"No," she said absently.
From outside the booth came a cry of anguish. Both Joan and Mr. Lee leaped up. Mr. Lee pulled the curtain aside; the waiter was staring, too, and laughing.
At a table in the opposite corner of the restaurant sat an elderly Cuban gentleman with his hands gripping the handles of an empathy box.
"Here, too," Joan said.
"They are pests," Mr. Lee said. "Disturbing our meal."
The waiter said, "Loco." He shook his head, still chuckling.
"Yes," Joan said. "Mr. Lee, I will continue here, trying to do my job, despite what's occurred between us. I don't know why they deliberately sent a telepath to meet me—possibly it's Communist paranoid suspicions of outsiders—but in any case I have a job to do here and I mean to do it. So shall we discuss the dismembered kitten?"
"At meal time?" Mr. Lee said faintly.
"You brought it up," Joan said, and proceeded, despite the expression of acute misery on Mr. Lee's face as he sat spooning up his bird's nest soup.
At the Los Angeles studio of television station KKHF, Ray Meritan sat at his harp, waiting for his cue. How High the Moon, he had decided, would be his first number. He yawned, kept his eye on the control booth.
Beside him, at the blackboard, jazz commentator Glen Goldstream polished his rimless glasses with a fine linen handkerchief and said, "I think I'll tie in with Gustav Mahler tonight."
"Who the hell is he?"
"A great late nineteenth century composer. Very romantic. Wrote long peculiar symphonies and folk-type songs. I'm thinking, however, of the rhythmic patterns in The Drunkard in Springtime from Song of the Earth. You've never heard it?"
"Nope," Meritan said restlessly.
"Very gray-green."
Ray Meritan did not feel very gray-green tonight. His head still ached from the rock thrown at Wilbur Mercer. Meritan had tried to let go of the empathy box when he saw the rock coming, but he had not been quick enough. It had struck Mercer on the right temple, drawing blood.
"I've run into three Mercerites this evening," Glen said. "And all of them looked terrible. What happened to Mercer today?"
"How would I know?"
"You're carrying yourself the way they did today. It's your head, isn't it? I know you well enough, Ray. You'd be mixed up in anything new and odd—what do I care if you're a Mercerite? I just thought maybe you'd like a pain pill."
Brusquely, Ray Meritan said, "That would defeat the entire idea wouldn't it? A pain pill. Here, Mr. Mercer, as you go up the hillside, how about a shot of morphine? You won't feel a thing." He rippled a few cadences on his harp, releasing his emotions.
"You're on," the producer said from the control room.
Their theme, That's a Plenty, swelled from the tape deck in the control room, and the number two camera facing Goldstream lit up its red light. Arms folded, Goldstream said, "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. What is jazz?"
That's what I say, Meritan thought. What is jazz? What is life? He rubbed his splintered, pain-racked forehead and wondered how he could endure the next week. Wilbur Mercer was getting close to it now. Each day it would become worse…
"And after a brief pause for an important message," Goldstream was saying, "we'll be back to tell you more about the world of gray-green men and women, those peculiar people, and the world of the artistry of the one and only Ray Meritan."
The tape of the commercial appeared on the TV monitor facing Meritan.
Meritan said to Goldstream, "I'll take the pain pill."
A yellow, flat, notched tablet was held out to him. "Paracodein," Goldstream said. "Highly illegal, but effective. An addictive drug… I'm surprised you, of all people, don't carry some."
"I used to," Ray said, as he got a dixie cup of water and swallowed the pill.
"And now you're on Mercerism."
"Now I'm—" He glanced at Goldstream; they had known each other, in their professional capacities, for years. "I'm not a Mercerite," he said, "so forget it, Glen. It's just coincidence I got a headache the night Mercer was hit on the temple by a sharp rock thrown by some moronic sadist who ought to be the one dragging his way up that hillside." He scowled at Goldstream.
"I understand," Goldstream said, "that the U.S. Department of Mental Health is on the verge of asking the Justice Department to pick up the Mercerites."
Suddenly he swung to face camera two. A faint smile touched his face and he said smoothly, "Gray-green began about four years ago, in Pinole, California, at the now justly-famous Double Shot Club where Ray Meritan played, back in 1993 and '4. Tonight, Ray will let us hear one of his best known and liked numbers, Once in Love with Amy." He swung in Meritan's direction. "Ray … Meritan!"
Plunk-plunk, the harp went as Ray Meritan's fingers riffled the strings.
An object lesson, he thought as he played. That's what the FBI would make me into for the teenagers, to show them what not to grow up to be. First on Paracodein, now on Mercer. Beware, kids!
Off camera, Glen Goldstream held up a sign he had scribbled.
IS MERCER A NON-TERRESTRIAL?
Underneath this, Goldstream wrote with a marking pencil:
IT'S THAT THEY WANT TO KNOW.
Invasion from outside there somewhere, Meritan thought to himself as he played. That's what they're afraid of. Fear of the unknown, like tiny children. That's our ruling circles: tiny, fear-ridden children playing ritualistic games with super-powerful toys.
A thought came to him from one of the network officials in the control room. Mercer has been injured.
At once, Ray Meritan turned his attention that way, scanned as hard as he could. His fingers strummed the harp reflexively.
Government outlawing so-called empathy boxes.
He thought immediately of his own empathy box, before his TV set in the living room of his apartment.
Organization which distributes and sells the empathy boxes declared illegal, and FBI making arrests in several major cities. Other countries expected to follow.
How badly injured? he wondered. Dying?
And—what about the Mercerites who had been holding onto the handles of their empathy boxes at that moment? How were they, now? Receiving medical attention?
Should we air the news now? the network official was thinking. Or wait until the commercial?
Ray Meritan ceased playing his harp and said clearly into the boom microphone, "Wilbur Mercer has been injured. This is what we've expected but it's still a major tragedy. Mercer is a saint."
Wide-eyed, Glen Goldstream gawked at him.
"I believe in Mercer," Ray Meritan said, and all across the United States his television audience heard his confession of faith. "I believe his suffering and injury and death have meaning for each of us."
It was done; he had gone on record. And it hadn't even taken much courage.
"Pray for Wilbur Mercer," he said and resumed playing his gray-green style of harp.
You fool, Glen Goldstream was thinking. Giving yourself away! You'll be in jail within a week. Your career is ruined!
Plunk-plunk, Ray played on his harp, and smiled humorlessly at Glen.
IV
Mr. Lee said, "Do you know the story of the Zen monk, who was playing hide and go seek with the children? Was it Basho who tells this? The monk hid in an outhouse and the children did not think of looking there, and so they forgot him. He was a very simple man. Next day—"
"I admit that Zen is a form of stupidity," Joan Hiashi said. "It extols the virtues of being simple and gullible. And remember, the original meaning of 'gullible' is one who is easily gulled, easily cheated." She sipped a little of her tea and found it now cold.
"Then you are a true practitioner of Zen," Mr. Lee said. "Because you have been gulled." He reached inside his coat and brought out a pistol, which he pointed at Joan. "You're under arrest."
"By the Cuban Government?" she managed to say.
"By the United States Government," Mr. Lee said. "I have read your mind and I learn
that you know that Ray Meritan is a prominent Mercerite and you yourself are attracted to Mercerism."
"But I'm not!"
"Unconsciously you are attracted. You are about to switch over. I can pick up those thoughts, even if you deny them to yourself. We are going back to the United States, you and I, and there we will find Mr. Ray Meritan and he will lead us to Wilbur Mercer; it is as simple as that."
"And this is why I was sent to Cuba?"
"I am a member of the Central Committee of the Cuban Communist Party," Mr. Lee said. "And the sole telepath on that committee. We have voted to work in cooperation with the United States Department of State during this current Mercer crisis. Our plane, Miss Hiashi, leaves for Washington, D.C. in half an hour; let us get down to the airport at once."
Joan Hiashi looked helplessly about the restaurant. Other people eating, the waiters … nobody paid attention. She rose to her feet as a waiter passed with a heavily-loaded tray. "This man," she said, pointing to Mr. Lee, "is kidnapping me. Help me, please."
The waiter glanced at Mr. Lee, saw who it was, smiled at Joan and shrugged. "Mr. Lee, he is an important man," the waiter said, and went on with his tray.
"What he says is true," Mr. Lee said to her.
Joan ran from the booth and across the restaurant. "Help me," she said to the elderly Cuban Mercerite who sat with his empathy box before him. "I'm a Mercerite. They're arresting me."
The lined old face lifted; the man scrutinized her.
"Help me," she said.
"Praise Mercer," the old man said.
You can't help me, she realized. She turned back to Mr. Lee, who had followed after her, still holding the pistol pointed at her. "This old man is not going to do a thing," Mr. Lee said. "Not even get to his feet."
She sagged. "All right. I know."
The television set in the corner suddenly ceased its yammering of daytime trash; the image of a woman's face and bottle of cleanser abruptly disappeared and there was only blackness. Then, in Spanish, a news announcer began to speak.
"Hurt," Mr. Lee said, listening. "But Mercer is not dead. How do you feel, Miss Hiashi, as a Mercerite? Does this affect you? Oh, but that's right. One must take hold of the handles first, for it to reach you. It must be a voluntary act."
Joan picked up the elderly Cuban's empathy box, held it for a moment, and then seized the handles. Mr. Lee stared at her in surprise; he moved toward her, reaching for the box…
It was not pain that she felt. Is this how it is? she wondered as she saw around her, the restaurant dim and faded. Maybe Wilbur Mercer is unconscious; that must be it. I'm escaping from you, she thought to Mr. Lee. You can't—or at least you won't—follow me where I've gone: into the tomb world of Wilbur Mercer, who is dying somewhere on a barren plain, surrounded by his enemies. Now I'm with him. And it is an escape from something worse. From you. And you're never going to be able to get me back.
She saw, around her, a desolate expanse. The air smelled of harsh blossoms; this was the desert, and there was no rain.
A man stood before her, a sorrowful light in his gray, pain-drenched eyes. "I am your friend," he said, "but you must go on as if I did not exist. Can you understand that?" He spread empty hands.
"No," she said, "I can't understand that."
"How can I save you," the man said, "if I can't save myself?" He smiled: "Don't you see? There is no salvation."
"Then what's it all for?" she asked.
"To show you," Wilbur Mercer said, "that you aren't alone. I am here with you and always will be. Go back and face them. And tell them that."
She released the handles.
Mr. Lee, holding his gun to her, said, "Well?"
"Let's go," she said. "Back to the United States. Turn me over to the FBI. It doesn't matter."
"What did you see?" Mr. Lee said, with curiosity.
"I won't tell you."
"But I can learn it anyhow. From your mind." He was probing, now, listening with his head cocked on one side. The corners of his mouth turned down as if he was pouting.
"I don't call that much," he said. "Mercer looks you in the face and says he can't do anything for you—is this the man you'd lay down your life for, you and the others? You're ill."
"In the society of the insane," Joan said, "the sick are well."
"What nonsense!" Mr. Lee said.
To Bogart Crofts Mr. Lee said, "It was interesting. She became a Mercerite directly in front of me. The latency transforming itself into actuality … it proved I was correct in what I previously read in her mind."
"We'll have Meritan picked up any time now," Crofts said to his superior, Secretary Herrick. "He left the television studio in Los Angeles, where he got news of Mercer's severe injury. After that, no one seems to know what he did. He did not return to his apartment. The local police picked up his empathy box, and he was beyond a doubt not on the premises."
"Where is Joan Hiashi?" Crofts asked.
"Being held now in New York," Mr. Lee said.
"On what charge?" Crofts asked Secretary Herrick.
"Political agitation inimical to the safety of the United States."
Smiling, Mr. Lee said, "And arrested by a Communist official in Cuba. It is a Zen paradox which no doubt fails to delight Miss Hiashi."
Meanwhile, Bogart Crofts reflected, empathy boxes were being collected in huge quantities. Soon their destruction would begin. Within forty-eight hours most of the empathy boxes in the United States would no longer exist, including the one here in his office.
It still rested on his desk, untouched. It was he who originally had asked that it be brought in, and in all this time he had kept his hands off it, had never yielded. Now he walked over to it.
"What would happen," he asked Mr. Lee, "if I took hold of these two handles? There's no television set here. I have no idea what Wilbur Mercer is doing right now; in fact for all that I know, now he's finally dead."
Mr. Lee said, "If you grip the handles, sir, you will enter a—I hesitate to use the word but it seems to apply. A mystical communion. With Mr. Mercer, wherever he is; you will share his suffering, as you know, but that is not all. You will also participate in his—" Mr. Lee reflected. "'World-view' is not the correct term. Ideology? No."
Secretary Herrick suggested, "What about trance-state?"
"Perhaps that is it," Mr. Lee said, frowning. "No, that is not it either. No word will do, and that is the entire point. It cannot be described—it must be experienced."
"I'll try," Crofts decided.
"No," Mr. Lee said. "Not if you are following my advice. I would warn you away from it. I saw Miss Hiashi do it, and I saw the change in her. Would you have tried Paracodein when it was popular with rootless cosmopolite masses?" He sounded angry.
"I have tried Paracodein," Crofts said. "It did absolutely nothing for me."
"What do you want done, Boge?" Secretary Herrick asked him.
Shrugging, Bogart Crofts said, "I mean I could see no reason for anyone liking it, wanting to become addicted to it." And at last he took hold of the two handles of the empathy box.
V
Walking slowly in the rain, Ray Meritan said to himself, They got my empathy box and if I go back to the apartment they'll get me.
His telepathic talent had saved him. As he entered the building he had picked up the thoughts of the gang of city police.
It was now past midnight. The trouble is I'm too well-known, he realized, from my damned TV show. No matter where I go I'll be recognized.
At least anywhere on Earth.
Where is Wilbur Mercer? he asked himself. In this solar system or somewhere beyond it, under a different sun entirely? Maybe we'll never know. Or at least I'll never know.
But did it matter? Wilbur Mercer was somewhere; that was all that was important. And there was always a way to reach him. The empathy box was always there—or at least had been, until the police raids. And Meritan had a feeling that the distribution company which had supplied the empathy boxes
, and which led a shadowy existence anyhow, would find a way around the police. If he was right about them—
Ahead in the rainy darkness he saw the red lights of a bar. He turned and entered it.
To the bartender he said, "Look, do you have an empathy box? I'll pay you one hundred dollars for the use of it."
The bartender, a big burly man with hairy arms, said, "Naw, I don't have nuthin like that. Go on."
The people at the bar watched, and one of them said, "Those are illegal now."
"Hey, it's Ray Meritan," another said. "The jazz man."
Another man said lazily, "Play some gray-green jazz for us, jazz man." He sipped at his mug of beer.
Meritan started out of the bar.
"Wait," the bartender said. "Hold on, buddy. Go to this address." He wrote on a match folder, then held it out to Meritan.
"How much do I owe you?" Meritan said.
"Oh, five dollars ought to do it."
Meritan paid and left the bar, the match folder in his pocket. It's probably the address of the local police station, he said to himself. But I'll give it a try anyhow.
If I could get to an empathy box one more time—
The address which the bartender had given him was an old, decaying wooden building in downtown Los Angeles. He rapped on the door and stood waiting.
The door opened. A middle-aged heavy woman in bathrobe and furry slippers peeped out at him. "I'm not the police," he said. "I'm a Mercerite. Can I use your empathy box?"
The door gradually opened; the woman scrutinized him and evidently believed him, although she said nothing.
"Sorry to bother you so late," he apologized.
"What happened to you, mister?" the woman said. "You look bad."
"It's Wilbur Mercer," Ray said. "He's hurt."
"Turn it on," the woman said, leading him with shuffling into a dark, cold parlor where a parrot slept in a huge, bent, brass-wire cage. There, on an old-fashioned radio cabinet, he saw the empathy box. He felt relief creep over him at the sight of it.
"Don't be shy," the woman said.
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 205
