The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories tcsopkd-4

by Philip Kindred Dick

  St. Cyr thought, Johnny LIKES her. There’s the motive.

  I wonder, he mused, what Sarah Belle thinks of that.

  Feeling cheerful, St. Cyr entered his ‘copter, closed the hatch and inserted his key in the ignition. And then he thought once again of Alfonse Gam. And his good humor vanished at once; again he felt glum.

  There are two people, he realized, who are acting on the assumption that old Louis Sarapis is alive; Kathy Egmont Sharp and Alfonse Gam.

  Two most unsavory people, too. And, in spite of himself, he was being forced to associate with both of them. It seemed to be his fate.

  He thought, I’m no better off than I was with old Louis. In some respects, I’m even worse off.

  The ‘copter rose into the sky, on its way to Phil Harvey’s building in downtown Denver.

  Being late, he snapped on the little transmitter, picked up the microphone and put in a call to Harvey. “Phil,” he said, “Can you hear me? This is St. Cyr and I’m on my way west.” He listened, then.

  Listened, and heard from the speaker a far-off weird babble, a murmur as if many words were being blended into a confusion. He recognized it; he had come onto it several times now, on the TV news programs.

  “…spite of personal attacks, much superior to Chambers, who couldn’t win an election for house of ill repute janitor. You keep up faith in yourself, Alfonse. People know a good man, value him; you wait. Faith moves mountains. I ought to know, look what I’ve accomplished in my life…”

  It was, St. Cyr realized, the entity a light-week out, now emitting an even more powerful signal; like sunspots, it beclouded normal transmission channels. He cursed, scowled, then snapped off the receiver.

  Fouling up communications, he said to himself. Must be against the law; I ought to consult the FCC.

  Shaken, he piloted his ‘copter on, across open farm land.

  My God, he thought, it did sound like old Louis!

  Could Kathy Egmont Sharp possibly be right?

  At the Michigan plant of Archimedean, Johnny Barefoot appeared for his appointment with Kathy and found her in a state of gloom.

  “Don’t you see what’s happening?” she demanded, facing him across the office which had once been Louis’s. “I’m not managing things right at all; everybody knows that. Don’t you know that?” Wild-eyed, she stared at him.

  “I don’t know that,” Johnny said. But inside he did know it; she was correct. “Take it easy and sit down,” he said. “Harvey and St. Cyr will be here any minute now, and you want to be in command of yourself when you meet with them.” It was a meeting which he had hoped to avoid. But, he had realized, sooner or later it would take place, and so he had let Kathy agree to it.

  Kathy said, “I have something terrible to tell you.”

  “What is it? It can’t be so terrible.” He set himself, waiting in dread to hear.

  “I’m back on drugs, Johnny. All this responsibility and pressure; it’s too much for me. I’m sorry.” She gazed down at the floor sadly.

  “What is the drug?”

  “I’d rather not say. It’s one of the amphetamines. I’ve read the literature; I know it can cause a psychosis, in the amounts I’m taking. But I don’t care.” Panting, she turned away, her back to him. He saw, now, how thin she had gotten. And her face was gaunt, hollow-eyed; he now understood why. The overdosage of amphetamines wasted the body away, turned matter into energy. Her metabolism was altered so that she became, as the addiction returned, a pseudo-hyperthyroid, with all the somatic processes speeded up.

  Johnny said, “I’m sorry to hear it.” He had been afraid of this. And yet when it had come he had not understood; he had had to wait until she told him. “I think,” he said, “you should be under a doctor’s care.” He wondered where she got the drug. But probably for her, with her years of experience, it was not difficult.

  “It makes a person very unstable emotionally,” Kathy said. “Given to sudden rages and also crying jags. I want you to know that, so you won’t blame me. So you’ll understand that it’s the drug.” She tried to smile; he saw her making the effort.

  Going over to her he put his hand on her shoulder. “Listen,” he said, “when Harvey and St. Cyr get here, I think you better accept their offer.”

  “Oh,” she said, nodding. “Well.”

  “And then,” he said, “I want you to go voluntarily into a hospital.”

  “The cookie factory,” Kathy said bitterly.

  “You’d be better off,” he said, “without the responsibility you have, here at Archimedean. What you need is deep, protracted rest. You’re in a state of mental and physical fatigue, but as long as you’re taking that amphetamine—”

  “Then it doesn’t catch up with me,” Kathy finished. “Johnny, I can’t sell out to Harvey and St. Cyr.”

  “Why not?”

  “Louis wouldn’t want me to. He—” She was silent a moment. “He says no.”

  Johnny said, “Your health, maybe your life—”

  “My sanity, you mean, Johnny.”

  “You have too much personally at stake,” he said. “The hell with Louis. The hell with Archimedean; you want to find yourself in a mortuary, too, in half-life? It’s not worth it; it’s just property, and you’re a living creature.”

  She smiled. And then, on the desk, a light came on and a buzzer sounded. The receptionist outside said, “Mrs. Sharp, Mr. Harvey and Mr. St. Cyr are here, now. Shall I send them in?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  The door opened, and Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey came swiftly in. “Hey, Johnny,” St. Cyr said. He seemed to be in a confident mood; beside him, Harvey looked confident, too.

  Kathy said, “I’ll let Johnny do most of the talking.”

  He glanced at her. Did that mean she had agreed to sell? He said, “What kind of deal is this? What do you have to offer in exchange for a controlling interest in Wilhelmina Securities of Delaware? I can’t imagine what it could be.”

  “Ganymede,” St. Cyr said. “An entire moon.” He added, “Virtually.”

  “Oh yes,” Johnny said. “The USSR land deed. Has it been tested in the international courts?”

  “Yes,” St. Cyr said, “and found totally valid. Its worth is beyond estimate. And each year it will increase, perhaps double, in value. My client will put that up. It’s a good offer, Johnny; you and I know each other, and you know when I say it that it’s true.”

  Probably it was, Johnny decided. It was in many respects a generous offer; Harvey was not trying to bilk Kathy.

  “Speaking for Mrs. Sharp,” Johnny began. But Kathy cut him off.

  “No,” she said in a quick, brisk voice. “I can’t sell. He says not to.”

  Johnny said, “You’ve already given me authority to negotiate, Kathy.”

  “Well,” she said in a hard voice, “I’m taking it back.”

  “If I’m to work with you and for you at all,” Johnny said, “you must go on my advice. We’ve already talked it over and agreed—”

  The phone in the office rang.

  “Listen to him yourself,” Kathy said. She picked up the phone and held it out to Johnny. “He’ll tell you.”

  Johnny accepted the phone and put it to his ear. “Who is this?” he demanded. And then he heard the drumming. The far-off uncanny drumming noise, as if something were scratching at a long metal wire.

  “…imperative to retain control. Your advice absurd. She can pull herself together; she’s got the stuff. Panic reaction; you’re scared because she’s ill. A good doctor can fix her up. Get a doctor for her; get medical help. Get an attorney and be sure she stays out of the hands of the law. Make sure her supply of drugs is cut. Insist on…” Johnny yanked the receiver away from his ear, refusing to hear more. Trembling, he hung the phone back up.

  “You heard him,” Kathy said. “Didn’t you? That was Louis.”

  “Yes,” Johnny said.

  “He’s grown,” Kathy said. “Now we can hear him direct; it’s no
t just the radio telescope at Kennedy Slough. I heard him last night, clearly, for the first time, as I lay down to go to sleep.”

  To St. Cyr and Harvey, Johnny said, “We’ll have to think your proposition over, evidently. We’ll have to get an appraisal of the worth of the unimproved real estate you’re offering and no doubt you want an audit of Wilhelmina. That will take time.” He heard his voice shake; he had not gotten over the shock of picking up the telephone and hearing the living voice of Louis Sarapis.

  After making an appointment with St. Cyr and Harvey to meet with them once more later in the day, Johnny took Kathy out to a late breakfast; she had admitted, reluctantly, that she had eaten nothing since the night before.

  “I’m just not hungry,” she explained, as she sat picking listlessly at her plate of bacon and eggs, toast with jam.

  “Even if that was Louis Sarapis,” Johnny said, “you don’t—”

  “It was. Don’t say ‘even’; you know it’s him. He’s gaining power all the time, out there. Perhaps from the sun.”

  “So it’s Louis,” he said doggedly. “Nonetheless, you have to act in your own interest, not in his.”

  “His interests and mine are the same,” Kathy said. “They involve maintaining Archimedean.”

  “Can he give you the help you need? Can he supply what’s missing? He doesn’t take your drug-addiction seriously; that’s obvious. All he did was preach at me.” He felt anger. “That’s damn little help, for you or for me, in this situation.”

  “Johnny,” she said, “I feel him near me all the time; I don’t need the TV or the phone—I sense him. It’s my mystical bent, I think. My religious intuition; it’s helping me maintain contact with him.” She sipped a little orange juice.

  Bluntly, Johnny said, “It’s your amphetamine psychosis, you mean.”

  “I won’t go into the hospital, Johnny. I won’t sign myself in; I’m sick but not that sick. I can get over this bout on my own, because I’m not alone. I have my grandfather. And—” She smiled at him. “I have you. In spite of Sarah Belle.”

  “You won’t have me, Kathy,” he said quietly, “unless you sell to Harvey. Unless you accept the Ganymede real estate.”

  “You’d quit?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  After a pause, Kathy said, “My grandfather says go ahead and quit.” Her eyes were dark, enlarged, and utterly cold.

  “I don’t believe he’d say that.”

  “Then talk to him.”

  “How?”

  Kathy pointed to the TV set in the corner of the restaurant. “Turn it on and listen.”

  Rising to his feet, Johnny said, “I don’t have to; I’ve already given my decision. I’ll be at my hotel, if you should change your mind.” He walked away from the table, leaving her sitting there. Would she call after him? He listened as he walked. She did not call.

  A moment later he was out of the restaurant, standing on the sidewalk. She had called his bluff, and so it ceased to be a bluff; it became the real thing. He actually had quit.

  Stunned, he walked aimlessly on. And yet—he had been right. He knew that. It was just that… damn her, he thought. Why didn’t she give in? Because of Louis, he realized. Without the old man she would have gone ahead and done it, traded her controlling, voting stock for the Ganymede property. Damn Louis Sarapis, not her, he thought furiously.

  What now? he asked himself. Go back to New York? Look for a new job? For instance approach Alfonse Gam? There was money in that, if he could land it. Or should he stay here in Michigan, hoping that Kathy would change her mind?

  She can’t keep on, he decided. No matter what Sarapis tells her. Or rather, what she believes he’s telling her. Whichever it is.

  Hailing a cab, he gave the driver the address of his hotel room. A few moments later he was entering the lobby of the Antler Hotel, back where he had started early in the morning. Back to the forbidding empty room, this time merely to sit and wait. To hope that Kathy would change her mind and call him. This time he had no appointment to go to; the appointment was over.

  When he reached his hotel room he heard his phone ringing.

  For a moment Johnny stood at the door, key in hand, listening to the phone on the other side of the door, the shrill noise reaching him as he stood in the hall. Is it Kathy? he wondered. Or is it him?

  He put the key in the lock, turned it and entered the room; sweeping the receiver off its hook he said, “Hello.”

  Drumming and far-off, the voice, in the middle of its monotonous monologue, its recitation to itself, was murmuring, “…no good at all, Barefoot, to leave her. Betrayal of your job; thought you understood your responsibilities. Same to her as it was to me, and you never would have walked off in a fit of pique and left me. I deliberately left the disposition of my body to you so you’d stay on. You can’t…” At that point Johnny hung up, chilled.

  The phone rang again, at once.

  This time he did not take it off the hook. The hell with you, he said to himself. He walked to the window and stood looking down at the street below, thinking to himself of the conversation he had held with old Louis years ago, the one that had made such an impression in his mind. The conversation in which it had come out that he had failed to go to college because he wanted to die. Looking down at the street below, he thought, Maybe I ought to jump. At least there’d be no more phones… no more of it.

  The worse part, he thought, is its senility. Its thoughts are not clear, not distinct; they’re dream-like; irrational. The old man is not genuinely alive. He is not even in half-life. This is a dwindling away of consciousness toward a nocturnal state. And we are forced to listen to it as it unwinds, as it develops step by step, to final, total death.

  But even in this degenerative state, it had desires. It wanted, and strongly. It wanted him to do something; it wanted Kathy to do something; the remnants of Louis Sarapis were vital and active, and clever enough to find ways of pursuing him, of getting what was wanted. It was a travesty of Louis’s wishes during his lifetime, and yet it could not be ignored; it could not be escaped.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Maybe it isn’t Louis, he thought then. Maybe it’s Kathy. Going to it he lifted the receiver. And put it back down at once. The drumming once more, the fragments of Louis Sarapis’s personality… he shuddered. And is it just here, is it selective?

  He had a terrible feeling that it was not selective.

  Going to the TV set at the far end of the room he snapped the switch. The screen grew into lighted animation, and yet, he saw, it was strangely blurred. The dim outlines of—it seemed to be a face.

  And everyone, he realized, is seeing this. He turned to another channel. Again the dully-formed features, the old man half-materialized here on the television screen. And from the set’s speaker the murmur of indistinct words. “…told you time and again your primary responsibility is to…” Johnny shut the set off; the ill-formed face and words sank out of existence, and all that remained, once more, was the ringing phone.

  He picked up the phone and said, “Louis, can you hear me?”

  “…when election time comes they’ll see. A man with the spirit to campaign a second time, take the financial responsibility, after all it’s only for the wealthy men, now, the cost of running…” The voice droned on. No, the old man could not hear him. It was not a conversation; it was a monologue. It was not authentic communication.

  And yet the old man knew what was occurring on Earth; he seemed to understand, to somehow see, that Johnny had quit his job.

  Hanging up the phone he seated himself and lit a cigarette.

  I can’t go back to Kathy, he realized, unless I’m willing to change my mind and advise her not to sell. And that’s impossible; I can’t do that. So that’s out. What is there left for me?

  How long can Sarapis hound me? Is there any place I can go?

  Going to the window once more he stood looking down at the street below.

  At a newsstand, Claud
e St. Cyr tossed down coins, picked up the newspaper.

  “Thank you, sir or madam,” the robot vender said.

  The lead article… St. Cyr blinked and wondered if he had lost his mind. He could not grasp what he was reading—or rather unable to read. It made no sense; the homeostatic news-printing system, the fully automated micro-relay newspaper, had evidently broken down. All he found was a procession of words, randomly strung together. It was worse than Finnegans Wake.

  Or was it random? One paragraph caught his eye.

  At the hotel window now ready to leap. If you expect to conduct any more business with her you better get over there. She’s dependent on him, needs a man since her husband, that Paul Sharp, abandoned her. The Antler Hotel, room 604. I think you have time. Johnny is too hot-headed; shouldn’t have tried to bluff her. With my blood you can’t be bluffed and she’s got my blood, I…

  St. Cyr said rapidly to Harvey, who stood beside him, “Johnny Barefoot’s in a room at the Antler Hotel about to jump, and this is old Sarapis telling us, warning us. We better get over there.”

  Glancing at him, Harvey said, “Barefoot’s on our side; we can’t afford to have him take his life. But why would Sarapis—”

  “Let’s just get over there,” St. Cyr said, starting toward his parked ‘copter. Harvey followed on the run.

  IV

  All at once the telephone stopped ringing. Johnny turned from the window—and saw Kathy Sharp standing by it, the receiver in her hand. “He called me,” she said. “And he told me, Johnny, where you were and what you were going to do.”

  “Nuts,” he said, “I’m not going to do anything.” He moved back from the window.

  “He thought you were,” Kathy said.

  “Yes, and that proves he can be wrong.” His cigarette, he saw, had burned down to the filter; he dropped it into the ashtray on the dresser and stubbed it out.