CANTATA-141

by Philip K. Dick

  'You've got a point, Mr. Turpin.' Stanley folded the letter and placed it in his breast pocket.

  The intercom on Turpin's desk said, 'Mr. T, there's an official from the U.S. Department of

  Special Public Welfare here to see you. It's Mr. Thomas Rosenfeld, commissioner of the department.'

  Cabinet level, Turpin said to himself. A big man. Capable of setting policy. He said to the intercom, 'Send Mr. Rosenfeld in.' To Stanley he said, 'You know what this is going to be ?'

  'Bibs,' Stanley said.

  'I can't make up my mind whether to tell him or not,' Turpin said. The news about the Pekes would very soon, of course, begin to seep out; it was a temporary secret only. But still, that was better than nothing. The party had just returned from the other side, and the media people who had been along could not possibly have released the news through their services so soon.

  Rosenfeld, then, did not know; he could assume that. And could deal with the man accordingly.

  A tall, red-haired man, well-dressed, entered Turpin's office, smiling. 'Mr. Turpin ? What a pleasure. President Schwarz asked me to drop by here for a little while and sort of chat with you.

  Sound you out, as it were. Is that an original Ramon Cadiz you have there on the wall behind you ?' Rosenfeld walked over to inspect it. 'White on white. His best period.

  'I'd give the painting to you,' Turpin said, 'but it was a gift to me. I know you'll understand.' He lied in his feet, but why not ? Why, for purposes of mere etiquette, should he give away a costly work of art ? It made no sense.

  Rosenfeld said, 'How's your defective 'scuttler functioning ? Still as defective as ever ? We're very interested in it. We were, even before Jim Briskin's speech ... President Schwarz was exceptionally quick - even for him - to spot the potentialities in this. I don't believe anyone else is able to reach a major decision as efficiently as he.'

  This was odd, in view of the fact that no way existed by which Schwarz could have known about the break-through prior to Briskin's speech, Turpin realized. However, he let this pass. Politics was politics.

  Don Stanley spoke up. 'How many sleepers do you have in the fedgov warehouses, Mr.

  Rosenfeld ?

  'Well,' Rosenfeld said dryly, 'the figure generally given is close to seventy million. But actually the true number at this date is more like one hundred million.' He smiled a wry, humorless smile that was more a grimace than anything else.

  Whistling, Stanley said, 'That's a lot.'

  'Yes, ' Rosenfeld agreed. 'We admit it. Domestically speaking, it's the number one headache here in Washington. Of course as you very well know, this administration inherited it from the last.'

  'You want us to put your hundred million bibs through into this alternate Earth ?' Turpin spoke up, weary of formalities.

  'If the situation is such that...'

  'We can do it,' Turpin said shortly. 'But you understand our role in this is simply a technologic one. We provide the means of conveyance to this other 'Earth, but we make no warranty as to the conditions that obtain over there. We're not anthropologists or sociologists or whoever it is that knows about such things.'

  Rosenfeld nodded. 'That's understood. We're not going to try to compel you to produce any given set of conditions, over there. Your job, as you say, is merely to get the persons across, and the rest is up to them. The government takes the identical position regarding itself; we put forth no warranty, either. This will be strictly on an as-is basis. If the settlers don't like what they find, they can return.'

  To himself Turpin thought acutely: So Schwarz doesn't actually care what happens to them after they emigrate. He just wants those warehouses empty and the enormous financial drain involved abolished.

  'As to our costs ...' Turpin began.

  'We've worked out a proposed schedule,' Rosenfeld said, digging into his briefcase. 'Per capita and then extrapolated. Basing this on the figure of one hundred million persons, this is what we feel would be an equitable return for your corporation.' He slid a folded document to Leon

  Turpin and sat back to wait

  Turpin, examining the figure, blanched.

  Coming around behind him, Don Stanley also looked. He grunted and said in a strained voice,

  That's a good deal of money, Mr. Rosenfeld.'

  'It's a good deal of a problem.' Rosenfeld said, candidly.

  Glancing up, Turpin said, 'It's actually worth that much to you ?'

  'Our costs in the Dept of SPW are ...' Rosenfeld gestured. 'Let's simply say they're excessive.'

  But that doesn't explain this figure, Turpin decided. However, I know what does. If you can get the ball rolling light away, get the bibs started on their trek to the alter-Earth, you'll have deprived Jim Briskin of his major appeal. Why vote for Briskin when the incumbent is already shipping the bibs across as rapidly as possible ?

  As rapidly as possible. Turpin thought suddenly: But just how rapidly is that ? To Don Stanley he said, 'How fast can full-grown human beings be put through that rent ?'

  'It would have to be one at a time,' Stanley said, after a thoughtful pause. 'Since it's not very large. In fact, as you probably recall, you have to stoop down to get through.'

  With pencil and paper Turpin began to calculate.

  Allowing five seconds for each person - which was not a great deal - the time involved in conveying one hundred million bibs across would be approximately twenty years.

  Seeing the figures, Don Stanley said, 'But they don't care; they're asleep. For them twenty years is...'

  'But I imagine Mr. Rosenfeld cares,' Turpin said caustically.

  'Is that how long it would require ?' Rosenfeld looked a little unnerved. 'That is a long time.'

  Turpin reflected that Bill Schwarz, by the time the job had been completed, would have been out of office sixteen years. Probably totally forgotten, to boot. So there was no use trying to sell the fedgov on the idea. The time element would simply have to be cut down.

  To Don Stanley, Turpin said, 'Can that rent be enlarged ?'

  Pondering, Stanley answered, 'Probably. Increased grid voltage or oscillation within the field as it...'

  'I don't want to know how,' Turpin said. "I just want to see it done.' If two persons could pass through simultaneously, the time would be cut to ten years. And four at once, only five years.

  That might satisfy the politicians in the White House.

  'Five years would be acceptable,' Rosenfeld said, when he had looked over Turpin's figures.

  'We'll finalize on that basis, then,' Don Stanley said. But he had a worried expression on his face, and Turpin knew why. Don was thinking, Can it be done ? Can we enlarge the rent that much ?

  Rising, Rosenfeld said, 'Good enough. Legal people from my department will draw up the contract in the next day or so, and procurement will go through the process of validating it. Red tape - we can't seem to get away from it. But this will give you time to implement your engineering changes.'

  'It was nice meeting you, Mr. Rosenfeld,' Turpin said, as they shook hands. 'I presume we'll see you again from time to time as this matter is expedited.'

  'I find it highly rewarding, working with you, sir,' Rosenfeld said. 'And I admire your taste in art; that's only the second Ramon Cadiz I've seen this year. Good day, Mr. Turpin. Mr. Stanley.'

  The door closed after Rosenfeld.

  Presently Don Stanley said, 'They like being in office.'

  'Everybody likes being in office,' Turpin said. 'We call that human nature.' He wondered what the government would do when the news about the Pekes appeared in every homeopape in the country. Rescind the contract ? Abandon the whole idea ?

  He doubted it. Either Schwarz did this or he lost in November; it was as simple as that Pekes or no Pekes. Of course, the president would send a few Marine commando units to accompany the bibs, to make certain that all was in order. Alter-Earth might require an interval of pacifying, to say the least. But it could be done. Turpin had no doubt of it."

 
And anyhow that was not TD's problem - TD had its technological hands full already. Enlarging the rent in the 'scuttler might very well prove to be impossible, at least within the time available to TD's technicians.

  But I want this contract, Leon Turpin said to himself. I want it very badly, enough to do everything I can to acquire it. Perhaps the solution is to fabricate another Jiffi-scuttler, identical to the one downstairs, hopefully malfunctioning in the same way. Or two or five or even ten of them, with bibs passing in single file through each, in unending lines.

  What about equipment ? Turpin asked himself suddenly. Rosenfeld had not expressed himself in that area. Was the government going to turn these people loose in an alien world with no hardware ? Without proper machinery the colony on the other side would be nothing more than a huge DP camp. To function at all, the colony had to be self-sustaining; that was obvious to anyone who took the trouble to think about it ten minutes. And it would take time, a good deal of time, to ferry across sufficient gear for one hundred million people; the logistics of it would be incredible. It would be something like thirty-three times the problem of supply on D-day, back in

  World War Two. The government was out of its mind. The policy planners were so enmeshed in the political significance of the alter-Earth that they had lost sight of factual reality.

  It could easily become the grandest confusion in recorded times.

  But I refuse to worry about that, Leon Turpin reminded himself. It's not my responsibility; mine's discharged in the drayage. If things get too far out of hand too soon, Schwarz will be bounced right out of office and the burden will fall on Jim Briskin or whatever his name is. And that's just where it ought to be, because it was his speech that got this all started.

  'Get everyone downstairs assembled in one spot where they can hear you,' Turpin instructed Don

  Stanley.

  'How much time do you estimate we've got ?' Stanley asked.

  'Days. Merely days. There's a presidential campaign going on, or had that slipped your mind ?

  We've already given Briskin a boost by letting Frank Woodbine talk us into conveying him over there; now let's see what we can do for Bill Schwarz.' And what we can do for Schwarz is a good deal more than we did for Briskin. Which was, in itself, rather substantial.

  Don Stanley departed, to make the situation known to the experts on level one. As he passed out through the office door one of Leon Turpin's many secretaries entered. 'Mr. Turpin, there's a young couple on floor five who sent this up to you; they said you should see it at once.' The secretary added, 'It's from Mr. Pethel.'

  'Who's Mr. Pethel ?' The name did not ring a bell.

  'The owner of the Jiffi-scuttler, sir. The one downstairs in the lab; you know, the important one.'

  She presented him with the message.

  Opening it, Leon Turpin saw at a glance that it consisted of a request for him to permit the young couple, Mr. and Mrs. Hadley, to make use of Pethels 'scuttler in order to emigrate to alter-Earth.

  Time was of the essence, for reasons Pethel did not choose to state.

  'All right,' Turpin said to the girl, 'I have no objection and we have to cater to this Pethel person to some extent.' As he laid the message on his desk, he once more noticed the application from the other young couple, Art and Rachael Chaffy. That's right, he remembered. Don was supposed to call them, but I guess he forgot in all the excitement. Well, he can do it later. He's got their letter with him.

  The Chaffys and the Hadleys can compete, Turpin reflected, as to who becomes the first

  American family to emigrate to alter-Earth. I suppose there should be some publicity attached to this. Homeopape reporters, TV newsmen and the like. President Schwarz cutting a big blue ribbon hung across the entrance hoop of the 'scuttler. Or perhaps a bottle of champagne swung against the side of the 'scuttler and an heroic name given it.

  To the secretary he said, 'Ask the Hadleys to come up here to my office.'

  Several minutes later she returned and with her came a blond, genial-looking young man and a fabulously-attractive red-headed girl who seemed sheepish and ill-at-ease.

  'Sit down,' Leon Turpin said in a friendly voice.

  'Mr. Bethel's my boss,' Hadley said. 'Rather, my ex-boss. I had to quit in order to emigrate.' He and 'Mrs. Hadley' seated themselves. 'This is the greatest moment in our entire lives. We're going to start a new life.' Hadley squeezed his 'wife's' hand. 'Right ?'

  'Yes,' she murmured almost inaudibly, nodding. She did not look at Turpin directly, and he wondered why.

  I've seen this girl somewhere before, Turpin realized. But where ?

  'Are you fully equipped ?' he asked the Hadleys.

  Briskly, Hadley gave him a long list of items they were taking; it sounded complete, if not ornate. Turpin wondered idly how they expected to lug it all across. Nobody on floor one would be offering them a hand; that was certain.

  'Children,' Leon Turpin said, 'Terran Development is glad to contribute to a new awakening, both metaphorically and quite literally, of the young people of America...' And then, abruptly, he remembered where he met full-breasted, young Mrs. Hadley before. He had gotten her at the

  Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite. After all, he visited it twice a week, had done so ever since it had been built.

  This is really terribly appropriate, Turpin said to himself, hiding his glee. The first couple to emigrate to the new world consists of a customer of the Golden Door satellite escaping with one of Thisbe Olt's girls. Too bad this could not be made public. It was delightful.

  'I wish you two luck,' Leon Turpin said, and giggled.

  12

  Within one week the initial collection of bibs passed through the Jiffi-scuttler and into another world entirely, to virtually everyone's satisfaction. On TV the country watched it and in person

  Leon Turpin, President Schwarz, the Republican-Liberal candidate James Briskin, and Darius

  Pethel - who owned the 'scuttler - and other pertinent notables looked on with a galaxy of emotions, most of them concealed.

  The darn fools, Dar Pethel thought as he watched the steady line of men and women trudge past the entrance hoop. It made him sick to his stomach, and he turned and walked to the far end of

  TD's lab, to light a cigarette. Don't they know what's going to happen to them on the other side ?

  Don't they care ? Doesn't anyone care ?

  I ought to close it down, Pethel said to himself. It's my 'scuttler. And I've decided I don't want it used for this, not now, not after my trip over there, that 'hopper ride back across the Atlantic with

  Bill Smith.

  He wondered where Bill Smith, the Peking man, was now. Perhaps at Yale Psychiatric Institute or some such august place, being put through aptitude and profile tests, one after another. And of course being subjected to relentless questioning regarding the ingredients of his culture.

  Some of Bill Smith's testimony had leaked to the homeopapes. The Pekes had not, for instance, discovered glass. Rubber, too, was unknown to them, as were electricity, gunpowder, and, of course, atomic energy. But, more mysteriously, both clocks and the steam engine had never been stumbled onto or developed by the Pekes, and Dar Pethel could make no sense out of that. In fact, their entire society was an enigma to him.

  However, one thing was certain: there had been no Thomas Edison on alter-Earth. Phonographs, light bulbs, and, for that matter, the telephone and even the ancient telegraph, were absent. What inventions they did have - for example the technique of laying crushed rock roads - had been developed over enormously long periods, microscopically elaborated by each generation mosaicstyle.

  Except for the odd, complex compressor and turbine system, nothing seemed to have come to the Pekes in a single creative leap.

  The device by which the QB satellite had been knocked off remained a mystery; Bill Smith knew nothing about it, according to the homeopapes, and knew nothing even of the satellite. The linguistics machine appeared to be unable to clarif
y the situation.

  Jim Briskin, as he also watched, found himself dwelling on the gloomier aspects of the situation.

  Where we made our mistake, he decided, was in not coming to some kind of rapprochement with the Pithecanthropi. It should have been done before a single emigrant crossed over ... now, of course, it's too late. But of course President Schwarz had to proceed swiftly if this was to become a way of stealing Jim Briskin's thunder. Both men knew this. In his situation, Jim mulled, I

  probably would have done the same.

  But that doesn't make it any less lethal.

  Standing beside him, Sal Heim murmured, 'When do you think they'll be streaming back ? Or will they be able to get back ?'

  'Cally Vale stood it. Alone. Possibly they can adapt; it's certainly more viable an environment than Mars.' In fact, there was no comparison. Mars was utterly impossible and everyone knew it.

  'It all depends on the reaction of the Peking people.' And, he reflected, since the Schwarz administration couldn't wait to find that out, we'll have to learn it the hard way. In terms of the loss of human life.

  'What I'm trying to figure out,' Sal murmured, 'is whether the public still identifies you with this or whether Schwarz has succeeded in....'

  'Even if you knew that,' Jim said, 'you wouldn't know anything. Because we don't know yet what the upshot of this mass migration is going to be, and I have a feeling that when we find out it won't matter who gets the credit for it; well all be in the pot together.'

  Sal said, 'I heard an interesting rumor on my way here. You're aware that George Walt have been missing since they shut down the Golden Door. According to this rumor ...' Sal chuckled. 'They emigrated.'

  Feeling a pervasive, shocked chill, Jim said, "They what ? To alter-Earth, you mean ?'

  'Right through this 'scuttler, here, that we're looking at.'

  'But that ought to be easy to check on. If George Walt had passed through, TD's engineers would certainly remember; they could hardly mistake George Walt for anybody else.' He was now deeply disturbed. 'I'll see what Leon Turpin has to say about it.'