists, and the ITU, as everyone knew, was especially parsimonious.

And yet, Dr. Glaub continued to live in the ITU settlement; it was an orderly community, in some respects much like Earth. New Israel, like the other national settlements, had a charged, explosive quality.

As a matter of fact, Dr. Glaub had once lived in another national colony, the United Arab Republic one, a particularly opulent region in which much vegetation, imported from Home, had been induced to grow. But, to him, the settlers’ constant animosity toward neighboring colonies had been first irritating and then appalling. Men, at their daily jobs, brooded over wrongs committed. The most charming individuals blew up when certain topics were mentioned. And at night the hostility took practical shape; the national colonies lived for the night. Then, the research labs, which were scenes of scientific experimentation and development during the day, were thrown open to the public, and infernal machines were turned out--it was all done with much excitement and glee, and of course national pride.

The hell with them, Dr. Glaub thought. Their lives were wasted; they had simply carried over the old quarrels from Earth--and the purpose of colonization had been forgotten. For instance, in the UN newspaper that morning he had read about a fracas in the streets of the electrical workers’ settlement; the newspaper account implied that the nearby Italian colony was responsible, since several of the aggressors had been wearing the long waxed mustaches popular in the Italian colony. . . .

A knock at his office door broke his line of thought. “Yes,” he said, putting the roofing bill away in a desk drawer.

“Are you ready for Goodmember Purdy?” his wife asked, opening the door in the professional manner that he had taught her.

“Send Goodmember Purdy in,” Dr. Glaub said. “Wait a couple of minutes, though, so I can read over his case history.”

“Did you eat lunch?” Jean asked.

“Of course. Everybody eats lunch.”

“You look wan,” she said.

That’s bad, Dr. Glaub thought. He went from his office into the bathroom, where he carefully darkened his face with the caramel-colored powder currently in fashion. It did improve his looks, although not his state of mind. The theory behind the powder was that the ruling circles in the ITU were of Spanish and Puerto Rican ancestry, and they were apt to feel intimidated if a hired person had skin lighter than their own. Of course the ads did not put it like that; the ads merely pointed out to hired men in the settlement that “the Martian climate tends to allow natural skin tone to fade to unsightly white.”

It was now time to see his patient.

“Good afternoon, Goodmember Purdy.”

“Afternoon, Doc.”

“I see from your file that you’re a baker.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

A pause. “What did you wish to consult with me about?”

Goodmember Purdy, staring at the floor and fooling with his cap, said, “I never been to a psychiatrist before.”

“No, I can see here that you haven’t.”

“There’s this party my brother-in-law’s giving . . . I’m not much on going to parties.”

“Are you compelled to attend?” Dr. Glaub had quietly set the clock on his desk; it ticked away the goodmember’s half-hour.

“They’re sort of throwing it for me. They, uh, want me to take on my nephew as an apprentice so he’ll be in the union eventually.” Purdy droned on. “. . . And I been lying awake at night trying to figure out how to get out of it--I mean, these are my relatives, and I can’t hardly come out and tell them no. But I just can’t go, I don’t feel good enough to. So that’s why I’m here.”

“I see,” Dr. Glaub said. “Well, you’d better give me the particulars on this party, when and where it is, the names of the persons involved, so I can do a right bang-up job while I’m there.”

With relief, Purdy dug into his coat pocket and brought out a neatly typed document. “I sure appreciate your going in my place, Doc. You psychiatrists really take a load off a man’s back; I’m not joking when I say I been losing sleep over this.” He gazed with grateful awe at the man before him, skilled in the social graces, capable of treading the narrow, hazardous path of complex interpersonal relations which had defeated so many union members over the years.

“Don’t worry any further about it,” Dr. Glaub said. For after all, he thought, what’s a little schizophrenia? That is, you know, what you’re suffering from. I’ll take the social pressure from you, and you can continue in your chronic maladaptive state, at least for another few months. Until the next overpowering social demand is made on your limited capabilities. . . .

As Goodmember Purdy left the office, Dr. Glaub reflected that this certainly was a practical form of psychotherapy which had evolved here on Mars. Instead of curing the patient of his phobias, one became in the manner of a lawyer the actual advocate in the man’s place at--

Jean called into the office, “Milt, there’s a call for you from New Israel. It’s Bosley Touvim.”

Oh, God, Dr. Glaub thought. Touvim was the President of New Israel; something was wrong. Hurriedly he picked up the phone on his desk. “Dr. Glaub here.”

“Doctor,” sounded the dark, stern, powerful voice, “this is Touvim. We have a death here, a patient of yours, I understand. Will you kindly fly back here and attend to this? Allow me to give you a few token details . . . Norbert Steiner, a West German--“

“He’s not my patient, sir,” Dr. Glaub interrupted. “However, his son is--a little autistic child at Camp B-G. What do you mean, Steiner is dead? For heaven’s sake, I was just talking to him this morning--are you sure it’s the same Steiner? If it is, I do have a file on him, on the entire family, because of the nature of the boy’s illness. In child autism we feel that the family situation must be understood before therapy can begin. Yes, I’ll be right over.”

Touvim said, “This is evidently a suicide.”

“I can’t believe it,” Dr. Glaub said.

“For the past half-hour I have been discussing this with the staff at Camp B-G; they tell me you had a long conversation with Steiner shortly before he left the camp. At the inquest our police will want to know what indications if any Steiner gave of a depressed or morbidly introspective mood, what he said that might have given you the opportunity to dissuade him or, barring that, compel him to undergo therapy. I take it the man said nothing that would alert you to his intentions.”

“Absolutely nothing,” Dr. Glaub said.

“Then if I were you I wouldn’t worry,” Touvim said. “Merely be prepared to give the clinical background of the man . . . discuss possible motives which might have led him to take his life. You understand.”

“Thank you, Mr. Touvim,” Dr. Glaub said weakly. “I suppose it is possible he was depressed about his son, but I outlined a new therapy to him; we have very high hopes for it. However, he did seem cynical and shut in, he did not respond as I would have expected. But suicide!”

What if I lose the B-G assignment? Doctor Glaub was asking himself. I just can’t. Working there once a week added enough to his income so that he could imagine--although not attain--financial security. The B-G check at least made the goal plausible.

Didn’t it occur to that idiot Steiner what effect his death might have on others? Yes, it must have; he did it to get vengeance on us. Paying us back--but for what? For trying to heal his child?

This is a very serious matter, he realized. A suicide, so close on the heels of a doctor-patient interview. Thank God Mr. Touvim warned me. Even so, the newspapers will pick it up, and all those who want to see Camp B-G closed will benefit from this.

Having repaired the refrigeration equipment at McAuliff’s dairy ranch, Jack Bohlen returned to his ‘copter, put his tool box behind the seat, and contacted his employer, Mr. Yee.

“The school,” Mr. Yee said. “You must go there, Jack; I still have no one else to take that assignment.”

“O.K., Mr. Yee.” He started up the motor of the ‘copter, feeling resigned to it.

“A message from your wife, Jack.”

“Oh?” He was surprised; his employer frowned on wives of his employees phoning in, and Silvia knew that. Maybe something had happened to David. “Can you tell me what she said?” he asked.

Mr. Yee said, “Mrs. Bohlen asked our switchboard girl to inform you that a neighbor of yours, a Mr. Steiner, has taken his own life. Mrs. Bohlen is caring for the Steiner children, she wants you to know. She also asked if it was possible for you to come home tonight, but I told her that although we regretted it we could not spare you. You must stay available on call until the end of the week, Jack.”

Steiner dead, Jack said to himself. The poor ineffectual sap. Well, maybe he’s better off.

“Thank you, Mr. Yee,” he said into the microphone.

As the ‘copter lifted from the sparse grass of the pasture, Jack thought, This is going to affect all of us, and deeply. It was a strong and acute feeling, an intuition. I don’t believe I ever exchanged more than a dozen words with Steiner at any one time, and yet--there is something enormous about the dead. Death itself has such authority. A transformation as awesome as life itself, and so much harder for us to understand.

He turned the ‘copter in the direction of the UN headquarters on Mars, on his way to the great self-winding entity of their lives, the unique artificial organism which was their Public School, a place he feared more than any other in his experience away from Home.