The End of the World

by Donald A. Wollheim

Twice, they were almost struck by careening cars, filled with drunken, naked, insane people, all with the desperate desire to make this last night more vivid than all the others’ back to the very beginning of time.

  The headlights illuminated tableaus from some wild inferno as the car swung around through the concrete cemetery the city had become:

  A woman hung by the ankles, her skirt shrouding her face and upper body, her legs and buttocks flayed…

  Psalm singers kneeling in the street, not moving as a truck cut a swath through their midst. And the hymn, thin and weak, heard over the moans of the dying: Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee…

  Sudden sun-worshippers and troglodytes dancing round a fire of burning books…

  The death throes of a world, Henderson thought. What survives the fire and flood will have to be better.

  And then they had reached the silent hill that was the entrance to the Burrow, the miles-deep warren clothed in refrigerator pipes and cooling earth. “There,” Kay said. “Where you see the light. There’ll be a guard.”

  Behind them, the fires burned in the city. The night was growing lighter, lit by a rising moon, a moon too red, too large. Four hours left, perhaps, Tom thought. Or less.

  “You can’t take them,” Kay was whispering harshly. “If you try they might not let us in. It’s kinder to let them stay here—asleep. They’ll never know.”

  “That’s right,” Tom said.

  Kay got out of the car and started up the grassy slope. “Then come on!”

  Halfway up the hill, Henderson could make out the pacing figure of the guard: death watch on a world. “Wait a minute,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Are you sure we can get in?”

  “Of course.”

  “No questions asked?”

  “All we need are the disks. They can’t know everybody who belongs.”

  “No,” Tom said quietly. “Of course not.” He stood looking at Kay under the light of the red moon.

  “Tom—”

  He took Kay’s hand. “We weren’t worth much, were we, Kay?”

  Her eyes were bright, wide, staring.

  “You didn’t really expect anything else, did you?”

  “Tom—Tom!”

  The pistol felt light in his hand.

  “I’m your wife—” she said hoarsely.

  “Let’s pretend you’re not. Let’s pretend it’s a Star Party.”

  “My God—please—nonono—”

  The Luger bucked in his hand, Kay sank to the grass awkwardly and lay there, eyes glazed and open in horrified surprise. Henderson opened her dress and took the two disks from between her breasts. Then he covered her carefully and shut her eyes with his forefinger. “You didn’t miss much, Kay,” he said looking down at her. “Just more of the same.”

  He went back to the car and woke up the girls.

  “Where are we going now, Daddy?” Pam asked.

  “Up there on the hill, dear. Where the light is.”

  “Carry me?”

  “Both of you,” he said, and dropped the Luger into the grass. He picked them up and carried them up the hill to within a hundred feet of the bunker entrance. Then he put them down and gave them each a disk. “Go to the light and give the man there these,” he said, and kissed them both.

  “You’re not coming?”

  “No, babies.”

  Lorrie looked as though she might start crying.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Tom said.

  “Nothing at all,” Pam said.

  Tom watched them go. He saw the guard kneel and hug them both. There is some kindness in this stripping of inhibitions, Henderson thought, something is left after all. They disappeared into the Burrow and the guard stood up saluting the darkness with a wave. Henderson turned and walked back down the hill, skirting the place where Kay lay face to the sky. A Warm dry wind touched his face. Time running out quickly now, he thought. He got into the car and started back toward the city. There were still a few hours left of this last night of summer, and Laura and he could watch the red dawn together.

  Imposter

  Philip K. Dick

  If it were known that The Enemy could manufacture a letter-perfect duplicate of a man -

  how could you prove you were yourself?

  "One of these days I'm going to take time off," Spence Olham said at first-meal. He looked around at his wife. "I think I've earned a rest. Ten years is a long time."

  "And the Project?"

  "The war will be won without me. This ball of clay of ours isn't really in much danger." Olham sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. "The newsmachines alter dispatches to make it appear the Outspacers are right on top of us. You know what I'd like to do on my vacation? I'd like to take a camping trip to those mountains outside of town, where we went that time. Remember? I got poison oak and you almost stepped on a gopher snake."

  "Sutton Wood?" Mary began to clear away the food dishes. "The Wood was burned a few weeks ago. I thought you knew. Some kind of flash fire."

  Olham sagged. "Didn't they even try to find the cause?" His lips twisted. "No one cares anymore. All they can think of is the war." He clamped his jaws together, the whole picture coming up in his mind, the Outspacers, the war, the needle-ships.

  "How can we think about anything else?"

  Olham nodded. She was right, of course. The dark little ships out of Alpha Centauri had bypassed the Earth cruisers easily, leaving them like helpless turtles. It had been one-way fights, all the way back to Terra.

  All the way, until the protec-bubble was demonstrated by Westinghouse Labs. Thrown around the major Earth cities and finally the planet itself, the bubble was the first real defense, the first legitimate answer to the Outspacers -- as the news-machines labeled them.

  But to win the war, that was another thing. Every lab, every project was working night and day, endlessly, to find something more: a weapon for positive combat. His own project, for example. All day long, year after year.

  Olham stood up, putting out his cigarette. "Like the Sword of Damocles. Always hanging over us. I'm getting tired. All I want to do is take a long rest. But I guess everybody feels that way."

  He got his jacket from the closet and went out on the front porch. The shoot would be along any moment, the fast little bug that would carry him to the Project.

  "I hope Nelson isn't late." He looked at his watch. "It's almost seven."

  "Here the bug comes," Mary said, gazing between the rows of houses. The sun glittered behind the roofs, reflecting against the heavy lead plates. The settlement was quiet; only a few people were stirring. "I'll see you later. Try not to work beyond your shift, Spence."

  stirring. "I'll see you later. Try not to work beyond your shift, Spence."

  "Well?" Olham said, as the bug shot ahead. "Heard any interesting news?"

  The usual," Nelson said. "A few Outspace ships hit, another asteroid abandoned for strategic reasons."

  "It'll be good when we get the Project into final stage. Maybe it's just the propaganda from the newsmachines, but in the last month I've gotten weary of all this. Everything seems so grim and serious, no color to life."

  "Do you think the war is in vain?" the older man said suddenly. "You are an integral part of it, yourself."

  "This is Major Peters," Nelson said. Olham and Peters shook hands. Olham studied the older man.

  "What brings you along so early?" he said. "I don't remember seeing you at the Project before."

  "No, I'm not with the Project," Peters said, "but I know something about what you're doing. My own work is altogether different."

  A look passed between him and Nelson. Olham noticed it and he frowned. The bug was gaining speed, flashing across the barren, lifeless ground toward the distant rim of the Project building.

  "What is your business?" Olham said. "Or aren't you permitted to talk about it?"

  "I'm with the governm
ent," Peters said. "With FSA, the security organ."

  "Oh?" Olham raised an eyebrow. "Is there any enemy infiltration in this region?"

  "As a matter of fact I'm here to see you, Mr Olham."

  Olham was puzzled. He considered Peters" words, but he could make nothing of them. "To see me? Why?"

  "I'm here to arrest you as an Outspace spy. That's why I'm up so early this morning. Grab him Nelson --"

  The gun drove into Olham's ribs. Nelson's hands were shaking, trembling with released emotion, his face pale. He took a deep breath and let it out again.

  "Shall we kill him now?" he whispered to Peters. "I think we should kill him now. We can't wait."

  Olham stared into his friend's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Both men were staring at him steadily, rigid and grim with fright. Olham felt dizzy. His head ached and spun.

  "I don't understand," he murmured.

  At that moment the shoot car left the ground and rushed up, heading into space. Below them the Project fell away, smaller and smaller, disappearing. Olham shut his mouth.

  "We can wait a little," Peters said. "I want to ask him some questions first."

  Olham gazed dully ahead as the bug rushed through space.

  "The arrest was made all right," Peters said into the vidscreen. On the screen the features of the security chief showed. "It should be a load off everyone's mind."

  "Any complications?"

  "None. He entered the bug without suspicion. He didn't seem to think my presence was too unusual."

  "Where are you now?"

  "On our way out, just inside the protec-bubble. We're moving at a maximum speed. You can assume that the critical period is past. I'm glad the takeoff jets in this craft were in good working order. If there had been any failure at that point --"

  "Let me see him," the security chief said. He gazed directly at Olham where he sat, his hands in his lap, staring ahead.

  "So that's the man." He looked at Olham for a time. Olham said nothing. At last the chief nodded to Peters. "All right. That's enough." A faint trace of disgust wrinkled his features. "I've seen all I want. You've done something that will be remembered for a long time. They're preparing some sort of citation for both of you."

  "That's not necessary," Peters said.

  "That's not necessary," Peters said.

  "There is some chance, but not too much. According to my understanding it requires a verbal key phrase. In any case we'll have to take the risk."

  "I'll have the Moon base notified you're coming."

  "No." Peters shook his head. "I'll land the ship outside, beyond the base. I don't want it in jeopardy."

  "Just as you like." The chief's eyes flickered as he glanced again at Olham. Then his image faded. The screen blanked.

  Olham shifted his gaze to the window. The ship was already through the protec-bubble, rushing with greater and greater speed all the time. Peters was in a hurry; below him, rumbling under the floor, the jets were wide-open. They were afraid, hurrying frantically, because of him.

  Next to him on the seat, Nelson shifted uneasily. "I think we should do it now," he said. "I'd give anything if we could get it over with."

  "Take it easy," Peters said. "I want you to guide the ship for a while so I can talk to him."

  He slid over beside Olham, looking into his face. Presently he reached out and touched him gingerly, on the arm and then on the cheek.

  Olham said nothing. If I could let Mary know, he thought again. If I could find some way of letting her know. He looked around the ship. How? The vidscreen? Nelson was sitting by the board, holding the gun. There was nothing he could do. He was caught, trapped.

  But why?

  "Listen," Peters said, "I want to ask you some questions. You know where we're going. We're moving Moonward. In an hour we'll land on the far side, on the desolate side. After we land you'll be turned over immediately to a team of men waiting there. Your body will be destroyed at once. Do you understand that?" He looked at his watch. "Within two hours your parts will be strewn over the landscape. There won't be anything left of you."

  Olham struggled out of his lethargy. "Can't you tell me --"

  "Certainly, I'll tell you." Peters nodded. "Two days ago we received a report that an Outspace ship had penetrated the protec-bubble. The ship let off a spy in the form of a humanoid robot. The robot was to destroy a particular human being and take his place."

  Peters looked calmly at Olham.

  "Inside the robot was a U-Bomb. Our agent did not know how the bomb was to be detonated, but he conjectured that it might be by a particular spoken phrase, a certain group of words. The robot would live the life of the person he killed, entering into his usual activities, his job, his social life. He had been constructed to resemble that person. No one would know the difference."

  Olham's face went sickly chalk.

  "The person whom the robot was to impersonate was Spence Olham, a high-ranking official at one of the research Projects. Because this particular Project was approaching crucial stage, the presence of an animate bomb, moving toward the center of the Project --"

  Olham stared down at his hands. "But I'm Olham."

  "Once the robot had located and killed Olham it was a simple matter to take over his life. The robot was released from the ship eight days ago. The substitution was probably accomplished over the last weekend, when Olham went for a short walk in the hills."

  "But I'm Olham." He turned to Nelson, sitting at the controls. "Don't you recognize me? You've known me for twenty years. Don't you remember how we went to college together?" He stood up,. "You and I were at the University. We had the same room." He went toward Nelson.

  "Stay away from me!" Nelson snarled.

  "Listen. Remember our second year? Remember that girl? What was her name --" He rubbed his forehead. "The one with the dark hair. The one we met over at Ted's place."

  "Stop!" Nelson waved the gun frantically. "I don't want to hear any more. You killed him! You. . . machine."

  Olham looked at Nelson. "You're wrong. I don't know what happened, but the robot never reached me. Something must have gone wrong. Maybe the ship crashed." He turned to Peters. "I'm Olham. I know it. No transfer was made. I'm the same as I've always been."

  Olham looked at Nelson. "You're wrong. I don't know what happened, but the robot never reached me. Something must have gone wrong. Maybe the ship crashed." He turned to Peters. "I'm Olham. I know it. No transfer was made. I'm the same as I've always been."

  Neither Peters nor Nelson spoke.

  "I am Olham," he said again. "I know I am. But I can't prove it."

  "The robot," Peters said, "would be unaware that he was not the real Spence Olham. He would become Olham in mind as well as body. He was given an artificial memory system, false recall. He would look like him, have his memories, his thoughts and interests, perform his job.

  "But there would be one difference. Inside the robot is a U-Bomb, ready to explode at the trigger phrase." Peters moved a little away. That's the one difference. That's why we're taking you to the Moon. They'll disassemble you and remove the bomb. Maybe it will explode, but it won't matter, not there."

  Olham sat down slowly.

  "We'll be there soon," Nelson said.

  He lay back, thinking frantically, as the ship dropped slowly down. Under them was the pitted surface of the Moon, the endless expanse of ruin. What could he do? What would save him?

  "Get ready," Peters said.

  In a few minutes he would be dead. Down below he could see a tiny dot, a building of some kind. There were men in the building, the demolition team, waiting to tear him to bits. They would rip him open, pull off his arms and legs, break him apart. When they found no bomb they would be surprised; they would know, but it would be too late.

  Olham looked around the small cabin. Nelson was still holding the gun. There was no chance there. If he could get to a doctor, have an examination made -- that was the only way. Mary could help him. He th
ought frantically, his mind racing. Only a few minutes, just a little time left. If he could contact her, get word to her some way.

  "Easy," Peters said. The ship came down slowly, bumping on the rough ground. There was silence.

  "Listen," Olham said thickly. "I can prove I'm Spence Olham. Get a doctor. Bring him here --"

  "There's the squad," Nelson pointed. "They're coming." He glanced nervously at Olham. "I hope nothing happens."

  "We'll be gone before they start work," Peters said. "We'll be out of here in a moment." He put on his pressure suit. When he had finished he took the gun from Nelson. "I'll watch him for a moment."

  Nelson put on his pressure suit, hurrying awkwardly. "How about him?" He indicated Olham. "Will he need one?"

  "No." Peters shook his head. "Robots probably don't require oxygen."

  The group of men were almost to the ship. They halted, waiting. Peters signaled to them.

  "Come on!" He waved his hand and the men approached warily; stiff, grotesque figures in their inflated suits.

  "If you open the door," Olham said, "it means my death. It will be murder."

  "Open the door," Nelson said. He reached for the handle.

  Olham watched him. He saw the man's hand tighten around the metal rod. In a moment the door would swing back, the air in the ship would rush out. He would die, and presently they would realize their mistake. Perhaps at some other time, when there was no war, men might not act this way, hurrying an individual to his death because they were afraid. Everyone was frightened, everyone was willing to sacrifice the individual because of the group fear.

  He was being killed because they could not wait to be sure of his guilt. There was not enough time.

  He looked at Nelson. Nelson had been his friend for years. They had gone to school together. He had been best man at his wedding. Now Nelson was going to kill him. But Nelson was not wicked; it was not his fault. It was the times. Perhaps it had been the same way during the plagues. When men had shown a spot they probably had been killed, too, without a moment's hesitation, without proof, on suspicion alone. In times of danger there was no other way.

  was not his fault. It was the times. Perhaps it had been the same way during the plagues. When men had shown a spot they probably had been killed, too, without a moment's hesitation, without proof, on suspicion alone. In times of danger there was no other way.