The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Strories

by Philip K. Dick

“We’ll wait for Mr. Lee to tell us,” Crofts said irritably. “When she gets to Havana he’ll be waiting to meet her.”

  “Mr. Lee can’t scan Meritan direct?”

  “One telepath scan another?” Bogart Crofts smiled at the thought. It conjured up a nonsensical situation: Mr. Lee reading Meritan’s mind, and Meritan, also being a telepath, would read Mr. Lee’s mind and discover that Mr. Lee was reading his mind, and Lee, reading Meritan’s mind, would discover that Meritan knew—and so forth. Endless regression, winding up with a fusion of minds, within which Meritan carefully guarded his thoughts so that he did not think about Wilbur Mercer.

  “It’s the similarity of names that convinces me,” Herrick said. “Meritan, Mercer. The first three letters—?”

  Crofts said, “Ray Meritan is not Wilbur Mercer. I’ll tell you how we know. Over at CIA, we made an Ampex video tape from Mercer’s telecast, had it enlarged and analyzed. Mercer was shown against the usual dismal background of cactus plants and sand and rock… you know.”

  “Yes,” Herrick said, nodding. “The Wilderness, as they call it.”

  “In the enlargement something showed up in the sky. It was studied. It’s not Luna. It’s a moon, but too small to be Luna. Mercer is not on Earth. I would guess that he is not a terrestrial at all.”

  Bending down, Crofts picked up a small metal box, carefully avoiding the two handles. “And these were not designed and built on Earth. The entire Mercer Movement is null-T all the way, and that’s the fact we’ve got to contend with.”

  Herrick said, “If Mercer is not a Terran, then he may have suffered and even died before, on other planets.”

  “Oh, yes,” Crofts said. “Mercer—or whatever his or its real name is—may be highly experienced in this. But we still don’t know what we want to know.” And that of course was, What happens to those people holding onto the handles of their empathy boxes?

  Crofts seated himself at his desk and scrutinized the box resting directly before him, with its two inviting handles. He had never touched them, and he never intended to. But—

  “How soon will Mercer die?” Herrick asked.

  “They’re expecting it some time late next week.”

  “And Mr. Lee will have gotten something from the girl’s mind by then, you think? Some clue as to where Mercer really is?”

  “I hope so,” Crofts said, still seated at the empathy box but still not touching it. It must be a strange experience, he thought, to place your hands on two ordinary-looking metal handles and find, all at once, that you’re no longer yourself; you’re another man entirely, in another place, laboring up a long, dreary inclined plain toward certain extinction. At least, so they say. But hearing about it… what does that actually convey? Suppose I tried it for myself.

  The sense of absolute pain… that was what appalled him, held him back.

  It was unbelievable that people could deliberately seek it out, rather than avoiding it. Gripping the handles of the empathy box was certainly not the act of a person seeking escape. It was not the avoidance of something but the seeking of something. And not the pain as such; Crofts knew better than to suppose that the Mercerites were simple masochists who desired discomfort. It was, he knew, the meaning of the pain which attracted Mercer’s followers.

  The followers were suffering from something.

  Aloud, he said to his superior, “They want to suffer as a means of denying their private, personal existences. It’s a communion in which they all suffer and experience Mercer’s ordeal together.” Like the Last Supper, he thought. That’s the real key: the communion, the participation that is behind all religion. Or ought to be. Religion binds men together in a sharing, corporate body, and leaves everyone else on the outside.

  Herrick said, “But primarily it’s a political movement, or must be treated as such.”

  “From our standpoint,” Crofts agreed. “Not theirs.”

  The intercom on the desk buzzed and his secretary said, “Sir, Mr. John Lee is here.”

  “Tell him to come in.”

  The tall, slender young Chinese entered, smiling, his hand out. He wore an old-fashioned single-breasted suit and pointed black shoes. As they shook hands, Mr. Lee said, “She has not left for Havana, has she?”

  “No,” Crofts said.

  “Is she pretty?” Mr. Lee said.

  “Yes,” Crofts said, with a smile at Herrick. “But—difficult. The snappish kind of woman. Emancipated, if you follow me.”

  “Oh, the suffragette type,” Mr. Lee said, smiling. “I detest that type of female. It will be hard going, Mr. Crofts.”

  “Remember,” Crofts said, “your job is simply to be converted. All you have to do is listen to her propaganda about Zen Buddhism, learn to ask a few questions such as, ‘Is this stick the Buddha?’ and expect a few inexplicable blows on the head—a Zen practice, I understand, supposed to instill sense.”

  With a broad grin, Mr. Lee said, “Or to instill nonsense. You see, I am prepared. Sense, nonsense; in Zen it’s the same thing.” He became sober, now. “Of course, I myself am a Communist,” he said. “The only reason I’m doing this is because the Party at Havana has taken the official stand that Mercerism is dangerous and must be wiped out.” He looked gloomy. “I must say, these Mercerites are fanatics.”

  “True,” Crofts agreed. “And we must work for their extinction.” He pointed to the empathy box. “Have you ever—?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Lee said. “It’s a form of punishment. Self-imposed, no doubt for reasons of guilt. Leisure gleans such emotions from people if it is properly utilized; otherwise not.”

  Crofts thought, This man has no understanding of the issues at all. He’s a simple materialist. Typical of a person born in a Communist family, raised in a Communist society. Everything is either black or white.

  “You’re mistaken,” Mr. Lee said; he had picked up Crofts’ thought.

  Flushing, Crofts said, “Sorry, I forgot. No offense.”

  “I see in your mind,” Mr. Lee said, “that you believe Wilbur Mercer, as he calls himself, may be non-T. Do you know the Party’s position on this question? It was debated just a few days ago. The Party takes the stand that there are no non-T races in the solar system, that to believe remnants of once-superior races still exist is a form of morbid mysticism.”

  Crofts sighed. “Deciding an empirical issue by vote—deciding it on a strictly political basis. I can’t understand that.”

  At that point, Secretary Herrick spoke up, soothing both men. “Please, let’s not become sidetracked by theoretical issues on which we don’t all agree. Let’s stick to basics—the Mercerite Party and its rapid growth all over the planet.”

  Mr. Lee said, “You are right, of course.”

  III

  At the Havana airfield Joan Hiashi looked around her as the other passengers walked rapidly from the ship to the entrance of the number twenty concourse.

  Relatives and friends had surged cautiously out onto the field, as they always did, in defiance of field rulings. She saw among them a tall, lean young Chinese man with a smile of greeting on his face.

  Walking toward him she called, “Mr. Lee?”

  “Yes.” He hurried toward her. “It’s dinner time. Would you care to eat? I’ll take you to the Hang Far Lo restaurant. They have pressed duck and bird’s nest soup, all Canton-style… very sweet but good once in a long while.”

  Soon they were at the restaurant, in a red-leather and imitation teak booth. Cubans and Chinese chattered on all sides of them; the air smelled of frying pork and cigar smoke.

  “You are President of the Havana Institute for Asian Studies?” she asked, just to be certain there had been no slip-ups.

  “Correct. It is frowned on by the Cuban Communist Party because of the religious aspect. But many of the Chinese here on the island attend lectures or are on our mailing list. And as you know we’ve had many distinguished scholars from Europe and Southern Asia come and address us… By the way. There is a Zen parable which
I do not understand. The monk who cut the kitten in half—I have studied it and thought about it, but I do not see how the Buddha could be present when cruelty was done to an animal.” He hastened to add, “I’m not disputing with you. I am merely seeking information.”

  Joan said, “Of all the Zen parables that has caused the most difficulty. The question to ask is, Where is the kitten now?”

  “That recalls the opening of the Bhagavad-Gita,” Mr. Lee said, with a quick nod.

  “I recall Arjura saying,

  The bow Gandiva slips from

  my hand…

  Omens of evil!

  What can we hope from this killing of kinsmen?

  “Correct,” Joan said, “And of course you remember Krishna’s answer. It is the most profound statement in all pre-Buddhistic religion of the issue of death and of action.”

  The waiter came for their order. He was a Cuban, in khaki and a beret.

  “Try the fried won ton,” Mr. Lee advised. “And the chow yuk, and of course the egg roll. You have egg roll today?” he asked the waiter.

  “Si, Senor Lee.” The waiter picked at his teeth with a toothpick.

  Mr. Lee ordered for both of them, and the waiter departed.

  “You know,” Joan said, “when you’ve been around a telepath as much as I have, you become conscious of intensive scanning going on… I could always tell when Ray was trying to dig at something in me. You’re a telepath. And you’re very intensively scanning me right now.”

  Smiling, Mr. Lee said, “I wish I was, Miss Hiashi.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” Joan said. “But I wonder why you are so interested in what I’m thinking. You know I’m an employee of the United States Department of State; there’s nothing secret about that. Are you afraid I’ve come to Cuba as a spy? To study military installations? Is it something like that?” She felt depressed. “This is not a good beginning,” she said. “You haven’t been honest with me.”

  “You are a very attractive woman, Miss Hiashi,” Mr. Lee said, losing none of his poise. “I was merely curious to see—shall I be blunt? Your attitude toward sex.”

  “You’re lying,” Joan said quietly.

  Now the bland smile departed; he stared at her.

  “Bird’s nest soup, senor.” The waiter had returned; he set the hot steaming bowl in the center of the table. “Tea.” He laid out a teapot and two small white handleless cups. “Senorita, you want chopsticks?”

  “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 ruli
ng 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—”