The Unteleported Man

by Philip K. Dick

  "Yes sir!" a mechanical voice said. "Reading mate­rial to banish boredom. Newspaper or paperback book, sir?" The robot 'pape-vender coasted eagerly in his direction; with dismay he observed that its metal body had become corroded and pitted from the discharge of nearby anti-personnel weapons' fire.

  "No," he said rapidly. "This damn war, here — "

  "The latest 'pape will explain it entirely, sir," the vendor said in a loud braying voice as it pursued him; he peered about hopefully for a flapple-for-hire, saw none, felt keen nervousness: out here on the pavement he re­mained singularly exposed.

  And in my own damn colony planet's own main hub, he said to himself with aggrieved indignation. Can't walk my own streets with impunity; have to put on a cammed identity — make it appear I'm some nitwit nonentity named Mike Hennen or whatever... he had already virtually lost contact with his false identity, by now, and the loss frankly pleased him. Damn it, he said to himself, I'm the one and only —

  At that moment he caught sight of the single main item which the 'pape vendor had to offer. The True and Complete Economic and Political History of Newcol­onizedland, he read. By who? Dr. Bloode. Strange, he thought. I haven't run across that before, and yet I'm in and out of this place all the time.

  "I perceive your scrutiny of this remarkable text which I have for sale," the vendor declared. "This edition, the eighteenth, is exceptionally up-to-date, sir; possibly you'd like to glance through it. No charge for that." It whipped its copy of the huge book in his direc­tion; reflexively, he accepted it, opened it at random, feeling restless and set-upon but not knowing precisely how to escape the 'pape vendor.

  And, before his eyes, a passage dealing with him; his own name leaped up to stun him, to hold and transmute his faculties of attention.

  "You, too," the 'pape vendor announced, "can play a vital role in the development of this fine virgin colo­nial world with its near-infinite promise of cultural and spiritual reward. In fact it is a distinct possibility that you are already mentioned; why not consult the index and thereby scout out your own name? Take a chance, Mr. — "

  "Hennen," he murmured. "Or Hendren; whichever it is." Automatically obeying the firm promptings of the vendor he turned to the index, glanced up and down the H's, then realized with a start that he had already been doing exactly that: reading about himself, but un­der his real name. With a grunt of irritation he swept the useless pages aside, sought his actual, correct name in the index.

  After the entry Ferry, Theodoric, he found virtually unending citations; the page he had formerly been reading consisted of but one out of many.

  On impulse he chose the first entry, that with the lowest page number.

  Early in the morning Theodoric Ferry, chief of the vast economic and political entity Trails of Hoff­man Limited, got out of bed, put on his clothes and walked into the living room.

  Damned dull stuff, he decided in bewilderment. Is this book full of everything about me? Even the most trivial details? For some strange and obscure reason, this rubbed him the wrong way; once more he sought the index and this time selected a much later entry.

  That early evening when Theo Ferry entered the Telpor station under the false code-ident, that of one Mike Hennen, he little glimpsed the fateful events which would in only a short time transpire in his already baroque and twisted

  "For godsake," he complained hoarsely. They al­ready knew; already had hold of his cover name — in fact had had time to print it up and run off this weird book concerning him. Slander! "Listen," he said se­verely to the alert 'pape vendor, "my private life is my own business; there's no valid reason in the galaxy why my doings should be listed here." I ought to bust this outfit, he decided. Whoever these people are who put together this miserable book. Eighteenth edition? Good lord, he realized; it must have been kicking around for one hell of a long time... but maybe lacking some of these entries about me. In fact it would have to lack this entry if for no other reason than that I just within the last day or so hit on my name-cover.

  "One poscred, sir," the vendor said politely. "And the book becomes yours to keep."

  Gruffly, he handed over the money; the vendor, pleased, wheeled off into the clouds of debris created by the warfare taking place a few blocks off. The book carefully gripped, Theo Ferry sprinted sure-footedly for the security of a nearby semi-ruined housing structure; there, crouched down among the fragmented blocks of building-plastic, he once more resumed his intent reading. Fully absorbed in the peculiar text he became totally oblivious to the noises and movements around him; all that existed for him now was the printed page held motionless before his intense scrutiny.

  I'm damn near the main character in this tract, he realized. Myself, Matson, that Rachmael ben Apple­baum, this girl named Freya something and of course Lupov — naturally Lupov. On impulse he looked up a citation regarding Dr. Lupov; a moment later he found himself engrossed in that particular section of the text, even though admittedly it did not deal with himself at all.

  Peering tautly into the small vid screen, Dr. Lupov said to the sharp-featured young man beside him, "Now is the time, Jaimé. Either Theo Ferry examines the Bloode text or else he never does. If he turns to page one-forty-nine, then we have a real chance of — "

  "He won't," Jaimé Weiss said fatalistically. "The chances are against it. In my opinion he must somehow be maneuvered very clearly and directly into turning to that one particular page; somehow an instrument or method must be em­ployed which will first of all provide him with that page number out of all possible page numbers, and, when that's done, somehow his curiosity must

  Hands shaking, Theo Ferry leafed through the book to page one hundred and forty-nine. And, compul­sively, unblinkingly, studied the text before him.

  With a snort of exultation, Jaimé Weiss said, "He did it. Dr. Lupov — I was absolutely right." Gleefully, he slapped at the series of meters, switches and dials before the two of them. But of course the ploy had succeeded because of the 'wash psychiatrist's accurate diagnosis of all the passive factors constellating in Theo Ferry's psyche. Inability to resist danger... the suggestion that it constituted a hazard, his turning to that one page: the very notion that an extreme risk was involved had caused Ferry to thumb frantically in that direction.

  He had gone unresistingly to that page — and he would not be coming back out.

  "Sir," one of Lupov's assistants said suddenly, star­tling both Weiss and the psychiatrist, "we've just picked up something deadly on the scope. A detonation-foil tropic to both of you has passed through the Telpor gate that we made use of to reach Greg Gloch in his cham­ber." The man's face shone pale and damp with fright.

  Jaimé Weiss and Dr. Lupov looked at each other wordlessly.

  "I would say," Lupov said presently, his voice shaking, "that everything now depends on how rapidly the foil moves, how accurate it is, and — " He gestured convulsively at the micro-screen before them. " — and how long it takes Mr. Ferry to succumb to the 'wash in­structions on the page."

  "How long," Jaimé said carefully, "would you es­timate it would take for a man of Ferry's caliber to succumb?"

  After briefly calculating, Lupov said huskily, "At least an hour."

  "Too long," Jaime said.

  Lupov, woodenly, nodded slowly, up and down.

  "If the foil reaches us first," Jaimé said then, "and takes both of us out, will Ferry's pattern be altered?" What a waste, he thought; what a dreadful, impossible waste, if not. Everything we set up: the pseudo-worlds, the fake class of "weevils," everything — with no result. And to be so close, so incredibly close! Again he turned his attention to the small screen; he deliberately forgot everything else. Why not? he asked himself bitterly. After all, there was nothing they could do, now that the defense-foil from von Einem's lab had passed through the gate and had come here to Fomalhaut IX.

  "I can't predict," Lupov said, half to himself in a drab mutter, "what Ferry will do, if you and I are — "

  The back of the
bunker burst in a shower of murder­ing white and green sparks. Jaimé Weiss shut his eyes.

  Studying the page before him, Theo Ferry, engrossed, failed to hear the buzzer at his neck-com the first time. At last, however, he became aware of it, grasped the fact that von Einem was attempting to reach him. "Yes," he said brusquely. "What is it, Sepp?"

  "You are in extreme danger," the distant, faded voice came to him, a tinny, gnat-like dancing whisper from many light years off. "Throw away that thing you have, whatever it is; it's a Lupov invention — the 'wash technique strictured for you, sir! Hurry!"

  With unbelievable effort Theo Ferry managed to close the book. The page of print vanished... and as soon as it did so he felt strength return to his arms; volition flooded back and he at once jumped up, drop­ping the book. It tumbled wildly to the ground, pages fluttering; Theo Ferry at once jumped on it, ground his heel into the thing — hideously, it emitted a shrill living cry, and then became silent.

  Alive, he thought. An alien life form; no wonder it could deal with my recent activities; the page actually contained nothing — it was no book at all, only one of those awful Ganymede life-mirrors that Lupov was sup­posed to use. That entity that reflects back to you your own thoughts. Ugh. He winced with aversion. And it almost got me, he said to himself. Close.

  "The report back by the foil," von Einem's far-off voice came to him, "indicates that Lupov and Weiss built up over a long period of time, perhaps even years, an intricate structure of subworlds of a hypnotic, delusional type, to trap you when you made your crucial trip to Whale's Mouth. Had they fully concentrated on that and left Greg Gloch alone they might very well have been successful. This way — "

  "Did you get Weiss and Lupov?" he demanded.

  Von Einem said, "Yes. As near as I can determine. I'm still waiting for the certified results, but it seems hopeful. If I may explain about these mutually exclusive delusional worlds — "

  "Forget it," Ferry broke in harshly. "I have to get out of here." If they could come this close, then he was hardly safe, even now; they had spotted him, prepared for him — Lupov and Weiss might be gone, but that still left others. Rachmael ben Applebaum, he thought. We didn't get you, I suppose. And you have done us a good deal of harm already, harm that we know of. Theoretic­ally you could do much, much more.

  Except, he thought as he groped in his clothing for the variety of miniaturized weapons he knew were there, we're not going to let you. Too much is at stake; too many lives are involved. You will not succeed, even if you have outlasted Mat Glazer-Holliday, Lupov and Weiss and possibly even that Freya girl, the one who was Mat's mistress and now is yours — you still don't stand a chance.

  Thinly, he smiled. This part I will enjoy, he realized. My taking you out of action, ben Applebaum. For this I will operate out of my own ship, Apteryx Nil. When I'm finally there, I'll be safe. Even from you.

  And you, he said to himself, have no place equal to it; even if the Omphalos were here at Whale's Mouth it would not be enough.

  Nothing, ben Applebaum, he thought harshly, will be enough. Not when I've reached Apteryx Nil. As I enter it your tiny life fades out.

  Forever.

  16

  To Freya Holm the flapple repeated in high-pitched anxiety, "Sir or madam, you must evacuate at once; all living humans must leave me, as my meta-battery is about to deteriorate. Due to various punctures in my hull, which punctures having been caused by the demolition of the simulacrum of Mr. Ferry, or rather because of which — in any case I am no longer able to maintain homeostasis, or whatever the phrase is. Please, sir or madam; do heed me: your life, sir or madam, is being risked each moment!"

  Furiously, Freya grated, "And go where, once I leave here?"

  "Down to the surface of the planet," the flapple said, in a tone of voice suggesting ultimate mechanical smug­ness; as far as the flapple was concerned it had solved everything.

  "Jump?" she demanded. "Two thousand feet?"

  "Well, I suppose your point is well-taken," the flapple said in a disgruntled tone; it evidently was displeased to have its solution dealt with so readily. "But the enor­mous inter-plan and -system ship which I am now attached to; why not hie yourself there? Or however the expression goes."

  "It's Ferry's!"

  "Ferry's, Schmerry's," the flapple said. "This way you'll perish when I do. You want THAT?"

  "All right," she snarled, and made her way un­steadily toward the entrance hatch of the flapple, the link between it and the huge ship blowing its ceaseless wisps of fuel vapor, obviously ready to take off at an in­stant's command.

  "My meta-battery has nowwwaaaa foooof," the flapple intoned hazily; its expiration had accelerated by leaps and bounds.

  "Goodbye," Freya said, and passed out through the entrance hatch, cautiously following the shorter of the two THL agents.

  Behind her the flapple murmured in its dim fashion, "Tttturnnn uppp yrrrr hearing aaaaaaiddddd, missss­zzzz." And drifted into oblivion.

  Good riddance, she decided.

  A moment later she had entered the great ship — Theo Ferry's post from which he — obviously — operated when on Fomalhaut IX.

  "Kill her," a voice said.

  She ducked. A laser beam cut past her head; in­stantly she rolled, spun to one side, thinking, They did it to Mat, but not to me; they can't do it to me. A second last try for us, she thought desperately; if Rachmael can do anything. I can't. "Ferry," she gasped. "Please!"

  The prayer proved worthless. Four THL agents, in military brown, deployed strategically at several com­pass points of the ship's central cabin, aimed at her emotionlessly, while at the controls, his face a dull mask of almost indifferent concentration, sat Theodoric Ferry. And, she realized, this was the man himself; this did not constitute a simulacrum.

  "Do you know," Ferry said to her quietly, "where Rachmael ben Applebaum is at this moment?"

  "No," she gasped. Truthfully.

  At that Ferry nodded toward the four THL agents; the man to his

  See Note on page V

  pseudopodia several remaining unchewed eyes, and these it had placed close to its stomach in order to see properly. "Yes, it's still in there — and you can have it, free! No, but seriously, folks, the twentieth edition is worth a lot more to a collector than the seventeenth; get it while the getting's good or this free money-back offer expires forever."

  After a pause Rachmael shut his eyes and reached his hand gropingly into the midsection of the cephalopodic life form.

  "Fine, fine," the eye-eater chortled. "That feels really cool, as the ancients said. Got hold of it yet? Reach deeper, and don't mind if the digestive juices destroy your sleeve; that's show biz, or whatever it was they formerly said. Tee-hee!"

  His fingers touched something firm within the gela­tinous, oozing mass. The edge of the book? Or — something else. It felt very much as if — incredibly — it consisted of the crisp, starched, lower edge of a woman's bra.

  "For god's sake!" a female voice declared furiously. And at the same instant a small but wildly intent hand grabbed his, forced it back toward him.

  Immediately he opened his eyes. The eye-eater glowered at him in indignation. But — it had changed. From it long strands of women's hair grew; the eye-eater had a distinctly female appearance. Even its paw­ful of eyes had altered; they now appeared elongated, graceful, with heavy lashes. A woman's eyes, he realized with a thrill of terror.

  "Who are you?" he demanded, almost unable to speak; he jerked his hand back in revulsion and the pseudopodium released him.

  The pseudopodia of the eye-eater, all of them, ter­minated in small, delicate hands. Like the hair and the eyes, distinctly female.

  The eye-eater had become a woman. And, near the center of its body, it wore — ludicrously — the stiff white bra.

  The eye-eater said, in a high-pitched voice, almost a squeal of indignation, "I'm Gretch Borbman, of course. And I frankly don't believe it's very funny to — do what you did just now." Breathing
hotly, the eye-eater glowered even more darkly.

  "I'm — sorry," he managed to say. "But I'm lost in damn paraworld; it's not my fault. So don't condemn me."

  "Which paraworld is it this time?" the eye-eater demanded. "The same one as before?"

  He started to answer... and then noticed something which froze him into silence where he stood. Other eye-eaters had begun to appear, slowly undulating toward him and Gretch Borbman. Some had the distinct cast of masculinity; some obviously were, like Gretch, female.

  The class. Assembling together in response to what Gretch had said.

  "He attempted to reach inside me," the eye-eater calling itself Gretchen Borbman explained to the rest of them. "I wonder which paraworld that would in­dicate."

  "Mr. ben Applebaum," one of the other eye-eaters, almost certainly Sheila Quam by the sound of her voice, said. "In view of what Miss Borbman says, I think it is virtually mandatory for me to declare a special emer­gency Computer Day; I would say that beyond a reason­able doubt this situation which you've created calls for it."

  "True," the eye-eater named Gretch agreed; the others, to varying degrees, also nodded in unison. "Have his paraworld gestalt fed in so it can be examined and compared. Personally I don't think it's like anyone else's, but of course that's up to the computer to deter­mine. Myself, I feel perfectly safe; I know that whatever he saw, or rather sees, bears absolutely no resemblance to anything I ever perceived."

  "What did he do just now," an eye-eater which reminded him of Hank Szantho said, "that made you yip like that?"