‘There’s no carrying charge for the ninety day plan. For the six month plan there’s a six per cent annum charge which will amount to approximately—’ It broke off. ‘We’ve changed course.’
‘That’s right.’
‘We’ve left the official traffic lane.’ The fasrad stuck its pen and pad away and hurried to the control board. ‘What are you doing? There’s a two unit fine for this.’
Morris ignored it. He hung on grimly to the controls and kept his eyes on the viewscreen. The ship was gaining speed rapidly. Warning buoys sounded angrily as he shot past them and into the bleak darkness of space beyond. In a few seconds they had left all traffic behind. They were alone, shooting rapidly away from Jupiter, out into deep space.
The fasrad computed the trajectory. ‘We’re moving out of the solar system. Toward Centaurus.’
‘You guessed it.’
‘Hadn’t you better call your wife?’
Morris grunted and notched the drive bar farther up. The ship bucked and pitched, then managed to right itself. The jets began to whine ominously. Indicators showed the main turbines were beginning to heat. He ignored them and threw on the emergency fuel supply.
‘I’ll call Mrs Morris,’ the fasrad offered. ‘We’ll be beyond range in a short while.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘She’ll worry.’ The fasrad hurried to the back and examined the jets again. It popped back into the cabin buzzing with alarm. ‘Mr Morris, this ship is not equipped for intersystem travel. It’s a Class D four-shaft domestic model for home consumption only. It was never made to stand this velocity.’
‘To get to Proxima,’ Morris answered, ‘we need this velocity.’
The fasrad connected its power cables to the control board. ‘I can take some of the strain off the wiring system. But unless you rev her back to normal I can’t be responsible for the deterioration of the jets.’
‘The hell with the jets.’
The fasrad was silent. It was listening intently to the growing whine under them. The whole ship shuddered violently. Bits of paint drifted down. The floor was hot from the grinding shafts. Morris’ foot stayed on the throttle. The ship gained more velocity as Sol fell behind. They were out of the charted area. Sol receded rapidly.
‘It’s too late to vid your wife,’ the fasrad said. ‘There are three emergency-rockets in the stern; if you want, I’ll fire them off in the hope of attracting a passing military transport.’
‘Why?’
‘They can take us in tow and return us to the Sol system. There’s a six hundred gold unit fine, but under the circumstances it seems to me the best policy.’
Morris turned his back to the fasrad and jammed down the throttle with all his weight. The whine had grown to a violent roar. Instruments smashed and cracked. Fuses blew up and down the board. The lights dimmed, faded, then reluctantly came back.
‘Mr Morris,’ the fasrad said, ‘you must prepare for death. The statistical probabilities of turbine explosion are seventy-thirty. I’ll do what I can, but the danger-point has already passed.’
Morris returned to the viewscreen. For a time he gazed hungrily up at the growing dot that was the twin star Centaurus. ‘They look all right, don’t they? Prox is the important one. Twenty planets.’ He examined the wildly fluttering instruments. ‘How are the jets holding up? I can’t tell from these; most of them are burned out.’
The fasrad hesitated. It started to speak, then changed his mind. ‘I’ll go back and examine them,’ it said. It moved to the rear of the ship and disappeared down the short ramp into the thundering, vibrating engine chamber.
Morris leaned over and put out his cigarette. He waited a moment longer, then reached out and yanked the drives full up, the last possible notch on the board.
The explosion tore the ship in half. Sections of hull hurtled around him. He was lifted weightless and slammed into the control board. Metal and plastic rained down on him. Flashing incandescent points winked, faded, and finally died into silence, and there was nothing but cold ash.
The dull swish-swish of emergency air-pumps brought consciousness back. He was pinned under the wreckage of the control board; one arm was broken and bent under him. He tried to move his legs but there was no sensation below his waist.
The splintered debris that had been his ship was still hurling toward Centaurus. Hull-sealing equipment was feebly trying to patch the gaping holes. Automatic temperature and grav feeds were thumping spasmodically from self-contained batteries. In the viewscreen the vast flaming bulk of the twin suns grew quietly, inexorably.
He was glad. In the silence of the ruined ship he lay buried beneath the debris, gratefully watching the growing bulk. It was a beautiful sight. He had wanted to see it for a long time. There it was, coming closer each moment. In a day or two the ship would plunge into the fiery mass and be consumed. But he could enjoy this interval; there was nothing to disturb his happiness.
He thought about Sally, sound asleep under the radiantlens. Would Sally have liked Proxima? Probably not. Probably she would have wanted to go back home as soon as possible. This was something he had to enjoy alone. This was for him only. A vast peace descended over him. He could lie here without stirring, and the flaming magnificence would come nearer and nearer . . .
A sound. From the heaps of fused wreckage something was rising. A twisted, dented shape dimly visible in the flickering glare of the viewscreen. Morris managed to turn his head.
The fasrad staggered to a standing position. Most of its trunk was gone, smashed and broken away. It tottered, then pitched forward on its face with a grinding crash. Slowly it inched its way toward him, then settled to a dismal halt a few feet off. Gears whirred creakily. Relays popped open and shut. Vague, aimless life animated its devastated hulk.
‘Good evening,’ its shrill, metallic voice grated.
Morris screamed. He tried to move his body but the ruined beams held him tight. He shrieked and shouted and tried to crawl away from it. He spat and wailed and wept.
‘I would like to show you a fasrad,’ the metallic voice continued. ‘Would you call your wife, please? I would like to show her a fasrad, too.’
‘Get away!’ Morris screamed. ‘Get away from me!’
‘Good evening,’ the fasrad continued, like a broken tape. ‘Good evening. Please be seated. I am happy to meet you. What is your name? Thank you. You are the first persons in your neighborhood to see the fasrad. Where are you employed?’
Its dead eye-lenses gaped at him empty and vacant.
‘Please be seated,’ it said again. ‘This will take only a second. Only a second. This demonstration will take only a—’
Introduction by Michael Dinner
Story & Script title: The Father-Thing
Michael Dinner is an American director, producer, and writer. He is known for his work as an executive producer and director for The Wonder Years and Justified. More recently, Dinner is an executive producer for the popular Amazon series Sneaky Pete.
We all got Daddy issues.
The Father-Thing encompasses the quintessential genre theme of What does it mean to be human?
It is a replacement story—a story about humans being replaced by replicated versions. And although it is a premise that exists in other genre fiction, I love the story because it is as much about the invasion of a family as it is about the invasion of the community or the country or the world.
It is told through the eyes of a child—he is the hero of his own story. And it haunts me.
I find the power in Dick’s story comes from the question it poses: ‘What would you do if the person you love most in the world turns out to be a monster?’ It is the story of a boy who, aided by his friends, rises up to fight an unspeakable evil. It is dark. Funny. Scary. Freudian. And extremely emotional:
Among the old leaves and torn-up cardboard, the rotting remains of magazines and curtains, rubbish from the attic his mother had lugged down here with the idea of burning someday. I
t still looked a little like his father, enough for him to recognize. He had found it—and the sight made him sick at his stomach. He hung onto the barrel and shut his eyes until finally he was able to look again. In the barrel were the remains of his father his real father. Bits the father-thing had no use for. Bits it had discarded.
The approach in adapting the story was relatively simple. I wanted to preserve the emotional core while firmly placing it in my own world.
I have two sons, 11 and 13. I adapted it for them. And I adapted it for my own father.
The Father-Thing
‘Dinner’s ready,’ commanded Mrs Walton. ‘Go get your father and tell him to wash his hands. The same applies to you, young man.’ She carried a steaming casserole to the neatly set table. ‘You’ll find him out in the garage.’
Charles hesitated. He was only eight years old, and the problem bothering him would have confounded Hillel. ‘I—’ he began uncertainly.
‘What’s wrong?’ June Walton caught the uneasy tone in her son’s voice and her matronly bosom fluttered with sudden alarm. ‘Isn’t Ted out in the garage? For heaven’s sake, he was sharpening the hedge shears a minute ago. He didn’t go over to the Andersons’, did he? I told him dinner was practically on the table.’
‘He’s in the garage,’ Charles said. ‘But he’s—talking to himself.’
‘Talking to himself!’ Mrs Walton removed her bright plastic apron and hung it over the doorknob. ‘Ted? Why, he never talks to himself. Go tell him to come in here.’ She poured boiling black coffee in the little blue-and-white china cups and began ladling out creamed corn. ‘What’s wrong with you? Go tell him!’
‘I don’t know which of them to tell.’ Charles blurted out desperately. ‘They both look alike.’
June Walton’s fingers lost their hold on the aluminum pan; for a moment the creamed corn slushed dangerously. ‘Young man—’ she began angrily, but at that moment Ted Walton came striding into the kitchen, inhaling and sniffing and rubbing his hands together.
‘Ah,’ he cried happily. ‘Lamb stew.’
‘Beef stew,’ June murmured. ‘Ted, what were you doing out there?’
Ted threw himself down at his place and unfolded his napkin. ‘I got the shears sharpened like a razor. Oiled and sharpened. Better not touch them—they’ll cut your hand off.’ He was a good-looking man in his early thirties; thick blond hair, strong arms, competent hands, square face and flashing brown eyes. ‘Man, this stew looks good. Hard day at the office—Friday, you know. Stuff piles up and we have to get all the accounts out by five. Al McKinley claims the department could handle 20 per cent more stuff if we organized our lunch hours; staggered them so somebody was there all the time.’ He beckoned Charles over. ‘Sit down and let’s go.’
Mrs Walton served the frozen peas. ‘Ted,’ she said, as she slowly took her seat, ‘is there anything on your mind?’
‘On my mind?’ He blinked. ‘No, nothing unusual. Just the regular stuff. Why?’
Uneasily, June Walton glanced over at her son. Charles was sitting bolt-upright at his place, face expressionless, white as chalk. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t unfolded his napkin or even touched his milk. A tension was in the air; she could feel it. Charles had pulled his chair away from his father’s; he was huddled in a tense little bundle as far from his father as possible. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t catch what he was saying.
‘What is it?’ she demanded, leaning toward him.
‘The other one,’ Charles was muttering under his breath. ‘The other one came in.’
‘What do you mean, dear?’ June Walton asked out loud. ‘What other one?’
Ted jerked. A strange expression flitted across his face. It vanished at once; but in the brief instant Ted Walton’s face lost all familiarity. Something alien and cold gleamed out, a twisting, wriggling mass. The eyes blurred and receded, as an archaic sheen filmed over them. The ordinary look of a tired, middle-aged husband was gone.
And then it was back—or nearly back. Ted grinned and began to wolf down his stew and frozen peas and creamed corn. He laughed, stirred his coffee, kidded and ate. But something terrible was wrong.
‘The other one,’ Charles muttered, face white, hands beginning to tremble. Suddenly he leaped up and backed away from the table. ‘Get away!’ he shouted. ‘Get out of here!’
‘Hey,’ Ted rumbled ominously. ‘What’s got into you?’ He pointed sternly at the boy’s chair. ‘You sit down there and eat your dinner, young man. Your mother didn’t fix it for nothing.’
Charles turned and ran out of the kitchen, upstairs to his room. June Walton gasped and fluttered in dismay. ‘What in the world—’
Ted went on eating. His face was grim; his eyes were hard and dark. ‘That kid,’ he grated, ‘is going to have to learn a few things. Maybe he and I need to have a little private conference together.’
Charles crouched and listened.
The father-thing was coming up the stairs, nearer and nearer. ‘Charles!’ it shouted angrily. ‘Are you up there?’
He didn’t answer. Soundlessly, he moved back into his room and pulled the door shut. His heart was pounding heavily. The father-thing had reached the landing; in a moment it would come in his room.
He hurried to the window. He was terrified; it was already fumbling in the dark hall for the knob. He lifted the window and climbed out on the roof. With a grunt he dropped into the flower garden that ran by the front door, staggered and gasped, then leaped to his feet and ran from the light that streamed out the window, a patch of yellow in the evening darkness.
He found the garage; it loomed up ahead, a black square against the skyline. Breathing quickly, he fumbled in his pocket for his flashlight, then cautiously slid the door up and entered.
The garage was empty. The car was parked out front. To the left was his father’s workbench. Hammers and saws on the wooden walls. In the back were the lawnmower, rake, shovel, hoe. A drum of kerosene. License plates nailed up everywhere. Floor was concrete and dirt; a great oil slick stained the center, tufts of weeds greasy and black in the flickering beam of the flashlight.
Just inside the door was a big trash barrel. On top of the barrel were stacks of soggy newspapers and magazines, moldy and damp. A thick stench of decay issued from them as Charles began to move them around. Spiders dropped to the cement and scampered off; he crushed them with his foot and went on looking.
The sight made him shriek. He dropped the flashlight and leaped wildly back. The garage was plunged into instant gloom. He forced himself to kneel down and, for an ageless moment, he groped in the darkness for the light, among the spiders and greasy weeds. Finally he had it again. He managed to turn the beam down into the barrel, down the well he had made by pushing back the piles of magazines.
The father-thing had stuffed it down in the very bottom of the barrel. Among the old leaves and torn-up cardboard, the rotting remains of magazines and curtains, rubbish from the attic his mother had lugged down here with the idea of burning someday. It still looked a little like his father, enough for him to recognize. He had found it—and the sight made him sick at his stomach. He hung onto the barrel and shut his eyes until finally he was able to look again. In the barrel were the remains of his father, his real father. Bits the father-thing had no use for. Bits it had discarded.
He got the rake and pushed it down to stir the remains. They were dry. They cracked and broke at the touch of the rake. They were like a discarded snake skin, flaky and crumbling, rustling at the touch. An empty skin. The insides were gone. The important part. This was all that remained, just the brittle, cracking skin, wadded down at the bottom of the trash barrel in a little heap. This was all the father-thing had left; it had eaten the rest. Taken the insides—and his father’s place.
A sound.
He dropped the rake and hurried to the door. The father-thing was coming down the path, toward the garage. Its shoes crushed the gravel; it felt its way along uncertainly. ‘Charles!’ it called angrily
. ‘Are you in there? Wait’ll I get my hands on you, young man!’
His mother’s ample, nervous shape was outlined in the bright doorway of the house. ‘Ted, please don’t hurt him. He’s all upset about something.’
‘I’m not going to hurt him,’ the father-thing rasped; it halted to strike a match. ‘I’m just going to have a little talk with him. He needs to learn better manners. Leaving the table like that and running out at night, climbing down the roof—’
Charles slipped from the garage; the glare of the match caught his moving shape, and with a bellow the father-thing lunged forward.
‘Come here!’
Charles ran. He knew the ground better than the father-thing; it knew a lot, had taken a lot when it got his father’s insides, but nobody knew the way like he did. He reached the fence, climbed it, leaped into the Andersons’ yard, raced past their clothesline, down the path around the side of their house, and out on Maple Street.
He listened, crouched down and not breathing. The father-thing hadn’t come after him. It had gone back. Or it was coming around the sidewalk.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He had to keep moving. Sooner or later it would find him. He glanced right and left, made sure it wasn’t watching, and then started off at a rapid dog-trot.
‘What do you want?’ Tony Peretti demanded belligerently. Tony was fourteen. He was sitting at the table in the oak-paneled Peretti dining room, books and pencils scattered around him, half a ham-and-peanut butter sandwich and a coke beside him. ‘You’re Walton, aren’t you?’
Tony Peretti had a job uncrating stoves and refrigerators after school at Johnson’s Appliance Shop, downtown. He was big and blunt-faced. Black hair, olive skin, white teeth. A couple of times he had beaten up Charles; he had beaten up every kid in the neighborhood.
Charles twisted. ‘Say, Peretti. Do me a favor?’
Electric Dreams Page 9
