The Unteleported Man

by Philip K. Dick

  The thought, theoretical as it was, chilled him as he involuntarily, without the possibility of evasion, lis­tened to the curious mixture of nonsense and — mean­ing. Of the highest order.

  "... I think, though, I see why Zoobko lards, but­ters, marginates and otherwise fattens up the word 'spore' into the rather sinister male spore slogan. Their house brochure in Move-E 3-D kul-R is directed (heh-heh) at women consumers, to fumble lewdly a meta­phor, ahem, no offense meant (gak). More fully articu­lated, it would read, 'The male spore, my dears, is as we well know tireless in its half-crazed struggle — against all sanity and moral restraint — to reach the female egg. That's the way men are. Right? We all realize it. Give a male (sic) spore half an inch and he'll take seventy-two-and-a-sixth miles. BE PREPARED! ALWAYS READY! A HUGE, SLIMY, SLANT-EYED YEL­LOW-SKINNED MALE SPORE MAY BE WATCH­ING YOU THIS VERY MINUTE! And, considering his almost demonic ability to wiggle for miles upon miles, you may at this moment be in dire, severe danger! To quote Dryden: 'The trumpet's loud clamor doth call us to arms,' etc. (And don't forget, ladies, the hand­some prize awarded yearly by Zoobko Products, Incor­porated for the greatest number of dead male (sic) spores mailed (pun) to our Callisto factory in an old Irish linen pillow case, attesting to (one) your tenacity in balking the evil damned things and (two) the fact that you're buying our lather-like goo in one-hundred-pound squirt cans. Also remember: if you are unable to ade­quately prepare yourself with a generous, expensive por­tion of Zoobko patented goo in the proper place, ahem, in advance of marital lawful pawing, then merely squirt the spray can with nozzle directed directly into the grimacing fungiform's ugly face as it hovers six feet high in the air above you. Best range — "

  "Best range," Gregory Gloch said aloud, against the din of the obsessive noise in his ears, "approximately two inches."

  " — 'two inches,' " the tinny, mechanical racket reeled off, accompanying him, " 'from his eyes. Zoobko's patented goo is not only — ' "

  " — 'a top-drawer killer of male spores,' " Gloch murmured, " 'but it also blasts the tear-ducts out of existence. Too bad, fella.' " End brochure, he thought. End monolog. End sex. End of Zoobko, or zoob of Endko. Is this an ad or a contemplation of a squandered life? Check one. I know this discourse, he thought. By heart. Why? How? It's as if, he thought, I said it; as if it's happening inside my brain — not coming to me from the outside. What does this mean? I have to know.

  "Always bear in mind," the inexorable din con­tinued, "that male spores have an almost appalling capacity to progress under their own power. If, ladies, you constantly ponder that — "

  "Appalling, yes," Gloch said. "But FIVE MILES?" I said all that, he realized. A long time ago. When I was a child. But no, he thought; I didn't say all that — I thought it, worked it out in my mind, a prank, a lam­poon, when I was a kid in school. What's being piped to me now here in this goddam chamber, what's supposed to be rephased sensory-data from the outside world — it's my own goddam former thoughts returning to me, a loop from my brain to my brain, with a ten-year lag.

  "Splub gnog furb SQUAZ," the aud input circuit rattled away, into his passive ears. Relentlessly.

  My counter-weapon, Gloch thought. They've blocked my counter-weapon with a counter-weapon, their own. Who —

  "Yes sir, gnog furb," the aud input circuit declared in a hearty but garbled voice, "this is good ol' Charley Falks' little boy Martha signing off for now, but I'll be back with you soon and with me a few more chuckles to lighten the day and make things SQUAZ! cheery and bright. Toodeloo!" The voice, then, ceased. There was only distant background static, not even a carrier wave.

  I don't know any little boy named Martha, Gloch thought. And, he realized, there's more wrong; the a-ending is out of the first Latin declension, so "Martha" can't be a boy's name. Logically, it would have to be Marthus. Or maybe they didn't know that; Charley Falks didn't know that. Probably not well-read. As I recall, from what I saw of Charley he was one of those self-educated simps ignorant as hell on the inside but lathered over on the outside with a thin layer of bits of cultural, scientific, odd, dubious half-facts which he always liked to drone out for hours on end to whoever was listening or if not listening then anyhow in the vicinity and so at least potentially within earshot. And then when he got older you could practically walk off and he'd still be talking, to no one. But then of course I didn't have my chamber in those days, so my own time-sense was so faulty that what actually lasted only min­utes seemed like years; at least that's what they told me, those 'wash psychiatrists, back in the early days, when they were testing me and setting me up so I could func­tion, getting this chamber designed and built.

  I wish for chrissake's, he thought mournfully, I could remember the concept for the counter-weapon I had in mind or almost had in mind or anyhow think I almost had in mind, before that garbage started coming in over the conduit.

  It would have been one hell of a counter-weapon to use against Horst Bertold and the UN. He was sure of that.

  Maybe it'll come back to me later, he reflected. Anyhow strictly speaking it was merely the nucleus of the counter-tactic idea; hardly had begun to grow. Takes time. If I'm not interrupted any further... if that dratted rubbish doesn't start up again promptly the second I begin to really fatten up the original notion into something Herr von Einem can put to use function­ally, right out into the field to see action in the overall struggle we're bogged so darn down in at Whale's Mouth and wherever else they're all tangling... prob­ably all over the universe by now; I'm probably six weeks behind, with data stored up ready to be fed to me from for instance last Thursday if not last year.

  Martha, he thought. Let's see: "The Last Rose of Summer" is from that. Who wrote it? Flotow? Lehár? One of those light opera composers.

  "Hummel," the aud input circuit suddenly stated, startling him; it was a familiar, dry, aged male voice. "Johann Nepomuk Hummel."

  "You're a goldmine of misinformation," Gloch said irritably, in response, automatically, to one more of garrulous ol' Charley Falks' typical tidbits of wrong knowledge. He was so used to it, so darn, wearily resigned out of long experience. All the way back to his childhood, back throughout the dreary procession of years.

  It's enough to make you wish you were a carpenter, Gloch mused grimly. And didn't have to think, just measure boards, saw and pound, all that purely physical activity. Then it wouldn't matter what ol' Charley Falks blabbled out, or what his pest of a kid Martha chimed in with in addition, for that matter; it didn't matter who said anything, or what.

  Damn nice, he thought, if you could go back and live your life over again from the start. Only this time making it different; getting on the right track for once. A second chance, and with what I know now —

  But exactly what did he know now?

  For the life of him he couldn't remember.

  "Pun, there," the voice from the aud circuit com­mented. "Life of you, life lived over... see?" It chuckled.

  13

  Within its bow-shaped mouth the half-chewed eyes lay, rolling on the surface of its greedy, licking tongue. Those not completely eaten, those which still shone with luster, regarded him as they rolled slightly; they continued to function, although no longer fixed to the bulbed, oozing exterior surface of the head. New eyes, like tiny pale eggs, had already begun to form, he perceived. They clung in clusters.

  He was seeing it. Not a deformed, half-hallucinated, pseudo-image, but the actual presence of the underlying substrate-entity which inhabited or somehow managed to lodge itself in this paraworld for long periods of time — possibly forever, he realized with a shudder. Possibly for the total, absolute duration of its existence.

  That might be a time-span of such magnitude as to smother any rational insight; he intuited that. The thing was old. And it had learned to feed on itself. He won­dered how many centuries had passed before it had en­countered that method of survival. He wondered what else it had tried first — and what it still resorted to, when necessary.

&n
bsp; There were undoubtedly a number of techniques which it could make use of, when pressed. This act of consuming its own sensory-apparatus... it appeared to be a reflex act, not even consciously done. By now a mere habit; the creature chewed monotonously, and the luster within the still-watching half-consumed eyes was extinguished. But already the new ones expanding in clusters against the outer surface of the head had begun to acquire animation; several, more advanced in devel­opment than the others, had in a dim way discovered him and were with each passing second becoming more alert. Their initial interchange with reality involved him, and the realization of this made him sick with disgust. To be the first object sighted by such semi-autonomous entities —

  Hoarsely, its voice thickened by the mouthful which it still continued to chew, the creature said, "Good morn­ing. I have your book for you. Sign here." One of its pseudopodia convulsed and its tip lathered in a spasm which, after an interval, fumbled forth a bulky old-style bound-in-boards volume which it placed on a small plastic table before Rachmael.

  "What — book is this?" he demanded, presently. His mind, numbed, refused to interfere as his fingers poked haphazardly at the handsome gold-stamped book which the creature had presented him.

  "The fundamental reference source in this survey in­struction," the cephalopodic organism answered as it laboriously filled out a long printed form; it made use of two pseudopodia and two writing instruments simul­taneously, enormously speeding up the intricate task. "Dr. Bloode's great primary work, in the seventeenth edition." It swiveled the book, to show him the ornate spine. "The True and Complete Economic and Political History of Newcolonizedland,"it informed him, in a severe, dignified tone of voice, as if reproving him for his unfamiliarity with the volume. Or rather, he realized suddenly, as if it assumed that the title would have over­powering influence alone, without additional aid.

  "Hmm," he said, then, still nonplussed — to say the least. And he thought, It can't be, but it is. Paraworld — which? Not precisely as it had manifested itself before; this was not Blue, because his glimpse of that, ratified by the other weevils, had contained a cyclopsic organism. And this, for all its similarity to the Aquatic Horror-shape, had by reason of its compound multi-eye system a fundamentally different aspect.

  Could this actually be the authentic underlying reality? he wondered. This macro-abomination that resembled nothing ever witnessed by him before? A grotesque monstrosity which seemed, as he watched it devour and consume — to its evident satisfaction — the remainder of its eyes, almost a parody of the Aquatic Horror-shape?

  "This book," the creature intoned, "demonstrates beyond any doubt whatsoever that the plan to colonize the ninth planet of the Fomalhaut system is foolish. No such colony as the projected Newcolonizedland can possibly be established. We owe a great debt to Dr. Bloode for his complete elucidation of this complex topic." It giggled, then. A wet, slurred, wobbly giggle of delighted mirth.

  "But the title," he said. "It says — "

  "Irony," the creature tittered. "Of course. After all, no such colony exists." It paused, then, contempla­tively. "Or does it?"

  He was silent. For some ill-disclosed reason he felt a deep, abiding ominousness in the query.

  "I wonder," the creature said speculatively, "why you don't speak. Is it so difficult a question? There is, of course, that small group of insane fanatics who allege that such a colony in some weird manner or other actu­ally — " It halted as an ominous shape began — to both its surprise and Rachmael's — to materialize above its head. "A thing," the creature said, with resigned weari­ness. "And the worst style of thing in the known uni­verse. I detest them. Do you not also, Mr, ben Apple­baum?"

  "Yes," Rachmael admitted. Because the detested ob­ject forming was equally familiar — and loathsome — to him also.

  A creditor balloon.

  "Oh, there you are!" the balloon piped at the amor­phous mass of living tissue confronting Rachmael; it descended, tropic to the eye-eating creature. Obviously, it had located its target.

  "Ugh," the eye-eater mumbled in disgust; with its pseudopodia it batted irritably at the invader.

  "You must keep your credit-standing up and in good repute!" the balloon squealed as it bobbed and de­scended. "Your entire — "

  "Get out of here," the eye-eater muttered angrily.

  "Mr. Trent," the balloon shrilled, "your debts are odious! A great variety of small businessmen will go into bankruptcy immediately unless you honor your obligations! Don't you have the decency to do so? Everyone took you for a person who honored his obli­gations, an honorable man who could be trusted. Your assets will be attached through the courts, Mr. Trent; prepare for legal action to be instigated starting im­mediately! If you don't make at least a token attempt to pay, the entire net worth of Lies Incorporated — "

  "I don't own Lies Incorporated any more," the eye-eater broke in gloomily. "It belongs to Mrs. Trent, now. Mrs. Silvia Trent. I suggest you go and bother her."

  "There is no such person as 'Mrs. Silvia Trent,' the creditor balloon said, with wrathful condemnation. "And you know it. Her real name is Freya Holm, and she's your mistress."

  "A lie," the eye-eater rumbled ominously; again its pseudopodia whipped viciously, seeking out the agile creditor balloon, which dipped and bobbed barely be­yond the flailing reach of the several sucker-im­pregnated arms. "As a matter of fact, this gentleman here — " It indicated Rachmael. "My understanding is that the lady and this individual are emotionally in­volved. Miss Holm is — was, whatever — a friend of mine, a very close friend. But hardly my mistress." The eye-eater looked embarrassed.

  Rachmael said to it, "You're Matson Glazer-Holliday."

  "Yes," the eye-eater admitted.

  "He took this evil manifestation," the creditor balloon shouted, "to evade us. But as you can see, Mr. — " It regarded Rachmael as it bobbed and drifted. "I believe you are familiar to us, too" it declared, then. "Are you one of those who has shirked his moral and legal duty, who has failed to honor his financial obligations? As a matter of fact..." It drifted very slowly toward Rachmael. "I think I personally hounded you not too long ago, sir. You are — " It considered as, within, electronic circuits linked it to its agency's central computer banks, "ben Applebaum!" it shrilled in triumph. "Zounds! I've caught two deadbeats AT THE SAME TIME!"

  "I'm getting out of here," the eye-eater who was — or once had been — Matson Glazer-Holliday declared; it began to flow off, uniped-wise, getting free of the situation as quickly as possible... and at Rachmael's expense.

  "Hey," he protested weakly. "Don't you go scuttling off, Matson. This is all too damn much; wait, for god's sake!"

  "Your late father," the creditor balloon boomed at him, its voice now amplified by the background data supplied it by the central computer upon which it depended, "as of Friday, November tenth, 2014, owed four and one-third million poscreds to the noble firm Trails of Hoffman Limited, and as his heir, you, sir, must appear before the Superior Court of Marin County, California, and show just cause as to why you have failed (or if you by a miracle have not failed but possess the due sum in toto) and if by your failure you hope to — "

  Its resonant voice ceased. Because, in approaching Rachmael the better to harass him, it had forgotten about the finely probing pseudopodia of the eye-eater.

  One of the pseudopodia had whipped about the body of the creditor balloon. And squeezed.

  "Gleeb!" the creditor balloon squeaked. "Gak!" it whooshed as its frail structure crumbled. "Glarg!" it sighed, and then wheezed into final silence as the pseu­dopodium crushed it. Fragments rained down, then. A gentle pat-pat of terminal sound.

  And after that — silence.

  "Thanks," Rachmael said, gratefully.

  "Don't thank me," the eye-eater said in a gloomy voice. "After all, you've got a lot more troubles than that pitiful object. For instance, Rachmael, you've got the illness. Telpor Syndrome. Right?"

  "Right,"he admitted.

  "So it's S.A.T. f
or you. Good old therapy by Lupov's psychiatrists, probably some second-string hick we never ought to have voted money to pay for. Some fnigging quab; right?" The eye-eater chuckled, in a philosophic fashion. "Well, so it goes. Anyhow — what's with you, Rachmael? Lately you've been, um, a weevil; part of that class and seeing Paraworld Blue... is that correct? Yes, correct." The eye-eater nodded sagely. "And it's just ever so much fun... right? With that Sheila Quam as the control, these days. And form 47-B hanging around, ready to be utilized as soon as two of you experience the same delusional world. Heh-heh." It chuckled; or rather, Matson Glazer-Holliday chuckled. Rachmael still found it difficult, if not im­possible, to recall that the pulpy, massive heap of organic tissue confronting him was Matson.

  And — why this shape? Had the creditor balloon been right? Merely to evade the balloon... it seemed an overly extreme ruse to escape. Frankly Rachmael was not convinced; he sensed that more, much more, lay below the surface of apparent meaning.

  Below the surface. Did nothing actual lie at hand? Did everything have to turn out, eventually, to consist of something else entirely? He felt weary — and resigned. Evidently this remained so. Whether he liked it or not. Delusional as this might be, obviously it was not acting in conformity to his wishes. Not in the slightest.

  "What can you tell me," he said, "about Freya?" He set himself, braced against the possibility of horrible, final news; he waited with cold stoic anticipation.

  "Chrissake, she's fine," the eye-eater answered. "Nobody got her; it was me they got. Blew me to bits, they did."

  "But," Rachmael pointed out, "you're alive."

  "Somewhat." The eye-eater sounded disenchanted. "You call this being alive? Well, I guess technically it's being alive; I can move around, eat food, breathe; maybe, for all I know, I can reproduce myself. Okay, I admit it; I'm alive. Are you satisfied?"

  Rachmael said hoarsely, "You're a Mazdast."

  "Hell I am."