Ubik

The key. He had no key. Or did he? Fishing in his pockets, he discovered a ring on which several diversely shaped metal keys dangled; perplexed, he studied them, wondering what they were for. The lock on the mailbox seemed unusually small; obviously, it took a similar-size key. Selecting the most meager key on the ring, he inserted it in the lock of the mailbox, turned it. The brass door of the box fell open. He peered inside.

Within the box lay two letters and a square package wrapped in brown paper, sealed with brown tape. Purple three-cent stamps with a portrait of George Washington; he paused to admire these unusual memorabilia from the past and then, ignoring the letters, tore open the square package, finding it rewardingly heavy. But, he realized suddenly, it’s the wrong shape for a spray can; it’s not tall enough. Fear touched him. What if it was not a free sample of Ubik? It had to be; it just had to be. Otherwise—Al all over again. Mors certa et hora certa, he said to himself as he dropped the brown-paper wrappings and examined the pasteboard container within.

Inside the container he found a blue glass jar with a large lid. The label read:

DIRECTIONS FOR USE. This unique analgesic formula, developed over a period of forty years by Dr. Edward Sonderbar, is guaranteed to end forever a

This is insane, Joe said to himself. He read the list of ingredients once more, feeling growing, baffled anger. And a mounting helpless sensation that took root and spread through every part of him. I’m finished, he said to himself. This stuff isn’t what Runciter advertised on TV; this is some arcane mixture of old-time patent medicines, skin salves, pain killers, poisons, inert nothings—plus, of all things, cortisone. Which didn’t exist before World War Two. Obviously, the Ubik which he described to me in the taped TV commercial, this sample of it anyhow, has reverted. An irony that is just plain too much: The substance created to reverse the regressive change process has itself regressed. I should have known as soon as I saw the old purple three-cent stamps.

He looked up and down the street. And saw, parked at the curb, a classic, museum-piece surface car. A LaSalle.

Can I get to Des Moines in a 1939 LaSalle automobile? he asked himself. Eventually, if it remains stable, perhaps a week from now. But by then it won’t matter. And, anyhow, the car won’t remain stable. Nothing—except maybe my front door—will.

However, he walked over to the LaSalle to examine it at close range. Maybe it’s mine, he said to himself; maybe one of my keys fits its ignition. Isn’t that how surface cars operated? On the other hand, how am I going to drive it? I don’t know how to pilot an oldtime automobile, especially one with—what did they call it?—manual transmission. He opened the door and slid onto the seat behind the driver’s steering wheel; there he sat, plucking aimlessly at his lower lip and trying to think the situation through.

Maybe I ought to drink down a tablespoon of Ubik liver and kidney balm, he said to himself grimly. With those ingredients it ought to kill me fairly thoroughly. But it did not strike him as the kind of death he could welcome. The cobalt chloride would do it, very slowly and agonizingly, unless the digitalis managed it first. And there were, of course, the oleander leaves. They could hardly be overlooked. The whole combination would melt his bones into jelly. Inch by inch.

Wait a minute, he thought. Air transportation existed in 1939. If I could get to the New York Airport—possibly in this car—I could charter a flight. Rent a Ford trimotor plane complete with pilot. That would get me to Des Moines.

He tried his various keys and at last found one which switched on the car’s ignition. The starter motor cranked away, and then the engine caught; with a healthy rumble the engine continued to turn over, and the sound of it pleased him. Like the genuine cowhide wallet, this particular regression struck him as an improvement; being completely silent, the transportation of his own time lacked this palpable touch of sturdy realism.

Now the clutch, he said to himself. Over on the left. With his foot he located it. Clutch down to the floor, then shift the lever into gear. He tried it—and obtained a horrid clashing noise, metal whirring against metal. Evidently, he had managed to let up on the clutch. He tried it again. This time he successfully got it into gear.

Lurching, the car moved forward; it bucked and shuddered but it moved. It limped erratically up the street, and he felt within him a certain measured renewal of optimism. And now let’s see if we can find the goddam airfield, he said to himself. Before it’s too late, before we’re back to the days of the Gnome rotary engine with its revolving outside cylinders and its castor-oil lubricant. Good for fifty miles of hedge-hopping flight at seventy-five miles per hour.

An hour later he arrived at the airfield, parked and surveyed the hangars, the windsock, the old biplanes with their huge wooden props. What a sight, he reflected. An indistinct page out of history. Recreated remnants of another mille

He got shakily from the LaSalle—feeling acutely carsick—and trudged toward the main buildings of the airfield.

“What can I charter with this?” he asked, laying all his money out on the counter before the first official-looking person he caught sight of. “I want to get to Des Moines as quickly as possible. I want to take off right away.”

The field official, bald-headed, with a waxed mustache and small, round, gold-rimmed eyeglasses, inspected the bills silently. “Hey, Sam,” he called with a turn of his apple-like round head. “Come here and look at this money.”

A second individual, wearing a striped shirt with billowing sleeves, shiny seersucker trousers and canvas shoes, stumped over. “Fake money,” he said after he had taken his look. “Play money. Not George Washington and not Alexander Hamilton.” Both officials scrutinized Joe.

Joe said, “I have a ’39 LaSalle parked in the parking lot. I’ll trade it for a one-way flight to Des Moines on any plane that’ll get me there. Does that interest you?”

Presently the official with the little gold-rimmed glasses said meditatively, “Maybe Oggie Brent would be interested.”

“Brent?” the official in the seersucker pants said, raising his eyebrows. “You mean that Je

“How about McGee?”

“Sure, but he’s in Newark.”