The next morning Vivian found out about Nina. And hired an attorney of her own.
“Listen,” George said, on the phone talking to his top legal talent, Henry Ramarau. “Get me custody of the fourth child; it’ll be a Terran. And we’ll compromise on the two hybrids; I’ll take Maurice and she can have Kathy. And naturally she gets that blob, the first so-called child. As far as I’m concerned it’s hers anyhow.” He slammed the receiver down and then turned to the board of directors of his company. “Now where were we?” he demanded. “In our analysis of Io tax laws.”
During the next weeks the idea of a move to Io appeared more and more feasible from a profit and loss standpoint.
“Go ahead and buy land on Io,” George instructed his business agent in the field, Tom Hendricks. “And get it cheap; we want to start right.” To his secretary, Miss Nolan, he said, “Now keep everyone out of my office until further notice. I feel a attack coming on. From anxiety over this major move off Terra to Io.” He added, “And personal worries.”
“Yes, Mr. Munster,” Miss Nolan said, ushering Tom Hendricks out of George’s private office. “No one will disturb you.” She could be counted on to keep everyone out while George reverted to his war-time Blobel shape, as he often did, these days; the pressure on him was immense.
When, later in the day, he resumed human form, George learned from Miss Nolan that a Doctor Jones had called.
“I’ll be damned,” George said, thinking back to six years ago. “I thought it’d be in the junk pile by now.” To Miss Nolan he said, “Call Doctor Jones, notify me when you have it; I’ll take a minute off to talk to it.” It was like old times, back in San Francisco.
Shortly, Miss Nolan had Dr. Jones on the line.
“Doctor,” George said, leaning back in his chair and swiveling from side to side and poking at an orchid on his desk. “Good to hear from you.”
The voice of the homeostatic analyst came in his ear, “Mr. Munster, I note that you now have a secretary.”
“Yes,” George said, “I’m a tycoon. I’m in the reducing belt game; it’s somewhat like the flea-collar that cats wear. Well, what can I do for you?”
“I understand you have four children now—”
“Actually three, plus a fourth on the way. Listen, that fourth, Doctor, is vital to me; according to Mendel’s Law it’s a full-blooded Terran and by God I’m doing everything in my power to get custody of it.” He added, “Vivian—you remember her—is now back on Titan. Among her own people, where she belongs. And I’m putting some of the finest doctors I can get on my payroll to stabilize me; I’m tired of this constant reverting, night and day; I’ve got too much to do for such nonsense.”
Dr. Jones said, “From your tone I can see you’re an important, busy man, Mr. Munster. You’ve certainly risen in the world, since I saw you last.”
“Get to the point,” George said impatiently. “Why’d you call?”
“I, um, thought perhaps I could bring you and Vivian together again.”
“Bah,” George said contemptuously. “That woman? Never. Listen, Doctor, I have to ring off; we’re in the process of finalizing on some basic business strategy, here at Munster, Incorporated.”
“Mr. Munster,” Dr. Jones asked, “is there another woman?”
“There’s another Blobel,” George said, “if that’s what you mean.” And he hung up the phone. Two Blobels are better than none, he said to himself. And now back to business… He pressed a button on his desk and at once Miss Nolan put her head into the office. “Miss Nolan,” George said, “get me Hank Ramarau; I want to find out—”
“Mr. Ramarau is waiting on the other line,” Miss Nolan said. “He says it’s urgent.”
Switching to the other line, George said, “Hi, Hank. What’s up?”
“I’ve just discovered,” his top legal advisor said, “that to operate your factory on Io you must be a citizen of Titan.”
“We ought to be able to fix that up,” George said.
“But to be a citizen of Titan—” Ramarau hesitated. “I’ll break it to you easy as I can, George. You have to be a Blobel.”
“Dammit, I am a Blobel,” George said. “At least part of the time. Won’t that do?”
“No,” Ramarau said, “I checked into that, knowing of your affliction, and it’s got to be one hundred percent of the time. Night and day.”
“Hmmm,” George said. “This is bad. But we’ll overcome it, somehow. Listen, Hank, I’ve got an appointment with Eddy Fullbright, my medical coordinator; I’ll talk to you after, okay?” He rang off and then sat scowling and rubbing his jaw. Well, he decided, if it has to be it has to be. Facts are facts, and we can’t let them stand in our way.
Picking up the phone he dialed his doctor, Eddy Fullbright.
The twenty-dollar platinum coin rolled down the chute and tripped the circuit. Dr. Jones came on, glanced up and saw a stunning, sharp-breasted young woman whom it recognized—by means of a quick scan of its memory banks—as Mrs. George Munster, the former Vivian Arrasmith.
“Good day, Vivian,” Dr. Jones said cordially. “But I understood you were on Titan.” It rose to its feet, offering her a chair.
Dabbing at her large, dark eyes, Vivian sniffled, “Doctor, everything is collapsing around me. My husband is having an affair with another woman… all I know is that her name is Nina and all the boys down at VUW Headquarters are talking about it. Presumably she’s a Terran. We’re both filing for divorce. And we’re having a dreadful legal battle over the children.” She arranged her coat modestly. “I’m expecting. Our fourth.”
“This I know,” Dr. Jones said. “A full-blooded Terran this time, if Mendel’s Law holds… although it only applied to litters.”
Mrs. Munster said miserably, “I’ve been on Titan talking to legal and medical experts, gynecologists, and especially marital guidance counselors; I’ve had all sorts of advice during the past month. Now I’m back on Terra but I can’t find George—he’s gone!”
“I wish I could help you, Vivian,” Dr. Jones said. “I talked to your husband briefly, the other day, but he spoke only in generalities… evidently he’s such a big tycoon now that it’s hard to approach him.”
“And to think,” Vivian sniffled, “that he achieved it all because of an idea I gave him. A Blobel idea.”
“The ironies of fate,” Dr. Jones said. “Now, if you want to keep your husband, Vivian—”
“I’m determined to keep him, Doctor Jones. Frankly I’ve undergone therapy on Titan, the latest and most expensive… it’s because I love George so much, even more than I love my own people or my planet.”
“Eh?” Dr. Jones said.
“Through the most modern developments in medical science in the Sol System,” Vivian said, “I’ve been stabilized, Doctor Jones. Now I am in human form twenty-four hours a day instead of eighteen. I’ve renounced my natural form in order to keep my marriage with George.”
“The supreme sacrifice,” Dr. Jones said, touched.
“Now, if I can only find him, Doctor—”
At the ground-breaking ceremonies on Io, George Munster flowed gradually to the shovel, extended a pseudopodium, seized the shovel, and with it managed to dig a symbolic amount of soil. “This is a great day,” he boomed hollowly, by means of the semblance of a vocal apparatus into which he had fashioned the slimy, plastic substance which made up his unicellular body.
“Right, George,” Hank Ramarau agreed, standing nearby with the legal documents.
The Ionan official, like George a great transparent blob, oozed across to Ramarau, took the documents and boomed, “These will be transmitted to my government. I’m sure they’re in order, Mr. Ramarau.”
“I guarantee you,” Ramarau said to the official, “Mr. Munster does not revert to human form at any time; he’s made use of some of the most advanced techniques in medical science to achieve this stability at the unicellular phase of his former rotation. Munster would never cheat.”
“This his
toric moment,” the great blob that was George Munster thought-radiated to the throng of local Blobels attending the ceremonies, “means a higher standard of living for Ionans who will be employed; it will bring prosperity to this area, plus a proud sense of national achievement in the manufacture of what we recognize to be a native invention, the Munster Magic Magnetic Belt.”
The throng of Blobels thought-radiated cheers.
“This is a proud day in my life,” George Munster informed them, and began to ooze by degrees back to his car, where his chauffeur waited to drive him to his permanent hotel room at Io City.
Someday he would own the hotel. He was putting the profits from his business in local real estate; it was the patriotic—and the profitable—thing to do, other Ionans, other Blobels, had told him.
“I’m finally a successful man,” George Munster thought-radiated to all close enough to pick up his emanations.
Amid frenzied cheers he oozed up the ramp and into his Titan-made car.
Notes
All notes in italics are by Philip K. Dick. The year when the note was written appears in parentheses following the note. Most of these notes were written as story notes for the collections THE BEST OF PHILIP K. DICK (published 1977) and THE GOLDEN MAN (published 1980). A few were written at the request of editors publishing or reprinting a PKD story in a book or magazine.
When there is a date following the name of a story, it is the date the manuscript of that story was first received by Dick’s agent, per the records of the Scott Meredith Literary Agency. Absence of a date means no record is available. The name of a magazine followed by a month and year indicates the first published appearance of a story. An alternate name following a story indicates Dick’s original name for the story, as shown in the agency records.
These five volumes include all of Philip K. Dick’s short fiction, with the exception of short novels later published as or included in novels, childhood writings, and unpublished writings for which manuscripts have not been found. The stories are arranged as closely as possible in chronological order of composition; research for this chronology was done by Gregg Rickman and Paul Williams.
AUTOFAC 10/11/54. Galaxy, Nov 1955.
Tom Disch said of this story that it was one of the earliest ecology warnings in sf. What I had in mind in writing it, however, was the thought that if factories became fully auto mated, they might begin to show the instinct for survival which organic living entities have… and perhaps develop similar solutions. (1976)
SERVICE CALL 10/11/54. Science Fiction Stories, July 1955.
When this story appeared many fans objected to it because of the negative attitude I expressed in it. But I was already beginning to suppose in my head the growing domination of machines over man, especially the machines we voluntarily surround ourselves with, which should, by logic, be the most harmless. I never assumed that some huge clanking monster would stride down Fifth Avenue, devouring New York; I always feared that my own TV set or iron or toaster would, in the privacy of my apartment, when no one else was around to help me, announce to me that they had taken over, and here was a list of rules I was to obey. I never like the idea of doing what a machine says. I hate having to salute something built in a factory. (Do you suppose all those White House tapes came out of the back of the President’s head? And programmed him as to what he was to say and do?) (1976)
CAPTIVE MARKET 10/18/54. If, April 1955.
THE MOLD OF YANCY 10/18/54. If, Aug 1955.
Obviously, Yancy is based on President Eisenhower. During his reign we all were worrying about the man-in-the-gray-flannel-suit problem; we feared that the entire country was turning into one person and a whole lot of clones. (Although in those days the word “clone” was unknown to us.) I liked this story enough to use it as the basis for my novel THE PENULTIMATE TRUTH; in particular the part where everything the government tells you is a lie. I still like that part; I mean, I still believe it’s so. Watergate, of course, bore the basic idea of this story out. (1978)
THE MINORITY REPORT 12/22/54. Fantastic Universe, Jan 1956.
RECALL MECHANISM. If, July 1959.
THE UNRECONSTRUCTED M 6/2/55. Science Fiction Stories, Jan 1957.
If the main theme throughout my writing is, “Can we consider the universe real, and if so, in what way?” my secondary theme would be, “Are we all humans?”Here a machine does not imitate a human being, but instead fakes evidence of a human being, a given human being. Fakery is a topic which absolutely fascinates me; I am convinced that anything can be faked, or anyhow evidence pointing to any given thing. Spurious clues can lead us to believe anything they want us to believe. There is really no theoretical upper limit to this. Once you have mentally opened the door to the reception of the notion of fake, you are ready to think yourself into another kind of reality entirely. It’s a trip from which you never return. And, I think, a healthy trip… unless you take it too seriously. (1978)
EXPLORERS WE 5/6/58. Fantasy & Science Fiction, Jan 1959.
WAR GAME (“Diversion”) 10/31/58. Galaxy, Dec 1959.
IF THERE WERE NO BENNY CEMOLI (“Had There Never Been A Benny Cemoli”) 2/27/63. Galaxy, Dec 1963.
I have always believed that at least half the famous people in history never existed. You invent what you need to invent. Perhaps even Karl Marx was invented, the product of some hack writer. In which case—(1976)
NOVELTY ACT (“At Second Jug”) 3/23/63. Fantastic, Feb 1964. [Included in PKD’s novel THE SIMULACRA.]
WATERSPIDER 4/10/63. If, Jan 1964.
WHAT THE DEAD MEN SAY (“Man With a Broken Match”) 4/15/63. Worlds of Tomorrow, June 1964.
ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET 4/16/63 [published in Escapade circa 1964 under the pseudonym Jack Dowland].
THE DAYS OF PERKY PAT (“In the Days of Perky Pat”) 4/18/63. Amazing, Dec 1963.
The Days of Perky Pat came to me in one lightning-swift flash when I saw my children playing with Barbie dolls. Obviously these anatomically super-developed dolls were not intended for the use of children, or, more accurately, should not have been. Barbie and Ken consisted of two adults in miniature. The idea was that the purchase of countless new clothes for these dolls was necessary if Barbie and Ken were to live in the style to which they were accustomed. I had visions of Barbie coming into my bedroom at night and saying, “I need a mink coat.” Or, even worse, “Hey, big fellow… want to take a drive to Vegas in my Jaguar XKE?” I was afraid my wife would find me and Barbie together and my wife would shoot me.
The sale of The Days of Perky Pat to Amazing was a good one because in those days Cele Goldsmith edited Amazing and she was one of the best editors in the field. Avram Davidson at Fantasy & Science Fiction had turned it down, but later he told me that had he known about Barbie dolls he probably would have bought it. I could not imagine anyone not knowing about Barbie. I had to deal with her and her expensive purchases constantly. It was as bad as keeping my TV set working; the TV set always needed something and so did Barbie. I always felt that Ken should buy his own clothes.
In those days—the early Sixties—I wrote a great deal, and some of my best stories and novels emanated from that period. My wife wouldn’t let me work in the house, so I rented a little shack for $25 a month and walked over to it each morning. This was out in the country. All I saw on my walk to my shack were a few cows in their pastures and my own flock of sheep who never did anything but trudge along after the bell-sheep. I was terribly lonely, shut up by myself in my shack all day. Maybe I missed Barbie, who was back at the big house with the children. So perhaps The Days of Perky Pat is a wishful fantasy on my part; I would have loved to see Barbie—or Perky Pat or Connie Companion—show up at the door of my shack.
What did show up was something awful: my vision of the face of Palmer Eldritch which became the basis of the novel THE THREE STIGMATA OF PALMER ELDRITCH which the Perky Pat story generated.
There I went, one day, walking down the country road to my shack, looking forward to eight hours o
f writing, in total isolation from all other humans, and I looked up at the sky and saw a face. I didn’t really see it, but the face was there, and it was not a human face; it was a vast visage of perfect evil. I realize now (and I think I dimly realized at the time) what caused me to see it: the months of isolation, of deprivation of human contact, in fact sensory deprivation as such… anyhow the visage could not be denied. It was immense; it filled a quarter of the sky. It had empty slots for eyes—it was metal and cruel and, worst of all, it was God.
I drove over to my church, Saint Columbia’s Episcopal Church, and talked to my priest. He came to the conclusion that I had had a glimpse of Satan and gave me unction—not supreme unction; just healing unction. It didn’t do any good; the metal face in the sky remained. I had to walk along every day as it gazed down at me.
Years later—after I had long since written THE THREE STIGMATA OF PALMER ELDRITCH and sold it to Doubleday, my first sale to Doubleday—I came across a picture of the face in an issue of Life magazine. It was, very simply, a World War One observation cupola on the Marne, built by the French. My father had fought in the Second Battle of the Marne; he had been with the Fifth Marines, about the first group of American soldiers to go over to Europe and fight in that ghastly war. When I was a very small child he had showed me his uniform and gasmask, the entire gas-filtration equipment, and told me how the soldiers became panic-stricken during gas attacks as the charcoal in their filtration systems became saturated, and how sometimes a soldier would freak and tear off his mask and run. As a child I felt a lot of anxiety listening to my father’s war stories and looking at and playing with the gasmask and helmet; but what scared me the most was when my father would put on the gasmask. His face would disappear. This was not my father any longer. This was not a human being at all. I was only four years old. After that my mother and father got divorced and I did not see my father for years. But the sight of him wearing his gasmask, blending as it did with his accounts of men with their guts hanging from them, men destroyed by shrapnel—decades later, in 1963, as I walked alone day after day along that country road with no one to talk to, no one to be with, that metal, blind, inhuman visage appeared to me again, but now transcendent and vast, and absolutely evil.
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