The Book of Philip K Dick

by Philip K. Dick

  "Your wife is right," the god's calm voice came, from its overturned box. "Surrender, Eric. Give yourself up."

  "I guess I better." Eric pulled himself up on his knees. "But golly, I don't want to spend the rest of my life in prison. I knew I was breaking the law when I smuggled the damn thing in here, but I never thought—"

  A third shell hit. Eric tumbled down, his chin smacking the floor. Plaster and rubble rained down on him, choking and blinding him. He fought his way up, grabbing hold of a jutting beam.

  "Stop!" he shouted.

  There was sudden silence.

  "Are you willing to surrender?" the magnified voice boomed.

  "Surrender," the god murmured.

  Eric's mind raced desperately. "I—I have a deal. A compromise." He thought fast, his brain in high gear. "I have a proposal."

  There was a long pause. "What's the proposal?"

  Eric stepped warily through the rubble to the edge of the shield. The shield was almost gone. Only a shimmering haze remained, through which the circle of atomic cannon was visible, the cannon and the robot police.

  "Matson," Eric gasped, getting his breath. "The toad. We'll make the following deal. We'll restore Matson to his original shape. We'll return the non-Terrestrial to Ganymede. In return, you waive prosecution and I get my job back."

  "Absurd! My labs can easily restore Matson without your help."

  "Oh yeah? Ask Matson. He'll tell you. If you don't agree, Matson will be a toad for the next two hundred years—at least!"

  A long silence followed. Eric could see figure moving back and forth, conferring behind the guns.

  "All right," Bradshaw's voice came at last. "We agree. Drop the shield and come forward. I'll send Jennings with the toad. No tricks, Blake!"

  "No tricks." Eric sagged with relief. "Come along," he said to the, god, picking up the dented box. "Drop the shield and let's get this over with. Those cannon make me nervous."

  The god relaxed. The shield—what was left of it— wavered and faded, blinking off.

  "Here I come." Eric advanced warily, the box in his hands. "Where's Matson?"

  Jennings came toward him. "I have him." His curiosity overcame his suspicion. "This ought to be interesting. We should make a close study of all extra-dimensional life. Apparently they possess science much in advance of our own."

  Jennings squatted down, placing the small green toad carefully on the grass.

  "There he is," Eric said to his god.

  "Is this close enough?" Pat asked icily.

  "This is sufficient," the god said. "This is exactly right." It turned its single eye on the toad and made a few brief motions with its scaly claws.

  A shimmer hovered over the toad. Extra-dimensional forces were at work, fingering and plucking at the toad molecules. Abruptly the toad twitched. For a second it shuddered, an insistent vibration lapped over it. Then—

  Matson ballooned into existence, the familiar bean-pole figure, towering over Eric and Jennings and Pat.

  "Lord," Matson breathed shakily. He got out his handkerchief and wiped his face. "I'm glad that's over. Wouldn't want to go through that again."

  Jennings retreated hurriedly toward the circle of cannon. Matson turned and headed after him. Eric and his wife and god were suddenly alone in the center of the lawn.

  "Hey!" Eric demanded, cold alarm plucking at him. "What is this? What the hell's going on?"

  "Sorry, Blake," Bradshaw's voice came. "It was essential to restore Matson. But we can't alter the law. The law is above any man, even me. You're under arrest."

  Robot police swarmed forward, grimly surrounding Eric and Pat. "You skunk," Eric choked, struggling feebly.

  Bradshaw came out from behind the cannon, hands in his pockets, grinning calmly. "Sorry, Blake. You should be out of jail in ten or fifteen years, though. Your job will be waiting for you—I promise. As for this extra-dimensional being, I'm quite interested in seeing it. I've heard of such things." He peered toward the box. "I'm happy to take charge of it. Our labs will perform experiments and tests on it which will. .."

  Bradshaw's words died. His face turned a sickly hue. His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came.

  From the box came a swelling, frenzied buzz of rage. "Nar Dolk! I knew I'd find you!"

  Bradshaw retreated, trembling violently. "Why, of all persons. Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo! What are you doing on Terra?" He stumbled, half falling. "How did you, that is, after so long, how could—"

  Then Bradshaw was running, scattering robot police in all directions, rushing wildly past the atomic cannon.

  "Nar Dolk!" the god screamed, swelling with fury. "Scourge of the Seven Temples! Flotsam of Space! I knew you were on this miserable planet! Come back and take your punishment!"

  The god burst upward, flashing into the air. It raced past Eric and Pat, growing as it flew. A sickening, nauseous wind, warm and damp, lapped at their faces, as the god gained speed.

  Bradshaw—Nar Dolk—ran frantically. And as he ran he changed. Immense wings sprouted from him. Great leathery wings, beating the air in frantic haste. His body oozed and altered. Tentacles replaced legs. Scaly claws replaced arms. Gray hide rippled as he flew up, wings flapping noisily.

  Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo struck. For a brief moment the two locked together, twisting and rolling in the air, wings and claws raking and flapping.

  Then Nar Dolk broke away, fluttering up. A blazing flash, a pop, and he was gone.

  For a moment Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo hovered in the air. The scaly head turned, the single eye glancing back and down at Eric and Pat. It nodded briefly. Then, with a curious shimmy, it vanished.

  The sky was empty except for a few feathers and the dull stench of burning scales.

  Eric was the first to speak. "Well," he said. "So that's why it wanted to come to Terra. I guess I was sort of exploited." He grinned sheepishly. "The first Terran ever to be exploited."

  Matson gawked, still peering up. "They're gone. Both of them. Back to their own dimension, I guess."

  A robot policeman plucked at Jennings' sleeves. "Shall we arrest anyone, sir? With Mr. Bradshaw gone you are next in charge."

  Jennings glanced at Eric and Pat. "I suppose not. The evidence has departed. It seems somewhat silly, anyhow." He shook his head. "Bradshaw. Imagine! And we worked for him for years. Damn strange business."

  Eric put his arm around his wife. He pulled her against him, hugging her tight. "I'm sorry, honey," he said softly.

  "Sorry?"

  "Your present. It's gone. I guess I'll have to get you something else."

  Pat laughed, pressing against him. "That's all right. I'll let you in on a secret."

  "What?"

  Pat kissed him, her lips warm against his cheek. "As a matter of fact—I'm just as glad."

  BREAKFAST AT TWILIGHT

  "DAD?" Earl asked, hurrying out of the bathroom, "you going to drive us to school today?"

  Tim McLean poured himself a second cup of coffee. "You kids can walk for a change. The car's in the garage."

  Judy pouted. "It's raining."

  "No it isn't," Virginia corrected her sister. She drew the shade back. "It's all foggy, but it isn't raining."

  "Let me look." Mary McLean dried her hands and came over from the sink. "What an odd day. Is that fog? It looks more like smoke. I can't make out a thing. What did the weather man say?"

  "I couldn't get anything on the radio," Earl said. "Nothing but static."

  Tim stirred angrily. "That darn thing on the blink again? Seems like I just had it fixed." He got up and moved sleepily over to the radio. He fiddled idly with the dials. The three children hurried back and forth, getting ready for school. "Strange," Tim said.

  "I'm going." Earl opened the front door.

  "Wait for your sisters," Mary ordered absently.

  "I'm ready," Virginia said. "Do I look all right?"

  "You look fine," Mary said, kissing her.

  "Ill call the radio repair place from the office,"
Tim said.

  He broke off. Earl stood at the kitchen door, pale and silent, his eyes wide with terror.

  "What is it?"

  "I—I came back."

  "What is it? Are you sick?"

  "I can't go to school."

  They stared at him. "What is wrong?" Tim grabbed his son's arm. "Why can't you go to school?"

  "They—they won't let me."

  "Who?"

  "The soldiers."

  It came tumbling out with a rush. "They're all over. Soldiers and guns. And they're coming here."

  "Coming? Coming here?" Tim echoed, dazed.

  "They're coming here and they're going to—" Earl broke off, terrified. From the front porch came the sound of heavy boots. A crash. Splintering wood. Voices.

  "Good Lord," Mary gasped. "What is it, Tim?"

  Tim entered the living room, his heart laboring painfully. Three men stood inside the door. Men in gray-green uniforms, weighted with guns and complex tangles of equipment. Tubes and hoses. Meters on thick cords. Boxes and leather straps and antennas. Elaborate masks locked over their heads. Behind the masks Tim saw tired, whisker-stubbled faces, red-rimmed eyes that gazed at him in brutal displeasure.

  One of the soldiers jerked up his gun, aiming at McLean's middle. Tim peered at it dumbly. The gun. Long and thin. Like a needle. Attached to a coil of tubes.

  "What in the name of—" he began, but the soldier cut him off savagely.

  "Who are you?" His voice was harsh, guttural. "What are you doing here?" He pushed his mask aside. His skin was dirty. Cuts and pocks lined his sallow flesh. His teeth were broken and missing.

  "Answer!" a second soldier demanded. "What are you doing here?"

  "Show your blue card," the third said. "Let's see your Sector number." His eyes strayed to the children and Mary standing mutely at the dining room door. His mouth fell open.

  "A woman!"

  The three soldiers gazed in disbelief.

  "What the hell is this?" the first demanded. "How long has this woman been here?"

  Tim found his voice. "She's my wife. What is this? What—"

  "Your wife?" They were incredulous. 1

  "My wife and children. For God's sake—"

  "Your wife? And you'd bring her here? You must be out of your head!"

  "He's got ash sickness," one said. He lowered his gun and strode across the living room to Mary. "Come on, sister. You're coming with us."

  Tim lunged.

  A wall of force hit him. He sprawled, clouds of darkness rolling around him. His ears sang. His head throbbed. Everything receded. Dimly, he was aware of shapes moving. Voices. The room. He concentrated.

  The soldiers were herding the children back. One of them grabbed Mary by the arm. He tore her dress away, ripping it from her shoulders. "Gee," he snarled. "He'd bring her here, and she's not even stung!"

  "Take her along."

  "OK, Captain." The soldier dragged Mary toward the front door. "We'll do what we can with her."

  "The kids." The captain waved the other soldier over with the children. "Take them along. I don't get it. No masks. No cards. How'd this house miss getting hit? Last night was the worst in months!"

  Tim struggled painfully to his feet. His mouth was bleeding. His vision blurred. He hung on tight to the wall. "Look," he muttered. "For God's sake—"

  The captain was staring into the kitchen. "Is that—is that food?" He advanced slowly through the dining room. "Look!"

  The other soldiers came after him, Mary and the children forgotten. They stood around the table, amazed.

  "Look at it!"

  "Coffee." One grabbed up the pot and drank it greedily down. He choked, black coffee dripping down his tunic. "Hot. Jeeze. Hot coffee."

  "Cream!" Another soldier tore open the refrigerator. "Look. Milk. Eggs. Butter. Meat." His voice broke. "It's full of food."

  The captain disappeared into the pantry. He came out, lugging a case of canned peas. "Get the rest. Get it all. We'll load it in the snake."

  He dropped the case on the table with a crash. Watching Tim intently, he fumbled in his dirty tunic until he found a cigarette. He lit it slowly, not taking his eyes from Tim. "All right," he said. "Let's hear what you have to say."

  Tim's mouth opened and closed. No words came. His mind was blank. Dead. He couldn't think.

  "This food. Where'd you get it? And these things." The captain waved around the kitchen. "Dishes. Furniture. How come this house hasn't been hit? How did you survive last night's attack?"

  "I—" Tim gasped.

  The captain came toward him ominously. "The woman. And the kids. All of you. What are you doing here?" His voice was hard. "You better be able to explain, mister. You better be able to explain what you're doing here—or we'll have to burn the whole damn lot of you."

  Tim sat down at the table. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to focus his mind. His body ached. He rubbed blood from his mouth, conscious of a broken molar and bits of loose tooth. He got out a handkerchief and spat the bits into it. His hands were shaking.

  "Come on," the captain said.

  Mary and the children slipped into the room. Judy was crying. Virginia's face was blank with shock. Earl stared wide-eyed at the soldiers, his face white.

  "Tim," Mary said, putting her hand on his arm. "Are you all right?"

  Tim nodded. "I'm all right."

  Mary pulled her dress around her. "Tim, they can't get away with it. Somebody'll come. The mailman. The neighbors. They can't just—"

  "Shut up," the captain snapped. His eyes flickered oddly. "The mailman? What are you talking about?" He held out his hand. "Let's see your yellow slip, sister."

  "Yellow slip?" Mary faltered.

  The captain rubbed his jaw. "No yellow slip. No masks. No cards."

  "They're geeps," a soldier said.

  "Maybe. And maybe not."

  "They're geeps, Captain. We better burn 'em. We can't take any chances."

  "There's something funny going on here," the captain said. He plucked at his neck, lifting up a small box on a cord. "I'm getting a polic here."

  "A polic?" A shiver moved through the soldiers. "Wait, Captain. We can handle this. Don't get a polic. He'll put us on 4 and then we'll never—"

  The captain spoke into the box. "Give me Web B."

  Tim looked up at Mary. "Listen, honey. I—"

  "Shut up." A soldier prodded him. Tim lapsed into silence.

  The box squawked. "Web B."

  "Can you spare a polic? We've run into something strange. Group of five. Man, woman, three kids. No masks, no cards, the woman not stung, dwelling completely intact. Furniture, fixtures, and about two hundred pounds of food."

  The box hesitated. "All right. Polic on his way. Stay there. Don't let them escape."

  "I won't." The captain dropped the box back in his shirt. "A polic will be here any minute. Meanwhile, let's get the food loaded."

  From outside came a deep thundering roar. It shook the house, rattling the dishes in the cupboard.

  "Jeez," a soldier said. "That was close."

  "I hope the screens hold until nightfall." The captain grabbed up the case of canned peas. "Get the rest. We want it loaded before the polic comes."

  The two soldiers filled their arms and followed him through the house, out the front door. Their voices diminished as they strode down the path.

  Tim got to his feet. "Stay here," he said thickly.

  "What are you doing?" Mary asked nervously.

  "Maybe I can get out." He ran to the back door and unlatched it, hands shaking. He pulled the door wide and stepped out on the back porch. "I don't see any of them. If we can only ..."

  He stopped.

  Around him gray clouds blew. Gray ash, billowing as far as he could see. Dim shapes were visible. Broken shapes, silent and unmoving in the grayness.

  Ruins.

  Ruined buildings. Heaps of rubble. Debris everywhere. He walked slowly down the back steps. The concrete walk ended abrup
tly. Beyond it, slag and heaps of rabble were strewn. Nothing else. Nothing as far as the eye could see.

  Nothing stirred. Nothing moved. In the gray silence there was no life. No motion. Only the clouds of drifting ash. The slag and the endless heaps.

  The city was gone. The buildings were destroyed. Nothing remained. No people. No life. Jagged walls, empty and gaping. A few dark weeds growing among the debris. Tim bent down, touching a weed. Rough, thick stalk. And the slag. It was metal slag. Melted metal. He straightened up—

  "Come back inside," a crisp voice said.

  He turned numbly. A man stood on the porch, behind him, hands on his hips. A small man, hollow-cheeked. Eyes small and bright, like two black coals. He wore a uniform different from the soldiers'. His mask was pushed back, away from his face. His skin was yellow, faintly luminous, clinging to his cheekbones. A sick face, ravaged by fever and fatigue.

  "Who are you?" Tim said.

  "Douglas. Political Commissioner Douglas."

  "You're—you're the polic," Tim said.

  "That's right. Now come inside. I expect to hear some answers from you. I have quite a few questions.

  "The first thing I want to know," Commissioner Douglas said, "is how this house escaped destruction."

  Tim and Mary and the children sat together on the couch, silent and unmoving, faces blank with shock.

  "Well?" Douglas demanded.

  Tim found his voice. "Look," he said. "I don't know. I don't know anything. We woke up this morning like every other morning. We dressed and ate breakfast—"

  "It was foggy out," Virginia said. "We looked out and saw the fog."

  "And the radio wouldn't work," Earl said.

  "The radio?" Douglas' thin face twisted. "There haven't been any audio signals in months. Except for government purposes. This house. All of you. I don't understand. If you were geeps—"

  "Geeps. What does that mean?" Mary murmured.

  "Soviet general-purpose troops."

  "Then the war has begun."

  "North America was attacked two years ago," Douglas said. "In 1978."

  Tim sagged. "1978. Then this is 1980." He reached suddenly into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet and tossed it to Douglas. "Look in there."

  Douglas opened the wallet suspiciously. "Why?"