Dr. Bloodmoney by Philip K. Dick

towns in the country making their possessions available. Finally, what he willed began reluctantly to come to pass, and he remained where he was a long time, getting it to be. Things improved. The people found treatment for burns; he saw to that. He saw, too, to the healing of their great fear; that was important. He saw to the first glimmerings of their getting themselves established once more, in at least a rudimentary way.
    But curiously, at the same time that he devoted himself to improving their condition, he noticed to his surprise and shock that his own had deteriorated. He had lost everything in the service of the general welfare, because now his clothes were in rags, like sacks. His toes poked through his shoes. On his face a ragged beard hung down; a mustache had grown over his mouth, and his hair fell all the way over his ears and brushed his torn collar, and his teeth—even his teeth—were gone. He felt old and sick and empty, but nonetheless it was worth it. How long had he stood here, doing this job? The streams of cars had long since ceased. Only damaged, abandoned wrecks of autos lay along the freeway to his right. Had it been weeks? Possibly months. He felt hungry, and his legs trembled with the cold. So once more he began to walk.
    I gave them everything I had, he told himself, and thinking that he felt a little resentment, more than a trace of anger. What did I get back? I need a haircut and a meal and medical attention; I need a few things myself. Where can I get them? Now, he thought, I’m too tired to walk to Marin County; I’ll have to stay here, on this side of the Bay, for a while, until I can rest up and get my strength back. His resentment grew as he walked slowly along.
    But anyhow he had done his job. He saw, not far ahead, a first aid station with rows of dingy tents; he saw women with armbands and knew they were nurses. He saw men with metal helmets carrying guns. Law and order, he realized. Because of my efforts it’s being reestablished, here and there. They owe me a lot, but of course they don’t acknowledge it. I’ll let it pass, he decided.
    When he reached the first dingy tent, one of the men with guns stopped him. Another man, carrying a clipboard, approached. “Where are you from?” the man with the clipboard asked.
    “From Berkeley,” he answered.
    “Name.”
    “Mr. Jack Tree.”
    They wrote that down, then tore off a card and handed it to him. It had a number on it, and the two men explained that he should keep the number because without it he could not obtain food rations. Then he was told that if he tried—or had tried—to collect rations at another relief station he would be shot. The two men then walked off, leaving him standing there with his numbered card in his hand.
    Should I tell them that I did all this? he wondered. That I’m solely responsible, and eternally damned for my dreadful sin in bringing this about? No, he decided, because if I do they’ll take my card back; I won’t get any food ration. And he was terribly, terribly hungry.
    Now one of the nurses approached him and in a matter of fact voice said, “Any vomiting, dizziness, change of color of the stool?”
    “No,” he said.
    “Any superficial burns which have failed to heal?”
    He shook his head no.
    “Go over there,” the nurse said, pointing, “and get rid of your clothing. They’ll delouse you and shave your head, and you can get your shots there. We’re out of the typhoid serum so don’t ask for that.”
    To his bewilderment he saw a man with an electric razor powered by a gasoline generator shaving the heads of men and women both; the people waited patiently in line. A sanitary measure? he wondered.
    I thought I had fixed that, he thought. Or did I forget about disease. Evidently I did. He began to walk in that direction, bewildered by his failure to have taken everything into account. I must have left out a variety of vital things, he realized as he joined the line of people