The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Strories tcsopkd-5

by Philip Kindred Dick

  But only time would tell. Time. The entire Hobart Phase. It was somehow involved.

  And—possibly—not just for him.

  To his superior Bard Chai of the Clearness Council, Gantrix said, “We were right.” He recycled the tape recorder with shaking hands. “This is from our phone tap, video, to the library; the inventor of the swabble, Ludwig Eng, attempted to reach Lehrer and failed. There was therefore no conversation.”

  “Hence nothing to record,” the Bard purred cuttingly. His round green face sagged in pouting disappointment.

  “Not so. Look. It is Eng’s image that’s significant. He has spent the day with the Anarch—and as a consequence his age-flow has doubled back upon itself. See with your own eyes.”

  After a moment, in which he scrutinized the video image of Eng, the Bard leaned back in his chair, said, “The stigma. Heavy infestation of beard-stubble; certain index in a male, especially of the Cauc persuasion.”

  “Shall we rebirth him now?” Gantrix said. “Before he reaches Lehrer?” He had in his possession a superbly made gun which would dwindle any person in a matter of minutes—dwindle him directly into the nearest womb, and for good.

  “In my opinion,” Bard Chai said, “he has become harmless. The swabble is nonexistent; this will not restore it.” But within, Bard Chai felt doubt, if not concern. Perhaps Gantrix, his subordinate, correctly perceived the situation; he had done so in the past, on several critical occasions… which explained his current value to the Clearness Council.

  “But if the Hobart Phase has been cancelled out for Eng,” Gantrix said doggedly, “then the development of the swabble will start up again. After all, he possesses the original typed manuscript; his contact with the Anarch has taken place before the Eradicators of the syndicate induced the final stage of destruct.”

  That certainly was true; Bard Chai pondered and agreed. And yet despite this knowledge he had trouble taking Ludwig Eng seriously; the man did not look dangerous, bearded or otherwise. He turned to Gantrix, began to speak—then abruptly ceased.

  “Your expression strikes me as unusual,” Gantrix said, with palpable annoyance. “What’s wrong?” He seemed uneasy, as the Bard’s stare continued. Concern replaced displeasure.

  “Your face,” the Bard Chai said, keeping his composure with the greatest of effort.

  “What about my face?” Gantrix’s hand flew to his chin; he massaged briefly, then blinked. “My God.”

  “And you have not been near the Anarch. So that does not explain your condition.” He wondered, then, about himself; had the reversal of the Hobart Phase extended to his own person as well? Swiftly he explored his own jaw-line and dewlap. And distinctly felt burgeoning bristle. Perplexing, he thought wildly to himself. What can account for this? The reversal of the Anarch’s time-path might be only an effect of some prior cause involving them all. This put a new light on the Anarch’s situation; perhaps it had not been voluntary.

  “Can it be,” Gantrix said reflectively, “that the disappearance of Eng’s device could explain this? Except for mention in the typewritten manuscript there is no longer any reality connected with the swabble. Actually, we should have anticipated this, since the swabble is intimately associated with the Hobart Phase.”

  “I wonder,” Bard Chai said, still rapidly pondering. But the swabble had not strictly speaking created the Hobart Phase; it served to direct it, so that certain regions of the planet could evade the Phase entirely—whereas others had become completely mired in it. Still, the disappearance of the swabble from contemporary society must diffuse the Hobart Phase equally over everyone; and an outgrowth of this might be a diminution to beneath the level of effectiveness for those—such as himself and Carl Gantrix—who had participated in the Phase fully.

  “But now,” Gantrix said thoughtfully, “the inventor of the swabble, and first user of it, has returned to normal time; hence the development of the swabble has again manifested itself. We can expect Eng to build his first working model of the device at any time, now.”

  The difficulty of Eng’s situation had now become apparent to Bard Chai. As before, use of the man’s mechanism would spread throughout the world. But—as soon as Eng built and placed in operation his pilot swabble, the Hobart Phase would resume; once more Eng’s direction would reverse itself. The swabbles would then be abolished by the syndicate until, once again, all that remained was the original typewritten manuscript—at which point normal time would reestablish itself.

  It appeared to Bard Chai that Eng had gotten himself trapped in a closed loop. He would oscillate within a distinct small interval: between possessing only a theoretical account of the swabble and in actuality constructing and operating a functioning model. And tagging along with him would go a good portion of Terra’s population.

  We are caught with him, Bard Chai realized gloomily. How do we escape? What is our solution?

  “We must either force Eng back into complete obliteration of his manuscript, including the idea for the construct,” Gantrix said, “or—”

  “But that is impossible,” Bard Chai broke in impatiently. “At this point the Hobart Phase weakens automatically, since no working swabbles exist to sustain it. How, in their absence, can Eng be forced backward in time a single step farther?”

  It constituted a valid—and answerable—query; both men realized that, and neither spoke for a time. Gantrix morosely continued to rub his jaw, as if he could perceive the steady growth of beard-stubble. Bard Chai, on the other hand, had withdrawn into an intensive introverted state; he pondered and repondered the problem.

  No answer came. At least not yet. But, given time—

  “This is extremely difficult,” the Bard said, with agitation. “Eng will probably throw together his first swabble at any moment. And once more we will be cycled in a retrograde direction.” What worried him now was one terrible, swift insight. This would occur again and again, and each time the interval would be shortened further. Until, he ruminated, it becomes a stall within a single microsecond; no time-progression in either direction will be able to take place.

  A morbid prospect indeed. But one redemptive factor existed. Eng undoubtedly would perceive the problem, too. And he would seek a way out. Logically, it could be solved by him in at least one way: he could voluntarily abstain from inventing the swabble. The Hobart Phase, then, would never assert itself, at least not effectively

  But such a decision lay with Ludwig Eng alone. Would he cooperate, if the idea were presented to him?

  Probably not. Eng had always been a violent and autistic man; no one could influence him. This, of course, had helped him become an original personality; without this Eng would not have amounted to anything as an inventor, and the swabble, with its enormous effect on contemporary society, would never have come into existence.

  Which would have been a good thing, the Bard thought morosely. But until now we could not appreciate this.

  He appreciated it now.

  The solution which Gantrix had proposed, that of rebirthing Eng, did not appeal to him. But it looked more and more to his eyes as the only way out. And a way out had to be found.

  With profound irritation the librarian Niehls Lehrer inspected the clock on his desk, then his appointment book. Eng had not shown up; two-thirty had arrived, and Lehrer sat alone in his office. Carl Gantrix had been correct.

  While pondering the meaning of this he heard, dimly, the phone ringing. Probably Eng, he decided as he reached for the receiver. A long way off, phoning in to say that he can’t make it. I’ll have trouble with this; the syndicate won’t like it. And I’ll have to alert them; I have no choice.

  Into the phone he said, “Goodbye.”

  “I love you, Niehls.” A breathless feminine voice; this was not the call which he had anticipated. “Do you love me?”

  “Yes, Charise,” he said. “I love you, too. But dammit, don’t call me during business hours; I thought you knew that.”

  Contritely, Charise McFadden said,
“Sorry, Niehls. But I keep thinking about poor Lance. Did you do the research on him that you promised? I bet you didn’t.”

  As a matter of fact he had; or more accurately he had instructed a minor employee of the library to do the task for him. Reaching into the top desk drawer he brought out Lance Arbuthnot’s folio. “Here it is,” he informed Charise. “I know all there is to know about this crank. All I care to know, more correctly.” He leafed among the sheets of paper within the file. “There’s not much here, actually. Arbuthnot hasn’t done much. You understand I can only take time to go into this matter because a major library client has failed—so far—to keep his two-thirty appointment. If he does show up, I’ll have to terminate this conversation.”

  “Did Arbuthnot know the Anarch Peak?”

  “That part of his account is true.”

  “And he is a genuine crank. So eradicating his thesis would be a distinct gain for society. It’s your duty.” Over the vid portion of the phone she batted her long lashes coaxingly. “Come on, Niehls, dear. Please.”

  “But,” Lehrer continued inflexibly, “there is nothing here suggesting that Arbuthnot spent any time concocting a paper dealing with the psychosomatic aspects of death by meteor-strike.”

  She colored, hesitated, then said in a low voice, “I, um, made that up.”

  “Why?”

  After a pause, Charise said, falteringly, “Well, h-h-he’s—the fact is, I’m his mistress.”

  “The fact is,” Lehrer said boring ahead with ruthless vigor, “you don’t really know what his thesis is about. It may be perfectly rational. A significant contribution to our society. Correct?” He did not wait for her reply; reaching, he started to break the phone circuit.

  “Wait.” She swallowed rapidly, ducked her head, then plunged on as his fingers touched the trip switch of the phone. “All right, Niehls; I admit it. Lance refuses to tell me what his thesis is about. He won’t tell anybody. But if you’ll undertake to eradicate it—don’t you see? He’ll have to reveal it to you; your analysis of it is required before the syndicate accepts it. Isn’t that so? And then you’ll tell me what it’s all about. I know you will.”

  Lehrer said, “What do you care what it’s about?”

  “I think,” Charise said, hesitating, “it has to do with me. Honest. There’s something strange about me, and Lance noticed it. I mean, that’s not so unusual when you consider how, um, close we two are; we see so much—if you’ll excuse the expression—of each other.”

  “I find this a dull topic,” Lehrer said frigidly. At this point, he said to himself, I wouldn’t accept Arbuthnot’s thesis at any cost to me. Even if they debited me to the tune often thousand poscreds. “I’ll talk to you some other time,” he said, and broke the phone circuit.

  “Sir,” his secretary Miss Tomsen said over the desk intercom, “there’s this man out here who’s been waiting since six this evening. He says he only wants a second or two of your time, and Miss McFadden led him to understand that you’d be glad to—”

  “Tell him I died in office,” Lehrer said harshly.

  “But you can’t die, sir. You’re under the Hobart Phase. And Mr. Arbuthnot knows that, because he mentioned it. He’s been sitting out here doing a Hobart type horoscope on you, and he predicts that great things have happened to you during the previous year. Frankly he makes me nervous; some of his predictions sound so accurate.”

  “Fortune-telling about the past doesn’t interest me,” Lehrer said. “In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a hoax. Only the future is knowable.” The man is a crank, all right, Lehrer realized. Charise told me the truth in that respect. Imagine maintaining in all seriousness that what has already happened, what has vanished into the limbo of nebulous yesterday, can be predicted. There’s one killed every minute, as P.T. Barnum phrased it.

  Maybe I should see him, he reflected. Charise is right; ideas like this ought to be eradicated for the good of mankind, if not for my own peace of mind.

  But that was not all. Now a measure of curiosity overcame him. It would be interesting, in a feeble way, to hear the idiot out. See what he predicted, especially for the recent few weeks. And then accept his thesis for eradication. Be the first person he casts a Hobart type of horoscope for.

  Undoubtedly, Ludwig Eng did not intend to show up. The time, Lehrer said to himself, must be two o’clock by now. He glanced at his wristwatch. And blinked.

  The watch hands semaphored two-forty.

  “Miss Tomsen,” Lehrer said into the intercom, “What time do you have?”

  “Leaping J. Lizards,” Miss Tomsen said. “It’s earlier than I thought. I distinctly recall it being two-twenty just a moment ago. My watch must have stopped.”

  “You mean it’s later than you thought. Two-forty is later than two-thirty.”

  “No sir, if you don’t resent my disagreeing with you. I mean, it’s not my place to tell you what’s what, but I am right. You can ask anybody. I’ll ask this gentleman out here. Mr. Arbuthnot, isn’t two-forty earlier than two-twenty?”

  Over the intercom speaker came a masculine voice, dry and controlled. “I’m only interested in seeing Mr. Lehrer, not in holding academic discussions. Mr. Lehrer, if you will see me, I guarantee you’ll find my thesis the most flagrant piece of outright trash you’ve ever had brought to your attention; Miss McFadden will not mislead you.”

  “Send him in,” Lehrer reluctantly instructed Miss Tomsen. He felt perplexed. Something weird had begun to happen, something which was connected with the orderly flow of time. But he could not make out precisely what.

  A dapper young man, in the first stages of baldness, entered the office, a briefcase under his arm. He and Lehrer briefly shook and then Arbuthnot seated himself facing the desk.

  So this is the man Charise is having an affair with, Lehrer said to himself. Well, so it goes. “I’ll give you ten minutes,” he stated. “And then you’re out of here. You understand?”

  “I have concocted here,” Arbuthnot said, unzipping his briefcase, “the most outrageously impossible concept imaginable to my mind. And I think official eradication is absolutely essential, here, if this idea is to be kept from taking root and doing actual outright harm. There are people who pick up and act on any idea, no matter how contrary to rational good sense. You’re the only person I’ve shown this to, and I show it to you with grave reservations.” Arbuthnot then, in one brisk and spasmodic motion, dropped his typewritten work on the surface of Niehls Lehrer’s desk. And sat back, waiting.

  With professional caution, Lehrer surveyed the title of the paper, then shrugged. “This is nothing more than an inversion of Ludwig Eng’s famous work.” He slid his castered chair back from the desk, disavowing the manuscript; raising both hands he gestured in dismissal. “This is not so preposterous; it’s logically thinkable to reverse Eng’s title—anybody could do it at any time.”

  Arbuthnot said grimly, “But no one has. Until now. Read it once again and think out the implications.”

  Unimpressed, Lehrer once more examined the thick bundle of pages.

  “The implications,” Arbuthnot continued in a low, quiet, but tense voice, “of the eradication of this manuscript.”

  The title, still unimpressive to Lehrer, read:

  How I Disassembled My Swabble into Ordinary Household Objects in My Basement During My Spare Time

  “So?” Lehrer said. “Anyone can disassemble a swabble; in fact it’s being done. In fact, thousands of swabbles are being eradicated; it’s the pattern. In fact, I doubt whether a single swabble is now to be found anywhere in—”

  “When this thesis is eradicated,” Arbuthnot said, “as I am certain it has been, and recently, what will the negation consist of? Think it out, Lehrer. You know the implications of cleaning out of existence Eng’s premise; it means the end of the swabble and therefore the Hobart Phase. In fact, we’ll see a return to normal time-flow throughout the Western United States and the Free Negro Municipality within the past forty-eight hour
s… as Eng’s manuscript nears syndicate jurisdiction. The eradication of my work, then, if you follow the same line of reasoning—” He paused, “You see what I’ve done, don’t you? I’ve found a way to preserve the swabble. And to maintain the now-disintegrating Hobart Phase, Without my thesis we’ll gradually lose all that the swabble has brought us. The swabble, Lehrer, eliminates death; the case of the Anarch Peak is only the beginning. But the only way to keep the cycle alive is to balance Eng’s paper with mine; Eng’s paper moves us in one direction; my paper reverses it, and then Eng’s becomes operative once more. Forever, if we want it. Unless—and I can’t imagine this happening, although admittedly it is theoretically possible—a hopeless fusion of the two time-flows results.”

  “You’re a crank,” Lehrer said thickly.

  “Exactly.” Arbuthnot nodded. “And that’s why you’ll accept my paper for official syndicate eradication. Because you don’t believe me. Because you think this is absurd.” He smiled slightly, his eyes gray, intelligent and penetrating. Pressing the on-button of his intercom, Lehrer said, “Miss Tomsen, notify the local outlet of the syndicate that I’d like an Erad sent to my office as soon as possible. I have some junk here that I want him to rule on. So we can begin the business of terminal copy extinction.” “Yes, Mr. Lehrer,” Miss Tomsen’s voice said.

  Leaning back in his chair, Lehrer surveyed the man seated across from him. “Does that suit you?”

  Still smiling, Arbuthnot said, “Perfectly.”

  “If I thought there was anything in your concept—”

  “But you don’t,” Arbuthnot said patiently. “So I’m going to get what I want; I’ll be successful. Sometime tomorrow or at the latest the day after.”

  “You mean yesterday,” Lehrer said. “Or the day before.” He examined his wristwatch. “The ten minutes are up,” he informed the crank inventor. “I’ll ask you now to leave.” He placed his hand on the bundle of papers. “This stays here.”