Paycheck (2003)

by Philip K. Dick

The back door reluctantly closed. As the light cut off, Peretti bent down and groped for the b.b. gun. The father-thing instantly froze.

  ‘Go on home, boys,’ it rasped.

  Peretti stood undecided, gripping the b.b. gun.

  ‘Get going,’ the father-thing repeated. ‘Put down that toy and get out of here.’ It moved slowly toward Peretti, gripping Charles with one hand, reaching toward Peretti with the other. ‘No b.b. guns allowed in town, sonny. Your father know you have that? There’s a city ordinance. I think you better give me that before—’

  Peretti shot it in the eye.

  The father-thing grunted and pawed at its ruined eye. Abruptly it slashed out at Peretti. Peretti moved down the driveway, trying to cock the gun. The father-thing lunged. Its powerful fingers snatched the gun from Peretti’s hands. Silently, the father-thing mashed the gun against the wall of the house.

  Charles broke away and ran numbly off. Where could he hide? It was between him and the house. Already, it was coming back toward him, a black shape creeping carefully, peering into the darkness, trying to make him out. Charles retreated. If there were only some place he could hide …

  The bamboo.

  He crept quickly into the bamboo. The stalks were huge and old. They closed after him with a faint rustle. The father-thing was fumbling in its pocket; it lit a match, then the whole pack flared up. ‘Charles,’ it said. ‘I know you’re here, someplace. There’s no use hiding. You’re only making it more difficult.’

  His heart hammering, Charles crouched among the bamboo. Here, debris and filth rotted. Weeds, garbage, papers, boxes, old clothing, boards, tin cans, bottles. Spiders and salamanders squirmed around him. The bamboo swayed with the night wind. Insects and filth.

  And something else.

  A shape, a silent, unmoving shape that grew up from the mound of filth like some nocturnal mushroom. A white column, a pulpy mass that glistened moistly in the moonlight. Webs covered it, a moldy cocoon. It had vague arms and legs. An indistinct half-shaped head. As yet, the features hadn’t formed. But he could tell what it was.

  A mother-thing. Growing here in the filth and dampness, between the garage and the house. Behind the towering bamboo.

  It was almost ready. Another few days and it would reach maturity. It was still a larva, white and soft and pulpy. But the sun would dry and warm it. Harden its shell. Turn it dark and strong. It would emerge from its cocoon, and one day when his mother came by the garage … Behind the mother-thing were other pulpy white larvae, recently laid by the bug. Small. Just coming into existence. He could see where the father-thing had broken off; the place where it had grown. It had matured here. And in the garage, his father had met it.

  Charles began to move numbly away, past the rotting boards, the filth and debris, the pulpy mushroom larvae. Weakly, he reached out to take hold of the fence - and scrambled back.

  Another one. Another larvae. He hadn’t seen this one, at first. It wasn’t white. It had already turned dark. The web, the pulpy softness, the moistness, were gone. It was ready. It stirred a little, moved its arm feebly.

  The Charles-thing.

  The bamboo separated, and the father-thing’s hand clamped firmly around the boy’s wrist. ‘You stay right here,’ it said. ‘This is exactly the place for you. Don’t move.’ With its other hand it tore at the remains of the cocoon binding the Charles-thing. ‘I’ll help it out - it’s still a little weak.’

  The last shred of moist gray was stripped back, and the Charles-thing tottered out. It floundered uncertainly, as the father-thing cleared a path for it toward Charles.

  ‘This way,’ the father-thing grunted. ‘I’ll hold him for you. When you’ve fed you’ll be stronger.’

  The Charles-thing’s mouth opened and closed. It reached greedily toward Charles. The boy struggled wildly, but the father-thing’s immense hand held him down.

  ‘Stop that, young man,’ the father-thing commanded. ‘It’ll be a lot easier for you if you—’

  It screamed and convulsed. It let go of Charles and staggered back. Its body twitched violently. It crashed against the garage, limbs jerking. For a time it rolled and flopped in a dance of agony. It whimpered, moaned, tried to crawl away. Gradually it became quiet. The Charles-thing settled down in a silent heap. It lay stupidly among the bamboo and rotting debris, body slack, face empty and blank.

  At last the father-thing ceased to stir. There was only the faint rustle of the bamboo in the night wind.

  Charles got up awkwardly. He stepped down onto the cement driveway. Peretti and Daniels approached, wide-eyed and cautious. ‘Don’t go near it,’ Daniels ordered sharply. ‘It ain’t dead yet. Takes a little while.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Charles muttered.

  Daniels set down the drum of kerosene with a gasp of relief. ‘Found this in the garage. We Daniels always used kerosene on our mosquitoes, back in Virginia.’

  ‘Daniels poured the kerosene down the bug’s tunnel,’ Peretti explained, still awed. ‘It was his idea.’

  Daniels kicked cautiously at the contorted body of the father-thing. ‘It’s dead, now. Died as soon as the bug died.’

  ‘I guess the other’ll die, too,’ Peretti said. He pushed aside the bamboo to examine the larvae growing here and there among the debris. The Charles-thing didn’t move at all, as Peretti jabbed the end of a stick into its chest. ‘This one’s dead.’

  ‘We better make sure,’ Daniels said grimly. He picked up the heavy drum of kerosene and lugged it to the edge of the bamboo. ‘It dropped some matches in the driveway. You get them, Peretti.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Sure,’ Peretti said softly.

  ‘We better turn on the hose,’ Charles said. ‘To make sure it doesn’t spread.’

  ‘Let’s get going,’ Peretti said impatiently. He was already moving off. Charles quickly followed him and they began searching for the matches, in the moonlit darkness.

  The Chromium Fence

  Earth tilted toward six o’clock, the work-day almost over. Commute discs rose in dense swarms and billowed away from the industrial zone toward the surrounding residential rings. Like nocturnal moths, the thick clouds of discs darkened the evening sky. Silent, weightless, they whisked their passengers toward home and waiting families, hot meals and bed.

  Don Walsh was the third man on his disc; he completed the load. As he dropped the coin in the slot the carpet rose impatiently. Walsh settled gratefully against the invisible safety-rail and unrolled the evening newspaper. Across from him the other two commuters were doing the same.

  HORNEY AMENDMENT STIRS UP FIGHT

  Walsh reflected on the significance of the headline. He lowered the paper from the steady windcurrents and perused the next column.

  HUGE TURNOUT EXPECTED MONDAY

  ENTIRE PLANET TO GO TO POLLS

  On the back of the single sheet was the day’s scandal.

  WIFE MURDERS HUSBAND OVER POLITICAL TIFF

  And an item that made strange chills up and down his spine. He had seen it crop up repeatedly, but it always made him feel uncomfortable.

  PURIST MOB LYNCHES NATURALIST IN BOSTON

  WINDOWS SMASHED - GREAT DAMAGE DONE

  And in the next column:

  NATURALIST MOB LYNCHES PURIST IN CHICAGO

  BUILDINGS BURNED - GREAT DAMAGE DONE

  Across from Walsh, one of his companions was beginning to mumble aloud. He was a big heavy-set man, middle-aged, with red hair and beer-swollen features. Suddenly he wadded up his newspaper and hurled it from the disc. ‘They’ll never pass it!’ he shouted. ‘They won’t get away with it!’

  Walsh buried his nose in his paper and desperately ignored the man. It was happening again, the thing he dreaded every hour of the day. A political argument. The other commuter had lowered his newspaper; briefly, he eyed the red-haired man and then continued reading.

  The red-haired man addressed Walsh. ‘You signed the Butte Petition?’ He yanked a mentalfoil tablet from hi
s pocket and pushed it in Walsh’s face. ‘Don’t be afraid to put down your name for liberty.’

  Walsh clutched his newspaper and peered frantically over the side of the disc. The Detroit residential units were spinning by; he was almost home. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Thanks, no thanks.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ the other commuter said to the redhaired man. ‘Can’t you see he doesn’t want to sign it?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’ The red-haired man moved close to Walsh, the tablet extended belligerently. ‘Look, friend. You know what it’ll mean to you and yours if this thing gets passed? You think you’ll be safe? Wake up, friend. When the Horney Amendment comes in, freedom and liberty go out.’

  The other commuter quietly put his newspaper away. He was slim, well-dressed, a gray-haired cosmopolitan. He removed his glasses and said, ‘You smell like a Naturalist, to me.’

  The red-haired man studied his opponent. He noticed the wide plutonium ring on the slender man’s hand; a jaw-breaking band of heavy metal. ‘What are you?’ the red-haired man muttered, ‘a sissy-kissing Purist? Agh.’ He made a disgusting spitting motion and returned to Walsh. ‘Look, friend, you know what these Purists are after. They want to make us degenerates. They’ll turn us into a race of women. If God made the universe the way it is, it’s good enough for me. They’re going against God when they go against nature. This planet was built up by red-blooded men, who were proud of their bodies, proud of the way they looked and smelled.’ He tapped his own heavy chest. ‘By God, I’m proud of the way I smell!’

  Walsh stalled desperately. ‘I—’ he muttered. ‘No, I can’t sign it.’

  ‘You already signed?’

  ‘No.’

  Suspicion settled over the red-haired man’s beefy features. ‘You mean you’re for the Horney Amendment?’ His thick voice rose wrathfully. ‘You want to see an end to the natural order of—’

  ‘This is where I get off,’ Walsh interrupted; he hurriedly yanked the stop-cord of the disc. It swept down toward the magnetic grapple at the end of his unit-section, a row of white squares set across the green and brown hill-side.

  ‘Wait a minute, friend.’ The red-haired man reached ominously for Walsh’s sleeve, as the disc slid to a halt on the flat surface of the grapple. Surface cars were parked in rows; wives waiting to cart their husbands home. ‘I don’t like your attitude. You afraid to stand up and be counted? You ashamed to be a part of your race? By God, if you’re not man enough to—’

  The lean, gray-haired man smashed him with his plutonium ring, and the grip on Walsh’s sleeve loosened. The petition clattered to the ground and the two of them fought furiously, silently.

  Walsh pushed aside the safety-rail and jumped from the disc, down the three steps of the grapple and onto the ashes and cinders of the parking lot. In the gloom of early evening he could make out his wife’s car; Betty sat watching the dashboard TV, oblivious of him and the silent struggle between the red-haired Naturalist and the gray-haired Purist.

  ‘Beast,’ the gray-haired man gasped, as he straightened up. ‘Stinking animal!’

  The red-haired man lay semi-conscious against the safety-rail. ‘God damn - lily!’ he grunted.

  The gray-haired man pressed the release, and the disc rose above Walsh and on its way. Walsh waved gratefully. ‘Thanks,’ he called up. ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘Not at all,’ the gray-haired man answered, cheerfully examining a broken tooth. His voice dwindled, as the disc gained altitude. ‘Always glad to help out a fellow … ‘ The final words came drifting to Walsh’s ears. ‘… A fellow Purist.’

  ‘I’m not!’ Walsh shouted futilely. ‘I’m not a Purist and I’m not a Naturalist! You hear me?’

  Nobody heard him.

  ‘I’m not,’ Walsh repeated monotonously, as he sat at the dinner table spooning up creamed corn, potatoes, and rib steak. ‘I’m not a Purist and I’m not a Naturalist. Why do I have to be one or the other? Isn’t there any place for a man who has his own opinion?’

  ‘Eat your food, dear,’ Betty murmured.

  Through the thin walls of the bright little dining room came the echoing clink of other families eating, other conversations in progress. The tinny blare of TV sets. The purr of stoves and freezers and air conditioners and wall-heaters. Across from Walsh his brother-in-law Carl was gulping down a second plateful of steaming food. Beside him, Walsh’s fifteen-year-old son Jimmy was scanning a paper-bound edition of Finnegans Wake he had bought in the downramp store that supplied the self-contained housing unit.

  ‘Don’t read at the table,’ Walsh said angrily to his son.

  Jimmy glanced up. ‘Don’t kid me. I know the unit rules; that one sure as hell isn’t listed. And anyhow, I have to get this read before I leave.’

  ‘Where are you going tonight, dear?’ Betty asked.

  ‘Official party business,’ Jimmy answered obliquely. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that.’

  Walsh concentrated on his food and tried to brake the tirade of thoughts screaming through his mind. ‘On the way home from work,’ he said, ‘there was a fight.’

  Jimmy was interested. ‘Who won?’

  ‘The Purist.’

  A glow of pride slowly covered the boy’s face; he was a sergeant in the Purist Youth League. ‘Dad, you ought to get moving. Sign up now and you’ll be eligible to vote next Monday.’

  ‘I’m going to vote.’

  ‘Not unless you’re a member of one of the two parties.’

  It was true. Walsh gazed unhappily past his son, into the days that lay ahead. He saw himself involved in endless wretched situations like the one today; sometimes it would be Naturalists who attacked him, and other times (like last week) it would be enraged Purists.

  ‘You know,’ his brother-in-law said, ‘you’re helping the Purists by just sitting around here doing nothing.’ He belched contentedly and pushed his empty plate away. ‘You’re what we class as unconsciously pro-Purist.’ He glared at Jimmy. ‘You little squirt! If you were legal age I’d take you out and whale the tar out of you.’

  ‘Please,’ Betty sighed. ‘No quarreling about politics at the table. Let’s have peace and quiet, for a change. I’ll certainly be glad when the election is over.’

  Carl and Jimmy glared at each other and continued eating warily. ‘You should eat in the kitchen—’ Jimmy said to him. ‘Under the stove. That’s where you belong. Look at you - there’s sweat all over you.’ A nasty sneer interrupted his eating. ‘When we get the Amendment passed, you better get rid of that, if you don’t want to get hauled off to jail.’

  Carl flushed. ‘You creeps won’t get it passed.’ But his gruff voice lacked conviction. The Naturalists were scared; Purists had control of the Federal Council. If the election moved in their favor it was really possible the legislation to compel forced observation of the five-point Purist code might get on the books. ‘Nobody is going to remove my sweat glands,’ Carl muttered. ‘Nobody is going to make me submit to breath-control and teeth-whitening and hair-restorer. It’s part of life to get dirty and bald and fat and old.’

  ‘Is it true?’ Betty asked her husband. ‘Are you really unconsciously pro-Purist?’

  Don Walsh savagely speared a remnant of rib steak. ‘Because I don’t join either party I’m called unconsciously pro-Purist and unconsciously pro-Naturalist. I claim they balance. If I’m everybody’s enemy then I’m nobody’s enemy.’ He added, ‘Or friend.’

  ‘You Naturalists have nothing to offer the future,’ Jimmy said to Carl. ‘What can you give the youth of the planet - like me? Caves and raw meat and a bestial existence. You’re anti-civilization.’

  ‘Slogans,’ Carl retorted.

  ‘You want to carry us back to a primitive existence, away from social integration.’ Jimmy waved an excited skinny finger in his uncle’s face. ‘You’re thalamically oriented!’

  ‘I’ll break your head,’ Carl snarled, half out of his chair. ‘You Purist squirts have no respect for your elders.’
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  Jimmy giggled shrilly. ‘I’d like to see you try. It’s five years in prison for striking a minor. Go ahead - hit me.’

  Don Walsh got heavily to his feet and left the dining room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Betty called peevishly after him. ‘You’re not through eating.’

  ‘The future belongs to youth,’ Jimmy was informing Carl. ‘And the youth of the planet is firmly Purist. You don’t have a chance; the Purist revolution is coming.’

  Don Walsh left the apartment and wandered down the common corridor toward the ramp. Closed doors extended in rows on both sides of him. Noise and light and activity radiated around him, the close presence of families and domestic interaction. He pushed past a boy and girl making love in the dark shadows and reached the ramp. For a moment he halted, then abruptly he moved forward and descended to the lowest level of the unit.

  The level was deserted and cool and slightly moist. Above him the sounds of people had faded to dull echoes against the concrete ceiling. Conscious of his sudden plunge into isolation and silence he advanced thoughtfully between the dark grocery and dry goods stores, past the beauty shop and the liquor store, past the laundry and medical supply store, past the dentist and physical doctor, to the ante-room of the unit analyst.

  He could see the analyst within the inner chamber. It sat immobile and silent, in the dark shadows of evening. Nobody was consulting it; the analyst was turned off. Walsh hesitated, then crossed the check-frame of the ante-room and knocked on the transparent inner door. The presence of his body closed relays and switches; abruptly the lights of the inner office winked on and the analyst itself sat up, smiled and half-rose to its feet.

  ‘Don,’ it called heartily. ‘Come on in and sit down.’

  He entered and wearily seated himself. ‘I thought maybe I could talk to you, Charley,’ he said.

  ‘Sure, Don.’ The robot leaned forward to see the clock on its wide mahogany desk. ‘But, isn’t it dinner time?’

  ‘Yes,’ Walsh admitted. ‘I’m not hungry. Charley, you know what we were talking about last time … you remember what I was saying. You remember what’s been bothering me.’