Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick

by Philip K. Dick

“You two go back down to Oakland,” Hooker told Norman and Fran Schein.“You don't live here anymore. You're different than you were. You— changed.”

  “Yes,” Sam Regan said slowly, half to himself. “I was right; there was something to fear.” To Norm Schein he said, “How difficult a trip is it to Oakland?”

  “We just went to Berkeley,” Norm said. “To the Berkeley Fluke-pit.” He seemed baffled and stunned by what was happening. “My God,” he said, “we can't turn around and push this wheelbarrow back all the way to Berkeley again—we're worn out, we need rest!”

  Sam Regan said, “What if somebody else pushed?” He walked up to the Scheins, then, and stood with them. “I'll push the darn thing. You lead the way, Schein.” He looked toward his own wife, but Jean did not stir. And she did not put down her handful of rocks.

  Timothy Schein plucked at his father's arm. “Can I come this time, Dad? Please let me come.”

  “Okay,” Norm said, half to himself. Now he drew himself together. “So we're not wanted here.” He turned to Fran. “Let's go. Sam's going to push the wheelbarrow; I think we can make it back there before nightfall. If not, we can sleep out in the open; Timothy'll help protect us against the do-cats.”

  Fran said, “I guess we have no choice.” Her face was pale.

  “And take this,” Hooker said. He held out the tiny carved baby. Fran Schein accepted it and put it tenderly back in its leather pouch. Norm laid Connie Companion back down in the wheelbarrow, where she had been. They were ready to start back.

  “It'll happen up here eventually,” Norm said, to the group of people, to the Pinole flukers. “Oakland is just more advanced; that's all.”

  “Go on,” Hooker Glebe said. “Get started.”

  Nodding, Norm started to pick up the handles of the wheelbarrow, but Sam Regan moved him aside and took them himself. “Let's go,” he said.

  The three adults, with Timothy Schein going ahead of them with his knife ready—in case a do-cat attacked—started into motion, in the direction of Oakland and the south. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

  “It's a shame this had to happen,” Norm said at last, when they had gone almost a mile and there was no further sign of the Pinole flukers behind them.

  “Maybe not,” Sam Regan said. “Maybe it's for the good.” He did not seem downcast. And after all, he had lost his wife; he had given up more than anyone else, and yet—he had survived.

  “Glad you feel that way,” Norm said somberly.

  They continued on, each with his own thoughts.

  After a while, Timothy said to his father, “All these big fluke-pits to the south … there's lots more things to do there, isn't there? I mean, you don't just sit around playing that game.” He certainly hoped not.

  His father said, “That's true, I guess.”

  Overhead, a care ship whistled at great velocity and then was gone again almost at once; Timothy watched it go but he was not really interested in it, because there was so much more to look forward to, on the ground and below the ground, ahead of them to the south.

  His father murmured, “Those Oaklanders; their game, their particular doll, it taught them something. Connie had to grow and it forced them all to grow along with her. Our flukers never learned about that, not from Perky Pat. I wonder if they ever will. She'd have to grow up the way Connie did. Connie must have been like Perky Pat, once. A long time ago.”

  Not interested in what his father was saying—who really cared about dolls and games with dolls?—Timothy scampered ahead, peering to see what lay before them, the opportunities and possibilities, for him and for his mother and dad, for Mr. Regan also.

  “I can't wait,” he yelled back at his father, and Norm Schein managed a faint, fatigued smile in answer.

  PRECIOUS ARTIFACT

  Below the 'copter of Milt Biskle lay newly fertile lands. He had done well with his area of Mars, verdant from his reconstruction of the ancient water-network. Spring, two springs each year, had been brought to this autumn world of sand and hopping toads, a land once made of dried soil cracking with the dust of former times, of a dreary and unwatered waste. Victim of the recent Prox-Terra conflict.

  Quite soon the first Terran emigrants would appear, stake their claims, and take over. He could retire. Perhaps he could return to Terra or bring his own family here, receive priority of land-acquisition—as a reconstruct engineer he deserved it. Area Yellow had progressed far faster than the other engineers' sections. And now his reward came.

  Reaching forward, Milt Biskle touched the button of his long-range transmitter. “This is Reconstruct Engineer Yellow,” he said. “I'd like a psychiatrist. Any one will do, so long as he's immediately available.”

  When Milt Biskle entered the office Dr. DeWinter rose and held out his hand. “I've heard,” Dr. DeWinter said, “that you, of all the forty-odd reconstruct engineers, have been the most creative. It's no wonder you're tired. Even God had to rest after six days of such work, and you've been at it for years. As I was waiting for you to reach me I received a news memo from Terra that will interest you.” He picked the memo up from his desk. “The initial transport of settlers is about to arrive here on Mars … and they'll go directly into your area. Congratulations, Mr. Biskle.”

  Rousing himself Milt Biskle said, “What if I returned to Earth?”

  “But if you mean to stake a claim for your family, here—”

  Milt Biskle said, “I want you to do something for me. I feel too tired, too—” He gestured. “Or depressed, maybe. Anyhow I'd like you to make arrangements for my gear, including my wug-plant, to be put aboard a transport returning to Terra.”

  “Six years of work,” Dr. DeWinter said. “And now you're abandoning your recompense. Recently I visited Earth and it's just as you remember—”

  “How do you know how I remember it?”

  “Rather,” DeWinter corrected himself smoothly, “I should say it's just as it was. Overcrowded, tiny conapts with seven families to a single cramped kitchen. Autobahns so crowded you can't make a move until eleven in the morning.”

  “For me,” Milt Biskle said, “the overcrowding will be a relief after six years of robot autonomic equipment.” He had made up his mind. In spite of what he had accomplished here, or perhaps because of it, he intended to go home. Despite the psychiatrist's arguments.

  Dr. DeWinter purred,“What if your wife and children, Milt, are among the passengers of this first transport?” Once more he lifted a document from his neatly arranged desk. He studied the paper, then said, “Biskle, Fay, Mrs. Laura C. June C. Woman and two girl children. Your family?”

  “Yes,” Milt Biskle admitted woodenly; he stared straight ahead.

  “So you see you can't head back to Earth. Put on your hair and prepare to meet them at Field Three. And exchange your teeth. You've got the stainless steel ones in, at the moment.”

  Chagrined, Biskle nodded. Like all Terrans he had lost his hair and teeth from the fallout during the war. For everyday service in his lonely job of re-reconstructing Yellow Area of Mars he made no use of the expensive wig which he had brought from Terra, and as to the teeth he personally found the steel ones far more comfortable than the natural-color plastic set. It indicated how far he had drifted from social interaction. He felt vaguely guilty; Dr. DeWinter was right.

  But he had felt guilty ever since the defeat of the Proxmen. The war had embittered him; it didn't seem fair that one of the two competing cultures would have to suffer, since the needs of both were legitimate.

  Mars itself had been the locus of contention. Both cultures needed it as a colony on which to deposit surplus populations. Thank God Terra had managed to gain tactical mastery during the last year of the war … hence it was Terrans such as himself, and not Proxmen, patching up Mars.

  “By the way,” Dr. DeWinter said. “I happen to know of your intentions regarding your fellow reconstruct engineers.”

  Milt Biskle glanced up swiftly.

  “As a matter of fact,�
� Dr. DeWinter said, “we know they're at this moment gathering in Red Area to hear your account.” Opening his desk drawer he got out a yo-yo, stood up, and began to operate it expertly doing walking the dog. “Your panic-stricken speech to the effect that something is wrong, although you can't seem to say just what it might be.”

  Watching the yo-yo Biskle said, “That's a toy popular in the Prox system. At least so I read in a homeopape article, once.”

  “Hmm. I understood it originated in the Philippines.” Engrossed, Dr. DeWinter now did around the world. He did it well. “I'm taking the liberty of sending a disposition to the reconstruct engineers' gathering, testifying to your mental condition. It will be read aloud—sorry to say.”

  “I still intend to address the gathering,” Biskle said.

  “Well, then there's a compromise that occurs to me. Greet your little family when it arrives here on Mars and then we'll arrange a trip to Terra for you. At our expense. And in exchange you'll agree not to address the gathering of reconstruct engineers or burden them in any way with your nebulous forebodings.” DeWinter eyed him keenly. “After all, this is a critical moment. The first emigrants are arriving. We don't want trouble; we don't want to make anyone uneasy.”

  “Would you do me a favor?” Biskle asked. “Show me that you've got a wig on. And that your teeth are false. Just so I can be sure that you're a Terran.”

  Dr. DeWinter tilted his wig and plucked out his set of false teeth.

  “I'll take the offer,” Milt Biskle said.“If you'll agree to make certain that my wife obtains the parcel of land I set aside for her.”

  Nodding, DeWinter tossed him a small white envelope. “Here's your ticket. Round-trip, of course, since you'll be coming back.”

  I hope so, Biskle thought as he picked up the ticket. But it depends on what I see on Terra. Or rather on what they let me see.

  He had a feeling they'd let him see very little. In fact as little as Prox-manly possible.

  When his ship reached Terra a smartly uniformed guide waited for him. “Mr. Biskle?” Trim and attractive and exceedingly young, she stepped forward alertly. “I'm Mary Ableseth, your Tourplan companion. I'll show you around the planet during your brief stay here.” She smiled brightly and very professionally. He was taken aback. “I'll be with you constantly, night and day.”

  “Night, too?” he managed to say.

  “Yes, Mr. Biskle. That's my job. We expect you to be disoriented due to your years of labor on Mars … labor we of Terra applaud and honor, as is right.” She fell in beside him, steering him toward a parked 'copter. “Where would you like to go first? New York City? Broadway? To the night clubs and theaters and restaurants …”

  “No, to Central Park. To sit on a bench.”

  “But there is no more Central Park, Mr. Biskle. It was turned into a parking lot for government employees while you were on Mars.”

  “I see,” Milt Biskle said. “Well, then Portsmouth Square in San Francisco will do.” He opened the door of the 'copter.

  “That, too, has become a parking lot,” Miss Ableseth said, with a sad shake of her long, luminous red hair. “We're so darn overpopulated. Try again, Mr. Biskle; there are a few parks left, one in Kansas, I believe, and two in Utah in the south part near St. George.”

  “This is bad news,” Milt said. “May I stop at that amphetamine dispenser and put in my dime? I need a stimulant to cheer me up.”

  “Certainly,” Miss Ableseth said, nodding graciously.

  Milt Biskle walked to the spaceport's nearby stimulant dispenser, reached into his pocket, found a dime, and dropped the dime in the slot.

  The dime fell completely through the dispenser and bounced onto the pavement.

  “Odd,” Biskle said, puzzled.

  “I think I can explain that,” Miss Ableseth said.“That dime of yours is a Martian dime, made for a lighter gravity.”

  “Hmm,” Milt Biskle said, as he retrieved the dime. As Miss Ableseth had predicted, he felt disoriented. He stood by as she put in a dime of her own and obtained the small tube of amphetamine stimulants for him. Certainly her explanation seemed adequate. But—

  “It is now eight P.M. local time,” Miss Ableseth said. “And I haven't had dinner, although of course you have, aboard your ship. Why not take me to dinner? We can talk over a bottle of Pinot Noir and you can tell me these vague forebodings which have brought you to Terra, that something dire is wrong and that all your marvelous reconstruct work is pointless. I'd adore to hear about it.” She guided him back to the 'copter and the two of them entered, squeezing into the back seat together. Milt Biskle found her to be warm and yielding, decidedly Terran; he became embarrassed and felt his heart pounding in effort-syndrome. It had been some time since he had been this close to a woman.

  “Listen,” he said, as the automatic circuit of the 'copter caused it to rise from the spaceport parking lot, “I'm married. I've got two children and I came here on business. I'm on Terra to prove that the Proxmen really won and that we few remaining Terrans are slaves of the Prox authorities, laboring for—” He gave up; it was hopeless. Miss Ableseth remained pressed against him.

  “You really think,” Miss Ableseth said presently, as the 'copter passed above New York City, “that I'm a Prox agent?”

  “N-no,” Milt Biskle said. “I guess not.” It did not seem likely, under the circumstances.

  “While you're on Terra,” Miss Ableseth said, “why stay in an overcrowded, noisy hotel? Why not stay with me at my conapt in New Jersey? There's plenty of room and you're more than welcome.”

  “Okay,” Biskle agreed, feeling the futility of arguing.

  “Good.” Miss Ableseth gave an instruction to the 'copter; it turned north. “We'll have dinner there. It'll save money, and at all the decent restaurants there's a two-hour line this time of night, so it's almost impossible to get a table. You've probably forgotten. How wonderful it'll be when half our population can emigrate!”

  “Yes,” Biskle said tightly.“And they'll like Mars; we've done a good job.” He felt a measure of enthusiasm returning to him, a sense of pride in the reconstruct work he and his compatriots had done. “Wait until you see it, Miss Ableseth.”

  “Call me Mary,” Miss Ableseth said, as she arranged her heavy scarlet wig; it had become dislodged during the last few moments in the cramped quarters of the 'copter.

  “Okay,” Biskle said, and, except for a nagging awareness of disloyalty to Fay, he felt a sense of well-being.

  “Things happen fast on Terra,” Mary Ableseth said.“Due to the terrible pressure of overpopulation.” She pressed her teeth in place; they, too, had become dislodged.

  “So I see,” Milt Biskle agreed, and straightened his own wig and teeth, too. Could I have been mistaken? he asked himself. After all he could see the lights of New York below; Terra was decidedly not a depopulated ruin and its civilization was intact.

  Or was this all an illusion, imposed on his percept-system by Prox psychiatric techniques unfamiliar to him? It was a fact that his dime had fallen completely through the amphetamine dispenser. Didn't that indicate something was subtly, terribly wrong?

  Perhaps the dispenser hadn't really been there.

  The next day he and Mary Ableseth visited one of the few remaining parks. In the southern part of Utah, near the mountains, the park, although small, was bright green and attractive. Milt Biskle lolled on the grass watching a squirrel progressing toward a tree in wicket-like leaps, its tail flowing behind it in a gray stream.

  “No squirrels on Mars,” Milt Biskle said sleepily.

  Wearing a slight sunsuit, Mary Ableseth stretched out on her back, eyes shut. “It's nice here, Milt. I imagine Mars is like this.” Beyond the park heavy traffic moved along the freeway; the noise reminded Milt of the surf of the Pacific Ocean. It lulled him. All seemed well, and he tossed a peanut to the squirrel. The squirrel veered, wicket-hopped toward the peanut, its intelligent face twitching in response.

  As it sat upright, holding
the nut, Milt Biskle tossed a second nut off to the right. The squirrel heard it land among the maple leaves; its ears pricked up, and this reminded Milt of a game he once had played with a cat, an old sleepy tom which had belonged to him and his brother in the days before Terra had been so overpopulated, when pets were still legal. He had waited until Pumpkin—the tomcat—was almost asleep and then he had tossed a small object into the corner of the room. Pumpkin woke up. His eyes had flown open and his ears had pricked, turned, and he had sat for fifteen minutes listening and watching, brooding as to what had made the noise. It was a harmless way of teasing the old cat, and Milt felt sad, thinking how many years Pumpkin had been dead now, his last legal pet. On Mars, though, pets would be legal again. That cheered him.

  In fact on Mars, during his years of reconstruct work, he had possessed a pet. A Martian plant. He had brought it with him to Terra and it now stood on the living-room coffee table in Mary Ableseth's conapt, its limbs draped rather unhappily. It had not prospered in the unfamiliar Terran climate.

  “Strange,” Milt murmured, “that my wug-plant isn't thriving. I'd have thought in such a moist atmosphere …”

  “It's the gravity,” Mary said, eyes still shut, her bosom rising and falling regularly. She was almost asleep. “Too much for it.”

  Milt regarded the supine form of the woman, remembering Pumpkin under similar circumstances. The hypnogogic moment, between waking and sleeping, when consciousness and unconsciousness became blended … reaching, he picked up a pebble.

  He tossed the pebble into the leaves near Mary's head.

  At once she sat up, eyes open startled, her sunsuit falling from her.

  Both her ears pricked up.

  “But we Terrans,” Milt said, “have lost control of the musculature of our ears, Mary. On even a reflex basis.”

  “What?” she murmured, blinking in confusion as she retied her sunsuit.

  “Our ability to prick up our ears has atrophied,” Milt explained. “Unlike the dog and cat. Although to examine us morphologically you wouldn't know because the muscles are still there. So you made an error.”