Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)

by David G. Hartwell (Ed. )

  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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  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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  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.