"And then Packman brought out the Worldcraft bubble," Bart murmured. " 'Own Your Own World.' There was no place to go, outside of Terra. No other worlds to visit. You couldn't leave here and go to another world. So instead, you—"
"Instead you stayed home and put together your own world." Hull smiled wryly. "You know, he has a child's version out, now. A sort of preparation kit. So the child can cover the basic problems of world-building before he even has a bubble."
"But look, Nat," Bart said. "The bubbles seemed like a good idea, at first. We couldn't leave Terra so we built our own worlds right here. Sub-atomic worlds, in controlled containers. We start life going on a sub-atomic world, feed it problems to make it evolve, try to raise it higher and higher. In theory there's nothing wrong with the idea. It's certainly a creative pastime. Not a merely passive viewing like television. In fact, world-building is the ultimate art form. It takes the place of all entertainments, all the passive sports as well as music and painting—"
"But something went wrong."
"Not at first," Bart objected. "At first it was creative. Everybody bought a Worldcraft bubble and built his own world. Evolved life farther and farther. Molded life. Controlled it. Competed with others to see who could achieve the most advanced world."
"And it solved another problem," Julia added. "The problem of leisure. With robots to work for us and robants to serve us and take care of our needs—"
"Yes, that was a problem," Hull admitted. "Too much leisure. Nothing to do. That, and the disappointment of finding our planet the only habitable planet in the system.
"Packman's bubbles seemed to solve both problems. But something went wrong. A change came. I noticed it right away." Hull stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. The change began ten years ago—and it's been growing worse."
"But why?" Julie demanded. "Explain to me why everyone stopped building their worlds creatively and began to destroy."
"Ever seen a child pull wings off a fly?"
"Certainly. But—"
"The same thing. Sadism? No, not exactly. More a sort of curiosity. Power. Why does a child break things? Power, again. We must never forget something. These world bubbles are substitutes. They take the place of something else, of finding genuine life on our own planets. And they're just too damn small to do that.
"These worlds are like toy boats in a bath tub. Or model rocketships you see kids playing with. They're surrogates, not the actual thing. These people who operate them—why do they want them? Because they can't explore real planets, big planets. They have a lot of energy dammed up inside them. Energy they can't express.
"And bottled-up energy sours. It becomes aggressive. People work with their little worlds for a time, building them up. But finally they reach a point where their latent hostility, their sense of being deprived, their—"
"It can be explained more easily," Bart said calmly. "Your theory is too elaborate."
"How do you explain it?"
"Man's innate destructive tendencies. His natural desire to kill and spread ruin."
"There's no such thing," Hull said flatly. "Man isn't an ant. He has no fixed direction to his drives. He has no instinctive 'desire to destroy' any more than he had an instinctive desire to carve ivory letter-openers. He has energy— and the outlet it takes depends on the opportunities available.
That's what's wrong. All of us have energy, the desire to move, act, do. But we're bottled up here, sealed off, on one planet. So we buy Worldcraft bubbles and make little worlds of our own. But microscopic worlds aren't enough. They're as satisfactory as a toy sailboat is to a man who wants to go sailing."
Bart considered a long time, deep in thought. "You may be right," he admitted finally. "It sounds reasonable. But what's your suggestion? If the other eight planets are dead—"
"Keep exploring. Beyond the system."
"We're doing that."
"Try to find outlets that aren't so artificial."
Bart grinned. "You feel this way because you never caught the hang of it." He thumped his bubble fondly. "I don't find it artificial."
"But most people do," Julia put in. "Most people aren't satisfied. That's why we left the Contest Party."
Bart grunted. "It's turning sour, all right. Quite a scene, wasn't it?" He reflected, frowning. "But the bubbles are better than nothing. What do you suggest? Give up our bubbles? What should we do instead? Just sit around and talk?"
"Nat loves to talk," Julia murmured.
"Like all intellectuals." Bart tapped Hull's sleeve. "When you sit in your seat in the Directorate you're with the Intellectual and Professional class—gray stripe."
"And you?"
"Blue stripe. Industrial. You know that."
Hull nodded. "That's right. You're with Terran Spaceways. The ever-hopeful company."
"So you want us to give up our bubbles and just sit around. Quite a solution to the problem."
"You're going to have to give them up." Hull's face flushed. "What you do after that is your affair."
"What do you mean?"
Hull turned toward Longstreet, eyes blazing. "I've introduced a bill in the Directorate. A bill that will outlaw Worldcraft."
Bart's mouth fell open. "You what?"
"On what grounds?" Julia asked, waking up.
"On moral grounds," Hull stated calmly. "And I think I can get it through."
The Directorate hall buzzed with murmuring echoes, its vast reaches alive with moving shadows, men taking their places and preparing for the session's business.
Eldon von Stern, Directorate Floor Leader, stood with Hull off to one side behind the platform. "Let's get this straight," von Stern said nervously, running his fingers through his iron-gray hair. "You intend to speak for this bill of yours? You want to defend it yourself?"
Hull nodded. "That's right. Why not?"
"The analytical machines can break the bill down and present an impartial report for the members. Spellbinding has gone out of style. If you present an emotional harangue you can be certain of losing. The members won't—"
"I'll take the chance. It's too important to leave to the machines."
Hull gazed out over the immense room that was slowly quieting. Representatives from all over the world were in their places. White-clad property owners. Blue-clad financial and industrial magnates. The red shirts of leaders from factory cooperatives and communal farms. The green-clad men and women representing the middle-class consumer group. His own gray-striped body, at the extreme right, the doctors, lawyers, scientists, educators, intellectuals and professionals of all kinds.
"I'll take the chance," Hull repeated. "I want to see the bill passed. It's time the issues were made clear."
Von Stern shrugged. "Suit yourself." He eyed Hull curiously. "What do you have against Worldcraft? It's too powerful a combine to buck. Packman himself is here, someplace. I'm surprised you—"
The robot chair flashed a signal. Von Stern moved away from Hull, up onto the platform.
"Are you sure you want to speak for the bill?" Julia said, standing beside Hull in the shadows. "Maybe he's right. Let the machines analyze the bill."
Hull was gazing out across the sea of faces, trying to locate Packman. The owner of Worldcraft was sitting out there. Forrest Packman, in his immaculate white shirt, like an ancient, withered angel. Packman preferred to sit with the property group, considering Worldcraft real estate instead of industry. Property still had the edge on prestige.
Von Stern touched Hull's arm. "All right. Take the chair and explain your proposal."
Hull stepped out onto the platform and seated himself in the big marble chair. The endless rows of faces before him were carefully devoid of expression.
"You've read the terms of the proposal I'm speaking for," Hull began, his voice magnified by the speakers on each member's desk. "I propose we should declare Worldcraft Industries a public menace and the real property the possession of the State. I can state my grounds in a few sentences.
"The theory and constru
ction of the Worldcraft product, the sub-atomic universe system, is known to you. An infinite number of sub-atomic worlds exist, microscopic counterparts of our own spatial coordinate. Worldcraft developed, almost a century ago, a method of controlling to thirty decimals the forces and stresses involved on these micro-coordinate planes, and a fairly simplified machine which could be manipulated by an adult person.
"These machines for controlling specific areas of sub-atomic coordinates have been manufactured and sold to the general public with the slogan: 'Own Your Own World.' The idea is that the owner of the machine becomes literally a world owner, since the machine controls forces that govern a sub-atomic universe that is directly analogous to our own.
"By purchasing one of these Worldcraft machines, or bubbles, the person finds himself in possession of a virtual universe, to do with as he sees fit. Instruction manuals supplied by the Company show him how to control these minute worlds so that life forms appear and rapidly evolve, giving rise to higher and higher forms until at last—assuming the owner is sufficiently skillful—he has in his personal possession a civilization of beings on a cultural par with our own.
"During the last few years we have seen the sale of these machines grow until now almost everyone possesses one or more sub-atomic worlds, complete with civilizations, and these years have also seen many of us take our private universes and grind the inhabitants and planets into dust.
"There is no law which prevents us from building up elaborate civilizations, evolved at an incredible rate of speed, and then crushing them out of existence. That is why my proposal has been presented. These minute civilizations are not dreams. They are real. They actually exist. The microscopic inhabitants are—"
A restless stir moved through the vast hall. There were murmurs and coughs. Some members had switched off their speakers. Hull hesitated. A chill touched him. The faces below were blank, cold, uninterested. He continued rapidly.
"The inhabitants are, at present, subject to the slightest whim their owner may feel. If we wish to reach down and crush their world, turn on tidal waves, earthquakes, tornados, fire, volcanic action—if we wish to destroy them utterly, there is nothing they can do.
"Our position in relation to these minute civilizations is godlike. We can, with a wave of the hand, obliterate countless millions. We can send the lightning down, level their cities, squash their tiny buildings like ant hills. We can toss them about like toys, playthings, victims of our every whim."
Hull stopped, rigid with apprehension. Some of the members had risen and strolled out. Von Stern's face twisted with ironic amusement.
Hull continued lamely. "I want to see Worldcraft bubbles outlawed. We owe it to these civilizations on humanitarian grounds, on moral grounds—"
He went on, finishing as best he could. When he got to his feet there was a faint ripple of applause from the gray-striped professional group. But the white-clad property owners were utterly silent. And the blue industrialists. The red shirts and the green-clad consumer representatives were silent, impassive, even a little amused.
Hull returned to the wings, cold with the stark realization of defeat. "We've lost," he muttered, dazed. "I don't understand."
Julia took his arm. "Maybe an appeal on some other grounds… Maybe the machines can still—"
Bart Longstreet came out of the shadows. "No good, Nat. Won't work."
Hull nodded. "I know."
"You can't moralize Worldcraft away. That's not the solution."
Von Stern had given the signal. The members began to cast their votes, the tabulation machines whirring to life. Hull stood staring silently out at the murmuring room, crushed and bewildered.
Suddenly a shape appeared in front of him, cutting off his view. Impatiently he moved to one side—but a rasping voice stopped him.
"Too bad, Mr. Hull. Better luck next time."
Hull stiffened. "Packman!" he muttered. "What do you want?"
Forrest Packman came out of the shadows, moving toward him slowly, feeling his way blindly along.
Bart Longstreet stared at the old man with unconcealed hostility. "I'll see you later, Nat." He turned abruptly and started off.
Julia stopped him. "Bart, do you have to—"
"Important business. I'll be back later." He moved off down the aisle, toward the industrial section of the hall.
Hull faced Packman. He had never seen the old man so close before. He studied him as he advanced slowly, feeling his way along on the arm of his robant.
Forrest Packman was old—a hundred and seven years. Preserved by hormones and blood transfusions, elaborate washing and rejuvenating processes that maintained life in his ancient, withered body. His eyes, deep-sunk, peered up at Hull as he came near, shrunken hands clutching the arm of his robant, breath coming hoarse and dry.
"Hull? You don't mind if I chat with you as the voting goes on? I won't be long." He peered blindly past Hull. "Who left? I couldn't see—"
"Bart Longstreet. Spaceways."
"Oh, yes. I know him. Your speech was quite interesting, Hull. It reminded me of the old days. These people don't remember how it was. Times have changed." He stopped, letting the robant wipe his mouth and chin. "I used to be interested in rhetoric. Some of the old masters…"
The old man rambled on. Hull studied him curiously. Was this frail withered old man really the power behind Worldcraft? It didn't seem possible.
"Bryan," Packman whispered, voice dry as ashes. "William Jennings Bryan. I never heard him, of course. But they say he was the greatest. Your speech wasn't bad. But you don't understand. I listened carefully. You have some good ideas. But what you're trying to do is absurd. You don't know enough about people. Nobody's really interested in—"
He broke off, coughing feebly, his robant gripping him with metal supports.
Hull pushed impatiently past. "The voting is almost finished. I want to hear. If you have anything to say to me you can file a regular memo plate."
Packman's robant stepped out, barring his way. Packman went on slowly, shakily. "Nobody is really interested in such appeals, Hull. You made a good speech but you don't have the idea. Not yet, at least. But you talk well, better than I've heard for a long time. These young fellows, faces all washed, running around like office boys—"
Hull strained, listening to the vote. The impassive robant body cut off his view, but over Packman's dry rasp he could hear the results. Von Stern had risen and was reading the totals, group by group.
Tour hundred against, thirty-five in favor," von Stern stated. The proposal has been defeated." He tossed the tabulation cards down and picked up his agenda. "We'll continue with the next business."
Behind Hull, Packman broke off suddenly, his skull-like head cocked on one side. His deep-sunk eyes glittered and the trace of a smile twitched across his lips. "Defeated? Not even all the grays voted for you, Hull. Now maybe you'll listen to what I have to say."
Hull turned away from the hall. The robant lowered its arm. "It's over," Hull said.
"Come on." Julia moved uneasily away from Packman. "Let's get out of here."
"You see," Packman continued relentlessly, "you have potentials that could be developed into something. When I was your age I had the same idea you have. I thought if people could see the moral issues involved, they would respond. But people aren't like that. You have to be realistic, if you want to get somewhere. People…"
Hull scarcely heard the dry, raspy voice whispering away. Defeat. Worldcraft, the world bubbles, would continue. The Contest Parties: bored, restless men and women with too much time, drinking and dancing, comparing worlds, building up to the climax—then the orgy of breaking and smashing. Over and over. Endlessly.
"Nobody can buck Worldcraft," Julia said. "It's too big. We'll have to accept the bubbles as part of our lives. As Bart says, unless we have something else to offer in their place…"
Bart Longstreet came rapidly out of the shadows. "You still here?" he said to Packman.
"I lost,"
Hull said. The vote—"
"I know. I heard it. But it doesn't matter." Longstreet pushed past Packman and his robant. "Stay here. I'll join you in a second. I have to see von Stern."
Something in Longstreet's voice made Hull look up sharply. "What is it? What's happened?"
"Why doesn't it matter?" Julia demanded.
Longstreet stepped up on the platform and made his way to von Stern. He handed him a message plate and then retired to the shadows.
Von Stern glanced at the plate—
And stopped talking. He got to his feet slowly, the plate gripped tightly. "I have an announcement to make." Von Stern's voice was shaking, almost inaudible. "A dispatch from Spaceways' check station on Proxima Centauri."
An excited murmur rushed through the hall.
"Exploring ships in the Proxima system have contacted trading scouts from an extra-galactic civilization. An exchange of messages has already occurred. Spaceways ships are moving toward the Arcturan system with the expectation of finding—"
Shouts, a bedlam of sound. Men and women on their feet, screaming in wild joy. Von Stern stopped reading and stood, his arms folded, his gray face calm, waiting for them to quiet.
Forrest Packman stood unmoving, his withered hands pressed together, his eyes shut. His robant sent support braces around him, catching him in a shield of protecting metal.
"Well?" Longstreet shouted, pushing back to them. He glanced at the frail, withered figure held up by the robant's supports, then at Hull and Julia. "What do you say, Hull? Let's get out of here—so we can celebrate."
"I'll fly you home," Hull said to Julia. He looked around for an inter-continental cruiser. "Too bad you live so far away. Hong Kong is so damn out of the way."
Julia caught his arm. "You can drive me yourself. Remember? The Pacific Tube is open. We're connected with Asia now."
"That's right." Hull opened the door of his surface car and Julia slid in. Hull got behind the wheel and slammed the door. "I forgot, with all these other things on my mind. Maybe we can see each other more often. I wouldn't mind spending a few days' vacation in Hong Kong. Maybe you'll invite me."
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 78
