Martian Time-Slip by Philip K. Dick Page B

stimuli pouring in on him, but as soon as the stimulant wore off, the psychotic's cognition slowed down as his faulty metabolism reestablished itself—you know? Yet we learned a good deal from that; we learned that psychosis has a chemical basis, not a psychological basis. Sixty years of erroneous notions were upset in a single experiment, using sodium amytal—”
    “Dreams,” Steiner interrupted. “You will never make contact with my boy.” Turning, he walked away from Dr. Glaub.

    From Camp B-G he went by bus to a swanky restaurant, the Red Fox, which always bought a good deal of his wares. After he had finished his business with the owner he sat for a time at the bar, drinking a beer.
    The way Dr. Glaub had babbled on—that was the kind of idiocy that had brought them to Mars in the first place. To a planet where a glass of beer cost twice what a shot of Scotch cost, because it had so much more water in it.
    The owner of the Red Fox, a small, bald, portly man wearing glasses, seated himself next to Steiner and said, “Why you looking so glum, Norb?”
    Steiner said, “They're going to close down Camp B-G.”
    “Good,” the owner of the Red Fox said. “We don't need those freaks here on Mars; it's bad advertising.”
    “I agree,” Steiner said, “at least to a certain extent.”
    “It's like those babies with seal flippers back in the '60s, from them using that German drug. They should have destroyed all of them; there's plenty of healthy normal children born, why spare those others? If you had a kid with extra arms or no arms, deformed in some way, you wouldn't want it kept alive, would you?”
    “No,” Steiner said. He did not say that his wife's brother back on Earth was a phocomelus; he had been born without arms and made use of superb artificial ones designed for him by a Canadian firm which specialized in such equipment.
    In fact he said nothing to the little portly man; he drank his beer and stared at the bottles behind the bar. He did not like the man at all, and he had never told him about Manfred. He knew the man's deepseated prejudice. Nor was he unusual. Steiner could summon up no resentment toward him; he merely felt weary, and did not want to discuss it.
    “That was the beginning,” the owner said. “Those babies born in the early '60s—are there any of them at Camp B-G—I've never set foot inside there and I never will.”
    Steiner said, “How could they be at B-G? They're hardly anomalous; anomalous means one of a kind.”
    “Oh, yeah,” the man admitted. “I see what you mean. Anyhow, if they'd destroyed them years ago we wouldn't have such places as B-G, because in my mind there's a direct link between the monsters born in the '60s and all the freaks supposedly born due to radiation ever since; I mean, it's all due to substandard genes, isn't it? Now, I think that's where the Nazis were right. They saw the need of weeding out the inferior genetic strains as long ago as 1930; they saw—”
    “My son,” Steiner began, and then stopped. He realized what he had said. The portly man stared at him. “My son is there,” Steiner at last went on, “means as much to me as your son does to you. I know that someday he will emerge into the world once more.”
    “Let me buy you a drink, Norbert,” the portly man said, “to show you how sorry I am; I mean, about the way I talked.”
    Steiner said, “If they close B-G it will be a calamity too great for us to bear, we who have children in there. I can't face it.”
    “I see what you mean,” the portly man said. “I understand your feeling.”
    “You are superior to me if you understand how I feel,” Steiner said, “because I can make no sense out of it.” He set down his empty beer glass and stepped off the stool. “I don't want another drink,” he said. “Excuse me; I have to leave.” He picked up his heavy suitcases.
    “You've been coming in here all this time,” the owner said, “and we talked about that camp a lot, and