"No science fiction at all?" Slade asked, incredulous. Had he done that badly? He couldn't believe it; true, Dowland had bitterly repulsed every suggestion Slade had made – true, he had gone back up to his attic in a peculiar frame of mind after Slade had made his point. But -
"All right," Manville said, "there exists one science fiction work by Jack Dowland. Tiny, mediocre and totally unknown." Reaching into his desk drawer he grabbed out a yellowed, ancient magazine which he tossed to Slade. "One short story called ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET, under the pen name Philip K. Dick. Nobody read it then, nobody reads it now – it was an account of a visit to Dowland by -" He glared furiously at Slade. "By a well-intentioned idiot from the future with deranged visions of inspiring him to write a mythological history of the world to come. Well, Slade? What do you say?"
Slade said heavily, "He used my visit as the basis for the story. Obviously."
"And it made him the only money he ever earned as a science fiction writer – dissapointingly little, barely enough to justify his effort and time. You're in the story, I'm in the story – Lord, Slade, you must have told him everything."
"I did," Slade said. "To convince him."
"Well, he wasn't convinced; he thought you were a nut of some kind. He wrote the story obviously in a bitter frame of mind. Let me ask you this: was he busy working when you arrived?"
"Yes," Slade said, "but Mrs. Dowland said -"
"There is – was – no Mrs. Dowland! Dowland never married! That must have been a neighbor's wife whom Dowland was having an affair with. No wonder he was furious; you broke in on his assignation with that girl, whoever she was. She's in the story, too; he put everything in and then gave up his house in Purpleblossom, Nevada and moved to Dodge City, Kansas." There was silence.
"Um," Slade said at last, "well, could I try again? With someone else? I was thinking on the way back about Paul Ehrlich and his magic bullet, his discovery of the cure for -"
"Listen," Manville said. "I've been thinking, too. You're going back but not to inspire Doctor Ehrlich or Beethoven or Dowland or anybody like that, anybody useful to society."
With dread, Slade glanced up.
"You're going back," Manville said between his teeth, "to uninspire people like Adolf Hitler and Karl Marx and Sanrome Clinger -"
"You mean you think I'm so ineffectual…" Slade mumbled.
"Exactly. We'll start with Hitler in his period of imprisonment after his first abortive attempt to seize power in Bavaria. The period in which he dictated Mein Kampf to Rudolf Hess. I've discussed this with my superiors and it's all worked out; you'll be there as a fellow prisoner, you understand? And you'll recommend to Adolf Hitler, just as you recommended to Jack Dowland, that he write. In this case, a detailed autobiography laying out in detail his political program for the world. And if everything goes right -"
"I understand," Slade murmured, staring at the floor again. "It's a – I'd say an inspired idea, but I'm afraid I've given onus to that word by now."
"Don't credit me with the idea," Manville said. "I got it out of Dowland's wretched story, ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET; that's how he resolved it at the end." He turned the pages of the ancient magazine until he came to the part he wanted. "Read that, Slade. You'll find that it carries you up to your encounter with me, and then you go off to do research on the Nazi Party so that you can best uninspire Adolf Hitler not to write his autobiography and hence possibly prevent World War Two. And if you fail to uninspire Hitler, we'll try you on Stalin, and if you fail to uninspire Stalin, then -"
"All right," Slade muttered, "I understand; you don't have to spell it out to me."
"And you'll do it," Manville said, "because in ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET you agree. So it's all decided already."
Slade nodded. "Anything. To make amends."
To him Manville said, "You idiot. How could you have done so badly?"
"It was an off-day for me," Slade said. "I'm sure I could do better the next time." Maybe with Hitler, he thought. Maybe I can do a terrific job of uninspiring him, better than anyone else ever did in uninspiring anyone in history.
"We'll call you the null-muse," Manville said.
"Clever idea," Slade said.
Wearily, Manville said, "Don't compliment me; compliment Jack Dowland. It was in his story, too. At the very last."
"And that's how it ends?" Slade asked.
"No," Manville said, "it ends with me presenting you with a bill – the costs of sending you back to uninspire Adolf Hitler. Five hundred dollars, in advance." He held out his hand. "Just in case you never get back here."
Resignedly, in misery, Jesse Slade reached as slowly as possible into his twentieth century coat pocket for his wallet.
The Days of Perky Pat
At ten in the morning a terrific horn, familiar to him, hooted Sam Regan out of his sleep, and he cursed the careboy upstairs; he knew the racket was deliberate. The careboy, circling, wanted to be certain that flukers – and not merely wild animals – got the care parcels that were to be dropped.
We'll get them, we'll get them, Sam Regan said to himself as he zipped his dust-proof overalls, put his feet into boots and then grumpily sauntered as slowly as possible toward the ramp. Several other flukers joined him, all showing similar irritation.
"He's early today," Tod Morrison complained. "And I'll bet it's all staples, sugar and flour and lard – nothing interesting like say candy."
"We ought to be grateful," Norman Schein said.
"Grateful!" Tod halted to stare at him. "GRATEFUL?"
"Yes," Schein said. "What do you think we'd be eating without them: If they hadn't seen the clouds ten years ago."
"Well," Tod said sullenly, "I just don't like them to come early; I actually don't exactly mind their coming, as such."
As he put his shoulders against the lid at the top of the ramp, Schein said genially, "That's mighty tolerant of you, Tod boy. I'm sure the careboys would be pleased to hear your sentiments."
Of the three of them, Sam Regan was the last to reach the surface; he did not like the upstairs at all, and he did not care who knew it. And anyhow, no one could compel him to leave the safety of the Pinole Fluke-pit; it was entirely his business, and he noted now that a number of his fellow flukers had elected to remain below in their quarters, confident that those who did answer the horn would bring them back something.
"It's bright," Tod murmured, blinking in the sun.
The care ship sparkled close overhead, set against the gray sky as if hanging from an uneasy thread. Good pilot, this drop, Tod decided. He, or rather it, just lazily handles it, in no hurry. Tod waved at the care ship, and once more the huge horn burst out its din, making him clap his hands to his ears. Hey, a joke's a joke, he said to himself. And then the horn ceased; the careboy had relented.
"Wave to him to drop," Norm Schein said to Tod. "You've got the wigwag."
"Sure," Tod said, and began laboriously flapping the red flag, which the Martian creatures had long ago provided, back and forth, back and forth.
A projectile slid from the underpart of the ship, tossed out stabilizers, spiraled toward the ground.
"Sheoot," Sam Regan said with disgust. "It is staples; they don't have the parachute." He turned away, not interested.