Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick

by Philip K. Dick

  The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the Captain.

  “Really, Captain,” the wub said. “I suggest we talk of other matters.”

  The room was silent.

  “What was that?” Franco said. “Just now.”

  “The wub, sir,” Peterson said. “It spoke.”

  They all looked at the wub.

  “What did it say? What did it say?”

  “It suggested we talk about other things.”

  Franco walked toward the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men.

  “I wonder if there's a native inside it,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe we should open it up and have a look.”

  “Oh, goodness!” the wub cried.“Is that all you people can think of, killing and cutting?”

  Franco clenched his fists. “Come out of there! Whoever you are, come out!”

  Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon,” the wub said.

  “I don't think there's anyone in there,” Jones said in a low voice. They all looked at each other.

  The cook came in.

  “You wanted me, Captain?” he said. “What's this thing?”

  “This is a wub,” Franco said. “It's to be eaten. Will you measure it and figure out—”

  “I think we should have a talk,” the wub said. “I'd like to discuss this with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on some basic issues.”

  The Captain took a long time to answer. The wub waited good-naturedly, licking the water from its jowls.

  “Come into my office,” the Captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it go out. They heard it climbing the stairs.

  “I wonder what the outcome will be,” the cook said. “Well, I'll be in the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear.”

  “Sure,” Jones said. “Sure.”

  The wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. “You must forgive me,” it said. “I'm afraid I'm addicted to various forms of relaxation. When one is as large as I—”

  The Captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.

  “All right,” he said. “Let's get started. You're a wub? Is that correct?”

  The wub shrugged.“I suppose so. That's what they call us, the natives, I mean. We have our own term.”

  “And you speak English? You've been in contact with Earthmen before?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you do it?”

  “Speak English? Am I speaking English? I'm not conscious of speaking anything in particular. I examined your mind—”

  “My mind?”

  “I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it—”

  “I see,” the Captain said. “Telepathy. Of course.”

  “We are a very old race,” the wub said.“Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate anything so slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game—”

  “How do you live?”

  “Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We're very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've gotten along.”

  The wub eyed the Captain.

  “And that's why I so violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could see the image in your mind—most of me in the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat—”

  “So you read minds?” the Captain said. “How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what else can you do along those lines?”

  “A few odds and ends,” the wub said absently, staring around the room. “A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They throw things out of their nests and sweep them—”

  “Indeed.” The Captain nodded. “But to get back to the problem—”

  “Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes? Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the arts—”

  The Captain stood up. “Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage—”

  “I know.” The wub nodded. “But wouldn't it be more in accord with your principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote—”

  The Captain walked to the door.

  “Nuts to you,” he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.

  He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on the knob.

  The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.

  The room was quiet.

  “So you see,” the wub said, “we have a common myth. Your mind contains many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus—”

  Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.

  “Go on,” he said. “Please go on.”

  “I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country. The process of individuation.”

  “But Odysseus returns to his home.” Peterson looked out the port window, at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe. “Finally he goes home.”

  “As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period, a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to land and race.…”

  The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.

  Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at the door.

  “Are you all right?” French said.

  “Do you mean me?” Peterson said, surprised. “Why me?”

  Franco lowered his gun. “Come over here,” he said to Peterson. “Get up and come here.”

  There was silence.

  “Go ahead,” the wub said. “It doesn't matter.”

  Peterson stood up. “What for?”

  “It's an order.”

  Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.

  “What's going on?” Peterson wrenched loose. “What's the matter with you?”

  Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall.

  “It is interesting,” the wub said, “that you are obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why.”

  “Get up,” Franco said.

  “If you wish.” The wub rose, grunting. “Be patient. It is difficult for me.” It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.

  “Shoot it now,” French said.

  “For God's sake!” Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray with fear.

  “You didn't see him—like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn't come down, he'd still be there.”

  “Who? The Captain?” Peterson stared around. “But he's all right now.”

  They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling.

  “Come on,” Franco said. “Out of the way.”

  The men pulled aside toward the door.

  “You are quite afraid, aren't you?” the wub said. “Have I done anything to you? I am against the idea of hurting.
All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn about you. I suggested to the native—”

  The gun jerked.

  “See,” Franco said. “I thought so.”

  The wub settled down, panting. It put its paws out, pulling its tail around it.

  “It is very warm,” the wub said. “I understand that we are close to the jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with it—technically. Apparently your scientific hierarchy is not equipped to solve moral, ethical—”

  Franco turned to the men, crowding behind him, wide-eyed, silent.

  “I'll do it. You can watch.”

  French nodded. “Try to hit the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit the chest. If the rib cage shatters, we'll have to pick bones out.”

  “Listen,” Peterson said, licking his lips. “Has it done anything? What harm has it done? I'm asking you. And anyhow, it's still mine. You have no right to shoot it. It doesn't belong to you.”

  Franco raised his gun.

  “I'm going out,” Jones said, his face white and sick. “I don't want to see it.”

  “Me, too,” French said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson lingered at the door.

  “It was talking to me about myths,” he said. “It wouldn't hurt anyone.”

  He went outside.

  Franco walked toward the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.

  “A very foolish thing,” it said. “I am sorry that you want to do it. There was a parable that your Saviour related—”

  It stopped, staring at the gun.

  “Can you look me in the eye and do it?” the wub said. “Can you do that?”

  The Captain gazed down. “I can look you in the eye,” he said. “Back on the farm we had hogs, dirty razorback hogs. I can do it.”

  Staring down at the wub, into the gleaming, moist eyes, he pressed the trigger.

  The taste was excellent.

  They sat glumly around the table, some of them hardly eating at all. The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Captain Franco.

  “More?” he said, looking around. “More? And some wine, perhaps.”

  “Not me,” French said. “I think I'll go back to the chart room.”

  “Me, too.” Jones stood up, pushing his chair back. “I'll see you later.”

  The Captain watched them go. Some of the others excused themselves.

  “What do you suppose the matter is?” the Captain said. He turned to Peterson. Peterson sat staring down at his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat.

  He opened his mouth. No sound came.

  The Captain put his hand on Peterson's shoulder.

  “It is only organic matter, now,” he said. “The life essence is gone.” He ate, spooning up the gravy with some bread. “I, myself, love to eat. It is one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy. Eating, resting, meditation, discussing things.”

  Peterson nodded. Two more men got up and went out. The Captain drank some water and sighed.

  “Well,” he said. “I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All the reports I had heard were quite true—the taste of wub. Very fine. But I was prevented from enjoying this in times past.”

  He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Peterson stared dejectedly at the table.

  The Captain watched him intently. He leaned over.

  “Come, come,” he said. “Cheer up! Let's discuss things.”

  He smiled.

  “As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the myths—”

  Peterson jerked up, staring.

  “To go on,” the Captain said. “Odysseus, as I understand him—”

  ROOG

  “Roog!” the dog said. He rested his paws on the top of the fence and looked around him.

  The Roog came running into the yard.

  It was early morning, and the sun had not really come up yet. The air was cold and gray, and the walls of the house were damp with moisture. The dog opened his jaws a little as he watched, his big black paws clutching the wood of the fence.

  The Roog stood by the open gate, looking into the yard. He was a small Roog, thin and white, on wobbly legs. The Roog blinked at the dog, and the dog showed his teeth.

  “Roog!” he said again. The sound echoed into the silent half darkness. Nothing moved nor stirred. The dog dropped down and walked back across the yard to the porch steps. He sat down on the bottom step and watched the Roog. The Roog glanced at him. Then he stretched his neck up to the window of the house, just above him. He sniffed at the window.

  The dog came flashing across the yard. He hit the fence, and the gate shuddered and groaned. The Roog was walking quickly up the path, hurrying with funny little steps, mincing along. The dog lay down against the slats of the gate, breathing heavily, his red tongue hanging. He watched the Roog disappear.

  The dog lay silently, his eyes bright and black. The day was beginning to come. The sky turned a little whiter, and from all around the sounds of people echoed through the morning air. Lights popped on behind shades. In the chilly dawn a window was opened.

  The dog did not move. He watched the path.

  In the kitchen Mrs. Cardossi poured water into the coffee pot. Steam rose from the water, blinding her. She set the pot down on the edge of the stove and went into the pantry. When she came back Alf was standing at the door of the kitchen. He put his glasses on.

  “You bring the paper?” he said.

  “It's outside.”

  Alf Cardossi walked across the kitchen. He threw the bolt on the back door and stepped out onto the porch. He looked into the gray, damp morning. At the fence Boris lay, black and furry, his tongue out.

  “Put the tongue in,” Alf said. The dog looked quickly up. His tail beat against the ground. “The tongue,” Alf said. “Put the tongue in.”

  The dog and the man looked at one another. The dog whined. His eyes were bright and feverish.

  “Roog!” he said softly.

  “What?” Alf looked around. “Someone coming? The paperboy come?”

  The dog stared at him, his mouth open.

  “You certainly upset these days,” Alf said. “You better take it easy. We both getting too old for excitement.”

  He went inside the house.

  The sun came up. The street became bright and alive with color. The postman went along the sidewalk with his letters and magazines. Some children hurried by, laughing and talking.

  About 11:00, Mrs. Cardossi swept the front porch. She sniffed the air, pausing for a moment.

  “It smells good today,” she said. “That means it's going to be warm.”

  In the heat of the noonday sun the black dog lay stretched out full length, under the porch. His chest rose and fell. In the cherry tree the birds were playing, squawking and chattering to each other. Once in a while Boris raised his head and looked at them. Presently he got to his feet and trotted down under the tree.

  He was standing under the tree when he saw the two Roogs sitting on the fence, watching him.

  “He's big,” the first Roog said. “Most Guardians aren't as big as this.”

  The other Roog nodded, his head wobbling on his neck. Boris watched them without moving, his body stiff and hard. The Roogs were silent now, looking at the big dog with his shaggy ruff of white around his neck.

  “How is the offering urn?” the first Roog said. “Is it almost full?”

  “Yes.” The other nodded. “Almost ready.”

  “You, there!” the first Roog said, raising his voice. “Do you hear me? We've decided to accept the offering, this time. So you remember to let us in. No nonsense, now.”

  “Don't forget,” the other added. “It won't be long.”

  Boris said nothing.

  The two Roogs leaped off the fence and went over together just beyond
the walk. One of them brought out a map and they studied it.

  “This area really is none too good for a first trial,” the first Roog said. “Too many Guardians … Now, the northside area—”

  “They decided,” the other Roog said. “There are so many factors—”

  “Of course.” They glanced at Boris and moved back farther from the fence. He could not hear the rest of what they were saying.

  Presently the Roogs put their map away and went off down the path.

  Boris walked over to the fence and sniffed at the boards. He smelled the sickly, rotten odor of Roogs and the hair stood up on his back.

  That night when Alf Cardossi came home the dog was standing at the gate, looking up the walk. Alf opened the gate and went into the yard.

  “How are you?” he said, thumping the dog's side. “You stopped worrying? Seems like you been nervous of late. You didn't used to be that way.”

  Boris whined, looking intently up into the man's face.

  “You a good dog, Boris,” Alf said. “You pretty big, too, for a dog. You don't remember long ago how you used to be only a little bit of a puppy.”

  Boris leaned against the man's leg.

  “You a good dog,” Alf murmured. “I sure wish I knew what is on your mind.”

  He went inside the house. Mrs. Cardossi was setting the table for dinner. Alf went into the living room and took his coat and hat off. He set his lunch pail down on the sideboard and came back into the kitchen.

  “What's the matter?” Mrs. Cardossi said.

  “That dog got to stop making all that noise, barking. The neighbors going to complain to the police again.”

  “I hope we don't have to give him to your brother,” Mrs. Cardossi said, folding her arms. “But he sure goes crazy, especially on Friday morning, when the garbage men come.”

  “Maybe he'll calm down,”Alf said. He lit his pipe and smoked solemnly. “He didn't used to be that way. Maybe he'll get better, like he was.”

  “We'll see,” Mrs. Cardossi said.

  The sun rose up, cold and ominous. Mist hung over all the trees and in the low places.

  It was Friday morning.