Free Martian Time-Slip by Philip K. Dick Page A

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 black-market 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