Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick

by Philip K. Dick

  Mike Foster's breath panted in his throat. “That was the day we got our Preparedness Flag,” he said hungrily. “That was the day he came to give us our flag. And they ran it up on the flagpole in the middle of the town, and everybody was there yelling and cheering.”

  “You remember that?”

  “I—think so. I remember people and sounds. And it was hot. It was June, wasn't it?”

  “June 10, 1965. Quite an occasion. Not many towns had the big green flag, then. People were still buying cars and TV sets. They hadn't discovered those days were over. TV sets and cars are good for something—you can only manufacture and sell so many of them.”

  “He gave you the flag, didn't he?”

  “Well, he gave it to all us merchants. The Chamber of Commerce had it arranged. Competition between towns, see who can buy the most the soonest. Improve our town and at the same time stimulate business. Of course, the way they put it, the idea was if we had to buy our gas masks and bomb shelters we'd take better care of them. As if we ever damaged telephones and sidewalks. Or highways, because the whole state provided them. Or armies. Haven't there always been armies? Hasn't the government always organized its people for defense? I guess defense costs too much. I guess they save a lot of money, cut down the national debt by this.”

  “Tell me what he said,” Mike Foster whispered.

  His father fumbled for his pipe and lit it with trembling hands. “He said, ‘Here's your flag, boys. You've done a good job.' ” Bob Foster choked, as acrid pipe fumes guzzled up. “He was red-faced, sunburned, not embarrassed. Perspiring and grinning. He knew how to handle himself. He knew a lot of first names. Told a funny joke.”

  The boy's eyes were wide with awe. “He came all the way out here, and you talked to him.”

  “Yeah,” his father said.“I talked to him. They were all yelling and cheering. The flag was going up, the big green Preparedness Flag.”

  “You said—”

  “I said to him, ‘Is that all you brought us? A strip of green cloth?' ”Bob Foster dragged tensely on his pipe. “That was when I became an anti-P. Only I didn't know it at the time. All I knew was we were on our own, except for a strip of green cloth. We should have been a country, a whole nation, one hundred and seventy million people working together to defend ourselves. And instead, we're a lot of separate little towns, little walled forts. Sliding and slipping back to the Middle Ages. Raising our separate armies—”

  “Will the President ever come back?” Mike asked.

  “I doubt it. He was—just passing through.”

  “If he comes back,” Mike whispered, tense and not daring to hope,“can we go see him? Can we look at him?”

  Bob Foster pulled himself up to a sitting position. His bony arms were bare and white; his lean face was drab with weariness. And resignation. “How much was the damn thing you saw?” he demanded hoarsely. “That bomb shelter?”

  Mike's heart stopped beating. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  “This is Thursday. I'll go down with you and your mother next Saturday.” Bob Foster knocked out his smoldering, half-lit pipe. “I'll get it on the easy-payment plan. The fall buying season is coming up soon. I usually do good—people buy wood furniture for Christmas gifts.” He got up abruptly from the couch. “Is it a deal?”

  Mike couldn't answer; he could only nod.

  “Fine,” his father said, with desperate cheerfulness. “Now you won't have to go down and look at it in the window.”

  The shelter was installed—for an additional two hundred dollars—by a fast-working team of laborers in brown coats with the words GENTERAL ELECTRONICS stitched across their backs. The backyard was quickly restored, dirt and shrubs spaded in place, the surface smoothed over, and the bill respectfully slipped under the front door. The lumbering delivery truck, now empty, clattered off down the street and the neighborhood was again silent.

  Mike Foster stood with his mother and a small group of admiring neighbors on the back porch of the house. “Well,” Mrs. Carlyle said finally, “now you've got a shelter. The best there is.”

  “That's right,” Ruth Foster agreed. She was conscious of the people around her; it had been some time since so many had shown up at once. Grim satisfaction filled her gaunt frame, almost resentment. “It certainly makes a difference,” she said harshly.

  “Yes,” Mr. Douglas from down the street agreed. “Now you have some place to go.” He had picked up the thick book of instructions the laborers had left. “It says here you can stock it for a whole year. Live down there twelve months without coming up once.” He shook his head admiringly. “Mine's an old '69 model. Good for only six months. I guess maybe—”

  “It's still good enough for us,” his wife cut in, but there was a longing wistfulness in her voice. “Can we go down and peek at it, Ruth? It's all ready, isn't it?”

  Mike made a strangled noise and moved jerkily forward. His mother smiled understandingly.“He has to go down there first. He gets first look at it—it's really for him, you know.”

  Their arms folded against the chill September wind, the group of men and women stood waiting and watching, as the boy approached the neck of the shelter and halted a few steps in front of it.

  He entered the shelter carefully, almost afraid to touch anything. The neck was big for him; it was built to admit a full-grown man. As soon as his weight was on the descent-lift it dropped beneath him. With a breathless whoosh it plummeted down the pitch-black tube to the body of the shelter. The lift slammed hard against its shock absorbers and the boy stumbled from it. The lift shot back to the surface, simultaneously sealing off the sub-surface shelter, an impassable steel-and-plastic cork in the narrow neck.

  Lights had come on around him automatically. The shelter was bare and empty; no supplies had yet been carried down. It smelled of varnish and motor grease: below him the generators were throbbing dully. His presence activated the purifying and decontamination systems; on the blank concrete wall meters and dials moved into sudden activity.

  He sat down on the floor, knees drawn up, face solemn, eyes wide. There was no sound but that of the generators; the world above was completely cut off. He was in a little self-contained cosmos; everything needed was here—or would be here, soon: food, water, air, things to do. Nothing else was wanted. He could reach out and touch—whatever he needed. He could stay here forever, through all time, without stirring. Complete and entire. Not lacking, not fearing, with only the sound of the generators purring below him, and the sheer, ascetic walls around and above him on all sides, faintly warm, completely friendly, like a living container.

  Suddenly he shouted, a loud jubilant shout that echoed and bounced from wall to wall. He was deafened by the reverberation. He shut his eyes tight and clenched his fists. Joy filled him. He shouted again—and let the roar of sound lap over him, his own voice reinforced by the near walls, close and hard and incredibly powerful.

  The kids in school knew even before he showed up the next morning. They greeted him as he approached, all of them grinning and nudging each other. “Is it true your folks got a new General Electronics Model S-72ft?” Earl Peters demanded.

  “That's right,” Mike answered. His heart swelled with a peaceful confidence he had never known. “Drop around,” he said, as casually as he could. “I'll show it to you.”

  He passed on, conscious of their envious faces.

  “Well, Mike,” Mrs. Cummings said, as he was leaving the classroom at the end of the day. “How does it feel?”

  He halted by her desk, shy and full of quiet pride. “It feels good,” he admitted.

  “Is your father contributing to the NATS?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you've got a permit for our school shelter?”

  He happily showed her the small blue seal clamped around his wrist. “He mailed a check to the city for everything. He said, ‘As long as I've gone this far I might as well go the rest of the way.'”

  “Now you have everything everybody else
has.” The elderly woman smiled across at him.“I'm glad of that. You're now a pro-P, except there's no such term. You're just—like everyone else.”

  The next day the news-machines shrilled out the news. The first revelation of the new Soviet bore-pellets.

  Bob Foster stood in the middle of the living room, the newstape in his hands, his thin face flushed with fury and despair.“Goddamn it, it's a plot!” His voice rose in baffled frenzy. “We just bought the thing and now look. Look!” He shoved the tape at his wife. “You see? I told you!”

  “I've seen it,” Ruth said wildly. “I suppose you think the whole world was just waiting with you in mind. They're always improving weapons, Bob. Last week it was those grain-impregnation flakes. This week it's bore-pellets. You don't expect them to stop the wheels of progress because you finally broke down and bought a shelter, do you?”

  The man and woman faced each other. “What the hell are we going to do?” Bob Foster asked quietly.

  Ruth paced back into the kitchen. “I heard they were going to turn out adaptors.”

  “Adaptors! What do you mean?”

  “So people won't have to buy new shelters. There was a commercial on the vidscreen. They're going to put some kind of metal grill on the market, as soon as the government approves it. They spread it over the ground and it intercepts the bore-pellets. It screens them, makes them explode on the surface, so they can't burrow down to the shelter.”

  “How much?”

  “They didn't say.”

  Mike Foster sat crouched on the sofa, listening. He had heard the news at school. They were taking their test on berry-identification, examining encased samples of wild berries to distinguish the harmless ones from the toxic, when the bell had announced a general assembly. The principal read them the news about the bore-pellets and then gave a routine lecture on emergency treatment of a new variant of typhus, recently developed.

  His parents were still arguing. “We'll have to get one,” Ruth Foster said calmly.“Otherwise it won't make any difference whether we've got a shelter or not. The bore-pellets were specifically designed to penetrate the surface and seek out warmth. As soon as the Russians have them in production—”

  “I'll get one,” Bob Foster said. “I'll get an anti-pellet grill and whatever else they have. I'll buy everything they put on the market. I'll never stop buying.”

  “It's not as bad as that.”

  “You know, this game has one real advantage over selling people cars and TV sets. With something like this we have to buy. It isn't a luxury, something big and flashy to impress the neighbors, something we could do without. If we don't buy this we die. They always said the way to sell something was create anxiety in people. Create a sense of insecurity—tell them they smell bad or look funny. But this makes a joke out of deodorant and hair oil. You can't escape this. If you don't buy, they'll kill you. The perfect sales-pitch. Buy or die—new slogan. Have a shiny new General Electronics H-bomb shelter in your backyard or be slaughtered.”

  “Stop talking like that!” Ruth snapped.

  Bob Foster threw himself down at the kitchen table. “All right. I give up. I'll go along with it.”

  “You'll get one? I think they'll be on the market by Christmas.” “Oh, yes,” Foster said. “They'll be out by Christmas.” There was a strange look on his face. “I'll buy one of the damn things for Christmas, and so will everybody else.”

  The GEC grill-screen adaptors were a sensation.

  Mike Foster walked slowly along the crowd-packed December street, through the late-afternoon twilight. Adaptors glittered in every store window. All shapes and sizes, for every kind of shelter. All prices, for every pocketbook. The crowds of people were gay and excited, typical Christmas crowds, shoving good-naturedly, loaded down with packages and heavy overcoats. The air was white with gusts of sweeping snow. Cars nosed cautiously along the jammed streets. Lights and neon displays, immense glowing store windows gleamed on all sides.

  His own house was dark and silent. His parents weren't home yet. Both of them were down at the store working; business had been bad and his mother was taking the place of one of the clerks. Mike held his hand up to the code-key, and the front door let him in. The automatic furnace had kept the house warm and pleasant. He removed his coat and put away his schoolbooks.

  He didn't stay in the house long. His heart pounding with excitement, he felt his way out the back door and started onto the back porch.

  He forced himself to stop, turn around, and reenter the house. It was better if he didn't hurry things. He had worked out every moment of the process, from the first instant he saw the low hinge of the neck reared up hard and firm against the evening sky. He had made a fine art of it; there was no wasted motion. His procedure had been shaped, molded until it was a beautiful thing. The first overwhelming sense of presence as the neck of the shelter came around him. Then the blood-freezing rush of air as the descent-lift hurtled down all the way to the bottom.

  And the grandeur of the shelter itself.

  Every afternoon, as soon as he was home, he made his way down into it, below the surface, concealed and protected in its steel silence, as he had done since the first day. Now the chamber was full, not empty. Filled with endless cans of food, pillows, books, vidtapes, audiotapes, prints on the walls, bright fabrics, textures and colors, even vases of flowers. The shelter was his place, where he crouched curled up, surrounded by everything he needed.

  Delaying things as long as possible, he hurried back through the house and rummaged in the audiotape file. He'd sit down in the shelter until dinner, listening to Wind in the Willows. His parents knew where to find him; he was always down there. Two hours of uninterrupted happiness, alone by himself in the shelter. And then when dinner was over he would hurry back down, to stay until time for bed. Sometimes late at night, when his parents were sound asleep, he got quietly up and made his way outside, to the shelter-neck, and down into its silent depths. To hide until morning.

  He found the audiotape and hurried through the house, out onto the back porch and into the yard. The sky was a bleak gray, shot with streamers of ugly black clouds. The lights of the town were coming on here and there. The yard was cold and hostile. He made his way uncertainly down the steps—and froze.

  A vast yawning cavity loomed. A gaping mouth, vacant and toothless, fixed open to the night sky. There was nothing else. The shelter was gone.

  He stood for an endless time, the tape clutched in one hand, the other hand on the porch railing. Night came on; the dead hole dissolved in darkness. The whole world gradually collapsed into silence and abysmal gloom. Weak stars came out; lights in nearby houses came on fitfully, cold and faint. The boy saw nothing. He stood unmoving, his body rigid as stone, still facing the great pit where the shelter had been.

  Then his father was standing beside him. “How long have you been here?” his father was saying. “How long, Mike? Answer me!”

  With a violent effort Mike managed to drag himself back. “You're home early,” he muttered.

  “I left the store early on purpose. I wanted to be here when you—got home.”

  “It's gone.”

  “Yes.” His father's voice was cold, without emotion.“The shelter's gone. I'm sorry, Mike. I called them and told them to take it back.”

  “Why?”

  “I couldn't pay for it. Not this Christmas, with those grills everyone's getting. I can't compete with them.” He broke off and then continued wretchedly, “They were damn decent. They gave me back half the money I put in.” His voice twisted ironically. “I knew if I made a deal with them before Christmas I'd come out better. They can resell it to somebody else.”

  Mike said nothing.

  “Try to understand,” his father went on harshly. “I had to throw what capital I could scrape together into the store. I have to keep it running. It was either give up the shelter or the store. And if I gave up the store—”

  “Then we wouldn't have anything.”

  Hi
s father caught hold of his arm. “Then we'd have to give up the shelter, too.” His thin, strong fingers dug in spasmodically. “You're growing up—you're old enough to understand. We'll get one later, maybe not the biggest, the most expensive, but something. It was a mistake, Mike. I couldn't swing it, not with the goddamn adaptor things to buck. I'm keeping up the NAT payments, though. And your school tab. I'm keeping that going. This isn't a matter of principle,” he finished desperately. “I can't help it. Do you understand, Mike? I had to do it.”

  Mike pulled away.

  “Where are you going?” His father hurried after him. “Come back here!” He grabbed for his son frantically, but in the gloom he stumbled and fell. Stars blinded him as his head smashed into the edge of the house; he pulled himself up painfully and groped for some support.

  When he could see again, the yard was empty. His son was gone.

  “Mike!” he yelled. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer. The night wind blew clouds of snow around him, a thin bitter gust of chilled air. Wind and darkness, nothing else.

  Bill O'Neill wearily examined the clock on the wall. It was nine-thirty: he could finally close the doors and lock up the big dazzling store. Push the milling, murmuring throngs of people outside and on their way home.

  “Thank God,” he breathed, as he held the door open for the last old lady, loaded down with packages and presents. He threw the code bolt in place and pulled down the shade. “What a mob. I never saw so many people.”

  “All done,” Al Conners said, from the cash register. “I'll count the money—you go around and check everything. Make sure we got all of them out.”

  O'Neill pushed his blond hair back and loosened his tie. He lit a cigarette gratefully, then moved around the store, checking light switches, turning off the massive GEC displays and appliances. Finally he approached the huge bomb shelter that took up the center of the floor.