The Philip K. Dick Megapack
Page 1
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT INFO
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
THE MEGAPACK SERIES
INTRODUCTION: PHILIP K. DICK
EXHIBIT PIECE
BEYOND LIES THE WUB
THE DEFENDERS
THE CRYSTAL CRYPT
BEYOND THE DOOR
SECOND VARIETY
THE EYES HAVE IT
THE GUN
THE VARIABLE MAN
TONY AND THE BEETLES
THE HANGING STRANGER
THE SKULL
PIPER IN THE WOODS
MR. SPACESHIP
STRANGE EDEN
COPYRIGHT INFO
The Philip K. Dick Megapack is copyright © 2013 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved.
* * * *
“Exhibit Piece” originally appeared in in If Worlds of Science Fiction, August 1954.
“The Crystal Crypt” originally appeared in Planet Stories, January 1954.
“Beyond the Door” originally appeared in Fantastic Universe, January 1954.
“The Defenders” originally appeared in Galaxy Science Fiction, January 1953.
“Beyond Lies the Wub” originally appeared in Planet Stories, July 1952.
“Second Variety” originally appeared in Space Science Fiction, May 1953.
“The Eyes Have It” originally appeared in Science Fiction Stories, 1953.
“The Gun” originally appeared in Planet Stories, September 1952.
“The Variable Man” originally appeared in Space Science Fiction, September 1953.
“Tony and the Beetles” originally appeared in Orbit, vol. 1 no. 2, 1953.
“The Hanging Stranger” originally appeared in Science Fiction Adventures Magazine, December 1953.
“The Skull” originally appeared in If Worlds of Science Fiction, September 1952.
“Piper in the Woods” originally appeared in Imagination: Stories of Science and Fantasy, February 1953.
“Mr. Spaceship” originally appeared in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, January 1953.
“Strange Eden” originally appeared in Imagination, December 1954.
A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER
ATTN: KINDLE READERS
The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your version or ebook reader.)
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TYPOS
Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.
If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone (and email a revised copy to you when it’s updated, in either epub or Kindle format, if you provide contact information). You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com.
THE MEGAPACK SERIES
The Adventure Megapack
The Baseball Megapack
The Boys’ Adventure Megapack
The Buffalo Bill Megapack
The Christmas Megapack
The Second Christmas Megapack
The Classic American Short Story Megapack
The Classic Humor Megapack
The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack
The Cowboy Megapack
The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective Megapack
The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack
The Dan Carter, Cub Scout Megapack
The Detective Megapack
The Father Brown Megapack
The Ghost Story Megapack
The Second Ghost Story Megapack
The Third Ghost Story Megapack
The Horror Megapack
The Macabre Megapack
The Second Macabre Megapack
The Martian Megapack
The Military Megapack
The Mummy Megapack
The Mystery Megapack
The Penny Parker Megapack
The Pulp Fiction Megapack
The Rover Boys Megapack
The Science Fiction Megapack
The Second Science Fiction Megapack
The Third Science Fiction Megapack
The Fourth Science Fiction Megapack
The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack
The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack
The Penny Parker Megapack
The Pinocchio Megapack
The Steampunk Megapack
The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet Megapack
The Tom Swift Megapack
The Vampire Megapack
The Victorian Mystery Megapack
The Werewolf Megapack
The Western Megapack
The Second Western Megapack
The Second Western Megapack
The Wizard of Oz Megapack
AUTHOR MEGAPACKS
The E.F. Benson Megapack
The Second E.F. Benson Megapack
The B.M. Bower Megapack
The First Reginald Bretnor Megapack
The Wilkie Collins Megapack
The Philip K. Dick Megapack
The Edward Bellamy Megapack
The Jacques Futrelle Megapack
The Randall Garrett Megapack
The Second Randall Garrett Megapack
The G.A. Henty Megapack
The Andre Norton Megapack
The H. Beam Piper Megapack
The Rafael Sabatini Megapack
INTRODUCTION: PHILIP K. DICK
Philip Kindred Dick (December 16, 1928 – March 2, 1982) was an American novelist, short story writer, and essayist whose published work is almost entirely in the science fiction genre. Dick explored sociological, political and metaphysical themes in novels dominated by monopolistic corporations, authoritarian governments, and altered states. In his later works Dick’s thematic focus strongly reflected his personal interest in metaphysics and theology. He often drew upon his own life experiences in addressing the nature of drug abuse, paranoia, schizophrenia, and transcendental experiences in novels such as A Scanner Darkly and VALIS.
The novel The Man in the High Castle bridged the genres of alternate history and science fiction, earning Dick a Hugo Award for Best Novel in 1963. Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, a novel about a celebrity who awakens in a parallel universe where he is unknown, won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best novel in 1975. “I want to write about people I love, and put them into a fictional world spun out of my own mind, not the world we actually have, because the world we actually have does not meet my standards,” Dick wrote of these stories. “In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real.”
In addition to 44 published novels, Dick wrote approximately 121 short stories, most of which appeared in science fiction ma
gazines during his lifetime. Although Dick spent most of his career as a writer in near-poverty, ten popular films based on his works have been produced, including Blade Runner, Total Recall, A Scanner Darkly, Minority Report, Paycheck, Next, Screamers, and The Adjustment Bureau. In 2005, Time magazine named Ubik one of the one hundred greatest English-language novels published since 1923. In 2007, Dick became the first science fiction writer to be included in The Library of America series
EXHIBIT PIECE
“That’s a strange suit you have on,” the robot pubtrans driver observed. It slid back its door and came to rest at the curb. “What are the little round things?”
“Those are buttons,” George Miller explained. “They are partly functional, partly ornamental. This is an archaic suit of the twentieth century. I wear it because of the nature of my employment.”
He paid the robot, grabbed up his briefcase, and hurried along the ramp to the History Agency. The main building was already open for the day; robed men and women wandered everywhere. Miller entered a PRIVATE lift, squeezed between two immense controllers from the pre-Christian division, and in a moment was on his way to his own level, the Middle Twentieth Century.
“Gorning,” he murmured, as Controller Fleming met him at the atomic engine exhibit.
“Gorning,” Fleming responded brusquely. “Look here, Miller. Let’s have this out once and for all. What if everybody dressed like you? The Government sets up strict rules for dress. Can’t you forget your damn anachronisms once in awhile? What in God’s name is that thing in your hand? It looks like a squashed Jurassic lizard.”
“This is an alligator-hide briefcase,” Miller explained. “I carry my study spools in it. The briefcase was an authority symbol of the managerial class of the latter twentieth century.” He unzipped the briefcase. “Try to understand, Fleming. By accustoming myself to everyday objects of my research period, I transform my relation from mere intellectual curiosity to genuine empathy. You have frequently noticed I pronounce certain words oddly. The accent is that of an American business man of the Eisenhower administration. Dig me?”
“Eh?” Fleming muttered.
“Dig me was a twentieth century expression.” Miller laid out his study spools on his desk. “Was there anything you wanted? If not I’ll begin today’s work. I’ve uncovered fascinating evidence to indicate that although twentieth century Americans laid their own floor tiles, they did not weave their own clothing. I wish to alter my exhibits on this matter.”
“There’s no fanatic like an academician,” Fleming grated. “You’re two hundred years behind times. Immersed in your relics and artifacts. Your damn authentic replicas of discarded trivia.”
“I love my work,” Miller answered mildly.
“Nobody complains about your work. But there are other things than work. You’re a political-social unit here in this society. Take warning, Miller! The Board has reports on your eccentricities. They approve devotion to work…” His eyes narrowed significantly. “But you go too far.”
“My first loyalty is to my art,” Miller said.
“Your what? What does that mean?”
“A twentieth century term.” There was undisguised superiority on Miller’s face. “You’re nothing but a minor bureaucrat in a vast machine. You’re a function of an impersonal cultural totality. You have no standards of your own. In the twentieth century men had personal standards of workmanship. Artistic craft. Pride of accomplishment. These words mean nothing to you. You have no soul—another concept from the golden days of the twentieth century, when men were free and could speak their minds.”
“Beware, Miller!” Fleming blanched nervously and lowered his voice. “You damn scholars. Come up out of your tapes and face reality. You’ll get us all in trouble, talking this way. Idolize the past, if you want. But remember—it’s gone and buried. Times change. Society progresses.” He gestured impatiently at the exhibits that occupied the level. “That’s only an imperfect replica.”
“You impugn my research?” Miller was seething. “This exhibit is absolutely accurate! I correct it to all new data. There isn’t anything I don’t know about the twentieth century.”
Fleming shook his head. “It’s no use.” He turned and stalked wearily off the level, onto the descent ramp.
Miller straightened his collar and bright hand-painted necktie. He smoothed down his blue pinstripe coat, expertly lit a pipeful of two-century-old tobacco, and returned to his spools.
Why didn’t Fleming leave him alone? Fleming, the officious representative of the great hierarchy that spread like a sticky gray web over the whole planet. Into each industrial, professional, and residential unit. Ah, the freedom of the twentieth century! He slowed his tape scanner a moment, and a dreamy look slid over his features. The exciting age of virility and individuality, when men were men…
It was just about then, just as he was settling deep in the beauty of his research, that he heard the inexplicable sounds. They came from the center of his exhibit, from within the intricate, carefully-regulated interior.
Somebody was in his exhibit.
He could hear them back there, back in the depths. Somebody or something had got past the safety barrier set up to keep the public out. Miller snapped off his tape scanner and got slowly to his feet. He was shaking all over as he moved cautiously toward the exhibit. He killed the barrier and climbed the railing onto a concrete sidewalk. A few curious visitors blinked, as the small, oddly-dressed man crept among the authentic replicas of the twentieth century that made up the exhibit and disappeared within.
Breathing hard, Miller advanced up the sidewalk and onto a carefully-tended gravel path. Maybe it was one of the other theorists, a minion of the Board, snooping around looking for something with which to discredit him. An inaccuracy here—a trifling error of no consequence there. Sweat came out on his forehead; anger became terror. To his right was a flower bed. Paul Scarlet roses and low-growing pansies. Then the moist green lawn. The gleaming white garage, with its door half up. The sleek rear of a 1954 Buick—and then the house itself.
He’d have to be careful. If it was somebody from the Board, he’d be up against the official hierarchy. Maybe it was somebody big. Maybe even Edwin Carnap, President of the Board, the highest ranking official in the N’York branch of the World Directorate. Shakily, Miller, climbed the three cement steps. Now he was on the porch of the twentieth century house that made up the center of the exhibit.
It was a nice little house; if he had lived back in those days, he would have wanted one of his own. Three bedrooms, a ranch-style California bungalow. He pushed open the front door and entered the livingroom. Fireplace at one end. Dark wine-colored carpets. Modem couch and easy chair. Low hardwood glass-topped coffee table. Copper ashtrays. A cigarette lighter and a stack of magazines. Sleek plastic and steel floor lamps. A bookcase. Television set. Picture window overlooking the front garden. He crossed the room to the hall.
The house was amazingly complete. Below his feet the floor furnace radiated a faint aura of warmth. He peered into the first bedroom. A woman’s boudoir. Silk bed cover. White starched sheets. Heavy drapes. A vanity table. Bottles and jars. Huge round mirror. Clothes visible within the closet. A dressing gown thrown over the back of a chair. Slippers. Nylon hose carefully placed at the foot of the bed.
Miller moved down the hall and peered into the next room. Brightly painted wallpaper: clowns and elephants and tight-rope walkers. The children’s room. Two little beds for the two boys. Model airplanes. A dresser with a radio on it, pair of combs, school books, pennants, a NO PARKING sign, snapshots stuck in the mirror. A postage stamp album.
Nobody there, either.
Miller peered in the modern bathroom, even into the yellow-tiled shower. He passed through the diningroom, glanced down the basement stairs where the washing machine and dryer were. Then he opened the back door and
examined the back yard. A lawn, and the incinerator. A couple of small trees and then the three-dimensional projected backdrop of other houses receding off into incredibly convincing blue hills. And still no one. The yard was empty—deserted. He closed the door and started back…
From the kitchen came laughter.
A woman’s laugh. The clink of spoons and dishes. And smells. It took him a moment to identify them, scholar that he was. Bacon and coffee. And hot cakes. Somebody was eating breakfast. A twentieth century breakfast.
He made his way down the hall, past a man’s bedroom, shoes and clothing strewn about, to the entrance of the kitchen.
A handsome late-thirtyish woman and two teen-age boys were sitting around the little chrome-and-plastic breakfast table. They had finished eating; the two boys were fidgeting impatiently. Sunlight filtered through the window over the sink. The electric clock read half past eight. The radio was chirping merrily in the corner. A big pot of black coffee rested in the center of the table, surrounded by empty plates and milk glasses and silverware.
The woman had on a white blouse and checkered tweed skirt. Both boys wore faded blue jeans, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes. As yet they hadn’t noticed him. Miller stood frozen at the doorway, while laughter and small talk bubbled around him.
“You’ll have to ask your father,” the woman was saying, with mock sternness. “Wait until he comes back.”
“He already said we could,” one of the boys protested.
“Well, ask him again.”
“He’s always grouchy in the morning.”
“Not today. He had a good night’s sleep. His hay fever didn’t bother him. That new anti-hist the doctor gave him.” She glanced up at the clock. “Go see what’s keeping him, Don. He’ll be late to work.”
“He was looking for the newspaper.” One of the boys pushed back his chair and got up. “It missed the porch again and fell in the flowers.” He turned toward the door, and Miller found himself confronting him face to face. Briefly, the observation flashed through his mind that the boy looked familiar. Damn familiar—like somebody he knew, only younger. He tensed himself for the impact, as the boy abruptly halted.