World of Chance

by Philip K. Dick

  Cartwright caught his breath.

  "What are you going to do?" Moore persisted. "Print a few trillion copies of Preston's tracts? Distribute immense 3-D pictures of him? You already have one shrine—his remains in a wooden building in the Imperial slums—the remains of the saint, to be touched and prayed over. Is that what you're planning—a new religion? Are you going to organize vast armadas to search for his mystic planet? Are we all going to spend our time combing space for his Flame Disc, or whatever he called it. Remember Robin Pitt, Quizmaster number thirty-four. Nineteen years old, read ancient books, painted pictures, wrote psychiatric stream-of-consciousness material."

  "Poetry."

  "He was Quizmaster one week; then the Challenge got him."

  "I was thirteen when he was murdered."

  "Remember what he had planned for mankind? Think back. Why does the Challenge-process exist? To protect us; it bestows and deprives indiscriminately. Nobody can hold power; nobody knows what his status will be next year, next week. Nobody can scheme to be a dictator. The Challenge protects us from something else—from incom- petents, from fools and madmen. No despots, no crack­pots."

  "I'm not a crackpot," Cartwright muttered hoarsely.

  "You think you can adjust yourself to your new status?" Moore asked.

  "Yes!"

  "You have twenty-four hours. That's about how long it takes to convene a Challenge Convention and pick the first candidate. There should be a lot to choose from."

  Cartwright's thin body jerked. "Why?"

  "Verrick has offered a million dollars to the one who gets you. The offer stands... until you're dead."

  Cartwright was vaguely aware that Wakeman had come into the lounge and was moving up to Moore. The two of them walked away.

  A million gold dollars! There'd be plenty of takers. The best minds would gamble their lives for that, in a society that was a constant gamble, an unceasing lottery.

  Wakeman came over to him, shaking his head. "What a distorted mind—bodies, bombs, assassins. We sent him off."

  "What he said is true," Cartwright gasped. "I have no place here."

  "His strategy is to make you think that."

  "But it's true!"

  Wakeman nodded reluctantly. "I know. That's why it's good strategy. We have a good plan, too, I think. You'll know about it later."

  The battered, weary ore freighter left the regular com­mercial lanes as it moved towards the side of Mars. Jupiter was on the far side of the sun; the lanes were at a minimum density, split between the two planets. When out of the slowly-moving stream of transports the ship began to reach significant velocities. Its bulkheads rattled. Metallic dust rained down in the drumming corridors as it sped through a void of silence, darkness, emptiness.

  In the gloomy hold the fifty men and women who made up the Preston Society sat in a nervous circle, waiting timidly for Konklin to begin.

  Konklin studied the bookshelf that Bruno Jereti had erected.

  "Here they are," he said. "The Dispossessed. Mathe­matics of Madness. The Unicorn. Flame Disc." He dragged down a bulky binder. "His books, all his unpub­lished notes, his records; drawings he made of his vision, his computations, instructions, analysis, poetry, his philosophy—everything." He turned to the expectant people, "What'll it be tonight?"

  "Flame Disc," Janet Sibley said quickly. "It's so in­spiring."

  Konklin slid the well-worn copy down and flipped it open, sat on a heap of bedding, and glanced around.

  "Go ahead," Mary Uzich said eagerly. "We need something to buck us up."

  In a throbbing baritone, Konklin read aloud from the concluding section of John Preston's last book.

  "In the far reaches of space He has placed another world, an untouched Disc, a Second Earth, hidden and concealed from prying eyes. There He has put it, safe in dusky reaches, the terrifying dead regions, where the coward-folk dare not venture. He knew that gibbering vampires, their own guilt, would pluck at them, would torment them in their shoddy tin ships, until they maddened and died—and returned empty-handed..."

  "That part," Groves interrupted ponderously, "refers to Herman R. Ewing, the navigator on the 'eighty-nine ex­pedition. He went insane from space fear. He claimed that the ship was being pursued by fabulous space monsters."

  Konklin read on, carried away by the fervour of the dead founder of the Society.

  "This Disc, this glowing orb, for all eyes yet somehow hidden, was sent to swim in the sea of meteor dust and galactic wastes throughout the ages. Until at last a brave crowd, would venture forth. Giants, with the courage of giants... ."

  Chapter IV

  Ted benteley stood by the kitchen door inhaling warm smells. The Davis house was pleasant and bright. Al Davis, minus his shoes, was sitting contentedly before the television set in the living room. His pretty brown-haired wife, Laura, was preparing dinner.

  "If that's protine," Benteley said to her, "it's the best job of adulteration I've smelled."

  "We never have protine," Laura answered briskly. "You can taste it no matter how they disguise it. It's terrible costly to buy natural foods, of course, but it's worth it."

  "Protine," Al said, overhearing her, "saved the ordinary people from starvation back in the twentieth century. Allow me to pass on a few facts."

  "Please do!"

  "Protine isn't a natural algae. It's a mutant that started out in culture tanks in the middle East and gradually crept on to a variety of fresh-water surfaces."

  "When I go into the bathroom in the morning don't I find the darn stuff growing all over the place?"

  "It also grows over the Great Lakes," Al said scientifically.

  "Well, this isn't protine," Laura said to Ted. "This is real roast beef, real potatoes and green peas and white rolls."

  "You two are living better than when I last saw you," Benteley commented. "What happened?"

  "Al jumped a whole class. He beat the Government Quiz; we studied together every night."

  "I never heard of anybody beating the Quizzes. Was it mentioned on television?"

  Laura frowned resentfully.

  "That awful Sam Oster talked about it the whole length of a programme. He's that rabble-rouser who has such a big following."

  "Afraid I don't know him," Benteley admitted.

  "The Convention," Davis said, indicating the television screen, "are advertising for applicants. Giving quite a bonus."

  A vortex of foaming light and colour lapping across the screen symbolized the Challenge Convention. The billow­ing mass broke apart, then reformed in new combinations.

  "What's it saying?" Benteley asked.

  "I can switch to the literal-channel, if you like."

  Laura hurried in with silver and china for the table. "Don't put the literal-channel on; all the dullards watch that. This for us, the literal for them."

  "You're wrong, honey," Al said seriously. "The literal-channel is for news and factual information. The sym­bolic channel is for pleasure. I enjoy watching it this way, but——" He waved his hand and the circuit switched abruptly. The vivid swirls of colour and sound winked out. In their place the placid features of a news announcer appeared. "Here's the same thing."

  Laura returned to the kitchen in a flurry of activity. The living-room was friendly and comfortable. One wall was transparent; below the house stretched the city of Berlin clustered round the A.G. Chemie Hill, a towering cone, black against the night sky. Bits of light drifted in the gloom—surface cars dancing like sparks in the shadows.

  "How long have you been in fealty to Verrick?" Benteley asked Al Davis.

  "About three or four years."

  "You're satisfied?"

  "Why not?" Al indicated the pleasant, well-furnished living-room. "Who wouldn't be?"

  "You knew I'd sworn loyalty to him?"

  Davis's kindly face beamed up at Benteley. "I hope that means you'll be moving over here."

  "Why?"

  Davis blinked. "Well, because then we'll see more o
f you and Julie."

  "I haven't been living with Julie for six months," Benteley said impatiently. "That's all off. She's on Jupiter as a work-camp official."

  "I didn't know. I haven't seen you for two years."

  "I came over with Verrick and his staff." Benteley's voice hardened. "When Oiseau-Lyre released me I headed for Batavia. I wanted to get out of the Hill system once and for all. I went straight to Reese Verrick."

  "You did the right thing."

  "Verrick tricked me! He was out of the Directorate completely. I knew somebody was bidding for the Hills. I wanted nothing to do with it—and now look!" Benteley's resentment increased. "Instead of getting away from it I'm where it's dirtiest."

  Indignation crept into Davis's tolerant face. "Some of the nicest people I know are Verrick's serfs."

  "People who don't care how they make money."

  "You want to penalize Verrick because he's a success? He's made this Hill; is it his fault nobody else can operate like he can? There's a natural selection and evolution. Those who can't survive fall by the way."

  "Verrick fired our research labs."

  "Our? You're with Verrick, now!" Davis's indignation boiled over. "Verrick is your protector and you're stand­ing here——"

  "All right, boys," Laura exclaimed, back from her kitchen. "Dinner's on the table."

  Benteley pulled up a couple of chairs and sat down moodily.

  "Don't look so sad," Laura said to him. "See what you're getting to eat. Aren't you living with Julie any more? I'll bet you eat at restaurants where they serve that awful protine stuff."

  Benteley said presently: "When I saw you last you were living in a Hill dormitory. But you weren't married then."

  "Remember when you and I were living together?" Laura asked. "That wasn't more than a month."

  "A little under a month," Benteley agreed. He relaxed somewhat, thawed by the smell of hot food, the bright living-room, the pretty woman sitting opposite him. "That's when you were still under fealty to Oiseau-Lyre, before you lost your classification."

  Benteley listened to the television between conversations, his mind on only half of what Laura and Al were saying.

  "... Quizmaster Cartwright has announced the dismissal of two hundred Directorate employees," the announcer was saying. "The reason given is b.s.r."

  "Bad security risk," Laura murmured. "That's what they always say."

  "... Convention plans are booming. Applications are flooding the Convention Board and the Westinghouse Hill office. Reese Verrick, the former Quiz­master, has agreed to handle the technical details that will set in motion the most spectacular event of the decade."

  "Is old Judge Waring still on the Board?" Laura asked Al. "He must be a hundred years old."

  "He won't resign, not until he's dead."

  "But he knows everything about the Challenge," Laura said.

  The television had changed announcers. A view of the massive auditorium in which the Convention was being held swam into focus. Seats were already up, and the huge platform at which the Board sat in judgment. People milled back and forth; the auditorium boomed and echoed with sounds of furious activity.

  "... Reese Verrick's offer of a million dollars has galvanized the Convention proceedings. Statisticians estimate a record number of applications. Everybody is eager to try his hand at the most daring role in the system, the greatest risk and the highest stakes. The eyes of six billion people on nine planets are turned on the Westinghouse Hill tonight. Who will be the first assassin? Out of these many brilliant applicants, representing all classes and Hills, who will be the first to try his hand for the prize and the acclamation of a whole civilization?"

  "How about you?" Laura said suddenly to Benteley. "Why don't you put in an application?"

  "Not my line!"

  "Make it your line! Al, haven't we that big tape they put out—all the successful assassins of the past, their lives and everything about them? Show it to Ted." "I've seen it," Benteley said curtly.

  "... Experts predict that the first assassin will have a seventy-thirty chance of destroying Quizmaster Cartwright and winning the prize put up by Reese Verrick, the previous Quizmaster. If the first assassin fails, the betting is sixty-forty on the second. Cartwright will have better control over his army and telepathic Corps after the initial two days. For the assassin, speed rather than form will count in the opening phase. During the last lap the situation will be tight because..."

  Laura leaned contentedly back, a cigarette between her fingers, and smiled at Benteley.

  "Think you'll move your things here to Chemie? You could stay with us until you find a decent place."

  Al picked a date from a bowl. He ate it slowly. "Too sweet. What planet's it from? Venus? It tastes like one of those pulpy Venusian fruits."

  "It's from Asia Minor," Laura said.

  "Here on Earth? Who muted it?"

  "Nobody; it's a natural fruit. From a palm tree."

  Benteley got slowly to his feet. "Laura, I have to get going."

  Al rose in amazement. "Why?"

  "I have to collect my things from Oiseau-Lyre."

  Al thumped him on the shoulder. "You're one of Verrick's serfs now; give the Hill traffic office a call and they'll arrange it."

  "I'd rather do it myself," Benteley said.

  "Why?" Laura asked, surprised.

  "Less things get broken," Benteley evaded.

  Al went on: "You'd better get your stuff here as soon as possible. Sometimes Verrick wants a person quickly, and when he wants you quickly———"

  "The hell with Verrick!" Benteley snapped.

  Their shocked looks followed him as he moved from the table.

  "... more than ten thousand already, from all parts of Earth. Judge Waring's announcement that the first assassin will be chosen at this session——"

  Al whistled appreciatively. "Verrick doesn't waste any time."

  Benteley crouched down and snapped the television off. The sounds and images faded as he rose to his feet.

  "You mind?" he asked. "I'm tired of the Convention and everything about it."

  "It won't be for a time, anyhow," Al said, seeking to smooth things out. "They're still testing equipment."

  "I went to Batavia expecting to get in on something big," Benteley continued. "Something beyond people grabbing for power, struggling to get to the top of the heap over each other's dead bodies."

  Al Davis extended a chubby finger.

  "Reese Verrick will be back in the number One spot inside a week. His money picks the assassin. The assassin is under fealty to him. When he kills this Cartwright per­son the limelight returns to Verrick. Wait a week, man. It'll be back the way it was."

  Laura appeared at the doorway, her face flooded with peevish anxiety. "Al, couldn't we get the Convention? I can hear Judy Klein's set down the hall and they're choos­ing the assassin now!"

  "I'll turn it on," Benteley said wearily. "I'm going, anyhow." He snapped on the power and as he moved to­wards the front door a thick voice swelled from the speakers out into the room.

  "Oh, heavens!" Laura moaned, "it's that Sam Oster. Turn him off and get the Convention!"

  Benteley closed the door, and with the grumble of Oster's voice still in his ears plunged down the dark path.

  Sitting at his desk, his script gripped in his beefy, thick-fingered hands, his bull-neck jutting forward, his square face set in a rigid block, Sam Oster addressed his invisible audience with great care, picking each word with studied precision and letting it grind out harshly and methodically.

  The engineers monitoring the transmission were follow­ing the Convention on another channel.

  Oster clutched his script convulsively and read on. Sweat rolled down the gulleys of his flat, broken nose, down to his cracked lips and stubbled chin. Breathing hoarsely, he finished his speech and lay back exhausted as the indifferent engineers switched to the next programme.

  He had ceased recording. A chance observation had discl
osed that the ipvic technicians were speeding up the tape slightly, turning his angry words into the squeaks of a mechanical gnome and his gestures into the twitches of a puppet.

  He got to his feet and snatched up the dispatches from the newsmachines that had come in during his speech. He scanned them and then headed at a shambling gait for the sound-proof ipvic booth. A few moments later he was facing Leon Cartwright on a closed-circuit connection.

  "This is late to call you," he said, "but I———"

  "Wait!" Cartwright cut him off. His face was pale and drawn; dark circles were round his eyes. "I don't trust these ipvic lines. I'm having Tate—President of IPVIC— investigated. He may be tied with Verrick in some way."

  "Ipvic is a monopoly. If you don't use its lines you can't get your signal relayed to the ship." Oster ran his heavy hands along the so-called 'guarantee' meters; they alleged that the signal was not being tapped at any point. "And you have to keep in contact with the ship."

  "I'm waiting as long as possible." Cartwright saw the wad of newstapes in Oster's fist. "What have you to tell me? I know you get first crack at the reports."

  "Just one thing. It came over a few seconds ago; soon it'll be screeched from the public machines."

  Cartwright's expression didn't change, but his knuckles whitened and he began rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. "They didn't waste any time."

  Oster unrolled the tape. "His name is Keith Pellig."

  "I've never heard of him."

  "Me, neither. Strange; I've kept myself well posted on top-level material. But he must be something or Verrick wouldn't risk a million dollars on him." Savagely, Oster slammed the newstapes down. "Well, he's on his way. Get your Corps ready."

  "Keith Pellig," Cartwright murmured.

  "That's the assassin. The man who's going to kill you in cold blood."

  Chapter V