Martian Time-Slip by Philip K. Dick Page A

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 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