“You heard Mr. Douglas,” Virginia said disgustedly. “The attack’s going to start in a couple of hours.”
Tim got to his feet and paced back and forth. “If we stay in the house we’ll get blown to bits. Let’s face it. There’s only a faint chance we’ll be tipped back to our own tune. A slim possibility—a long shot. Do we want to stay here with roms falling all around us, knowing any second it may be the end—hearing them come closer, hatting nearer—lying on the floor, waiting, listening—”
“Do you really want to go back?” Mary demanded.
“Of course, but the risk—”
“I’m not asking you about the risk. I’m asking you if you really want to go back. Maybe you want to stay here. Maybe Earl’s right. You in a uniform and a mask, with one of those needle guns. Driving a snake.”
“With you in a factory-labor camp! And the kids in a Government Relocation Center! How do you think that would be? What do you think they’d teach them? What do you think they’d grow up like? And believe… .”
“They’d probably teach them to be very useful.”
“Useful! To what? To themselves? To mankind? Or to the war effort… ?”
“They’d be alive,” Mary said. “They’d be safe. This way, if we stay in the house, wait for the attack to come—”
“Sure,” Tim grated. “They would be alive. Probably quite healthy. Well fed. Well clothed and cared for.” He looked down at his children, his face hard. “They’d stay alive, all right. They’d live to grow up and become adults. But what kind of adults? You heard what he said! Book burnings in ‘77. What’ll they be taught from? What kind of ideas are left, since ‘77? What kind of beliefs can they get from a Government Relocation Center? What kind of values will they have?”
“There’s the id block,” Mary suggested.
“Industrial designing and Technology. For the bright ones. The clever ones with imagination. Busy slide rules and pencils. Drawing and planning and making discoveries. The girls could go into that. They could design the guns. Earl could go into the Political Service. He could make sure the guns were used. If any of the troops deviated, didn’t want to shoot, Earl could report them and have them hauled off for reeducation. To have their political faith strengthened—in a world where those with brains design weapons and those without brains fire them.”
“But they’d be alive,” Mary repeated.
“You’ve got a strange idea of what being alive is! You call that alive? Maybe it is.” Tim shook his head wearily. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should go undersurface with Douglas. Stay in this world. Stay alive.”
“I didn’t say that,” Mary said softly. “Tim, I had to find out if you really understood why it’s worth it. Worth staying in the house, taking the chance we won’t be tipped back.”
“Then you want to take the chance?”
“Of course! We have to. We can’t turn our children over to them—to the Relocation Center. To be taught how to hate and kill and destroy.” Mary smiled up wanly. “Anyhow, they’ve always gone to the Jefferson School. And here, in this world, it’s only an open field.”
“Are we going back?” Judy piped. She caught hold of Tim’s sleeve imploringly. “Are we going back now?”
Tim disengaged her arm. “Very soon, honey.”
Mary opened the supply cupboards and rooted in them. “Everything’s here. What did they take?”
“The case of canned peas. Everything we had in the refrigerator. And they smashed the front door.”
“I’ll bet we’re beating them!” Earl shouted. He ran to the window and peered out. The sight of the rolling ash disappointed him. “I can’t see anything! Just the fog!” He turned questioningly to Tim. “Is it always like this, here?”
“Yes,” Tim answered.
Earl’s face fell. “Just fog? Nothing else? Doesn’t the sun shine ever?”
“I’ll fix some coffee,” Mary said.
“Good.” Tim went into the bathroom and examined himself in the mirror. His mouth was cut, caked with dried blood. His head ached. He felt sick at his stomach.
“It doesn’t seem possible,” Mary said, as they sat down at the kitchen table.
Tim sipped his coffee. “No. It doesn’t.” Where he sat he could see out the window. The clouds of ash. The dim, jagged outline of ruined buildings.
“Is the man coming back?” Judy piped. “He was all thin and funny-looking. He isn’t coming back, is he?”
Tim looked at his watch. It read ten o’clock. He reset it, moving the hands to four-fifteen. “Douglas said it would begin at nightfall. That won’t be long.”
“Then we’re really staying in the house,” Mary said.
“That’s right.”
“Even though there’s only a little chance?”
“Even though they’s only a little chance we’ll get back. Are you glad?”
“I’m glad,” Mary said, her eyes bright. “It’s worth it, Tim. You know it is. Anything’s worth it, any chance. To get back. And something else. We’ll all be here together… . We can’t be—broken up. Separated.”
Tim poured himself more coffee. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable. We have maybe three hours to wait. We might as well try to enjoy them.”
At six-thirty the first rom fell. They felt the shock, a deep rolling wave of force that lapped over the house.
Judy came running from the dining room, face white with fear. “Daddy! What is it?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry.”
“Come on back,” Virginia called impatiently. “It’s your turn.” They were playing Monopoly.
Earl leaped to his feet. “I want to see.” He ran excitedly to the window. “I can see where it hit!”
Tim lifted the shade and looked out. Far off, in the distance, a white glare burned fitfully. A towering column of luminous smoke rose from it.
A second shudder vibrated through the house. A dish crashed from the shelf, into the sink.
It was almost dark outside. Except for the two spots of white Tim could make out nothing. The clouds of ash were lost in the gloom. The ash and the ragged remains of buildings.
“That was closer,” Mary said.
A third rom fell. In the living room the windows burst, showering glass across the rug.
“We better get back,” Tim said.
“Where?”
“Down in the basement. Come on.” Tim unlocked the basement door and they trooped nervously downstairs.
“Food,” Mary said. “We better bring the food that’s left.”
“Good idea. You kids go on down. We’ll come along in a minute.”
“I can carry something,” Earl said.
“Go on down.” The fourth rom hit, farther off than the last. “And stay away from the window.”
“Ill move something over the window,” Earl said. “The big piece of plywood we used for my train.”
“Good idea.” Tim and Mary returned to the kitchen. “Food. Dishes. What else?”
“Books.” Mary looked nervously around. “I don’t know. Nothing else. Come on.”
A shattering roar drowned out her words. The kitchen window gave, showering glass over them. The dishes over the sink tumbled down in a torrent of breaking china. Tim grabbed Mary and pulled her down.
From the broken window rolling clouds of ominous gray drifted into the room. The evening air stank, a sour, rotten smell. Tim shuddered.
“Forget the food. Let’s get back down.”
“But—”
“Forget it.” He grabbed her and pulled her down the basement stairs. They tumbled in a heap, Tim slamming the door after them.
“Where’s the food?” Virginia demanded.
Tim wiped his forehead shakily. “Forget it. We won’t need it.”
“Help me,” Earl gasped. Tim helped him move the sheet of plywood over the window above the laundry tubs. The basement was cold and silent. The cement floor under them was faintly moist.
Two roms struck at once. T
im was hurled to the floor. The concrete hit him and he grunted. For a moment blackness swirled around him. Then he was on his knees, groping his way up.
“Everybody all right?” he muttered.
“I’m all right,” Mary said. Judy began to whimper. Earl was feeling his way across the room.
“I’m all right,” Virginia said. “I guess.”
The lights flickered and dimmed. Abruptly they went out. The basement was pitch-black.
“Well,” Tim said. “There they go.”
“I have my flashlight.” Earl winked the flashlight on. “How’s that?”
“Fine,” Tim said.
More roms hit. The ground leaped under them, bucking and heaving. A wave of force shuddering the whole house.
“We better lie down,” Mary said.
“Yes. Lie down.” Tim stretched himself out awkwardly. A few bits of plaster rained down around them.
“When will it stop?” Earl asked uneasily.
“Soon,” Tim said.
“Then we’ll be back?”
“Yes. We’ll be back.”
The next blast hit them almost at once. Tim felt the concrete rise under him. It grew, swelling higher and higher. He was going up. He shut his eyes, holding on tight. Higher and higher he went, carried up by the ballooning concrete. Around him beams and timbers cracked. Plaster poured down. He could hear glass breaking. And a long way off, the licking crackles of fire.
“Tim,” Mary’s voice came faintly.
“Yes.”
“We’re not going to—to make it.”
“I don’t know.”
“We’re not. I can tell.”
“Maybe not.” He grunted in pain as a board struck his back, settling over him. Boards and plaster, covering him, burying him. He could smell the sour smell, the night air and ash. It drifted and rolled into the cellar, through the broken window.
“Daddy,” Judy’s voice came faintly.
“What?”
“Aren’t we going back?”
He opened his mouth to answer. A shattering roar cut his words off. He jerked, tossed by the blast. Everything was moving around him. A vast wind tugged at him, a hot wind, licking at him, gnawing at him. He held on tight. The wind pulled, dragging him with it. He cried out as it seared his hands and face.
“Mary—”
Then silence. Only blackness and silence.
Cars.
Cars were stopping nearby. Then voices. And the noise of footsteps. Tim stirred, pushing the boards from him. He struggled to his feet.
“Mary.” He looked around. “We’re back.”
The basement was in ruins. The walls were broken and sagging. Great gaping holes showed a green line of grass beyond. A concrete walk. The small rose garden. The white side of the stucco house next door.
Lines of telephone poles. Roofs. Houses. The city. As it had always been. Every morning.
“We’re back!” Wild joy leaped through him. Back. Safe. It was over. Tim pushed quickly through the debris of his ruined house. “Mary, are you all right?”
“Here.” Mary sat up, plaster dust raining from her. She was white all over, her hair, her skin, her clothing. Her face was cut and scratched. Her dress was torn. “Are we really back?”
“Mr. McLean! You all right?”
A blue-clad policeman leaped down into the cellar. Behind him two white-clad figures jumped. A group of neighbors collected outside, peering anxiously to see.
“I’m OK,” Tim said. He helped Judy and Virginia up. “I think we’re all OK.”
“What happened?” The policeman pushed boards aside, coming over. “A bomb? Some kind of a bomb?”
“The house is a shambles,” one of the white-clad interns said. “You sure nobody’s hurt?”
“We were down here. In the basement.”
“You all right, Tim?” Mrs. Hendricks called, stepping down gingerly into the cellar.
“What happened?” Frank Foley shouted. He leaped down with a crash. “God, Tim! What the hell were you doing?”
The two white-clad interns poked suspiciously around the ruins. “You’re lucky, mister. Damn lucky. There’s nothing left upstairs.”
Foley came over beside Tim. “Damn it man! I told you to have that hot water heater looked at!”
“What?” Tim muttered.
“The hot water heater! I told you there was something wrong with the cut-off. It must’ve kept heating up, not turned off… .” Foley winked nervously. “But I won’t say anything, Tim. The insurance. You can count on me.”
Tim opened his mouth. But the words didn’t come. What could he say? —No, it wasn’t a defective hot water heater that I forgot to have repaired. No, it wasn’t a faulty connection in the stove. It wasn’t any of those things. It wasn’t a leaky gas line, it wasn’t a plugged furnace, it wasn’t a pressure cooker we forgot to turn off.
It’s war. Total war. And not just war for me. For my family. For just my house.
It’s for your house, too. Your house and my house and all the houses. Here and in the next block, in the next town, the next state and country and continent. The whole world, like this. Shambles and ruins. Fog and dank weeds growing in the rusting slag. War for all of us. For everybody crowding down into the basement, white-faced, frightened, somehow sensing something terrible.
And when it really came, when the five years were up, there’d be no escape. No going back, tipping back into the past, away from it. When it came for them all, it would have them for eternity; there would be no one climbing back out, as he had.
Mary was watching him. The policeman, the neighbors, the white-clad interns—all of them were watching him. Waiting for him to explain. To tell them what it was.
“Was it the hot water heater?” Mrs. Hendricks asked timidly. “That was it, wasn’t it, Tim? Things like that do happen. You can’t be sure… .”
“Maybe it was home brew,” a neighbor suggested, in a feeble attempt at humor. “Was that it?”
He couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand, because they didn’t want to understand. They didn’t want to know. They needed reassurance. He could see it in their eyes. Pitiful, pathetic fear. They sensed something terrible—and they were afraid. They were searching his face, seeking his help. Words of comfort. Words to banish their fear.
“Yeah,” Tim said heavily. “It was the hot water heater.”
“I thought so!” Foley breathed. A sigh of relief swept through them all. Murmurs, shaky laughs. Nods, grins.
“I should have got it fixed,” Tim went on. “I should have had it looked at a long time ago. Before it got in such bad shape.” Tim looked around at the circle of anxious people, hanging on his words. “I should have had it looked at. Before it was too late.”
SHELL GAME
A SOUND awoke O’Keefe instantly. He threw back his covers, slid from the cot, grabbed his B-pistol from the wall and, with his foot, smashed the alarm box. High frequency waves tripped emergency bells throughout the camp. As O’Keefe burst from his house, lights already flickered on every side.
“Where?” Fisher demanded shrilly. He appeared beside O’Keefe, still in his pajamas, grubby-faced with sleep.
“Over to the right.” O’Keefe leaped aside for a massive cannon being rolled from its underground storage-chambers. Soldiers were appearing among the night-clad figures. To the right lay the black bog of mists and obese foliage, ferns and pulpy onions, sunk in the half-liquid ooze that made up the surface of Betelgeuse II. Nocturnal phosphorescence danced and flitted over the bog, ghostly yellow lights snapped in the thick darkness.
“I figure,” Horstokowski said, “they came in close to the road, but not actually on it. There’s a shoulder fifty feet on each side, where the bog has piled up. That’s why our radar’s silent.”
An immense mechanical fusing “bug” was eating its way into the mud and shifting water of the bog, leaving behind a trail of hard, smoked surface. The vegetation and the rotting roots and dead leaves were sucked u
p and efficiently cleared away.
“What did you see?” Portbane asked O’Keefe.
“I didn’t see anything. I was sound asleep. But I heard them.”
“Doing what?’
“They were getting ready to pump nerve gas into my house. I heard them unreeling the hose from portable drums and uncapping the pressure tanks. But, by God, I was out of the house before they could get the joints leak-tight!”
Daniels hurried up. “You say it’s a gas attack?” He fumbled for the gas mask at his belt. “Don’t stand there—get your masks on!”
“They didn’t get their equipment going,” Silberman said. “O’Keefe gave the alarm in time. They retreated back to the bog.”
“You’re sure?” Daniels demanded.
“You don’t smell anything, do you?”
“No,” Daniels admitted. “But the odorless type is the most deadly. And you don’t know you’ve been gassed till it’s too late.” He put on his gas mask, just to be sure.
A few women appeared by the rows of houses—slim, large-eyed shapes in the flickering glare of the emergency searchlights. Some children crept cautiously after them.
Silberman and Horstokowski moved over in the shadows by the heavy cannon.
“Interesting,” Horstokowski said. “Third gas attack this month. Plus two tries to wire bomb terminals within the camp site. They’re stepping it up.”
“You have it all figured out, don’t you?”
“I don’t have to wait for the composite to see we’re getting it heavier all the time.” Horstokowski peered warily around, then pulled Silberman close. “Maybe there’s a reason why the radar screen didn’t react. It’s supposed to get everything, even knocker-bats.”
“But if they came in along the shoulder, like you said—”
“I just said that as a plant. There’s somebody waving them in, setting up interference for the radar.”
“You mean one of us?”
Horstokowski was intently watching Fisher through the moist night gloom. Fisher had moved carefully to the edge of the road, where the hard surface ended and the slimy, scorched bog began. He was squatting down and rooting in the ooze.
“What’s he doing?” Horstokowski demanded.
“Picking up something,” Silberman said indifferently. “Why not? He’s supposed to be looking around, isn’t he?”
The Book of Philip K Dick (1973) Page 18
