World of Chance

by Philip K. Dick

  Benteley slowly followed the party. He knew, now. It was being shrilled on all sides of him, screamed out by the mechanical voices of public newsmachines.

  "Verrick quacked!" the machines cried. "Prestonite bottled to One! A twitch of the bottle this morning at nine-thirty Batavia time! Verrrrrick quaaaaaacked!"

  The power switch had come, the event the harbingers had expected. Verrick had been switched from the number One position; he was no longer Quizmaster. He had plunged to the bottom, out of the Directorate completely.

  And Benteley had sworn an oath to him.

  It was too late to turn back. He was on his way to the A.G. Chemie Hill. All of them were caught up together in the rush of events that was shivering through the nine-planet system like a winter storm.

  Chapter II

  Early in the morning Leon Cartwright drove carefully along the narrow, twisting streets in his ancient '82 Chev­rolet. As usual, he wore an outmoded but immaculate suit and a shapeless hat was crushed against his head. Every­thing about him breathed obsolescence and age; he was perhaps sixty, a lean, sinewy man, tall and straight but small-boned, with mild blue eyes and liver-spotted wrists. His arms were thin but strong and wiry. He had an almost gentle expression on his gaunt face.

  In the back seat lay heaps of mailing-tapes ready to be sent out. The floor sagged under heavy bundles of metal-foil to be imprinted and franked. An old raincoat was in the corner, together with a lunchbox and a number of dis­carded overshoes.

  The buildings on both sides of Cartwright were old and faded, peeling things with dusty windows and drab neon signs. Relics of the last century, like himself and his car. Drab men in faded clothing, eyes blank and unfriendly, lounged in doorways. Dumpy middle-aged women in shapeless coats dragged rickety shopping carts into dark stores, to pick fretfully over the stale food to be lugged back to their restless families.

  Mankind's lot, Cartwright ruminated, hadn't changed much, of late. The Classification system, the elaborate Quizzes, hadn't done many people any good.

  In the early twentieth century the problem of production had been solved; after that, it was the problem of con­sumption that plagued society. In the nineteen fifties and sixties consumer commodities and farm products began to pile up in towering mountains all over the Western World. As much as possible was given away—but that threatened to subvert the open market. By 1980 the pro tem solution was to heap up the products and burn them—billions of dollars' worth, week after week.

  Each Saturday townspeople had collected in sullen, resentful crowds to watch the troops squirt petrol on the cars and clothes and oranges and coffee and cigarettes that nobody could buy, igniting them in a blinding bonfire. In each town there was a burning-place, fenced off, where the fine things that could not be purchased were systemati­cally destroyed.

  The Quizzes had helped, a trifle. If people couldn't afford to buy the expensive manufactured goods, they could still hope to win them. The economy was propped up for decades by elaborate give-away devices that dispensed tons of glittering merchandise. But for every man who won a car and a refrigerator and a television set there were millions who didn't. Gradually, over the years, prizes in the Quizzes grew from material commodities to more realistic items: power and prestige. And at the top, the final exalted post: the dispenser of power, the Quiz­master.

  The disintegration of the social and economic system had been gradual. It went so deep that people lost faith in natural law itself. Nothing seemed stable or fixed; the universe was a sliding flux. Nobody knew what came next. Nobody could count on anything. Statistical pre­diction became popular; the very concept of cause and effect died out. People lost faith in the belief that they could control their environment.

  The theory of Minimax—the M-game—was a kind of stoic withdrawal, a non-participation in the aimless swirl in which people struggled. The M-game player never really committed himself; he risked nothing, gained nothing... and wasn't overwhelmed. He sought to hoard his pot and strove to outlast the other players. The M-game player sat waiting for the game to end; that was the best that could be hoped for.

  Minimax, the method of surviving the great game of life, was invented by two twentieth-century mathemati­cians: von Neumann and Morgenstern. It had been used in the Second World War, in the Korean War, and in the Final War. Military strategists and then financiers had played with the theory. In the middle of the century von Neumann was appointed to the U.S. Atomic Energy Com­mission, recognition of the burgeoning significance of his theory. And in two centuries and a half it became the basis of government.

  That was why Leon Cartwright, electronics repairman and human being with a conscience, had become a Prestonite. Cartwright pulled his ancient car to the kerb. Ahead of him the Society building gleamed white in the May sun, a narrow three-storey structure of wood, its single sign jutting up above the laundry next door.

  PRESTON SOCIETY

  Main offices at rear

  This was the back entrance, the loading platform. Cartwright opened the back of the car and began dragging out cartons of mailing literature.

  He trundled a heavy wood carton down the narrow walk and into the gloomy storage room of the building. A single atronic bulb was fastened to the ceiling; it glowed feebly in the dank silence. Supplies were stacked on all sides, towering columns of crates and wire-bound boxes. He found an empty spot and set down his load.

  He passed through the hall and into the cramped front office. Nobody was there; the office and its barren recep­tion room were empty. The front door of the building was standing wide open, as usual. Cartwright picked up a heap of letters, sat down on the sagging couch and spread them out on the table, after pushing aside a dog-eared copy of John Preston's third book, Flame Disc.

  He opened a letter and removed a five-dollar bill and a long note in a shaky handwriting. There were a few more microscopic contributions. Adding them up, he found the Society had received thirty dollars. Bills added up to over five hundred dollars. He folded the money and crossed to the counter to snap on the ancient ipvic.

  "What's the exact time?" he asked the mechanical clerk.

  "Nine fifty-two, sir or madam."

  Cartwright set his pocket watch and wandered about the office. He stood for a moment in the narrow doorway; the sunlight was cold and pleasant, and it made him sleepy. He yawned and relaxed against the door jamb.

  "They're getting restless," Rita O'Neill said behind him. "Stop putting it off."

  "I'm waiting because I have to," he answered, without turning round.

  "You're not afraid of them, are you?"

  "I'm afraid, but not of them." Cartwright turned back into the office. He moved down the narrow hall and Rita O'Neill hurried after him, into the gloomy inner passage that ran parallel to the ordinary corridor.

  "Any more funds come in today?" she asked.

  "Thirty dollars."

  "Don't turn up your nose at that. It'll buy us another crate of protine."

  Cartwright passed on to Doctor Flood, sitting on a stool in the shadows beyond the turn of the corridor. The air was musty and dark; cobwebs and rubbish littered the passage. Somewhere in the rat-scratched depths creaky ventilation equipment wheezed laboriously. Beyond the sealed doorway at the end of the corridor came a crack of light and the low murmur of voices.

  "You certainly took your time getting here," Doctor Flood complained. A sullen mound of a man, thick-fingered, with watery red eyes, he grinned a sour gold-toothed leer at Cartwright. "What were you doing—wait­ing for more members?" He chuckled wetly. "There won't be any because this is all there is. This is the total organization."

  Cartwright and Rita O'Neill pushed open the metal door and entered the meeting chamber.

  The people waiting glanced up as the door opened. Talk ceased abruptly and all eyes were on Cartwright. An eager hope mixed with fright shuddered through the room; relieved, a few people edged towards him. The murmur boiled up again and became a babble; now they were all trying to get h
is attention. A ring of excited, gesturing men and women formed round him as he moved through the room. For one another they had uneasy, hostile glares. The parallel-club system had been successful: to one another they were strangers.

  "Can we start?" Ralf Butler demanded.

  "Soon," Cartwright answered. He moved on among them, aware of the tension. But another ten minutes wouldn't make any difference.

  Jack McLean glanced up and grinned at Cartwright. "Not long? It's about time."

  Cartwright felt in his pockets. Somewhere he had a crumpled, often-folded list of names. And on the back was a short speech he planned to deliver before the line of cars hidden in the underground garage lumbered off.

  "What are you looking for?" Mary Uzich asked. "A writer?"

  He found the list and carefully unfolded it. Names had been entered, crossed off, and re-entered. He smoothed it out and made an attention-attracting sound. It was unnecessary; he was surrounded by a ring of eager faces.

  A bewildering variety of people. Mexican labourers mute and frightened. A hard-faced urban couple. A jet stoker. Japanese workmen. A red-lipped girl. The middle-aged owner of a retail store that had failed. An agronomy student. A salesman. A cook. A nurse. A carpenter. All of them perspiring, shoving, listening, watching intently.

  These were people with skill in their hands, not their heads. Their ability had come from years of practice, from direct contact with work. They could grow plants, sink foundations, repair leaking pipes, maintain machinery, weave clothing, cook meals. According to the classification system they were failures.

  "I think everybody's here," Rita O'Neill said. "You can go ahead."

  Cartwright took a deep breath of prayer and raised his voice.

  "I want to say something before the cars leave. The ship has been checked over and it's supposed to be ready for deep-space flight."

  "That's correct," Captain Groves said impassively. He was a stern-faced Negro, big and solemn and dignified.

  Cartwright rattled his scrap of crumpled metal foil.

  "Well, this is it. Anybody want to back out?"

  Excitement and tension, but none of them stirred.

  "This is what we've been working for. Now the parallel-club system can be disbanded; you're seeing each other face to face. During the flight you'll get to know each other. I hope you get along."

  Faint, nervous smiles.

  "This is the Society." Cartwright managed to get a half-joking note in his voice. "You people are it. This is all of us."

  They peered good-naturedly at each other. Opinions were forming fast; perhaps too fast.

  "You'll be jammed in tight," Cartwright continued. "This isn't a pleasure ship; it's a run-down General Motors ore freighter ready for the scrap heap. But it's all we could afford. Maybe if some rich woman had given a few mil­lion more..."

  No smiles. It was too bitterly painful. The money had been squeezed out of these people dollar by dollar; it had been turned over to the Society with hope, faith and agonizing doubts.

  "I wish John Preston were here," Cartwright said. "He'd be glad to see this, if he were alive. He knew it would come, some day." He examined his watch and then finished what he had to say. "Good luck! You're on your way. Hold your charms and let Groves do the steering."

  It took a moment to sink in. Then the roar of shock billowed up and slapped him violently.

  "You son of a bitch!" Ralf Butler screamed in terror. "You're not coming with us!"

  It was amazing, Cartwright thought in a detached way, how fast the mood of a group could change.

  "You're afraid!" Butler shouted. "You want us to go out there but you won't come with us."

  "What's going on?" Bill Konklin demanded suspiciously. There was apprehension, mixed with growing anger. "Explain, Leon."

  "I'm not coming," Cartwright admitted. "You'll be in Groves's hands. He's a good navigator."

  "Isn't there anything out there?" Janet Sibley asked anxiously. "Don't you believe any more? Have you changed your mind, Mr. Cartwright?"

  "You know the reason," Jack McLean snorted. "Nobody wants to die out there in dead space. Nobody wants to wander around with those space monsters."

  "There's nothing out there," Flood snapped con­temptuously. "He knows why those astronomers back in 'forty saw nothing. They tried to find it; they did every­thing they could."

  "Tell us why you're not coming," Jereti said. He raised his gnarled hands for silence. "He must have some good reason."

  Cartwright took a deep breath of dry, stale air. "Sorry," he said. "I can't tell you my reason."

  "See?" Butler shouted wildly. "He knows we're going to die out there. He knows it isn't there."

  Rita O'Neill's eyes blazed. "You ought to send them home," she said to Cartwright.

  "It's a racket," McLean muttered ominously.

  "It is not a racket!" Groves retorted. His dark face flushed. "The Society has never been a racket."

  "It'd be nice," Bill Konklin said, "if you could tell us a little more. It seems unfair to send us off without some kind of an explanation."

  "You'll know one of these days." Cartwright said quietly.

  He was going to say more but Rita O'Neill suddenly pushed against him to thrust a sliver of sealed metal foil in his hand.

  "From Sam Oster." The look on her face told him what it was. "Code-monitored from his first television transmission."

  Cartwright slit the plastic seal and examined the metal foil. Then he stuffed it into his pocket.

  "There's nothing more," he said sharply to the group. "Collect your personal possessions and climb into the cars. I'm not going with you. Good-bye and good luck."

  Nat Gardner's eyes blazed with fury. "You're not even coming down to the field?"His sluggish brain moved into action as he started resentfully towards Cartwright.

  "Take it easy," Konklin said. Groves moved up to him, and Gardner reluctantly stopped. "Keep your hands to yourself."

  Doctor Flood grinned slyly at Cartwright. "You had everybody fooled—even me." Behind his thick glasses his eyes danced knowingly. "And the supply rooms—they're full of sand, I suppose?"

  Groves headed for the exit slot. "The ship's ready to take off."

  A few of the group collected their things and followed him, still darting baffled, uncertain glances at Cartwright.

  Cartwright stood with his hands in his pockets, saying nothing and waiting for them to leave. A few lingered.

  "Something important is going on," Mary Uzich said to him in a low, shrewd voice. "When will we know?"

  "Soon," Cartwright said.

  "I think you handled this wrong," Bill Konklin said to Cartwright. "You shouldn't send them out this way. They have a right to know."

  "I trust you, Mr. Cartwright," Janet Sibley gasped timidly, sweeping past Cartwright with an armload of things.

  The Japanese optical workers bowed stiffly, smiled, and hurried out. Gradually the room emptied. Butler and Flood shot looks of suspicion at Cartwright, then reluc­tantly followed the others. Presently only Cartwright and his black-eyed niece remained.

  Cartwright sagged. "I'm glad that's over."

  Rita was breathing rapidly. "How dare they talk to you like that?"

  "They're afraid. The unknown is always worse than the known."

  "Are we going to keep the office open?" Rita moved swiftly about the room, putting things in order. "Keep printing leaflets?"

  Cartwright didn't answer.

  "I never pictured the great moment like this. They spoiled it by questioning you and attacking you. They have no faith."

  "Can't be helped," Cartwright said mildly.

  Rita came to his side. "You know, it's really happened."

  Yes, it had happened... up to a point. He, as leader of the Preston Society, had managed to get himself selected as the new Quizmaster. That in itself was no small feat; in addition, he had manoeuvred the Society's ship into the first lap of a long journey. He had done a great thing for their pioneer, John Preston, a
nd for mankind itself. But——

  "How long do you suppose it'll take them to set up the Challenge Convention?" In a sudden, gloomy rush of emotion he told the girl: "I can keep my new power, protect the ship, for only so long—and then they'll destroy me."

  "Are they aware of the ship?" Rita asked uneasily.

  "I don't believe so. I hope not." He grimaced half in amusement, half in rueful despair. "Otherwise what am I in this Quizmaster business for? Why have I brought about all this? It's the ship that's important; everything else is subordinate."

  "But the ship's safe; it's about to be launched."

  "The ship will leave Earth. I've stabilized the situation to that point. But it's not only the danger here, the menace from the Hills. There's danger within the ship, too. Soon they'll hear on the ipvic that I'm Quizmaster. That's when they'll decide to turn round."

  "You think they'd turn the ship?" Rita asked

  "Certainly."

  "Not Groves. And he's the only one who can navi­gate."

  "All they have to do is contact one of the Hill ports, on any of the nine planets. A patrol ship will be sent out, and a Hill crew will take over the ship."

  "Is that going to happen?"

  "I don't know," Cartwright answered truthfully. "Some will instantly want to give up, turn the ship round or call a patrol boat. Others, like Groves, wouldn't consider turn­ing back." His lean old face seemed to sag with fatigue.

  From outside the building came the sound of jets. A ship setting on the roof in a metallic whirr. A staggering thump, then voices and quick movements on the floors above as the roof trap was yanked open. Rita saw the look on Cartwright's face, the momentary terror, the flash of awareness. Then a mild weariness filmed over him and he smiled wryly.

  "They're here," he said. "It didn't take long."

  His smile broadened as heavy military boots sounded in the metal-lined corridor. "You ought to go," he told Rita thoughtfully. "I'll talk to them alone."

  Rita moved a few hesitant steps away.

  "Go on," Cartwright ordered sharply. Then he turned to the soldiers stepping gingerly into the meeting chamber.