"It's part of an estate left to me."
Larry pulled himself together slowly. Allison, in a scarlet two-piece outfit, gazed happily at the road ahead, her small face blank and contented. "Let me get all this straight. You've never seen it; your lawyer just called you; you get it as part of an estate."
"That's right. Some old uncle of mine. I forget his name. I didn't expect him to leave me anything." She turned toward Larry, beaming warmly at him. "But this is such a special time for me. It's important that everything go right. My whole world…"
"Yeah. Your whole world. Well, I hope you like the house after you see it."
Allison laughed. "I will. After all, it exists for me; that's what it's there for."
"You've got this worked out like an exact science," Larry murmured. "Everything that happens to you is for the best. You're pleased with everything. So it must be your world. Maybe you're just making the best of things—telling yourself you really like the things that happen to you."
"Do you think so?"
He frowned in thought as they zipped along. "Tell me," he said finally, "how did you learn about these multiple worlds? Why are you so sure this one is yours?"
She smiled at him. "I worked it out myself," she said. "I studied logic and philosophy, and history—and there was always something that puzzled me. Why were there so many vital changes in the fortunes of people and nations that seemed to come about providentially, just at the right moment? Why did it really seem as if my world had to be just the way it was, so that all through history, strange things happened which make it work out that way?
"I'd heard the 'This Is the Best of All Possible Worlds' theory, but it didn't make sense the way I read about it. I studied the religions of mankind, and scientific speculations of the existence of a Creator—but something was lacking, something which either couldn't be accounted for, or was just overlooked."
Larry nodded. "Well, sure. It's easy; if this is the best of all possible worlds, then why is there so much suffering—unnecessary suffering—in it, if there's a benevolent and all-powerful Creator, as so many millions have believed, do believe, and will believe in the future, no doubt, then how do you account for the existence of evil?" He grinned at her. "And you worked out the answer to all that, eh—just tossed it off like a martini?"
Allison sniffed. "You don't have to put it that way… Well, it is simple and I'm not the only one who's figured it out, although obviously I'm the only one in this world…"
"Okay," Larry broke in, "I'll hold back objections until you've told me how you did it."
"Thank you, darling," she said. "You see, you are understanding—even if you don't agree with me right off the bat… Well, that would get tiresome, I'm sure. It's much more fun if I have to work to convince you… Oh, don't get impatient, I'll come to the point."
"Thank you," he said.
"It's simple, like the egg-trick, once you know the angle. The reason why both the benevolent Creator and the 'Best of All Possible Worlds' theory seem to bog down is because we start out with an unjustified assumption—that this is the only world. But suppose we try a different approach: assume a Creator of infinite power; surely, such a being would be capable of creating infinite worlds … or at least, so large a number of them to seem infinite to us.
"If you assume that, then everything else makes sense. The Creator set forces into motion; He created separate worlds for every single human being in existence; each one exists for that human being alone. He's an artist, but He uses an economy of means, so that there's much duplication of themes and events and motives throughout the worlds."
"Oh," Larry replied softly, "now I begin to see what you're driving at. In some worlds, Napoleon won the battle of Waterloo—although only in his own world did everything work out just right for him; in this one he had to lose…"
"I'm not sure Napoleon ever existed in my world," Allison said thoughtfully. "I think he's just a name in the records, although some such person did exist in other worlds. In my world, Hitler was defeated, Roosevelt died—I'd be sorry about that, only I didn't know him, and he wasn't very real, anyway; they were both just images carried over from other people's worlds
"All right," he said. "And everything worked out wonderfully for you, all your life, huh? You were never really sick, or hurt, or hungry…"
"That's about it," she agreed. "I've had some hurts and frustrations, but nothing really … well, really crippling. And every one has been important toward getting something I really wanted, or getting to understand something important. You see, Larry, the logic is perfect; I deduced it all from the evidence. There's no other answer that will stand up."
Larry smiled. "What does it matter what I think? You're not going to change your mind."
Larry gazed at the building in sick disgust. "That's a house?" he muttered at last.
Allison's eyes danced with happiness as she looked up at the great mansion. "What, darling? What did you say?"
The house was immense—and super-modern, like a pastry cook's nightmare. Great columns reared up, connected by sloping beams and buttresses. The rooms were set one on top of each other like shoe-boxes, each at its own angle. The whole building was finished in some kind of bright metal shingle, a frightening butter-yellow. In the morning sun the house blazed and sparkled.
"What are—those?" Larry indicated some forlorn plants snaking up the irregular sides of the house. "Are those supposed to be there?"
Allison blinked, frowning a little. "What did you say, darling? You mean the bougainvillaea? That's a very exotic plant. It comes from the South Pacific."
"What's it do? Hold the house together?"
Allison's smile vanished. She raised her eyebrow. "Darling, are you feeling all right? Is there anything the matter?"
Larry moved back toward the car. "Let's go back to town. I'm getting hungry for lunch."
"All right," Allison said, watching him oddly. "All right, we'll go back."
That night, after dinner, Larry seemed moody and unresponsive. "Let's go to the Wind-Up," he said suddenly. "I feel like seeing something familiar, for a change."
"What do you mean?"
Larry nodded at the expensive restaurant they had just left. "All those fancy lights. And little people in uniforms whispering in your ear. In French."
"If you expect to order food you should know some French," Allison stated. Her face twisted into an angry pout. "Larry, I'm beginning to wonder about you. The way you acted out at the house. The strange things you said."
Larry shrugged. "The sight of it drove me temporarily insane."
"Well, I certainly hope you recover."
"I'm recovering each minute."
They came to the Wind-Up. Allison started to go inside. Larry stopped for a moment, lighting a cigarette. The good old Wind-Up; he felt better already, just standing in front of it. Warm, dark, noisy, the sound of the ragged dixieland combo in the background—
His spirits returned. The peace and contentment of a good run-down bar. He sighed, pushing the door open.
And stopped, stricken.
The Wind-Up had changed. It was well-lit. Instead of Max the waiter, there were waitresses in neat white uniforms bustling around. The place was full of well-dressed women, sipping cocktails and chatting. And in the rear was an imitation gypsy orchestra, with a long-haired churl in fake costume, torturing a violin.
Allison turned around. "Come on!" she snapped impatiently. "You're attracting attention, standing there in the door."
Larry gazed for a long time at the imitation gypsy orchestra; at the bustling waitresses; the chatting ladies; the recessed neon lighting. Numbness crept over him. He sagged.
"What's the matter?" Allison caught his arm crossly. "What's the matter with you?"
"What—what happened?" Larry waved his hand feebly at the interior. "There been an accident?"
"Oh, this. I forgot to tell you. I spoke to Mr. O'Mallery about it. Just before I met you last night."
"Mr. O'M
allery?"
"He owns this building. He's an old friend of mine. I pointed out how—how dirty and unattractive his little place was getting. I pointed out what a few improvements would do."
Larry made his way outside, onto the sidewalk. He ground his cigarette out with his heel and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Allison hurried after him, her cheeks red with indignation. "Larry! Where are you going?"
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight?" She stared at him in astonishment. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going."
"Going where?"
"Out. Home. To the park. Anywhere." Larry started off down the sidewalk, hunched over, hands in his pockets.
Allison caught up with him, stepping angrily in front of him. "Have you gone out of your mind? Do you know what you're saying?"
"Sure. I'm leaving you; we're splitting up. Well, it was nice. See you sometime."
The two spots in Allison's cheeks glowed like two red coals. "Just a minute, Mr. Brewster. I think you've forgotten something." Her voice was hard and brittle.
"Forgotten something? Like what?"
"You can't leave; you can't walk out on me."
Larry raised an eyebrow. "I can't?"
"I think you better reconsider, while you still have time."
"I don't get your drift." Larry yawned. "I think I'll go home to my three room apartment and go to bed. I'm tired." He started past her.
"Have you forgotten?" Allison snapped. "Have you forgotten that you're not completely real! That you exist only as a part of my world?"
"Lord! Are you going to start that again?"
"Better think about it before you walk off. You exist for my benefit, Mr. Brewster. This is my world; remember that. Maybe in your own world things are different, but this is my world. And in my world things do as I say."
"So long," Larry Brewster said.
"You're—you're still leaving?"
Slowly, Larry Brewster shook his head. "No," he said. "No, as a matter of fact, I'm not; I've changed my mind. You're too much trouble. You're leaving."
And as he spoke a ball of radiant light gently settled over Allison Holmes, engulfing her in a glowing aura of splendor. The ball of light lifted, carrying Miss Holmes up into the air, raising her effortlessly above the level of the buildings, into the evening sky.
Larry Brewster watched calmly, as the ball of light carried Miss Holmes off. He was not surprised to see her gradually fade and grow indistinct—until all at once there was nothing.
Nothing but a faint shimmer in the sky. Allison Holmes was gone.
For a long time Larry Brewster stood, deep in thought, rubbing his jaw reflectively. He would miss Allison Holmes. In some ways he had liked her; for a while, she had been fun. Well, she was off now. In this world, Allison Holmes had not been completely real. What he had known, what Larry had called "Allison Holmes," wasn't any more than a partial appearance of her.
Then he paused, remembering: as the ball of radiant light had carried her away, he had seen a glimpse—a glimpse past her into a different world, one which was obviously her world, her real world, the world she wanted. The buildings were uncomfortably familiar; he could still remember the house…
Then—Allison had been real, after all—existing in Larry's world, until the time came for her to be transported to hers. Would she find another Larry Brewster there—one who saw eye-to-eye with her? He shuddered at the thought.
In fact, the whole experience had been somewhat unnerving.
"I wonder why," he murmured softly. He thought back to other unpleasant events, remembering how they had led him to greater satisfactions for their having happened—richness of experience he could not have appreciated without them. "Ah well," he sighed, "it's all for the best."
He started to walk home slowly, hands in his pockets, glancing up at the sky every now and then, as if for confirmation…
A SURFACE RAID
HARL LEFT THE THIRD LEVEL, catching a tube car going North. The tube car carried him swiftly through one of the big junction bubbles and down to the fifth level. Harl caught an exciting, fugitive glimpse of people and outlets, a complex tangle of mid-period business and milling confusion.
Then the bubble was behind him and he was nearing his destination, the vast industrial fifth level, sprawling below everything else like some gigantic, soot-encrusted octopus of the night's misrule.
The gleaming tube car ejected him and continued on its way, disappearing down the tube. Harl bounded agilely into the receiving strip and slowed to a stop, still on his feet, swaying expertly back and forth.
A few minutes later he reached the entrance to his father's office. Harl raised his hand and the code door slid back. He entered, his heart thumping with excitement. The time had come.
Edward Boynton was in the planning department studying the outline for a new robot bore when he was informed that his son had entered the main office.
"I'll be right back," Boynton said, making his way past his policy staff and up the ramp into the office.
"Hello, Dad," Harl exclaimed, squaring his shoulders. Father and son exchanged handclasps. Then Harl sat down slowly. "How are things?" he asked. "I guess you expected me."
Then Edward Boynton seated himself behind his desk. "What do you want here?" he demanded. "You know I'm busy."
Harl smiled thinly across at his father. In his brown industrial-planner uniform, Edward Boynton towered above his young son, a massive man with broad shoulders and thick blond hair. His blue eyes were cold and hard as he returned the young man's level gaze.
"I happened to come into some information." Harl glanced uneasily around the room. "Your office isn't tapped, is it?"
"Of course not," the elder Boynton assured him.
"No screens or ears?" Harl relaxed a little. "I've learned that you and several others from your department are going up to the surface soon." Harl leaned eagerly toward his father. "Up to the surface—on a raid for saps."
Ed Boynton's face darkened. "Where did you hear that?" He gazed intently at his son. "Did anyone in this department—?"
"No," Harl said quickly. "No one informed. I picked up the information on my own, in connection with my educational activities."
Ed Boynton began to understand. "I see. You were experimenting with channel taps, cutting across the confidential channels. Like they teach you to do in communications."
"That's right. I happened to pick up a conversation between you and Robin Turner concerning the raid."
The atmosphere in the room became easier, more friendly. Ed Boynton relaxed, settling back in his chair. "Go on," he urged.
"It was mere chance. I had cut across ten or twelve channels, holding each one for only a second. I was using the Youth League equipment. All at once I recognized your voice. So I stayed on and caught the whole conversation."
"Then you heard most of it."
Harl nodded. "Exactly when are you going up, Dad? Have you set an exact date?"
Ed Boynton frowned. "No," he said, "I haven't. But it will be sometime this week. Almost everything is arranged."
"How many are going?" Harl asked.
"We're taking up one mother ship and about thirty eggs. All from this department."
"Thirty eggs? Sixty or seventy men."
"That's right." Ed Boynton stared intently at his son. "It won't be a big raid. Nothing compared to some of the Directorate raids of the past few years."
"But big enough for a single department."
Ed Boston's eyes flickered. "Be careful, Harl. If such loose talk should get out—"
"I know. I cut the recorder off as soon as I picked up the drift of your talk. I know what would happen if the Directorate found out a department was raiding without authorization—for its own factories."
"Do you really know? I wonder."
"One mother ship and thirty eggs," Harl exclaimed, ignoring the remark. "You'll be on the surface for about forty hours?"
"About. It depends on what
luck we have."
"How many saps are you after?"
"We need at least two dozen," the elder Boynton replied.
"Males?"
"For the most part. A few females, but males primarily."
"For the basic-industry factory units, I assume." Harl straightened in his chair. "All right, then. Now that I know more about the raid itself I can get down to business."
He stared hard at his father.
"Business?" Boynton glanced up sharply. "Precisely what do you mean?"
"My exact reason for coming down here." Harl leaned across the desk toward his father, his voice clipped and intense. "I'm going along with you on the raid. I want to go along—to get some saps for myself."
For a moment there was an astonished silence. Then Ed Boynton laughed. "What are you talking about? What do you know about saps?"
The inner door slid back, and Robin Turner came quickly into the office. He joined Boynton behind the desk.
"He can't go," Turner said flatly. "It would increase the risks tenfold."
Harl glanced up. "There was an ear in here, then."
"Of course. Turner always listens in." Ed Boynton nodded, regarding his son thoughtfully. "Why do you want to go along?"
"That's my concern," Harl said, his lips tightening.
Turner rasped: "Emotional immaturity. A sub-rational adolescent craving for adventure and excitement. There's still a few like him who can't throw the old brain completely off. After two hundred years you'd think—"
"Is that it?" Boynton demanded. "You have some non-adult desire to go up and see the surface?"
"Perhaps," Harl admitted, flushing a little.
"You can't come," Ed Boynton stated emphatically. "It's far too dangerous. We're not going up there for romantic adventure. It's a job—a grim, hard, exacting job. The saps are getting wary. It's becoming more and more difficult to bring back a full load. We can't spare any of our eggs for whatever romantic foolishness—"
"I know it's getting hard," Harl interrupted. "You don't have to convince me that it's almost impossible to round up a whole load." Harl looked up defiantly at Turner and his father. He chose his words carefully. "And I know that's why the Directorate considers private raids a major crime against the State."
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 72
