before in the life of Tung-Chien. But, he thought, it’ll
never be the same again, at least not for me. Not after
inhaling that near-toxic snuff.
He wondered, Is that what they intended?
It seemed odd to him, thinking of a they. Peculiar—
but somehow correct. For an instant he hesitated, not
giving out the details, not telling the police enough to
find the man. A peddler, he started to say. I don’t know
where; can’t remember. But he did; he remembered the
exact street intersection. So, with unexplainable reluctance, he told them.
“Thank you, Comrade Chien.” The boss of the team
of police carefully gathered up the remaining snuff—
most of it remained— and placed it in his uniform—
smart, sharp uniform— pocket. “We’ll have it analyzed
at the first available moment,” the cop said, “and inform
you immediately in case counter medical measures are
indicated for you. Some of the old wartime psychedelics
were eventually fatal, as you have no doubt read.”
“I’ve read,” he agreed. That had been specifically what
he had been thinking.
“Good luck and thanks for notifying us,” both cops
said, and departed. The affair, for all their efficiency, did
not seem to shake them; obviously such a complaint was
routine.
The lab report came swiftly— surprisingly so, in view
of the vast state bureaucracy. It reached him by vid-
phone before the Leader had finished his TV speech.
“ It’s not a hallucinogen,” the Secpol lab technician
informed him.
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Philip K. Dick
“No?” he said, puzzled and, strangely, not relieved.
Not at all.
“On the contrary. It’s a phenothiazine, which as you
doubtless know is anti-hallucinogenic. A strong dose per
gram of admixture, but harmless. Might lower your
blood pressure or make you sleepy. Probably stolen from
a wartime cache of medical supplies. Left by the retreating barbarians. I wouldn’t worry.”
Pondering, Chien hung up the vidphone in slow
motion. And then walked to the window of his conapt—
the window with the fine view of other Hanoi high-rise
conapts—to think.
The doorbell rang. Feeling as if he were in a trance, he
crossed the carpeted living room to answer it.
The girl standing there, in a tan raincoat with a
babushka over her dark, shiny, and very long hair, said
in a timid little voice, “Um, Comrade Chien? Tung
Chien? Of the Ministry of— ”
He led her in, reflexively, and shut the door after her.
“You’ve been monitoring my vidphone,” he told her; it
was a shot in darkness, but something in him, an
unvoiced certitude, told him that she had.
“Did— they take the rest of the snuff?” She glanced
about. “Oh, I hope not; it’s so hard to get these days.”
“Snuff,” he said, “ is easy to get. Phenothiazine isn’t. Is
that what you mean?”
The girl raised her head, studied him with large,
moon-darkened eyes. “Yes. Mr. Chien— ” She hesitated,
obviously as uncertain as the Secpol cops had been
assured. “Tell me what you saw; it’s of great importance
for us to be certain.”
“I had a choice?” he said acutely.
“Y-yes, very much so. That’s what confuses us; that’s
what is not as we planned. We don’t understand; it fits
nobody’s theory.” Her eyes even darker and deeper, she
said, “Was it the aquatic horror shape? The thing with
slime and teeth, the extraterrestrial life form? Please tell
me; we have to know.” She breathed irregularly, with
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77
effort, the tan raincoat rising and falling; he found
himself watching its rhythm.
“A machine,” he said.
“Oh!” She ducked her head, nodding vigorously. “Yes,
I understand; a mechanical organism in no way resembling a human. Not a simulacrum, something constructed to resemble a man.”
He said, “This did not look like a man.” He added to
himself, And it failed— did not try— to talk like a man.
“You understand that it was not a hallucination.”
“I’ve been officially told that what I took was a
phenothiazine. That’s all I know.” He said as little as
possible; he did not want to talk but to hear. Hear what
the girl had to say.
“Well, Mr. Chien— ” She took a deep, unstable breath. “If it was not a hallucination, then what was it? What does that leave? What is called ‘extraconsciousness’— could that be it?”
He did not answer; turning his back, he leisurely
picked up the two student test papers, glanced over
them, ignoring her. Waiting for her next attempt.
At his shoulder she appeared, smelling of spring rain,
smelling of sweetness and agitation, beautiful in the way
she smelled, and looked, and, he thought, speaks. So
different from the harsh plateau speech patterns we hear
on the TV— have heard since I was a baby.
“Some of them,” she said huskily, “who take the
stelazine— it was stelazine you got, Mr. Chien—see one
apparition, some another. But distinct categories have
emerged; there is not an infinite variety. Some see what
you saw; we call it the Clanker. Some the aquatic horror;
that’s the Gulper. And then there’s the Bird, and the
Climbing Tube, and— ” She broke off. “But other reactions tell you very little. Tell us very little.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “Now that this has happened to you, Mr. Chien, we would like you to join our gathering.
Join your particular group, those who see what you see.
Group Red. We want to know what it really is, and— ”
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Philip K. Dick
She gestured with tapered, wax-smooth fingers. “ It can’t
be all those manifestations.” Her tone was poignant,
nai[u]vely so. He felt his caution relax— a trifle.
He said, “What do you see? You in particular?”
“ I’m a part of Group Yellow. I see— a storm. A
whining, vicious whirlwind. That roots everything up,
crushes condominium apartments built to last a century.” She smiled wanly. “The Crusher. Twelve groups in all, Mr. Chien. Twelve absolutely different experiences,
all from the same phenothiazine, all of the Leader as he
speaks over TV. As it speaks, rather.” She smiled up at
him, lashes long— probably protracted artificially— and
gaze engaging, even trusting. As if she thought he knew
something or could do something.
“I should make a citizen’s arrest of you,” he said
presently.
“There is no law, not about this. We studied Soviet
juridical writings before we— found people to distribute
the stelazine. We don’t have much of it; we have to be
very careful whom we give it to. It seemed to us that you
constituted a likely choice . . . a well-known, postwar,
dedicated young career man on his way up.” From his
fingers she took the examination papers. “They’re having you po
l-read?” she asked.
“ ‘Pol-read’?” He did not know the term.
“Study something said or written to see if it fits the
Party’s current world view. You in the hierarchy merely
call it ‘read,’ don’t you?” Again she smiled. “When you
rise one step higher, up with Mr. Tso-pin, you will know
that expression.” She added somberly, “And with Mr.
Pethel. He’s very far up. Mr. Chien, there is no ideological school in San Fernando; these are forged exam papers, designed to read back to them a thorough
analysis of your political ideology. And have you been
able to distinguish which paper is orthodox and which is
heretical?” Her voice was pixie-like, taunting with
amused malice. “Choose the wrong one and your bud
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ding career stops dead, cold, in its tracks. Choose the
proper one— ”
“Do you know which is which?” he demanded.
“Yes.” She nodded soberly. “We have listening devices
in Mr. Tso-pin’s inner offices; we monitored his conversation with Mr. Pethel— who is not Mr. Pethel but the Higher Secpol Inspector Judd Craine. You have possibly
heard mention of him; he acted as chief assistant to
Judge Vorlawsky at the ’98 war crimes trial in Zurich.”
With difficulty he said, “ I— see.” Well, that explained
that.
The girl said, “My name is Tanya Lee.”
He said nothing; he merely nodded, too stunned for
any cerebration.
“Technically, I am a minor clerk,” Miss Lee said, “at
your Ministry. You have never run into me, however,
that I can at least recall. We try to hold posts wherever we
can. As far up as possible. My own boss— ”
“Should you be telling me this?” He gestured at the
TV set, which remained on. “Aren’t they picking this
up?”
Tanya Lee said, “We introduced a noise factor in the
reception of both vid and aud material from this apartment building; it will take them almost an hour to locate the sheathing. So we have”— she examined the tiny
wristwatch on her slender wrist— “fifteen more minutes.
And still be safe.”
“Tell me,” he said, “which paper is orthodox.”
“Is that what you care about? Really?”
“What,” he said, “should I care about?”
“Don’t you see, Mr. Chien? You’ve learned something.
The Leader is not the Leader, he is something else, but
we can’t tell what. Not yet. Mr. Chien, with all due
respect, have you ever had your drinking water analyzed? I know it sounds paranoiac, but have you?”
“No,” he said. “Of course not.” Knowing what she
was going to say.
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Philip K. Dick
Miss Lee said briskly, “Our tests show that it’s saturated with hallucinogens. It is, has been, will continue to be. Not the ones used during the war, not the disorienting ones, but a synthetic quasi-ergot derivative called Datrox-3. You drink it here in the building from the time
you get up; you drink it in restaurants and other apartments that you visit. You drink it at the Ministry; it’s all piped from a central, common source.” Her tone was
bleak and ferocious. “We solved that problem; we knew,
as soon as we discovered it, that any good phenothiazine
would counter it. What we did not know, of course, was
this— a variety of authentic experiences; that makes no
sense, rationally. It’s the hallucination which should
differ from person to person, and the reality experience
which should be ubiquitous— it’s all turned around. We
can’t even construct an ad hoc theory which accounts for
that, and god knows we’ve tried. Twelve mutually exclusive hallucinations— that would be easily understood.
But not one hallucination and twelve realities.” She
ceased talking, then, and studied the two test papers, her
forehead wrinkling. “The one with the Arabic poem is
orthodox,” she stated. “If you tell them that they’ll trust
you and give you a higher post. You’ll be another notch
up in the hierarchy of Party officialdom.” Smiling— her
teeth were perfect and lovely— she finished, “Look what
you received back for your investment this morning.
Your career is underwritten for a time. And by us.”
He said, “I don’t believe you.” Instinctively, his caution operated within him, always, the caution of a lifetime lived among the hatchet men of the Hanoi
branch of the CP East. They knew an infinitude of ways
by which to ax a rival out of contention— some of which
he himself had employed; some of which he had seen
done to himself and to others. This could be a novel way,
one unfamiliar to him. It could always be.
“Tonight,” Miss Lee said, “in the speech the Leader
singled you out. Didn’t this strike you as strange? You, of
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81
all people? A minor officeholder in a meager ministry— ”
“Admitted,” he said. “It struck me that way; yes.”
“That was legitimate. His Greatness is groomiDg an
elite cadre of younger men, postwar men, he hopes will
infuse new life into the hidebound, moribund hierarchy
of old fogies and Party hacks. His Greatness singled you
out for the same reason that we singled you out; if
pursued properly, your career could lead you all the way
to the top. At least for a time . . . as we know. That’s how
it goes.”
He thought, So virtually everyone has faith in me.
Except myself; and certainly not after this, the experience with the anti-hallucinatory snuff. It had shaken years of confidence, and no doubt rightly so. However,
he was beginning to regain his poise; he felt it seeping
back, a little at first, then with a rush.
Going to the vidphone, he lifted the receiver and
began, for the second time that night, to dial the number
of the Hanoi Security Police.
“Turning me in,” Miss Lee said, “would be the second
most regressive decision you could make. I’ll tell them
that you brought me here to bribe me; you thought,
because of my job at the Ministry, I would know which
examination paper to select.”
He said, “And what would be my first most regressive
decision?”
“Not taking a further dose of phenothiazine,” Miss
Lee said evenly.
Hanging up the phone, Tung Chien thought to himself,
1 don’t understand what’s happening to me. Two forces,
the Party and His Greatness on one hand— this girl with
her alleged group on the other. One wants me to rise as
far as possible in the Party hierarchy; the other— What
did Tanya Lee want? Underneath the words, inside the
membrane of an almost trivial contempt for the Party,
the Leader, the ethical standards of the People’s Demo
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Philip K. Dick
cratic United Front—what was she after in regard to
him?
He said curiously, “Are you anti-Party?”
“No.”
“But— ” He gestured. “That’s all there is: Party and
anti-Party. You must be Party, then.” B
ewildered, he
stared at her; with composure she returned the stare.
“You have an organization,” he said, “and you meet.
What do you intend to destroy? The regular function of
government? Are you like the treasonable college students of the United States during the Vietnam War who stopped troop trains, demonstrated— ”
Wearily Miss Lee said, “It wasn’t like that. But forget
it; that’s not the issue. What we want to know is this: who
or what is leading us? We must penetrate far enough to
enlist someone, some rising young Party theoretician,
who could conceivably be invited to a tete-a-tete with the
Leader— you see?” Her voice lifted; she consulted her
watch, obviously anxious to get away: the fifteen minutes
were almost up. “Very few persons actually see the
Leader, as you know. I mean really see him.”
“Seclusion,” he said. “Due to his advanced age.”
“We have hope,” Miss Lee said, “that if you pass the
phony test which they have arranged for you— and with
my help you have— you will be invited to one of the stag
parties which the Leader has from time to time, which of
course the ’papes don’t report. Now do you see?” Her
voice rose shrilly, in a frenzy of despair. “Then we would
know; if you could go in there under the influence of the
anti-hallucinogenic drug, could see him face to face as he
actually is— ”
Thinking aloud, he said, “And end my career of public
service. If not my life.”
“You owe us something,” Tanya Lee snapped,. her
cheeks white. “ If I hadn’t told you which exam paper to
choose you would have picked the wrong one and your
dedicated public service career would be over anyhow;
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you would have failed— failed at a test you didn’t even
realize you were taking!”
He said mildly, “I had a fifty-fifty chance.”
“No.” She shook her head fiercely. “The heretical one
is faked up with a lot of Party jargon; they deliberately
constructed the two texts to trap you. They wanted you
to fail!”
Once more he examined the two papers, feeling confused. Was she right? Possibly. Probably. It rang true, knowing the Party functionaries as he did, and Tso-pin,
his superior, in particular. He felt weary then. Defeated.
Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992) Page 10
