But the big puzzle: how had he— his earlier self—known that a piece of wire and a bus token would save his life?" He had known, all right. Known in advance. But how? And the other five. Probably they were just as precious, or would be.
The he of those two years had known things that he did not know now, things that had been washed away when the company cleaned his mind. Like an adding machine which had been cleared. Everything was slate-clean. What he had known was gone, now. Gone, except for seven trinkets, five of which were still in his pocket.
But the real problem right now was not a problem of speculation. It was very concrete. The Security Police were looking for him. They had his name and description. There was no use thinking of going to his apartment—if he even still had an apartment. But where, then? Hotels? The SP combed them daily. Friends? That would mean putting them in jeopardy, along with him. It was only a question of time before the SP found him, walking along the street, eating in a restaurant, in a show, sleeping in some rooming house. The SP were everywhere.
Everywhere? Not quite. When an individual person was defenseless, a business was not. The big economic forces had managed to remain free, although virtually everything else had been absorbed by the Government. Laws that had been eased away from the private person still protected property and industry. The SP could pick up any given person, but they could not enter and seize a company, a business. That had been clearly established in the middle of the twentieth century.
Business, industry, corporations, were safe from the Security Police. Due process was required. Rethrick Construction was a target of SP interest, but they could do nothing until some statute was violated. If he could get back to the Company, get inside its doors, he would be safe. Jennings smiled grimly. The modern church, sanctuary. It was the Government against the corporation, rather than the State against the Church. The new Notre Dame of the world. Where the law could not follow.
Would Rethrick take him back? Yes, on the old basis. He had already said so. Another two years sliced from him, and then back onto the streets. Would that help him? He felt suddenly in his pocket. And there were the remaining trinkets. Surely he had intended them to be used! No, he could not go back to Rethrick and work another contract time. Something else was indicated. Something more permanent. Jennings pondered. Rethrick Construction. What did it construct? What had he known, found out, during those two years? And why were the SP so interested?
He brought out the five objects and studied them. The green strip of cloth. The code key. The ticket stub. The parcel receipt. The half poker chip. Strange, that little things like that could be important.
And Rethrick Construction was involved.
There was no doubt. The answer, all the answers, lay at Rethrick. But where was Rethrick? He had no idea where the plant was, no idea at all. He knew where the Office was, the big, luxurious room with the young woman and her desk. But that was not Rethrick Construction. Did anyone know, beside Rethrick? Kelly didn't know. Did the SP know?
It was out of town. That was certain. He had gone there by rocket. It was probably in the United States, maybe in the farmlands, the country, between cities. What a hell of a situation! Any moment the SP might pick him up. The next time he might not get away. His only chance, his own real chance for safety, lay in reaching Rethrick. And his only chance to find out the things he had to know. The plant—a place where he had been, but which he could not recall. He looked down at the five trinkets. Would any of them help?
A burst of despair swept through him. Maybe it was just coincidence, the wire and the token. Maybe—
He examined the parcel receipt, turning it over and holding it up to the light. Suddenly his stomach muscles knotted. His pulse changed. He had been right. No, it was not a coincidence, the wire and the token. The parcel receipt was dated two days hence. The parcel, whatever it might be, had not even been deposited yet. Not for forty-eight more hours.
He looked at the other things. The ticket stub. What good was a ticket stub? It was creased and bent, folded over, again and again. He couldn't go anyplace with that. A stub didn't take you anywhere. It only told you where you had been.
Where you had been!
He bent down, peering at it, smoothing the creases. The printing had been torn through the middle. Only part of each word could be made out.
PORTOLA T
STUARTSVI
IOW
He smiled. That was it. Where he had been. He could fill in the missing letters. It was enough. There was no doubt: he had foreseen this, too. Three of the seven trinkets used. Four left. Stuartsville, Iowa. Was there such a place? He looked out the window of the bus. The Intercity rocket station was only a block or so away. He could be there in a second. A quick sprint from the bus, hoping the Police wouldn't be there to stop him—
But somehow he knew they wouldn't. Not with the other four things in his pocket. And once he was on the rocket he would be safe. Intercity was big, big enough to keep free of the SP. Jennings put the remaining trinkets back into his pocket and stood up, pulling the bellcord.
A moment later he stepped gingerly out onto the sidewalk.
The rocket let him off at the edge of town, at a tiny brown field. A few disinterested porters moved about, stacking luggage, resting from the heat of the sun.
Jennings crossed the field to the waiting room, studying the people around him. Ordinary people, workmen, businessmen, housewives. Stuartsville was a small middle Western town. Truck drivers. High school kids.
He went through the waiting room, out onto the street. So this was where Rethrick's Plant was located—perhaps. If he had used the stub correctly. Anyhow, something was here, or he wouldn't have included the stub with the other trinkets.
Stuartsville, Iowa. A faint plan was beginning to form in the back of his mind, still vague and nebulous. He began to walk, his hands in his pockets, looking around him. A newspaper office, lunch counters, hotels, poolrooms, a barber shop, a television repair shop. A rocket sales store with huge showrooms of gleaming rockets. Family size. And at the end of the block the Portola Theater.
The town thinned out. Farms, fields. Miles of green country. In the sky above a few transport rockets lumbered, carrying farm supplies and equipment back and forth. A small, unimportant town. Just right for Rethrick Construction. The Plant would be lost here, away from the city, away from the SP.
Jennings walked back. He entered a lunchroom, BOB'S PLACE. A young man with glasses came over as he sat down at the counter, wiping his hands on his white apron.
"Coffee," Jennings said.
"Coffee." The man brought the cup. There were only a few people in the lunchroom. A couple of flies buzzed, against the window.
Outside in the street shoppers and farmers moved leisurely by.
"Say," Jennings said, stirring his coffee. "Where can a man get work around here? Do you know?"
"What kind of work?" The young man came back, leaning against the counter.
"Electrical wiring. I'm an electrician. Television, rockets, computers. That sort of stuff."
"Why don't you try the big industrial areas? Detroit. Chicago. New York."
Jennings shook his head. "Can't stand the big cities. I never liked cities."
The young man laughed. "A lot of people here would be glad to work in Detroit. You're an electrician?"
"Are there any plants around here? Any repair shops or plants?"
"None that I know of." The young man went off to wait on some men that had come in. Jennings sipped his coffee. Had he made a mistake? Maybe he should go back and forget about Stuartsville, Iowa. Maybe he had made the wrong inference from the ticket stub. But the ticket meant something, unless he was completely wrong about everything. It was a little late to decide that, though.
The young man came back. "Is there any kind of work I can get here?" Jennings said. "Just to tide me over."
"There's always farm work."
"How about the retail repair shops? Garages. TV."
"There's a TV repair shop down the street. Maybe you might get something there. You could try. Farm work pays good. They can't get many men, anymore. Most men in the military. You want to pitch hay?"
Jennings laughed. He paid for his coffee. "Not very much. Thanks."
"Once in a while some of the men go up the road and work. There's some sort of Government station."
Jennings nodded. He pushed the screen door open, stepping outside onto the hot sidewalk. He walked aimlessly for a time, deep in thought, turning his nebulous plan over and over. It was a good plan; it would solve everything, all his problems at once. But right now it hinged on one thing: finding Rethrick Construction. And he had only one clue, if it really was a clue. The ticket stub, folded and creased, in his pocket. And a faith that he had known what he was doing.
A Government station. Jennings paused, looking around him. Across the street was a taxi stand, a couple of cabbies sitting in their cabs, smoking and reading the newspaper. It was worth a try, at least. There wasn't much else to do. Rethrick would be something else, on the surface. If it posed as a Government project no one would ask any questions. They were all too accustomed to Government projects working without explanation, in secrecy.
He went over to the first cab. "Mister," he said, "can you tell me something?"
The cabbie looked up. "What do you want?"
"They tell me there's work to be had, out at the Government station. Is that right?"
The cabbie studied him. He nodded.
"What kind of work is it?"
"I don't know."
"Where do they do the hiring?"
"I don't know." The cabbie lifted his paper.
"Thanks." Jennings turned away.
"They don't do any hiring. Maybe once in a long while. They don't take many on. You better go someplace else if you're looking for work."
"All right."
The other cabbie leaned out of his cab. "They use only a few day laborers, buddy. That's all. And they're very choosy. They don't hardly let anybody in. Some kind of war work."
Jennings pricked up his ears. "Secret?"
"They come into town and pick up a load of construction workers. Maybe a truck full. That's all. They're real careful who they pick."
Jennings walked back toward the cabbie. "That right?"
"It's a big place. Steel wall. Charged. Guards. Work going on day and night. But nobody gets in. Set up on top of a hill, out the old Henderson Road. About two miles and a half." The cabbie poked at his shoulder. "You can't get in unless you're identified. They identify their laborers, after they pick them out. You know."
Jennings stared at him. The cabbie was tracing a line on his shoulder. Suddenly Jennings understood. A flood of relief rushed over him.
"Sure," he said. "I understand what you mean. At least, I think so." He reached into his pocket, bringing out the four trinkets. Carefully, he unfolded the strip of green cloth, holding it up. "Like this?"
The cabbies stared at the cloth. "That's right," one of them said slowly, staring at the cloth. "Where did you get it?"
Jennings laughed. "A friend." He put the cloth back in his pocket. "A friend gave it to me."
He went off, toward the Intercity field. He had plenty to do, now that the first step was over. Rethrick was here, all right. And apparently the trinkets were going to see him through. One for every crisis. A pocketful of miracles, from someone who knew the future!
But the next step couldn't be done alone. He needed help. Somebody else was needed for this part. But who? He pondered, entering the Intercity waiting room. There was only one person he could possibly go to. It was a long chance, but he had to take it. He couldn't work alone, here on out. If the Rethrick plant was here then Kelly would be too…
The street was dark. At the corner a lamppost cast a fitful beam. A few cruisers moved by.
From the apartment building entrance a slim shape came, a young woman in a coat, a purse in her hand. Jennings watched as she passed under the streetlamp. Kelly McVane was going someplace, probably to a party. Smartly dressed, high heels tap-tapping on the pavement, a little coat and hat.
He stepped out behind her. "Kelly."
She turned quickly, her mouth open. "Oh!"
Jennings took her arm. "Don't worry. It's just me. Where are you going, all dressed up?"
"No place." She blinked. "My golly, you scared me. What is it? What's going on?"
"Nothing. Can you spare a few minutes? I want to talk to you."
Kelly nodded. "I guess so." She looked around. "Where'll we go?"
"Where's a place we can talk? I don't want anyone to overhear us."
"Can't we just walk along?"
"No. The Police."
"The Police?"
"They're looking for me."
"For you? But why?"
"Let's not stand here," Jennings said grimly. "Where can we go?"
Kelly hesitated. "We can go up to my apartment. No one's there."
They went up to the elevator. Kelly unlocked the door, pressing the code key against it. The door swung open and they went inside, the heater and lights coming on automatically at her step. She closed the door and took off her coat.
"I won't stay long." Jennings said.
"That's all right. I'll fix you a drink." She went into the kitchen. Jennings sat down on the couch, looking around at the neat little apartment. Presently the girl came back. She sat down beside him and Jennings took his drink. Scotch and water, cold.
"Thanks."
Kelly smiled. "Not at all." The two of them sat silently for a time. "Well?" she said at last. "What's this all about? Why are the Police looking for you?"
"They want to find out about Rethrick Construction. I'm only a pawn in this. They think I know something because I worked two years at Rethrick's Plant."
"But you don't!"
"I can't prove that."
Kelly reached out, touching Jennings' head, just above the ear. "Feel there. That spot."
Jennings reached up. Above his ear, under the hair, was a tiny hard spot. "What is it?"
"They burned through the skull there. Cut a tiny wedge from the brain. All your memories of the two years. They located them and burned them out. The SP couldn't possibly make you remember. It's gone. You don't have it."
"By the time they realize that there won't be much left of me."
Kelly said nothing.
"You can see the spot I'm in. It would be better for me if I did remember. Then I could tell them and they'd—"
"And destroy Rethrick!"
Jennings shrugged. "Why not? Rethrick means nothing to me. I don't even know what they're doing. And why are the Police so interested? From the very start, all the secrecy, cleaning my mind—"
"There's reason. Good reason."
"Do you know why?"
"No." Kelly shook her head. "But I'm sure there's a reason. If the SP are interested, there's reason." She set down her drink, turning toward him. "I hate the Police. We all do, every one of us. They're after us all the time. I don't know anything about Rethrick. If I did my life wouldn't be safe. There's not much standing between Rethrick and them. A few laws, a handful of laws. Nothing more."
"I have the feeling Rethrick is a great deal more than just another construction company the SP wants to control."
"I suppose it is. I really don't know. I'm just a receptionist. I've never been to the Plant. I don't even know where it is."
"But you wouldn't want anything to happen to it."
"Of course not! They're fighting the Police. Anyone that's fighting the Police is on our side."
"Really? I've heard that kind of logic before. Anyone fighting communism was automatically good, a few decades ago. Well, time will tell. As far as I'm concerned I'm an individual caught between two ruthless forces. Government and business. The Government has men and wealth. Rethrick Construction has its technocracy. What they've done with it, I don't know. I did, a few weeks ago. All I have now is a faint glimmer, a few
references. A theory."
Kelly glanced at him. "A theory?"
"And my pocketful of trinkets. Seven. Three or four now. I've used some. They're the basis of my theory. If Rethrick is doing what I think it's doing, I can understand the SP's interest. As a matter of fact, I'm beginning to share their interest."
"What is Rethrick doing?"
"It's developed a time scoop."
"What?"
"A time scoop. It's been theoretically possible for several years. But it's illegal to experiment with time scoops and mirrors. It's a felony, and if you're caught, all your equipment and data becomes the property of the Government." Jennings smiled crookedly. "No wonder the Government's interested. If they can catch Rethrick with the goods—"
"A time scoop. It's hard to believe."
"Don't you think I'm right?"
"I don't know. Perhaps. Your trinkets. You're not the first to come out with a little cloth sack of odds and ends. You've used some? How?"
"First, the wire and the bus token. Getting away from the Police. It seems funny, but if I hadn't had them, I'd be there yet. A piece of wire and a ten-cent token. But I don't usually carry such things. That's the point."
"Time travel."
"No. Not time travel. Berkowsky demonstrated that time travel is impossible. This is a time scoop, a mirror to see and a scoop to pick up things. These trinkets. At least one of them is from the future. Scooped up. Brought back."
"How do you know?"
"It's dated. The others, perhaps not. Things like tokens and wire belong to classes of things. Any one token is as good as another. There, he must have used a mirror."
"He?"
"When I was working with Rethrick. I must have used the mirror. I looked into my own future. If I was repairing their equipment I could hardly keep from it! I must have looked ahead, seen what was coming. The SP picking me up. I must have seen that, and seen what a piece of thin wire and a bus token would do—if I had them with me at the exact moment."
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 38
