The Collected Stories of Philip K Dick

by Philip K. Dick

  Townsand glanced at him and then continued for the benefit of the other leaders. "Perhaps we're forgetting something. We set up the Agency in the first place; that is, the id bloc before us worked out the fundamentals of random net-check inspection, use of tame telepaths, the final notice and hunt—the whole works. The Agency is for our protection; otherwise parakineticists would grow like weeds and finally choke us off. Of course, we must keep control of the Agency … it's our instrument."

  "Yes," another leader agreed. "We can't let it get on our backs; Eggerton is certainly right, there."

  "We can assume," Townsand continued, "that some mechanism must exist at all times to detect P-K's. If the Agency goes, something must be constructed in its place. Now I tell you what, John." He gazed thoughtfully at Eggerton. "If you can think of a substitute, then maybe we'll be interested. But if not, then the Agency stands. Since the first P-K back in 2045, only females have shown immunity. Whatever we set up will have to be operated from a female policy-board … and that's the Agency all over again."

  There was silence.

  Dimly, in Eggerton's mind, the ghosts of hope flickered. "You agree the Agency is on our backs?" he demanded huskily. "All right, we have to assert ourselves." He gestured around the room futilely; the leaders were watching stonily and Laura Townsand was quietly pouring coffee into half-empty cups. She shot him a glance of mute sympathy and then turned back to the kitchen. Cold silence cut down around Eggerton; he settled unhappily back in his chair and listened to Townsand drone on.

  "I'm sorry you didn't inform us that your number had come up," Townsand was saying. "On the first notice we could have done something, but not now. Not unless we want to have a showdown at this time—and I don't think we're prepared for that." He pointed his authoritative finger at Eggerton. "You know, John, I don't think you really understand what these P-K individuals are. You probably think of them as lunatics, people with delusions."

  "I know what they are," Eggerton answered stiffly. But he couldn't keep himself from saying, "Aren't they people with delusions?"

  "They're lunatics who have the power to actualize their delusional systems in space-time. They warp a limited area around them to conform to their eccentric notions—understand? The P-K makes his delusion work. Therefore in a sense it isn't a delusion … not unless you can stand far enough back, get a long way off and compare his warped area with the world proper. But how can the P-K himself do that? He has no objective standard; he can't very well get away from himself, and the warp follows him wherever he goes. The really dangerous P-K's are the ones who think everybody can animate stones, or change themselves into animals, or transmute base minerals. If we let a P-K get away, if we let him grow up, reproduce, have a family, a wife and children, we let this inherited parafaculty spread … it becomes a group belief … it becomes a socially institutionalized practice.

  "Any given P-K is capable of spawning a society of P-K's built around his particular power. The great danger is this: eventually we non-P-K's may become the minority … our rational world-view may come to be considered eccentric."

  Eggerton licked his lips. The dry, languid voice made him sick; as Townsand spoke the ominous chill of death settled over him. "In other words," he muttered, "you're not going to help me."

  "That's right," Townsand said, "But not because we don't want to help you. We feel that the danger from the Agency is less than you imagine; we consider the P-K's the real menace. Find us some way we can detect them without the Agency, and we'll go along with you—but not until then." He leaned close to Eggerton and tapped him on the shoulder with a lean, bony finger. "If females weren't clear of this stuff, we wouldn't stand a chance. We're lucky … we could be a lot worse off than we are."

  Eggerton got slowly to his feet.

  "Goodnight."

  Townsand also rose. There was a moment of strained, awkward silence. "However," Townsand said, "we can beat this hunt and chase rap they have on you. There's still time; the public notice hasn't been put out, yet."

  "What'll I do?" Eggerton asked hopelessly.

  "You have the written copy of your twenty-four notice?"

  "No!" Eggerton's voice cracked hysterically. "I ran out of the office before the girl could give it to me!"

  Townsand pondered. "You know who she is? You know where you can find her?"

  "No."

  "Make inquiries. Trace her down, accept the notice, then throw yourself on the mercy of the Agency."

  Eggerton spread his hands numbly. "But that means I'll be bonded to them for the rest of my life."

  "You'll be alive," Townsand said mildly, without emotion of any kind.

  Laura Townsand brought steaming black coffee over to Eggerton. "Cream or sugar?" she asked gently, when she was able to attract his attention. "Or both? John, you must get something hot under your belt before you go; it's such a long trip back."

  The girl's name was Doris Sorrel. Her apartment was listed under the name Harvey Sorrel, her husband. There was no one there; Eggerton carbonized the door-lock, then entered and searched the four small rooms. He rooted through the dresser drawers, tossed clothing and personal articles aside one after another, systematically rifled the closets and cupboards. In the waste disposal slot by the work desk he found what he was looking for: a not-yet incinerated note, crumpled and discarded, a jotted notation with the name Jay Richards, the date and the time, the address, and the words, if Doris isn't too tired. Eggerton put the note in his coat pocket and departed.

  It was three-thirty in the morning when he found them. He landed on the roof of the squat Commerce Institute Building and descended the ramp to the residential floors. From the north wing light and noise came: the party was still in session. Praying silently, Eggerton raised his hand to the door and tripped the analyzer.

  The man who opened the door was handsome, gray-haired, a heavy man in his late thirties. A glass in one hand, he gazed blankly at Eggerton, his eyes blurred with fatigue and alcohol. "I don't remember inviting—" he began, but Eggerton pushed past him and into the apartment.

  There were plenty of people. Sitting, standing, keeping up a low murmur of talk and laughter. Liquor, soft couches, thick perfumes and fabrics, shifting color-walls, robots serving hors d'oeuvres, the muted cacophony of feminine giggles from darkened siderooms… Eggerton slid off his coat and moved aimlessly around. She was there somewhere; he glanced from face to face, saw only vacant, half-gazed eyes and slack mouths, and abruptly left the living-room and entered a bedroom.

  Doris Sorrel was standing at a window gazing silently out at the lights of the city, her back to him, one arm resting on the window sill. "Oh," she murmured, turning a little. "Already?" And then she saw who it was.

  "I want it," Eggerton said. "The twenty-four hour notice; I'll take it, now."

  "You scared me." Trembling she moved away from the wide expanse of window. "How—long have you been here?"

  "I just came."

  "But—why? You're a strange person, Mr. Eggerton. You don't make sense." She laughed nervously. "I don't understand you at all."

  From the gloom the figure of a man emerged, briefly outlined in the doorway. "Darling, here's your martini." The man made out Eggerton, and an ugly expression settled over his half-stupefied face. "Move on, buddy; this isn't for you."

  Shakily, Doris caught his arm. "Harvey, this is the man I tried to serve today. Mr. Eggerton, this is my husband."

  They shook hands icily. "Where is it?" Eggerton demanded bluntly. "You have it with you?"

  "Yes … it's in my purse." Doris moved away. "I'll get it. You can come along, if you want." She was regaining her composure. "I think I left it around here somewhere. Harvey, where the hell's my purse?" In the darkness she fumbled for something small and vaguely shiny. "Yes, here it is. On the bed."

  She stood lighting a cigarette and watching, as Eggerton examined the twenty-four hour notice. "Why did you come back?" she asked. For the party she had changed to a knee-length silk shirt, copp
er bracelets, sandals, and a luminous flower in her hair. Now the flower drooped miserably; her shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned, and she looked dead-tired. Leaning against the bedroom wall, cigarette between her stained lips, she said: "I don't see that it makes any difference what you do. The notice will be out publicly in half an hour—your personal staff has already been notified. God, I'm exhausted." She looked around impatiently for her husband. "Let's get out of here," she said to him, as he wandered up. "I have to go to work tomorrow."

  "We haven't seen it," Harvey Sorrel answered sullenly.

  "The hell with it!" Doris grabbed her coat from the closet. "Why all this mystery? My God, we've been here five hours and he hasn't trotted it out yet. Even if he's perfected time travel or squared the circle I'm not interested, not this late."

  As she pushed her way through the crowded living room, Eggerton hurried to catch up with her. "Listen to me," he gasped. Holding onto her shoulder he continued rapidly, "Townsand said if I came back I could throw myself on the mercy of the Agency. He said—"

  The girl shook loose. "Yes, of course; it's the law." She turned angrily to her husband who had scrambled after them. "Are you coming?"

  "I'm coming," Harvey answered, bloodshot eyes blazing with indignation, "But I'm saying goodnight to Richards. And you're going to tell him it's your idea to leave; I'm not going to pretend it's my fault we're walking out. If you haven't got the social decency at least to say goodnight to your host…"

  The gray-haired man who had let Eggerton in broke away from a circle of guests and came smilingly over. "Harvey! Doris! Are you leaving? But you haven't seen it." Dismay flooded his heavy face. "You can't leave."

  Doris opened her mouth to say that she damn well could. "Look," Harvey cut in desperately, "can't you show it to us now? Come on, Jay; we've waited long enough."

  Richards hesitated. More people were wearily getting up and clustering over. "Come on," voices demanded, "let's get it over with."

  After a moment of indecision Richards conceded. "All right," he agreed; he knew he had stalled long enough. Into the tired, experience-satiated guests a measure of anticipation trickled back. Richards raised his arms dramatically; he was still going to milk what he could from the moment. "This is it, folks! Come on along with me—it's out back."

  "I wondered where it was," Harvey said, following after his host. "Come on, Doris." He seized her arm and dragged her after him. The others crowded along, through the dining room, the kitchen, to the back door.

  The night was ice chill. Frigid wind blew around them as they shivered and stumbled uncertainly down the black steps, into the hyperborean gloom. John Eggerton felt a small shape push into him: as Doris savagely yanked away from her husband, Eggerton managed to follow after her. She rapidly shoved through the mass of guests, along the concrete walk to the fence that enclosed the yard. "Wait," Eggerton gasped, "listen to me. Then the Agency will take me?" He was powerless to keep the thin edge of pleading from his voice. "I can count on that? The notice will be voided?"

  Doris sighed wearily. "That's right. Okay, if you want, I'll take you over to the Agency and get action on your papers; otherwise they'll sit there for a month. You know what it means, I suppose. You're indentured to the Agency for the balance of your natural life; you know that, I suppose. Do you?"

  "I know."

  "Do you want that?" She was distantly curious. "A man like you… I would have thought otherwise."

  Eggerton twisted miserably. "Townsand said—" he began pathetically.

  "What I want to know," Doris interrupted, "is why you didn't respond to your first notice? If only you'd come around … this never would have happened."

  Eggerton opened his mouth to answer. He was going to say something about the principle involved, the concept of a free society, the rights of the individual, liberty and due process, the encroachment of the state. It was at that moment that Richards snapped on the powerful outdoor searchlights he had rigged up especially for the occasion; for the first time, his great achievement was revealed for everyone to see.

  For a moment there was stunned silence. Then all at once they were screaming and milling from the yard. Wild-faced, dazed with terror, they scrambled over the fence, burst through the plastic wall surrounding the yard, crashed into the next yard and onto the public street.

  Richards stood dumbfounded beside his masterpiece, bewildered and not yet understanding. In the artificial white glare of the searchlights the high-velocity transport was a thing of utter beauty. It was fully formed, completely ripe. Half an hour before, Richards had slipped outside with a flashlight, inspected it, and then, trembling with excitement, had cut the stem from which the ship had grown. It was now separate from the plant on which it had formed; he had rolled it to the edge of the yard, filled the fuel tank, slid back the hatch, and made it ready for flight.

  On the plant were the embryonic buds of other transports, in various stages of growth. He had watered and fertilized with skill: the plant was going to turn out a dozen jet transports before the end of the summer.

  Tears dribbled down Doris's tired cheeks. "You see it?" she whispered wretchedly to Eggerton. "It's—lovely. Look at it; see it sitting there?" Agonized, she turned away. "Poor Jay … when he understands…"

  Richards stood, feet planted apart, gazing around at the deserted, trampled remains of his yard. He made out the shapes of Eggerton and Doris; after a moment he started hesitantly toward them. "Doris " he choked brokenly, "what is it? What did I do?"

  Suddenly his expression changed. Bewilderment vanished; first came brute, naked terror as finally he understood what he was, and why his guests had fled. And then crazed cunning fell into place. Richards turned clumsily and began lumbering across the yard toward his ship.

  Eggerton killed him with a single shot at the base of the skull. As Doris began screaming shrilly, he shot out the searchlights one by one. The yard, Richards' body, the gleaming metal transport, dissolved in the frigid gloom. He shoved the girl down and forced her face into the wet, cold vines growing up the wall of the garden.

  She was able to get hold of herself, after a time. Shuddering, she lay pressed against the mashed grass and vines, arms clutched around her waist, trembling back and forth in an aimless rocking motion that gradually drained itself away.

  Eggerton helped her up. "All these years and nobody suspected. He was saving it up—big secret."

  "You'll be all right," Doris was saying, so low and faint that he could hardly hear her. "The Agency will be willing to write you off; you stopped him." Weak with shock, she groped blindly in the darkness for her scattered purse and cigarettes. "He would have got away. And that plant. What are we going to do with it?" She found her cigarettes and lit up wildly. "What about it?"

  Their eyes were growing accustomed to the night gloom. Under the faint sheen of starlight the outline of the plant came dimly into focus. "It won't live," Eggerton said. "It's part of his delusion; now he's dead."

  Frightened and subdued, the other guests were beginning to filter back into the yard. Harvey Sorrel crept drunkenly from the shadows and apologetically approached his wife. Somewhere far off the wail of a siren sounded; the automatic police had been called. "Do you want to come with us?" Doris asked Eggerton shakily. She indicated her husband. "We'll all drive over to the Agency together and get you straightened out; it can be fixed up. There'll be some kind of indenture, a few years at the most. Nothing more than that."

  Eggerton moved away from her. "No thanks," he said. "I have something else to do. Maybe later."

  "But—"

  "I think I have what I want." Eggerton fumbled for the back door and entered Richards' deserted quarters. "This is what we've been looking for."

  He put through his emergency call immediately. In Townsand's apartment the buzzer was sounding within thirty seconds. Sleepily, Laura roused her husband; Eggerton began talking as soon as the two men were facing each other's image.

  "We have our standard," he said; "we don'
t need the Agency. We can pull the rug out from under them because we don't really need them to watch us."

  "What?" Townsand demanded angrily, his mind fuzzy with sleep. "What are you talking about?"

  Eggerton repeated what he had said, as calmly as possible.

  "Then who will watch us?" Townsand growled. "What the hell is this?"

  "We'll watch each other," Eggerton continued patiently. "Nobody will be exempt. Each of us will be the standard for the next man. Richards couldn't see himself objectively, but I could—even though I'm not immune. We don't need anybody over us, because we can do the job ourselves."

  Townsand reflected resentfully. He yawned, pulled his night-robe around him, glanced sleepily at his wristwatch. "Lord, it's late. Maybe you have something, maybe not. Tell me more about this Richards … what sort of P-K talent did he have?"

  Eggerton told him. "You see? All these years … and he couldn't tell. But we could tell instantly." Eggerton's voice rose excitedly. "We can run our own society, again! Consensus gentium—we've had our measuring standard all the time and none of us has realized it. Individually, each of us is fallible; but as a group me can't go wrong. All we have to do is make sure the random check-nets get everybody; we'll have to step the process up, get more people and get them oftener. It has to be accelerated so that everybody, sooner or later, gets hauled in."

  "I see," Townsand agreed.

  "We'll keep the tame telepaths, of course; so we can get out all the thoughts and subliminal material. The teeps won't evaluate; we'll handle that ourselves."

  Townsand nodded dully. "Sounds good, John."

  "It came to me as soon as I saw Richards' plant. It was instantaneous—I had complete certitude. How could there be error? A delusional system like his simply doesn't fit into our world." Eggerton's hand slammed down on the table in front of him; a book that had belonged to Jay Richards slipped off and landed soundlessly on the thick carpet of the apartment. "You understand? There's no equation between a P-K world and ours; all we have to do is get the P-K material up where we can see it. Where we can compare it to our own reality."