The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Strories

by Philip K. Dick

  Anyhow he had a few days. And then the sight of it—if only I didn’t know they suck the air out of the lungs of the kids they have there, he thought. Destroy them that way. Why? Cheaper, his dad had said. Saves the taxpayers money.

  He thought then about taxpayers and what they would look like. Something that scowled at all children, he thought. That did not answer if the child asked them a question. A thin face, lined with watch-worry grooves, eyes always moving. Or maybe fat; one or the other. It was the thin one that scared him; it didn’t enjoy life nor want life to be. It flashed the message, “Die, go away, sicken, don’t exist.” And the abortion truck was proof—or the instrument—of it.

  “Mom,” he said, “how do you shut a County Facility? You know, the abortion clinic where they take the babies and little kids.”

  “You go and petition the county legislature,” his mother said.

  “You know what I’d do?” he said. “I’d wait until there were no kids in there, only county employees, and I’d firebomb it.”

  “Don’t talk like that!” his mother said severely, and he saw on her face the stiff lines of the thin taxpayer. And it frightened him; his own mother frightened him. The cold and opaque eyes mirrored nothing, no soul inside, and he thought, It’s you who don’t have a soul, you and your skinny messages not-to-be. Not us.

  And then he ran outside to play again.

  A bunch more kids had seen the truck; he and they stood around together, talking now and then, but mostly kicking at rocks and dirt, and occasionally stepping on a bad bug.

  “Who’d the truck come for?” Walter said.

  “Fleischhacker. Earl Fleischhacker.”

  “Did they get him?”

  “Sure, didn’t you hear the yelling?”

  “Was his folks home at the time?”

  “Naw, they split earlier on some shuck about ‘taking the car in to be greased.’ ”

  “They called the truck?” Walter said.

  “Sure, it’s the law; it’s gotta be the parents. But they were too chickenshit to be there when the truck drove up. Shit, he really yelled; I guess you’re too far away to hear, but he really yelled.”

  Walter said, “You know what we ought to do? Firebomb the truck and snuff the driver.”

  All the other kids looked at him contemptuously. “They put you in the mental hospital for life if you act out like that.”

  “Sometimes for life,” Pete Bride corrected. “Other times they ‘build up a new personality that is socially viable.’ ”

  “Then what should we do?” Walter said.

  “You’re twelve; you’re safe.”

  “But suppose they change the law.” Anyhow it did not assuage his anxiety to know that he was technically safe; the truck still came for others and still frightened him. He thought of the younger kids down at the Facility now, looking through the Cyclone fence hour by hour, day after day, waiting and marking the passage of time and hoping someone would come in and adopt them.

  “You ever been down there?” he said to Pete Bride. “At the County Facility? All those really little kids, like babies some of them, just maybe a year old. And they don’t even know what’s in store.”

  “The babies get adopted,” Zack Yablonski said. “It’s the old ones that don’t stand a chance. They’re the ones that get you; like, they talk to people who come in and put on a good show, like they’re desirable. But people know they wouldn’t be there if they weren’t—you know, undesirable.”

  “Let the air out of the tires,” Walter said, his mind working.

  “Of the truck? Hey, and you know if you drop a mothball in the gas tank, about a week later the motor wears out. We could do that.”

  Ben Blaire said, “But then they’d be after us.”

  “They’re after us now,” Walter said.

  “I think we ought to firebomb the truck,” Harry Gottlieb said, “but suppose there’re kids in it. It’ll burn them up. The truck picks up maybe—shit, I don’t know. Five kids a day from different parts of the county.”

  “You know they even take dogs too?” Walter said. “And cats; you see the truck for that only about once a month. The pound truck it’s called. Otherwise it’s the same; they put them in a big chamber and suck the air out of their lungs and they die. They’d do that even to animals! Little animals!”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” Harry Gottlieb said, derision on his face, and disbelief. “A truck that carries off dogs.”

  He knew it was true, though. Walter had seen the pound truck two different times. Cats, dogs, and mainly us, he thought glumly. I mean, if they’d start with us, it’s natural they’d wind up taking people’s pets, too; we’re not that different. But what kind of a person would do that, even if it is the law? “Some laws are made to be kept, and some to be broken,” he remembered from a book he had read. We ought to firebomb the pound truck first, he thought; that’s the worst, that truck.

  Why is it, he wondered, that the more helpless a creature, the easier it was for some people to snuff it? Like a baby in the womb; the original abortions, “pre-partums,” or “pre-persons” they were called now. How could they defend themselves? Who would speak for them? All those lives, a hundred by each doctor a day… and all helpless and silent and then just dead. The fuckers, he thought. That’s why they do it; they know they can do it; they get off on their macho power. And so a little thing that wanted to see the light of day is vacuumed out in less than two minutes. And the doctor goes on to the next chick.

  There ought to be an organization, he thought, similar to the Mafia. Snuff the snuffers, or something. A contract man walks up to one of those doctors, pulls out a tube, and sucks the doctor into it, where he shrinks down like an unborn baby. An unborn baby doctor, with a stethoscope the size of a pinhead… he laughed, thinking of that.

  Children don’t know. But children know everything, knew too much. The abortion truck, as it drove along, played a Good Humor Man’s jingle:

  Jack and Jill

  Went up the hill

  To fetch a pail of water

  A tape loop in the sound system of the truck, built especially by Ampex for GM, blared that out when it wasn’t actively nearing a seize. Then the driver shut off the sound system and glided along until he found the proper house. However, once he had the unwanted child in the back of the truck, and was either starting back to the County Facility or beginning another pre-person pick-up, he turned back on

  Jack and Jill

  Went up the hill

  To fetch a pail of water

  Thinking of himself, Oscar Ferris, the driver of truck three, finished, “Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after.” What the hell’s a crown? Ferris wondered. Probably a private part. He grinned. Probably Jack had been playing with it, or Jill, both of them together. Water, my ass, he thought. I know what they went off into the bushes for. Only, Jack fell down, and his thing broke right off. “Tough luck, Jill,” he said aloud as he expertly drove the four-year-old truck along the winding curves of California Highway One.

  Kids are like that, Ferris thought. Dirty and playing with dirty things, like themselves.

  This was still wild and open country, and many stray children scratched about in the canyons and fields; he kept his eye open, and sure enough—off to his right scampered a small one, about six, trying to get out of sight. Ferris at once pressed the button that activated the siren of the truck. The boy froze, stood in fright, waited as the truck, still playing “Jack and Jill,” coasted up beside him and came to a halt.

  “Show me your D papers,” Ferris said, without getting out of the truck; he leaned one arm out the window, showing his brown uniform and patch; his symbols of authority.

  The boy had a scrawny look, like many strays, but, on the other hand, he wore glasses. Tow-headed, in jeans and T-shirt, he stared up in fright at Ferris, making no move to get out his identification.

  “You got a D card or not?” Ferris said.

  “W-
w-w-what’s a ‘D card’?”

  In his official voice, Ferris explained to the boy his rights under the law. “Your parent, either one, or legal guardian, fills out form 36-W, which is a formal statement of desirability. That they or him or her regard you as desirable. You don’t have one? Legally, that makes you a stray, even if you have parents who want to keep you; they are subject to a fine of $500.”

  “Oh,” the boy said. “Well, I lost it.”

  “Then a copy would be on file. They microdot all those documents and records. I’ll take you in—”

  “To the County Facility?” Pipe-cleaner legs wobbled in fear.

  “They have thirty days to claim you by filling out the 36-W form. If they haven’t done it by then—”

  “My mom and dad never agree. Right now I’m staying with my dad.”

  “He didn’t give you a D card to identify yourself with.” Mounted transversely across the cab of the truck was a shotgun. There was always the possibility that trouble might break out when he picked up a stray. Reflexively, Ferris glanced up at it. It was there, all right, a pump shotgun. He had used it only five times in his law-enforcement career. It could blow a man into molecules. “I have to take you in,” he said, opening the truck door and bringing out his keys. “There’s another kid back there; you can keep each other company.”

  “No,” the boy said. “I won’t go.” Blinking, he confronted Ferris, stubborn and rigid as stone.

  “Oh, you probably heard a lot of stories about the County Facility. It’s only the warpies, the creepies, that get put to sleep; any nice normal-looking kid’ll be adopted—we’ll cut your hair and fix you up so you look professionally groomed. We want to find you a home. That’s the whole idea. It’s just a few, those who are—you know—ailing mentally or physically that no one wants. Some well-to-do individual will snap you up in a minute; you’ll see. Then you won’t be running around out here alone with no parents to guide you. You’ll have new parents, and listen—they’ll be paying heavy bread for you; hell, they’ll register you. Do you see? It’s more a temporary lodging place where we’re taking you right now, to make you available to prospective new parents.”

  “But if nobody adopts me in a month—”

  “Hell, you could fall off a cliff here at Big Sur and kill yourself. Don’t worry. The desk at the Facility will contact your blood parents, and most likely they’ll come forth with the Desirability Form (15A) sometime today even. And meanwhile you’ll get a nice ride and meet a lot of new kids. And how often—”

  “No,” the boy said.

  “This is to inform you,” Ferris said, in a different tone, “that I am a County Official.” He opened his truck door, jumped down, showed his gleaming metal badge to the boy. “I am Peace Officer Ferris and I now order you to enter by the rear of the truck.”

  A tall man approached them, walking with wariness; he, like the boy, wore jeans and a T-shirt, but no glasses.

  “You the boy’s father?” Ferris said.

  The man, hoarsely, said, “Are you taking him to the pound?”

  “We consider it a child protection shelter,” Ferris said. “The use of the term ‘pound’ is a radical hippie slur, and distorts—deliberately—the overall picture of what we do.”

  Gesturing toward the truck, the man said, “You’ve got kids locked in there in those cages, have you?”

  “I’d like to see your ID,” Ferris said. “And I’d like to know if you’ve ever been arrested before.”

  “Arrested and found innocent? Or arrested and found guilty?”

  “Answer my question, sir,” Ferris said, showing his black flatpack that he used with adults to identify him as a County Peace Officer. “Who are you? Come on, let’s see your ID.”

  The man said, “Ed Gantro is my name and I have a record. When I was eighteen, I stole four crates of Coca-Cola from a parked truck.”

  “You were apprehended at the scene?”

  “No,” the man said. “When I took the empties back to cash in on the refunds. That’s when they seized me. I served six months.”

  “Have you a Desirability Card for your boy here?” Ferris asked.

  “We couldn’t afford the $90 it cost.”

  “Well, now it’ll cost you five hundred. You should have gotten it in the first place. My suggestion is that you consult an attorney.” Ferris moved toward the boy, declaring officially. “I’d like you to join the other juveniles in the rear section of the vehicle.” To the man he said, “Tell him to do as instructed.”

  The man hesitated and then said. “Tim, get in the goddamn truck. And we’ll get a lawyer; we’ll get the D card for you. It’s futile to make trouble—technically you’re a stray.”

  “ ‘A stray,’ ” the boy said, regarding his father.

  Ferris said, “Exactly right. You have thirty days, you know, to raise the—”

  “Do you also take cats?” the boy said. “Are there any cats in there? I really like cats; they’re all right.”

  “I handle only P.P. cases,” Ferris said. “Such as yourself.” With a key he unlocked the back of the truck. “Try not to relieve yourself while you’re in the truck; it’s hard as hell to get the odor and stains out.”

  The boy did not seem to understand the word; he gazed from Ferris to his father in perplexity.

  “Just don’t go to the bathroom while you’re in the truck,” his father explained. “They want to keep it sanitary, because that cuts down their maintenance costs.” His voice was savage and grim.

  “With stray dogs or cats,” Ferris said, “they just shoot them on sight, or put out poison bait.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know that Warfarin,” the boy’s father said. “The animal eats it over a period of a week, and then he bleeds to death internally.”

  “With no pain,” Ferris pointed out.

  “Isn’t that better than sucking the air from their lungs?” Ed Gantro said. “Suffocating them on a mass basis?”

  “Well, with animals the county authorities—”

  “I mean the children. Like Tim.” His father stood beside him, and they both looked into the rear of the truck. Two dark shapes could be dimly discerned, crouching as far back as possible, in the starkest form of despair.

  “Fleischhacker!” the boy Tim said. “Didn’t you have a D card?”

  “Because of energy and fuel shortages,” Ferris was saying, “population must be radically cut. Or in ten years there’ll be no food for anyone. This is one phase of—“

  “I had a D card,” Earl Fleischhacker said, “but my folks took it away from me. They didn’t want me any more; so they took it back, and then they called for the abortion truck.” His voice croaked; obviously he had been secretly crying.

  “And what’s the difference between a five-month-old fetus and what we have here?” Ferris was saying. “In both cases what you have is an unwanted child. They simply liberalized the laws.”

  Tim’s father, staring at him, said, “Do you agree with these laws?”

  “Well, it’s really all up to Washington and what they decide will solve our needs in these days of crises,” Ferris said. “I only enforce their edicts. If this law changed—hell. I’d be trucking empty milk cartons for recycling or something and be just as happy.”

  “Just as happy? You enjoy your work?”

  Ferris said, mechanically. “It gives me the opportunity to move around a lot and to meet people.”

  Tim’s father Ed Gantro said, “You are insane. This postpartum abortion scheme and the abortion laws before it where the unborn child had no legal rights—it was removed like a tumor. Look what it’s come to. If an unborn child can be killed without due process, why not a born one? What I see in common in both cases is their helplessness; the organism that is killed had no chance, no ability, to protect itself. You know what? I want you to take me in, too. In back of the truck with the three children.”

  “But the President and Congress have declared that when you’re past twelve you have a soul,” Ferris
said. “I can’t take you. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “I have no soul,” Tim’s father said. “I got to be twelve and nothing happened. Take me along, too. Unless you can find my soul.”

  “Jeez,” Ferris said.

  “Unless you can show me my soul,” Tim’s father said, “unless you can specifically locate it, then I insist you take me in as no different from these kids.”

  Ferris said, “I’ll have to use the radio to get in touch with the County Facility, see what they say.”

  “You do that,” Tim’s father said, and laboriously clambered up into the rear of the truck, helping Tim along with him. With the other two boys they waited while Peace Officer Ferris, with all his official identification as to who he was, talked on his radio.

  “I have here a Caucasian male, approximately thirty, who insists that he be transported to the County Facility with his infant son,” Ferris was saying into his mike. “He claims to have no soul, which he maintains puts him in the class of subtwelve-year-olds. I don’t have with me or know any test to detect the presence of a soul, at least any I can give out here in the boondocks that’ll later on satisfy a court. I mean, he probably can do algebra and higher math; he seems to possess an intelligent mind. But—”

  “Affirmative as to bringing him in,” his superior’s voice on the two-way radio came back to him. “We’ll deal with him here.”

  “We’re going to deal with you downtown,” Ferris said to Tim’s father, who, with the three smaller figures, was crouched down in the dark recesses of the rear of the truck. Ferris slammed the door, locked it—an extra precaution, since the boys were already netted by electronic bands—and then started up the truck.

  Jack and Jill

  Went up the hill

  To fetch a pail of water

  Jack fell down

  And broke his crown

  Somebody’s sure going to get their crown broke, Ferris thought as he drove along the winding road, and it isn’t going to be me.

  “I can’t do algebra,” he heard Tim’s father saying to the three boys. “So I can’t have a soul.”