The Collected Stories of Philip K Dick

by Philip K. Dick

  The steady thumping of the great typewriter made the things in the bathroom rattle and shake, the light fixture, the bottles and tubes in the medicine cabinet. Even the floor under the children's feet.

  "He's some kind of Communist agent," Joan said. "He's drawing maps of the city so he can set off bombs when Moscow gives the word."

  The heck he is," Dave said angrily.

  "Don't you see all the maps and pencils and papers? Why else would—"

  "Be quiet," Dave snapped. "He will hear us. He is not a spy. He's too old to be a spy."

  "What is he, then?"

  "I don't know. But he isn't a spy. You're sure dumb. Anyhow, spies have beards."

  "Maybe he's a criminal," Joan said.

  "I talked to him once," Dave said. "He was coming downstairs. He spoke to me and gave me some candy out of a bag."

  "What kind of candy was it?"

  "I don't know. Hard candy. It wasn't any good."

  "What's he do?" Tommy asked, turning from the crack.

  "Sits in his room all day. Typing."

  "Doesn't he work?"

  Dave sneered. "That's what he does. He writes on his report. He's an official with a company."

  "What company?"

  "I forget."

  "Doesn't he ever go out?"

  "He goes out on the roof."

  "On the roof?"

  "He has a porch he goes out on. We fixed it. It's part of the apartment. He's got a garden. He comes downstairs and gets dirt from the back yard."

  "Shhh!" Tommy warned. "He turned around."

  Edward Billings had got to his feet. He was covering the typewriter with a black cloth, pushing it back and gathering up the pencils and erasers. He opened the desk drawer and dropped the pencils into it.

  "He's through," Tommy said. "He's finished working."

  The old man removed his glasses and put them away in a case. He dabbed at his forehead wearily, loosening his collar and necktie. His neck was long and the cords stood out from yellow, wrinkled skin. His adams apple bobbed up and down as he sipped some water from a glass.

  His eyes were blue and faded, almost without color. For a moment he gazed directly at Tommy, his hawk-like face blank. Then abruptly he left the room, going through a door.

  "He's going to bed," Tommy said.

  Mr. Billings returned, a towel over his arm. At the desk he stopped and laid the towel over the back of the chair. He lifted the massive report book and carried it from the desk over to the bookcase, holding it tightly with both hands. It was heavy. He laid it down and left the room again.

  The report was very close. Tommy could make out the gold letters stamped into the cracked leather binding. He gazed at the letters a long time—until Joan finally pushed him away from the crack, shoving him impatiently off the chair.

  Tommy stepped down and moved away, awed and fascinated by what he had seen. The great report book, the huge volume of material on which the old man worked, day after day. In the flickering light from the lamp on the desk he had easily been able to make out the gold-stamped words on the ragged leather binding.

  PROJECT B: EARTH.

  "Let's go," Dave said. "He'll come in here in a couple minutes. He might catch us watching."

  "You're afraid of him," Joan taunted.

  "So are you. So is Mom. So is everybody." He glanced at Tommy. "You afraid of him?"

  Tommy shook his head. "I'd sure like to know what's in that book," he murmured. "I'd sure like to know what that old man is doing."

  The late afternoon sunlight shone down bright and cold. Edward Billings came slowly down the back steps, an empty pail in one hand, rolled-up newspapers under his arm. He paused a moment, shielding his eyes and gazing around him. Then he disappeared into the back yard, pushing through the thick wet grass.

  Tommy stepped out from behind the garage. He raced silently up the steps two at a time. He entered the building, hurrying down the dark corridor.

  A moment later he stood before the door of Edward Billings's apartment, his chest rising and falling, listening intently.

  There was no sound.

  Tommy tried the knob. It turned easily. He pushed. The door swung open and a musty cloud of warm air drifted past him out into the corridor.

  He had little time. The old man would be coming back with his pail of dirt from the yard.

  Tommy entered the room and crossed to the bookcase, his heart pounding excitedly. The huge report book lay among heaps of notes and bundles of clippings. He pushed the papers away, sliding them from the book. He opened it quickly, at random, the thick pages crackling and bending.

  Denmark.

  Figures and facts. Endless facts, pages and columns, row after row. The lines of type danced before his eyes. He could make little out of them. He turned to another section.

  New York.

  Facts about New York. He struggled to understand the column heads. The number of people. What they did. How they lived. What they earned. How they spent their time. Their beliefs. Politics. Philosophy. Morals. Their age. Health. Intelligence. Graphs and statistics, averages and evaluations.

  Evaluations. Appraisals. He shook his head and turned to another section.

  California.

  Population. Wealth. Activity of the state government. Ports and harbors. Facts, facts, facts—

  Facts on everything. Everywhere. He thumbed through the report. On every part of the world. Every city, every state, every country. Any and all possible information.

  Tommy closed the report uneasily. He wandered restlessly around the room, examining the heaps of notes and papers, the bundles of clippings and charts. The old man, typing day after day. Gathering facts, facts about the whole world. The earth. A report on the earth, the earth and everything on it. All the people. Everything they did and thought, their actions, deeds, achievements, beliefs, prejudices. A great report of all the information in the whole world.

  Tommy picked up the big magnifying glass from the desk. He examined the surface of the desk with it, studying the wood. After a moment he put down the glass and picked up the bone letter knife. He put down the letter knife and examined the broken magic lantern in the corner. The frame of dead butterflies. The drooping stuffed bird. The bottles of chemicals.

  He left the room, going out onto the roof porch. The late afternoon sunlight flickered fitfully; the sun was going down. In the center of the porch was a wooden frame, dirt and grass heaped around it. Along the rail were big earthen jars, sacks of fertilizer, damp packages of seeds. An over-turned spray gun. A dirty trowel. Strips of carpet and a rickety chair. A sprinkling can.

  Over the wood frame was a wire netting. Tommy bent down, peering through the netting. He saw plants, small plants in rows. Some moss, growing on the ground. Tangled plants, tiny and very intricate.

  At one place some dried grass was heaped up in a pile. Like some sort of cocoon.

  Bugs? Insects of some sort? Animals?

  He took a straw and poked it through the netting at the dried grass. The grass stirred. Something was in it. There were other cocoons, several of them, here and there among the plants.

  Suddenly something scuttled out of one of the cocoons, racing across the grass. It squeaked in fright. A second followed it. Pink, running quickly. A small herd of shrilling pink things, two inches high, running and dashing among the plants.

  Tommy leaned closer, squinting excitedly through the netting, trying to see what they were. Hairless. Some kind of hairless animals. But tiny, tiny as grasshoppers. Baby things? His pulse raced wildly. Baby things or maybe—

  A sound. He turned quickly, rigid.

  Edward Billings stood at the door, gasping for breath. He set down the pail of dirt, sighing and feeling for his handkerchief in the pocket of his dark blue coat. He mopped his forehead silently, gazing at the boy standing by the frame.

  "Who are you, young man?" Billings said, after a moment. "I don't remember seeing you before."

  Tommy shook his head. "No."
/>   "What are you doing here?"

  "Nothing."

  "Would you like to carry this pail out onto the porch for me? It's heavier than I realized."

  Tommy stood for a moment. Then he came over and picked up the pail. He carried it out onto the roof porch and put it down by the wood frame.

  "Thank you," Billings said. "I appreciate that." His keen, faded-blue eyes flickered as he studied the boy, his gaunt face shrewd, yet not unkind. "You look pretty strong to me. How old are you? About eleven?"

  Tommy nodded. He moved back toward the railing. Below, two or three stories down, was the street. Mr. Murphy was walking along, coming home from the office. Some kids were playing at the corner. A young woman across the street was watering her lawn, a blue sweater around her slim shoulders. He was fairly safe. If the old man tried to do anything—

  "Why did you come here?" Billings asked.

  Tommy said nothing. They stood looking at each other, the stooped old man, immense in his dark old-fashioned suit, the young boy in a red sweater and jeans, a beanie cap on his head, tennis shoes and freckles. Presently Tommy glanced toward the wood frame covered with netting, then up at Billings.

  "That? You wanted to see that?"

  "What's in there? What are they?"

  "They?"

  "The things. Bugs? I never saw anything like them. What are they?"

  Billings walked slowly over. He bent down and unfastened the corner of the netting. "I'll show you what they are. If you're interested." He twisted the netting loose and pulled it back.

  Tommy came over, his eyes wide.

  "Well?" Billings said presently. "You can see what they are."

  Tommy whistled softly. "I thought maybe they were." He straightened up slowly, his face pale. "I thought maybe—but I wasn't sure. Little tiny men!"

  "Not exactly," Mr. Billings said. He sat down heavily in the rickety chair. From his coat he took a pipe and a worn tobacco pouch. He filled the pipe slowly, shaking tobacco into it. "Not exactly men."

  Tommy continued to gaze down into the frame. The cocoons were tiny huts, put together by the little men. Some of them had come out in the open now. They gazed up at him, standing together. Tiny pink creatures, two inches high. Naked. That was why they were pink.

  "Look closer," Billings murmured. "Look at their heads. What do you see?"

  "They're so small—"

  "Go get the glass from the desk. The big magnifying glass." He watched Tommy hurry into the study and come out quickly with the glass. "Now tell me what you see."

  Tommy examined the figures through the glass. They seemed to be men, all right. Arms, legs—some were women. Their heads. He squinted.

  And then recoiled.

  "What's the matter?" Billings grunted.

  "They're—they're queer."

  "Queer?" Billings smiled. "Well, it all depends on what you're used to. They're different—from you. But they're not queer. There's nothing wrong with them. At least, I hope there's nothing wrong." His smile faded, and he sat sucking on his pipe, deep in silent thought.

  "Did you make them?" Tommy asked.

  "I?" Billings removed his pipe. "No, not I."

  "Where did you get them?"

  "They were lent to me. A trial group. In fact, the trial group. They're new. Very new."

  "You want—you want to sell one of them?"

  Billings laughed. "No, I don't. Sorry. I have to keep them."

  Tommy nodded, resuming his study. Through the glass he could see their heads clearly. They were not quite men. From the front of each forehead antennae sprouted, tiny wire-like projections ending in knobs. Like the vanes of insects he had seen. They were not men, but they were similar to men. Except for the antennae they seemed normal—the antennae and their extreme minuteness.

  "Did they come from another planet?" Tommy asked. "From Mars? Venus?"

  "No."

  "Where, then?"

  "That's a hard question to answer. The question has no meaning, not in connection with them."

  "What's the report for?"

  "The report?"

  "In there. The big book with all the facts. The thing you're doing."

  "I've been working on that a long time."

  "How long?"

  Billings smiled. "That can't be answered, either. It has no meaning. But a long time indeed. I'm getting near the end, though."

  "What are you going to do with it? When it's finished."

  "Turn it over to my superiors."

  "Who are they?"

  "You wouldn't know them."

  "Where are they? Are they here in town?"

  "Yes. And no. There's no way to answer that. Maybe someday you'll—"

  "The report's about us," Tommy said.

  Billings turned his head. His keen eyes bored into Tommy. "Oh?"

  "It's about us. The report. The book."

  "How do you know?"

  "I looked at it. I saw the title on the back. It's about the earth, isn't it?"

  Billings nodded. "Yes. It's about the earth."

  "You're not from here, are you? You're from someplace else. Outside the system."

  "How—how do you know that?"

  Tommy grinned with superior pride. "I can tell. I have ways."

  "How much did you see in the report?"

  "Not much. What's it for? Why are you making it? What are they going to do with it?"

  Billings considered a long time before he answered. At last he spoke. "That," he said, 'depends on those." He gestured toward the wood frame. "What they do with the report depends on how Project C works."

  "Project C?"

  "The third project. There've been only two others before. They wait a long time. Each project is planned carefully. New factors are considered at great length before any decision is reached."

  "Two others?"

  "Antennae for these. A complete new arrangement of the cognitive faculties. Almost no dependence on innate drives. Greater flexibility. Some decrease in over-all emotional index, but what they lose in libido energy they gain in rational control. I would expect more emphasis on individual experience, rather than dependence on traditional group learning. Less stereotyped thinking. More rapid advance in situation control."

  Billings's words made little sense. Tommy was lost. "What were the others like?" he asked.

  "The others? Project A was a long time ago. It's dim in my mind. Wings."

  "Wings."

  "They were winged, depending on mobility and possessing considerable individualistic characteristics. In the final analysis we allowed them too much self-dependence. Pride. They had concepts of pride and honor. They were fighters. Each against the others. Divided into atomized antagonistic factions and—"

  "What were the rest like?"

  Billings knocked his pipe against the railing. He continued, speaking more to himself than to the boy standing in front of him. "The winged type was our first attempt at high-level organisms. Project A. After it failed we went into conference. Project B was the result. We were certain of success. We eliminated many of the excessive individualistic characteristics and substituted a group orientation process. A herd method of learning and experiencing. We hoped general control over the project would be assured. Our work with the first project convinced us that greater supervision would be necessary if we were to be successful."

  "What did the second kind look like?" Tommy asked, searching for a meaningful thread in Billings's dissertation.

  "We removed the wings, as I said. The general physiognomy remained the same. Although control was maintained for a short time, this second type also fractured away from the pattern, splintering into self-determined groups beyond our supervision. There is no doubt that surviving members of the initial type A were instrumental in influencing them. We should have exterminated the initial type as soon—"

  "Are there any left?"

  "Of Project B? Of course." Billings was irritated. "You're Project B. That's why I'm down here. As soon as my report i
s complete the final disposition of your type can be effected. There is no doubt my recommendation will be identical with that regarding Project A. Since your Project has moved out of jurisdiction to such a degree that for all intents and purposes you are no longer functional—"

  But Tommy wasn't listening. He was bent over the wood frame, peering down at the tiny figures within. Nine little people, men and women both. Nine—and no more in all the world.

  Tommy began to tremble. Excitement rushed through him. A plan was dawning, bursting alive inside him. He held his face rigid, his body tense.

  "I guess I'll be going." He moved from the porch, back into the room toward the hall door.

  "Going?" Billings got to his feet. "But—"

  "I have to go. It's getting late. I'll see you later." He opened the hall door. "Goodbye."

  "Goodbye," Mr. Billings said, surprised. "I hope I'll see you again, young man."

  "You will," Tommy said.

  He ran home as fast as he could. He raced up the porch steps and inside the house.

  "Just in time for dinner," his mother said, from the kitchen.

  Tommy halted on the stairs. "I have to go out again."

  "No you don't! You're going to—"

  "Just for awhile. I'll be right back." Tommy hurried up to his room and entered, glancing around.

  The bright yellow room. Pennants on the walls. The big dresser and mirror, brush and comb, model airplanes, pictures of baseball players. The paper bag of bottle caps. The small radio with its cracked plastic cabinet. The wooden cigar boxes full of junk, odds and ends, things he had collected.

  Tommy grabbed up one of the cigar boxes and dumped its contents out on the bed. He stuck the box under his jacket and headed out of the room.

  "Where are you going?" his father demanded, lowering his evening newspaper and looking up.

  "I'll be back."

  "Your mother said it was time for dinner. Didn't you hear her?"

  "I'll be back. This is important." Tommy pushed the front door open. Chill evening air blew in, cold and thin. "Honest. Real important."

  "Ten minutes." Vince Jackson looked at his wristwatch. "No longer. Or you don't get any dinner."