The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch by Philip K. Dick

he did remember that other world, that gloomy quasi-life of involuntary expatriation in an unnatural environment. So what? Why did he have to wreck this? Reaching, he yanked down the note, crumpled it and dropped it into the bathroom disposal chute.
    As soon as he had finished shaving he vidphoned Pat.
    “Listen,” she said at once, cool and crisp; on the screen her blonde hair shimmered: she had been drying it. “I don’t want to see you, Walt. Please. Because I know what you have in mind and I’m just not interested; do you understand?” Her blue-gray eyes were cold.
    “Hmm,” he said, shaken, trying to think of an answer. “But it’s a terrific day—we ought to get outdoors. Visit Golden Gate Park, maybe.”
    “It’s going to be too hot to go outdoors.”
    “No,” he disagreed, nettled. “That’s later. Hey, we could walk along the beach, splash around in the waves. Okay?”
    She wavered, visibly. “But that conversation we had just before—”
    “There was no conversation. I haven’t seen you in a week, not since last Saturday.” He made his tone as firm and full of conviction as possible. “I’ll drop by your place in half an hour and pick you up. Wear your swimsuit, you know, the yellow one. The Spanish one that has a halter.”
    “Oh,” she said disdainfully, “that’s completely out of fash now. I have a new one from Sweden; you haven’t seen it. I’ll wear that, if it’s permitted. The girl at A & F wasn’t sure.”
    “It’s a deal,” he said, and rang off.
    A half hour later in his Jaguar he landed on the elevated field of her conapt building.
    Pat wore a sweater and slacks; the swimsuit, she explained, was on underneath. Carrying a picnic basket, she followed him up the ramp to his parked ship. Eager and pretty, she hurried ahead of him, pattering along in her sandals. It was all working out as he had hoped; this was going to be a swell day after all, after his initial trepidations had evaporated…as thank God they had.
    “Wait until you see this swimsuit,” she said as she slid into the parked ship, the basket on her lap. “It’s really daring; it hardly exists: actually you sort of have to have faith to believe in it.” As he got in beside her she leaned against him. “I’ve been thinking over that conversation we had—let me finish.” She put her fingers against his lips, silencing him. “I
know
it took place, Walt. But in a way you’re right; in fact basically you have the proper attitude. We should try to obtain as much from this as possible. Our time is short enough as it is…at least so it seems to me.” She smiled wanly. “So drive as fast as you can; I want to get to the ocean.”
    Almost at once they were setting down in the parking lot at the edge of the beach.
    “It’s going to be hotter,” Pat said soberly. “Every day. Isn’t it? Until finally it’s unbearable.” She tugged off her sweater, then, shifting about on the seat of the ship, managed to struggle out of her slacks. “But we won’t live that long…it’ll be another fifty years before no one can go outside at noon. Like they say, become mad dogs and Englishmen; we’re not that yet.” She opened the door and stepped out in her swimsuit. And she had been correct; it took faith in things unseen to make the suit out at all. It was perfectly satisfactory, to both of them.
    Together, he and she plodded along the wet, hard-packed sand, examining jelly fish, shells, and pebbles, the debris tossed up by the waves.
    “What year is this?” Pat asked him suddenly, halting. The wind blew her untied hair back; it lifted in a mass of cloudlike yellow, clear and bright and utterly clean, each strand separate.
    He said, “Well, I guess it’s—” And then he could not recall; it eluded him. “Damn,” he said crossly.
    “Well, it doesn’t matter.” Linking arms with him she trudged on. “Look, there’s that little secluded spot ahead, past those rocks.” She increased her tempo of motion;