‘How many are here?’
Cutter laughed. ‘Can’t tell you that. Enough to turn out hoods and keep them circulating. To people prominent in Government. People holding positions of authority. Scientists, officials, educators—’
‘Why?’
‘Because we want to get them first, before the teeps. We got to you too late. A total probe report had already been made out on you, before the hood was even in the mail.
‘The teeps are gradually getting a stranglehold over the Government. They’re picking off the best men, denouncing them and getting them arrested. If a teep says a man is disloyal Clearance has to haul him in. We tried to get a hood to you in time. The report couldn’t be passed on to Clearance if you were wearing a hood. But they outsmarted us. They got a mob after you and snatched the hood. As soon as it was off they served the report to Clearance.’
‘So that’s why they wanted it off.’
‘The teeps can’t file a framed report on a man whose mind is opaque to probes. Clearance isn’t that stupid. The teeps have to get the hoods off. Every man wearing a hood is a man out of bounds. They’ve managed so far by stirring up mobs—but that’s ineffectual. Now they’re working on this bill in Congress. Senator Waldo’s Anti-Immunity Bill. It would outlaw wearing hoods.’ Cutter grinned ironically. ‘If a man is innocent why shouldn’t he want his mind probed? The bill makes wearing a probe shield a felony. People who receive hoods will turn them over to Clearance. There won’t be a man in ten thousand who’ll keep his hood, if it means prison and confiscation of property.’
‘I met Waldo, once. I can’t believe he understands what his bill would do. If he could be made to see—’
‘Exactly! If he could be made to see. This bill has to be stopped. If it goes through we’re licked. And the teeps are in. Somebody has to talk to Waldo and make him see the situation.’ Cutter’s eyes were bright. ‘You know the man. He’ll remember you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Franklin, we’re sending you back again—to meet Waldo. It’s our only chance to stop the bill. And it has to be stopped.’
The cruiser roared over the Rockies, brush and tangled forest flashing by below. ‘There’s a level pasture over to the right,’ Cutter said. ‘I’ll set her down, if I can find it.’
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 midmorning. 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 up, 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 forward. ‘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 semidarkness. 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 sallowfaced 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 the 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? 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 . . .’
Introduction by Kalen Egan and Travis Sentell
Story Title: Foster, You’re Dead
Script Title: Safe & Sound
Travis Sentell is the author of the non-fiction biography In the Shadow of Freedom, and the novel Fluid. His short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals.
Kalen Egan has been working for Electric Shepherd Productions since 2007. He is a Co-Executive Producer of the Amazon original series The Man in the High Castle and an Executive Producer of Philip K. Dick’s Electric Dreams.
Nearly twenty-five years after his death, Philip K. Dick introduced us to each other.
Like many of PKD’s opening sentences, this statement is seemingly impossible, entirely true, and the beginning of a long, strange journey. I (hi, I’m Travis) was leaving my job working for an LA-based literary management company representing the PKD estate, and I (hey, this is Kalen) needed to be trained as a new replacement. Right away, we bonded over a love of books, movies, and—more than anything—Philip K. Dick. Soon after, we began writing screenplays together.
What we’ve learned after working closely with his material for nearly a decade is that, contrary to popular description, Philip K. Dick wasn’t some unique prophet with a direct line to the future. He may seem that way today, but only because the questions that drove him concerned the very core of life itself: What is human? What is real? He used science fiction as his personal laboratory, testing the limits of humanity and reality over and over again, seeing where they broke and where they held together. Because those core questions are both perpetually relatable and totally unanswerable, Philip K. Dick’s work remains as true and insightful today as it was 60 years ago, and as it will be in another 60 years.
Foster, You’re Dead is no exception. Originally published in 1955 and ostensibly about Cold War anxiety, the story first struck us as a clever, cynical study of corporate entities exploiting youthful anxiety for profit. But tucked just under the surface of social commentary, we saw a deeply honest depiction of human beings and human relationships. There was a very real father and a very real son, each with believable and achingly true reactions to an unfair world, whose relationship was being torn apart because their subjective points of view were irreconcilable—the father, desperate not to cave to societal pressure, and the son, desperate to conform. We know this situation. We know these people. Perhaps we are them, or have been, or will be. Like so much of Dick’s work, Foster, You’re Dead tells us that safety is more than mere survival. It tells us that tribal instincts can trump blood relations, that consumer gadgets can be as much about cultural identification as functional assistance or protection, and that adolescents stepping outside of their bubbles need more than simple reassurance. So much in the story feels relevant because the instincts and emotions remain so very familiar.
We wrote our adaptation for Electric
Dreams during the ascension and election of a man riding a new wave of American populism, and found that we couldn’t escape at least a half dozen unintended resonances. Cultural fears involving foreign invaders, personal security, perceived loss of cultural status, ideological gaps between generations . . . Every news cycle sent new, unexpected reverberations through our fictional adaptation, none of which we’d set out to address, but all of which were becoming an inextricable part of the story. But of course, that’s the thing—Philip K. Dick’s work will always be relevant, because he saw the world and the people around him so clearly. He thought and wrote about humanity with extraordinary precision, and though external circumstances are constantly shifting, these fundamental human attributes remain terrifyingly, beautifully stagnant. The cynicism holds up, but so does the empathy, and in the world of PKD, these two attributes go hand in hand, supporting and combatting each other in equal measure.
Of course, he snuck all this in under the guise of pulp science fiction, baiting us into believing that maybe this is all just fantasy. Only once the story is over, and we take another look at the world around us, do we realize: It’s all completely true.
Foster, You’re Dead
School was agony, as always. Only today it was worse. Mike Foster finished weaving his two watertight baskets and sat rigid, while all around him the other children worked. Outside the concrete-and-steel building the late-afternoon sun shone cool. The hills sparkled green and brown in the crisp autumn air. In the overhead sky a few NATS circled lazily above the town.
The vast, ominous shape of Mrs Cummings, the teacher, silently approached his desk. ‘Foster, are you finished?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he answered eagerly. He pushed the baskets up. ‘Can I leave now?’
Mrs Cummings examined his baskets critically. ‘What about your trap-making?’ she demanded.
Electric Dreams Page 12
