It was late in the afternoon before Arnie Kott was able to procure the metal stake with his name engraved on it from the Union shop and make arrangements for a WWU ‘copter to fly him to the F.D.R. Mountains.
“Hi, Arnie,” the pilot greeted him, a pleasant-faced young man from the Union’s pilot pool.
“Hi, my boy,” Arnie murmured, as the pilot assisted him into the comfortable, special leather seat which had been built for him at the settlement’s fabric and upholstery shop. As the pilot got into the seat ahead of him, Arnie said, “Now let’s hurry because I’m late; I got to get all the way there and then to the abstract office at Pax Grove.”
And I know we won’t make it, he said to himself. There just _isn’t enough time_.
16
The Water Workers’ Union ‘copter with Goodmember Arnie Kott in it had hardly gotten into the air when the loudspeaker came on.
“Emergency announcement. There is a small party of Bleekmen out on the open desert at gyrocompass point 4.65003 dying from exposure and lack of water. Ships north of Lewistown are instructed to direct their flights to that point with all possible speed and give assistance. United Nations law requires all commercial and private ships to respond.”
The announcement was repeated in the crisp voice of the UN announcer, speaking from the UN transmitter on the artificial satellite somewhere overhead.
Feeling the ‘copter alter course, Arnie said, “Aw, come on, my boy.” It was the last straw. They would never get to the F.D.R. range, let alone to Pax Grove and the abstract office.
“I have to respond, Sir,” the pilot said. “It’s the law.”
Now they were above the desert, moving at good speed toward the intersect which the UN announcer had given. Niggers, Arnie thought. We have to drop everything we’re doing to bail them out, the damn fools–and the worst part of it is that now I will meet Jack Bohlen. It can’t be avoided. I forgot about it: now it is too late.
Patting his coat pocket he found the gun still there. That made him a little more cheerful; he kept his hand on it as the ‘copter lowered for its landing. Hope we can beat him here, he thought. But to his dismay he saw that the Yee Company ‘copter had landed ahead of him, and Jack Bohlen was already busy giving water to the five Bleekmen. Damn it, he thought.
“Do you need me?” Arnie’s pilot called down from his seat. “If not I’ll go on.”
In answer Jack Bohlen called back, “I don’t have much water for them.” He mopped his face with his handkerchief, sweating in the hot sun.
“O.K. ,” the pilot said, and switched off his blades.
To his pilot, Arnie said, “Tell him to step over here.”
Hopping out with a five-gallon water can, the pilot strode over to Jack, and after a moment Jack ceased attending to the Bleekmen and walked toward Arnie Kott.
“You wanted me?” Jack said, standing there looking up at Arnie.
“Yes,” Arnie said. “I’m going to kill you.” He brought out his pistol and aimed it at Jack Bohlen.
The Bleekmen had been filling their paka eggshells with water; now they stopped. A young male, dark and skinny, almost naked under the ruddy Martian sun, reached backward, behind him, to his quiver of poisoned arrows; he drew an arrow forward, fitting it onto his bow, and in a single motion he fired the arrow. Arnie Kott saw nothing; he felt a sharp pain, and looked down to see the arrow protruding from his chest, slightly below the breast bone.
They read minds, Arnie thought. Intentions. He tried to pull the arrow out, but it would not budge. And then he realized that he was already dying. It was poisoned, and he felt it entering his limbs, stopping his circulation, rising upward to invest his brain and mind.
Jack Bohlen, standing below him, said, “Why would you want to kill me? You don’t even know who I am.”
“Sure I do,” Arnie managed to grunt. “You’re going to fix my encoder, and take Doreen away from me, and your father will steal all I’ve got, all that matters to me, the F.D.R. range and what’s coming.” He shut his eyes and rested.
“You must be crazy,” Jack Bohlen said.
“Naw,” Arnie said. “I know the future.”
“Let me get you to a doctor,” Jack Bohlen said, leaping up into the ‘copter, pushing aside the dazed young pilot to inspect the protruding arrow. “They can give you an antidote if they get you in time.” He clicked on the motor; the blades of the ‘copter began to turn slowly and then more quickly.
“Take me to the Henry Wallace,” Arnie muttered. “So I can drive my claim stake.”
Jack Bohlen eyed him. “You’re Arnie Kott, aren’t you?” Getting the pilot out of the way, he seated himself at the controls, and at once the ‘copter began to rise into the air. “I’ll take you to Lewistown; it’s closest and they know you there.”
Saying nothing, Arnie lay back, his eyes still shut. It had all gone wrong. He had not staked his claim and he had not done anything to Jack Bohlen. And now it was over.
Those Bleekmen, Arnie thought as he felt Bohlen lifting him from the ‘copter. This was Lewistown; he saw, through pain-darkened eyes, buildings and people. It’s those Bleekmen’s fault, from the start; if it wasn’t for them I never would have met Jack Bohlen. I blame them for the whole thing.
Why wasn’t he dead yet? He wondered as Bohlen carried him across the hospital’s roof field to the emergency descent ramp. A lot of time had passed; the poison surely had gone all through him. And yet he still felt, thought, understood . . . perhaps I can’t die back here in the past, he said to himself; maybe I got to linger on, unable to die and unable to return to my own time.
How did that young Bleekman catch on so fast? They don’t ordinarily use their arrows on Earth people; it’s a capital crime. It means the end of them.
Maybe, he thought, they were expecting me. They conspired to save Bohlen because he gave them food and water. Arnie thought, I bet they’re the ones who gave him the water witch. Of course. _And when they gave it to him they knew. They knew about all this, even back then, at the very beginning_.
I’m helpless in this terrible damn schizophrenic past of Manfred Steiner’s. Let me back to my own world, my own time; I just want to get out of here, I don’t want to stake my claim or harm anybody. I just want to be back at Dirty Knobby, in the cavern with that goddamn boy. Like I was. Please, Arnie thought. Manfred!
They–someone–was wheeling him up a dark hall on a cart of some kind. Voices. Door opening, gleaming metal: surgical instruments. He saw masked faces, felt them lay him on a table . . . help me, Manfred, he shouted down deep inside himself. They’re going to kill me! You have to take me back. Do it now or forget it, because–
A mask of emptiness and total darkness appeared above him and was lowered. No, Arnie cried out. It’s not over; it can’t be the end of me. Manfred, for God’s sake, before this goes further and it’s too late, too late.
I must see the bright normal reality once more, where there is not this schizophrenic killing and alienation and bestial lust and death.
Help me get away from death, back where I belong once more
Help, Manfred
Help me
A voice said, “Get up, Mister, your time has expired.”
He opened his eyes.
“More cigarettes, Mister.” The dirty, ancient Bleekman priest, in his gray, cobweb-like robes, bent over him, pawing at him, whining his litany again and again against his ear. “If you want to stay,. Mister, you have to pay me.” He scratched at Arnie’s coat, searching.
Sitting up, Arnie looked for Manfred. The boy was gone.
“Get away from me,” Arnie said, rising to his feet; he put his hands to his chest and felt nothing, no arrow there.
He went unsteadily to the mouth of the cavern and squeezed out through the crack, into the cold midmorning sunlight of Mars.
“Manfred!” he yelled. No sign of the boy. Well, he thought, anyhow, I am back in the real world. That’s what matters.
And he had lost his desire to get Jack Bohlen. He had lost his desire, too, to buy into the land development of these mountains. And he can have Doreen Anderton, for all I care, Arnie said to himself as he started toward the trail up which they had previously come. But I’ll keep my word to Manfred; I’ll mail him to Earth first chance I get, and maybe the change’ll cure him, or maybe they have better psychiatrists back Home by now. Anyhow, he won’t wind up at that AM-WEB.