The Collected Stories of Philip K Dick

by Philip K. Dick

  He snapped off the jets. The roar died into silence. They were coasting above the hills.

  "To the right," Franklin said.

  Cutter brought the cruiser down in a sweeping glide. "This will put us within walking distance of Waldo's estate. We'll go the rest of the way on foot." A shuddering growl shook them as the landing fins dug into the ground—and they were at rest.

  Around them tall trees moved faintly with the wind. It was mid-morning. The air was cool and thin. They were high up, still in the mountains, on the Colorado side.

  "What are the chances of our reaching him?" Franklin asked.

  "Not very good."

  Franklin started. "Why? Why not?"

  Cutter pushed the cruiser door back and leaped out onto the ground. "Come on." He helped Franklin out and slammed the door after him. "Waldo is guarded. He's got a wall of robots around him. That's why we've never tried before. If it weren't crucial we wouldn't be trying now."

  They left the pasture, making their way down the hill along a narrow weed-covered path. "What are they doing it for?" Franklin asked. "The teeps. Why do they want to get power?"

  "Human nature, I suppose."

  "Human nature?"

  "The teeps are no different from the Jacobins, the Roundheads, the Nazis, the Bolsheviks. There's always some group that wants to lead mankind—for its own good, of course."

  "Do the teeps believe that?"

  "Most teeps believe they're the natural leaders of mankind. Non-telepathic humans are an inferior species. Teeps are the next step, homo superior. And because they're superior, it's natural they should lead. Make all the decisions for us."

  "And you don't agree," Franklin said.

  "The teeps are different from us—but that doesn't mean they're superior. A telepathic faculty doesn't imply general superiority. The teeps aren't a superior race. They're human beings with a special ability. But that doesn't give them a right to tell us what to do. It's not a new problem."

  "Who should lead mankind, then?" Franklin asked. "Who should be the leaders?"

  "Nobody should lead mankind. It should lead itself." Cutter leaned forward suddenly, body tense.

  "We're almost there. Waldo's estate is directly ahead. Get ready. Everything depends on the next few minutes."

  "A few robot guards." Cutter lowered his binoculars. "But that's not what's worrying me. If Waldo has a teep nearby, he'll detect our hoods."

  "And we can't take them off."

  "No. The whole thing would be out, passed from teep to teep." Cutter moved cautiously forwards. "The robots will stop us and demand identification. We'll have to count on your Director's clip."

  They left the bushes, crossing the open field toward the buildings that made up Senator Waldo's estate. They came onto a dirt road and followed it, neither of them speaking, watching the landscape ahead.

  "Halt!" A robot guard appeared, streaking toward them across the field. "Identify yourselves!"

  Franklin showed his clip. "I'm Director level. We're here to see the Senator. I'm an old friend."

  Automatic relays clicked as the robot studied the identification clip. "From the Director level?"

  "That's right," Franklin said, becoming uneasy.

  "Get out of the way," Cutter said impatiently. "We don't have any time to waste."

  The robot withdrew uncertainly. "Sorry to have stopped you, sir. The Senator is inside the main building. Directly ahead."

  "All right." Cutter and Franklin advanced past the robot. Sweat stood out on Cutter's round face. "We made it," he murmured. "Now let's hope there aren't any teeps inside."

  Franklin reached the porch. He stepped slowly up, Cutter behind him. At the door he halted, glancing at the smaller man. "Shall I—"

  "Go ahead." Cutter was tense. "Let's get right inside. It's safer."

  Franklin raised his hand. The door clicked sharply as its lens photographed him and checked his image. Franklin prayed silently. If the Clearance alarm had been sent out this far—

  The door melted.

  "Inside," Cutter said quickly.

  Franklin entered, looking around in the semi-darkness. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light of the hall. Somebody was coming toward him. A shape, a small shape, coming rapidly, lithely. Was it Waldo?

  A lank, sallow-faced youth entered the hall, a fixed smile on his face. "Good morning, Doctor Franklin," he said. He raised his Slem-gun and fired.

  Cutter and Ernest Abbud stared down at the oozing mass that had been Doctor Franklin. Neither of them spoke. Finally Cutter raised his hand, his face drained of color.

  "Was that necessary?"

  Abbud shifted, suddenly conscious of him. "Why not?" He shrugged, the Slem-gun pointed at Cutter's stomach. "He was an old man. He wouldn't have lasted long in the protective-custody camp."

  Cutter took out his package of cigarettes and lit up slowly, his eyes on the youth's face. He had never seen Ernest Abbud before. But he knew who he was. He watched the sallow-faced youth kick idly at the remains on the floor.

  "Then Waldo is a teep," Cutter said.

  "Yes."

  "Franklin was wrong. He does have full understanding of his bill."

  "Of course! The Anti-Immunity Bill is an integral part of our activity." Abbud waved the snout of the Slem-gun. "Remove your hood. I can't scan you—and it makes me uneasy."

  Cutter hesitated. He dropped his cigarette thoughtfully to the floor and crushed it underfoot. "What are you doing here? You usually hang out in New York. This is a long way out here."

  Abbud smiled. "We picked up Doctor Franklin's thoughts as he entered the girl's car—before she gave him the hood. She waited too long. We got a distinct visual image of her, seen from the back seat, of course. But she turned around to give him the hood. Two hours ago Clearance picked her up. She knew a great deal—our first real contact. We were able to locate the factory and round up most of the workers."

  "Oh?" Cutter murmured.

  "They're in protective custody. Their hoods are gone—and the supply stored for distribution. The stampers have been dismantled. As far as I know we have all the group. You're the last one."

  "Then does it matter if I keep my hood?"

  Abbud's eyes flickered. "Take it off. I want to scan you—Mister Hood Maker."

  Cutter grunted. "What do you mean?"

  "Several of your men gave us images of you—and details of your trip here. I came out personally, notifying Waldo through our relay system in advance. I wanted to be here myself."

  "Why?"

  "It's an occasion. A great occasion."

  "What position do you hold?" Cutter demanded.

  Abbud's sallow face turned ugly. "Come on! Off with the hood! I could blast you now. But I want to scan you first."

  "All right. I'll take it off. You can scan me, if you want. Probe all the way down." Cutter paused, reflecting soberly. "It's your funeral."

  "What do you mean?"

  Cutter removed his hood, tossing it onto a table by the door. "Well? What do you see? What do I know—that none of the others knew?"

  For a moment Abbud was silent.

  Suddenly his face twitched, his mouth working. The Slem-gun swayed. Abbud staggered, a violent shudder leaping through his lank frame. He gaped at Cutter in rising horror.

  "I learned it only recently," Cutter said. "In our lab. I didn't want to use it—but you forced me to take off my hood. I always considered the alloy my most important discovery—until this. In some ways, this is even more important. Don't you agree?"

  Abbud said nothing. His face was a sickly gray. His lips moved but no sound came.

  "I had a hunch—and I played it for all it was worth. I knew you telepaths were born from a single group, resulting from an accident—the Madagascar hydrogen explosion. That made me think. Most mutants, that we know of, are thrown off universally by the species that's reached the mutation stage. Not a single group in one area. The whole world, wherever the species exists.

  "Damage to t
he germ plasma of a specific group of humans is the cause of your existence. You weren't a mutant in the sense that you represented a natural development of the evolutionary process. In no sense could it be said that homo sapiens had reached the mutation stage. So perhaps you weren't a mutant.

  "I began to make studies, some biological, some merely statistical. Sociological research. We began correlating facts on you, on each member of your group we could locate. How old you were. What you were doing for a living. How many were married. Number of children. After a while I came across the facts you're scanning right now."

  Cutter leaned toward Abbud, watching the youth intently.

  "You're not a true mutant, Abbud. Your group exists because of a chance explosion. You're different from us because of damage to the reproductive apparatus of your parents. You lack one specific characteristic that true mutants possess." A faint smile twitched across Cutter's features. "A lot of you are married. But not one birth has been reported. Not one birth! Not a single teep child! You can't reproduce, Abbud. You're sterile, the whole lot of you. When you die there won't be any more.

  "You're not mutants. You're freaks!"

  Abbud grunted hoarsely, his body trembling. "I see this, in your mind." He pulled himself together with an effort. "And you've kept this secret, have you? You're the only one who knows?"

  "Somebody else knows," Cutter said.

  "Who?"

  "You know. You scanned me. And since you're a teep, all the others—"

  Abbud fired, the Slem-gun digging frantically into his own middle. He dissolved, showering in a rain of fragments. Cutter moved back, his hands over his face. He closed his eyes, holding his breath.

  When he looked again there was nothing.

  Cutter shook his head. "Too late, Abbud. Not fast enough. Scanning is instant—and Waldo is within range. The relay system… And even if they missed you, they can't avoid picking me up."

  A sound. Cutter turned. Clearance agents were moving rapidly into the hall, glancing down at the remains on the floor and up at Cutter.

  Director Ross covered Cutter uncertainly, confused and shaken. "What happened here? Where—"

  "Scan him!" Peters snapped. "Get a teep in here quick. Bring Waldo in. Find out what happened."

  Cutter grinned ironically. "Sure," he said, nodding shakily. He sagged with relief. "Scan me. I have nothing to hide. Get a teep in here for a probe—if you can find any…"

  OF WITHERED APPLES

  SOMETHING WAS TAPPING on the window. Blowing up against the pane, again and again. Carried by the wind. Tapping faintly, insistently.

  Lori, sitting on the couch, pretended not to hear. She gripped her book tightly and turned a page. The tapping came again, louder and more imperative. It could not be ignored.

  "Darn!" Lori said, throwing her book down on the coffee table and hurrying to the window. She grasped the heavy brass handles and lifted.

  For a moment the window resisted. Then, with a protesting groan, it reluctantly rose. Cold autumn air rushed into the room. The bit of leaf ceased tapping and swirled against the woman's throat, dancing to the floor.

  Lori picked the leaf up. It was old and brown. Her heart skipped a beat as she slipped the leaf into the pocket of her jeans. Against her loins the leaf cut and tingled, a little hard point piercing her smooth skin and sending exciting shivers up and down her spine. She stood at the open window a moment, sniffing the air. The air was full of the presence of trees and rocks, of great boulders and remote places. It was time—time to go again. She touched the leaf. She was wanted.

  Quickly Lori left the big living-room, hurrying through the hall into the dining-room. The dining-room was empty. A few chords of laughter drifted from the kitchen. Lori pushed the kitchen door open. "Steve?"

  Her husband and his father were sitting around the kitchen table, smoking their cigars and drinking steaming black coffee. "What is it?" Steve demanded, frowning at his young wife. "Ed and I are in the middle of business."

  "I—I want to ask you something."

  The two men gazed at her, brown-haired Steven, his dark eyes full of the stubborn dignity of New England men, and his father, silent and withdrawn in her presence. Ed Patterson scarcely noticed her. He rustled through a sheaf of feed bills, his broad back turned toward her.

  "What is it?" Steve demanded impatiently. "What do you want? Can't it wait?"

  "I have to go," Lori blurted.

  "Go where?"

  "Outside." Anxiety flooded over her. "This is the last time. I promise. I won't go again, after this. Okay?" She tried to smile, but her heart was pounding too hard. "Please let me, Steve."

  "Where does she go?" Ed rumbled.

  Steve grunted in annoyance. "Up in the hills. Some old abandoned place up there."

  Ed's gray eyes flickered. "Abandoned farm?"

  "Yes. You know it?"

  "The old Rickley farm. Rickley moved away years ago. Couldn't get anything to grow, not up there. Ground's all rocks. Bad soil. A lot of clay and stones. The place is all overgrown, tumbled down."

  "What kind of farm was it?"

  "Orchard. Fruit orchard. Never yielded a damn thing. Thin old trees. Waste of effort."

  Steve looked at his pocket watch. "You'll be back in time to fix dinner?"

  "Yes!" Lori moved toward the door. "Then I can go?"

  Steve's face twisted as he made up his mind. Lori waited impatiently, scarcely breathing. She had never got used to Vermont men and their slow, deliberate way. Boston people were quite different. And her group had been more the college youths, dances and talk, and late laughter.

  "Why do you go up there?" Steve grumbled.

  "Don't ask me, Steve. Just let me go. This is the last time." She writhed in agony. She clenched her fists. "Please!"

  Steve looked out the window. The cold autumn wind swirled through the trees. "All right. But it's going to snow. I don't see why you want to—"

  Lori ran to get her coat from the closet. "I'll be back to fix dinner!" she shouted joyfully. She hurried to the front porch, buttoning her coat, her heart racing. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, excited red as she closed the door behind her, her blood pounding in her veins.

  Cold wind whipped against her, rumpling her hair, plucking at her body. She took a deep breath of the wind and started down the steps.

  She walked rapidly onto the field, toward the bleak line of hills beyond. Except for the wind there was no sound. She patted her pocket. The dry leaf broke and dug hungrily into her.

  "I'm coming…" she whispered, a little awed and frightened. "I'm on my way…"

  Higher and higher the woman climbed. She passed through a deep cleft between two rocky ridges. Huge roots from old stumps spurted out on all sides. She followed a dried-up creek bed, winding and turning.

  After a time low mists began to blow about her. At the top of the ridge she halted, breathing deeply, looking back the way she had come.

  A few drops of rain stirred the leaves around her. Again the wind moved through the great dead trees along the ridge. Lori turned and started on, her head down, hands in her coat pockets.

  She was on a rocky field, overgrown with weeds and dead grass. After a time she came to a ruined fence, broken and rotting. She stepped over it. She passed a tumbled-down well, half filled with stones and earth.

  Her heart beat quickly, fluttering with nervous excitement. She was almost there. She passed the remains of a building, sagging timbers and broken glass, a few ruined pieces of furniture strewn nearby. An old automobile tire caked and cracked. Some damp rags heaped over rusty, bent bedsprings.

  And there it was—directly ahead.

  Along the edge of the field was a grove of ancient trees. Lifeless trees, withered and dead, their thin, blackened stalks rising up leaflessly. Broken sticks stuck in the hard ground. Row after row of dead trees, some bent and leaning, torn loose from the rocky soil by the unending wind.

  Lori crossed the field to the trees, her lungs laboring painfully. The w
ind surged against her without respite, whipping the foul-smelling mists into her nostrils and face. Her smooth skin was damp and shiny with the mist. She coughed and hurried on, stepping over the rocks and clods of earth, trembling with fear and anticipation.

  She circled around the grove of trees, almost to the edge of the ridge. Carefully, she stepped among the sliding heaps of rocks. Then—

  She stopped, rigid. Her chest rose and fell with the effort of breathing. "I came," she gasped.

  For a long time she gazed at the withered old apple tree. She could not take her eyes from it. The sight of the ancient tree fascinated and repelled her. It was the only one alive, the only tree of all the grove still living. All the others were dead, dried-up. They had lost the struggle. But this tree still clung to life.

  The tree was hard and barren. Only a few dark leaves hung from it—and some withered apples, dried and seasoned by the wind and mists. They had stayed there, on the branches, forgotten and abandoned. The ground around the tree was cracked and bleak. Stones and decayed heaps of old leaves in ragged clumps.

  "I came," Lori said again. She took the leaf from her pocket and held it cautiously out. "This tapped at the window. I knew when I heard it." She smiled mischievously, her red lips curling. "It tapped and tapped, trying to get in. I ignored it. It was so—so impetuous. It annoyed me."

  The tree swayed ominously. Its gnarled branches rubbed together. Something in the sound made Lori pull away. Terror rushed through her. She hurried back along the ridge, scrambling frantically out of reach.

  "Don't," she whispered. "Please."

  The wind ceased. The tree became silent. For a long time Lori watched it apprehensively.

  Night was coming. The sky was darkening rapidly. A burst of frigid wind struck her, half turning her around. She shuddered, bracing herself against it, pulling her long coat around her. Far below, the floor of the valley was disappearing into shadow, into the vast cloud of night.

  In the darkening mists the tree was stern and menacing, more ominous than usual. A few leaves blew from it, drifting and swirling with the wind. A leaf blew past her and she tried to catch it. The leaf escaped, dancing back toward the tree. Lori followed a little way and then stopped, gasping and laughing.