The Collected Stories of Philip K Dick

by Philip K. Dick

  "No one comes here." Then Doc stopped suddenly, looking around. "Maybe we'd better go and find my gun. I don't want anything to happen."

  "You seem certain that things have got out of hand." I came up beside him and we stood together. "Maybe it's not as bad as you think."

  Labyrinth looked around. He pushed some shrubbery back with his foot. "They're all around us, everywhere, watching us. Can't you feel it?"

  I nodded absently. "What's this?" I lifted up a heavy, moldering branch, particles of fungus breaking from it. I pushed it out of the way. A mound lay outstretched, shapeless and indistinct, half buried in the soft ground.

  "What is it?" I said again. Labyrinth stared down, his face tight and forlorn. He began to kick at the mound aimlessly. I felt uncomfortable. "What is it, for heaven's sake?" I said. "Do you know?"

  Labyrinth looked slowly up at me. "It's the Schubert animal," he murmured. "Or it was, once. There isn't much left of it, any more."

  The Schubert animal—that was the one that had run and leaped like a puppy, silly and wanting to play. I bent down, staring at the mound, pushing a few leaves and twigs from it. It was dead all right. Its mouth was open, its body had been ripped wide. Ants and vermin were already working on it, toiling endlessly away. It had begun to stink.

  "But what happened?" Labyrinth said. He shook his head. "What could have done it?"

  There was a sound. We turned quickly.

  For a moment we saw nothing. Then a bush moved, and for the first time we made out its form. It must have been standing there watching us all the time. The creature was immense, thin and extended, with bright, intense eyes. To me, it looked something like a coyote, but much heavier. Its coat was matted and thick, its muzzle hung partly open as it gazed at us silently, studying us as if astonished to find us there.

  "The Wagner animal," Labyrinth said thickly. "But it's changed. It's changed. I hardly recognize it."

  The creature sniffed the air, its hackles up. Suddenly it moved back, into the shadows, and a moment later it was gone.

  We stood for a while, not saying anything. At last Labyrinth stirred. "So, that's what it was," he said. "I can hardly believe it. But why? What—"

  "Adaptation," I said. "When you toss an ordinary house cat out it becomes wild. Or a dog."

  "Yes." He nodded. "A dog becomes a wolf again, to stay alive. The law of the forest. I should have expected it. It happens to everything."

  I looked down at the corpse on the ground, and then around at the silent bushes. Adaptation—or maybe something worse. An idea was forming in my mind, but I said nothing, not right away.

  "I'd like to see some more of them," I said. "Some of the others. Let's look around some more."

  He agreed. We began to poke slowly through the grass and weeds, pushing branches and foliage out of the way. I found a stick, but Labyrinth got down on his hands and knees, reaching and feeling, staring near-sightedly down.

  "Even children turn into beasts," I said. "You remember the wolf children of India? No one could believe they had been ordinary children."

  Labyrinth nodded. He was unhappy, and it was not hard to understand why. He had been wrong, mistaken in his original idea, and the consequences of it were just now beginning to become apparent to him. Music would survive as living creatures, but he had forgotten the lesson of the Garden of Eden: that once a thing has been fashioned it begins to exist on its own, and thus ceases to be the property of its creator to mold and direct as he wishes. God, watching man's development, must have felt the same sadness—and the same humiliation—as Labyrinth, to see His creatures alter and change to meet the needs of survival.

  That his musical creatures should survive could mean nothing to him any more, for the very thing he had created them to prevent, the brutalization of beautiful things, was happening in them, before his own eyes. Doc Labyrinth looked up at me suddenly, his face full of misery. He had ensured their survival, all right, but in so doing he had erased any meaning, any value in it. I tried to smile a little at him, but he promptly looked away again.

  "Don't worry so much about it," I said. "It wasn't much of a change for the Wagner animal. Wasn't it pretty much that way anyhow, rough and temperamental? Didn't it have a proclivity towards violence—"

  I broke off. Doc Labyrinth had leaped back, jerking his hand out of the grass. He clutched his wrist, shuddering with pain.

  "What is it?" I hurried over. Trembling, he held his little old hand out to me. "What is it? What happened?"

  I turned the hand over. All across the back of it were marks, red cuts that swelled even as I watched. He had been stung, stung or bitten by something in the grass. I looked down, kicking the grass with my foot.

  There was a stir. A little golden ball rolled quickly away, back toward the bushes. It was covered with spines like a nettle.

  "Catch it!" Labyrinth cried. "Quick!"

  I went after it, holding out my handkerchief, trying to avoid the spines. The sphere rolled frantically, trying to get away, but finally I got it into the handkerchief.

  Labyrinth stared at the struggling handkerchief as I stood up. "I can hardly believe it," he said. "We'd better go back to the house."

  "What is it?"

  "One of the bach bugs. But it's changed…"

  We made our way back along the path, toward the house, feeling our way through the darkness. I went first, pushing the branches aside, and Labyrinth followed behind, moody and withdrawn, rubbing his hand from time to time.

  We entered the yard and went up to the back steps of the house, onto the porch. Labyrinth unlocked the door and we went into the kitchen. He snapped on the light and hurried to the sink to bathe his hand.

  I took an empty fruit jar from the cupboard and carefully dropped the bach bug into it. The golden ball rolled testily around as I clamped the lid on. I sat down at the table. Neither of us spoke, Labyrinth at the sink, running cold water over his stung hand, I at the table, uncomfortably watching the golden ball in the fruit jar trying to find some way to escape.

  "Well?" I said at last.

  "There's no doubt." Labyrinth came over and sat down opposite me. "It's undergone some metamorphosis. It certainly didn't have poisoned spines to start with. You know, it's a good thing that I played my Noah role carefully."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I made them all neuter. They can't reproduce. There will be no second generation. When these die, that will be the end of it."

  "I must say I'm glad you thought of that."

  "I wonder," Labyrinth murmured. "I wonder how it would sound, now, this way."

  "What?"

  "The sphere, the bach bug. That's the real test, isn't it? I could put it back through the Machine. We could see. Do you want to find out?"

  "Whatever you say, Doc," I said. "It's up to you. But don't get your hopes up too far."

  He picked up the fruit jar carefully and we walked downstairs, down the steep flights of steps to the cellar. I made out an immense column of dull metal rising up in the corner, by the laundry tubs. A strange feeling went through me. It was the Preserving Machine.

  "So this is it," I said.

  "Yes, this is it." Labyrinth turned the controls on and worked with them for a time. At last he took the jar and held it over the hopper. He removed the lid carefully, and the bach bug dropped reluctantly from the jar, into the Machine. Labyrinth closed the hopper after it.

  "Here we go," he said. He threw the control and the Machine began to operate. Labyrinth folded his arms and we waited. Outside the night came on, shutting out the light, squeezing it out of existence. At last an indicator on the face of the Machine blinked red. The Doc turned the control to OFF and we stood in silence, neither of us wanting to be the one who opened it.

  "Well?" I said finally. "Which one of us is going to look?"

  Labyrinth stirred. He pushed the slot-piece aside and reached into the Machine. His fingers came out grasping a slim sheet, a score of music. He handed it to me. "This is the res
ult," he said. "We can go upstairs and play it."

  We went back up to the music room. Labyrinth sat down before the grand piano and I passed him back the score. He opened it and studied it for a moment, his face blank, without expression. Then he began to play.

  I listened to the music. It was hideous. I have never heard anything like it. It was distorted, diabolical, without sense or meaning, except, perhaps, an alien, disconcerting meaning that should never have been there. I could believe only with the greatest effort that it had once been a Bach Fugue, part of a most orderly and respected work.

  "That settles it," Labyrinth said. He stood up, took the score in his hands, and tore it to shreds.

  As we made our way down the path to my car I said, "I guess the struggle for survival is a force bigger than any human ethos. It makes our precious morals and manners look a little thin."

  Labyrinth agreed. "Perhaps nothing can be done, then, to save those manners and morals."

  "Only time will tell," I said. "Even though this method failed, some other may work; something that we can't foresee or predict now may come along, some day."

  I said good night and got into my car. It was pitch dark; night had fallen completely. I switched on my headlights and moved off down the road, driving into the utter darkness. There were no other cars in sight anywhere. I was alone, and very cold.

  At the corner I stopped, slowing down to change gears. Something moved suddenly at the curb, something by the base of a huge sycamore tree, in the darkness. I peered out, trying to see what it was.

  At the base of the sycamore tree a huge dun-colored beetle was building something, putting a bit of mud into place on a strange, awkward structure. I watched the beetle for a time, puzzled and curious, until at last it noticed me and stopped. The beetle turned abruptly and entered its building, snapping the door firmly shut behind it.

  I drove away.

  EXPENDABLE

  THE MAN CAME OUT on the front porch and examined the day. Bright and cold—with dew on the lawns. He buttoned his coat and put his hands in his pockets.

  As the man started down the steps the two caterpillars waiting by the mailbox twitched with interest.

  "There he goes," the first one said. "Send in your report."

  As the other began to rotate his vanes the man stopped, turning quickly.

  "I heard that," he said. He brought his foot down against the wall, scraping the caterpillars off, onto the concrete. He crushed them.

  Then he hurried down the path to the sidewalk. As he walked he looked around him. In the cherry tree a bird was hopping, pecking bright-eyed at the cherries. The man studied him. All right? Or—The bird flew off. Birds all right. No harm from them.

  He went on. At the corner he brushed against a spider web, crossed from the bushes to the telephone pole. His heart pounded. He tore away, batting the air. As he went on he glanced over his shoulder. The spider was coming slowly down the bush, feeling out the damage to his web.

  Hard to tell about spiders. Difficult to figure out. More facts needed—No contact, yet.

  He waited at the bus stop, stomping his feet to keep them warm.

  The bus came and he boarded it, feeling a sudden pleasure as he took his seat with all the warm, silent people, staring indifferently ahead. A vague flow of security poured through him.

  He grinned, and relaxed, the first time in days.

  The bus went down the street.

  Tirmus waved his antennae excitedly.

  "Vote, then, if you want." He hurried past them, up onto the mound. "But let me say what I said yesterday, before you start."

  "We already know it all," Lala said impatiently. "Let's get moving. We have the plans worked out. What's holding us up?"

  "More reason for me to speak." Tirmus gazed around at the assembled gods. "The entire Hill is ready to march against the giant in question. Why? We know he can't communicate to his fellows—It's out of the question. The type of vibration, the language they use, makes it impossible to convey such ideas as he holds about us, about our—"

  "Nonsense." Lala stepped up. "Giants communicate well enough."

  "There is no record of a giant having made known information about us!"

  The army moved restlessly.

  "Go ahead," Tirmus said. "But it's a waste of effort. He's harmless—cut off. Why take all the time and—"

  "Harmless?" Lala stared at him. "Don't you understand? He knows!"

  Tirmus walked away from the mound. "I'm against unnecessary violence. We should save our strength. Someday we'll need it."

  The vote was taken. As expected, the army was in favor of moving against the giant. Tirmus sighed and began stroking out the plans on the ground.

  "This is the location that he takes. He can be expected to appear there at period-end. Now, as I see the situation—"

  He went on, laying out the plans in the soft soil.

  One of the gods leaned toward another, antennae touching. "This giant. He doesn't stand a chance. In a way, I feel sorry for him. How'd he happen to butt in?"

  "Accident." The other grinned. "You know, the way they do, barging around."

  "It's too bad for him, though."

  It was nightfall. The street was dark and deserted. Along the sidewalk the man came, newspaper under his arm. He walked quickly, glancing around him. He skirted around the big tree growing by the curb and leaped agilely into the street. He crossed the street and gained the opposite side. As he turned the corner he entered the web, sewn from bush to telephone pole. Automatically he fought it, brushing it off him. As the strands broke a thin humming came to him, metallic and wiry.

  "…wait!"

  He paused.

  "…careful … inside … wait…"

  His jaw set. The last strands broke in his hands and he walked on. Behind him the spider moved in the fragment of his web, watching. The man looked back.

  "Nuts to you," he said. "I'm not taking any chances, standing there all tied up."

  He went on, along the sidewalk, to his path. He skipped up the path, avoiding the darkening bushes. On the porch he found his key, fitting it into the lock.

  He paused. Inside? Better than outside, especially at night. Night a bad time. Too much movement under the bushes. Not good. He opened the door and stepped inside. The rug lay ahead of him, a pool of blackness. Across on the other side he made out the form of the lamp.

  Four steps to the lamp. His foot came up. He stopped.

  What did the spider say? Wait? He waited, listening. Silence.

  He took his cigarette lighter and flicked it on.

  The carpet of ants swelled toward him, rising up in a flood. He leaped aside, out onto the porch. The ants came rushing, hurrying, scratching across the floor in the half light.

  The man jumped down to the ground and around the side of the house. When the first ants came flowing over the porch he was already spinning the faucet handle rapidly, gathering up the hose.

  The burst of water lifted the ants up and scattered them, flinging them away. The man adjusted the nozzle, squinting through the mist. He advanced, turning the hard stream from side to side.

  "God damn you," he said, his teeth locked. "Waiting inside—"

  He was frightened. Inside—never before! In the night cold sweat came out on his face. Inside. They had never got inside before. Maybe a moth or two, and flies, of course. But they were harmless, fluttery, noisy—

  A carpet of ants!

  Savagely, he sprayed them until they broke rank and fled into the lawn, into the bushes, under the house.

  He sat down on the walk, holding the hose, trembling from head to foot.

  They really meant it. Not an anger raid, annoyed, spasmodic; but planned, an attack, worked out. They had waited for him. One more step.

  Thank God for the spider.

  Presently he shut the hose off and stood up. No sound; silence everywhere. The bushes rustled suddenly. Beetle? Something black scurried—he put his foot on it. A messenger, probably. Fa
st runner. He went gingerly inside the dark house, feeling his way by the cigarette lighter.

  Later, he sat at his desk, the spray gun beside him, heavy-duty steel and copper. He touched its damp surface with his fingers.

  Seven o'clock. Behind him the radio played softly. He reached over and moved the desk lamp so that it shone on the floor beside the desk.

  He lit a cigarette and took some writing paper and his fountain pen. He paused, thinking.

  So they really wanted him, badly enough to plan it out. Bleak despair descended over him like a torrent. What could he do? Whom could he go to? Or tell. He clenched his fists, sitting bolt upright in the chair.

  The spider slid down beside him onto the desk top. "Sorry. Hope you aren't frightened, as in the poem."

  The man stared. "Are you the same one? The one at the corner? The one who warned me?"

  "No. That's somebody else. A Spinner. I'm strictly a Cruncher. Look at my jaws." He opened and shut his mouth. "I bite them up."

  The man smiled. "Good for you."

  "Sure. Do you know how many there are of us in—say—an acre of land. Guess."

  "A thousand."

  "No. Two and a half million: Of all kinds. Crunchers, like me, or Spinners, or Stingers."

  "Stingers?"

  "The best. Let's see." The spider thought. "For instance, the black widow, as you call her. Very valuable." He paused. "Just one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "We have our problems. The gods—"

  "Gods!"

  "Ants, as you call them. The leaders. They're beyond us. Very unfortunate. They have an awful taste—makes one sick. We have to leave them for the birds."

  The man stood up. "Birds? Are they—"

  "Well, we have an arrangement. This has been going on for ages. I'll give you the story. We have some time left."

  The man's heart contracted. "Time left? What do you mean?"

  "Nothing. A little trouble later on, I understand. Let me give you the background. I don't think you know it."