Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick

by Philip K. Dick

  Shakily he returned the laser cane to his belt and again bent over the bug-infested water. As usual the 'robs had been active here during the night; his wife had seen them, heard their rat-like scratchings. What the hell had they done? Bob Turk wondered dismally, and sniffed long and hard at the water.

  It seemed to him that the customary odor of the stagnant water was somehow subtly changed.

  “Damn,” he said, and stood up, feeling futile. The 'robs had put some contaminator in the water; that was obvious. Now it would have to be given a thorough chemical analysis and that would take days. Meanwhile, what would keep his potato crop alive? Good question.

  Raging in baffled helplessness, he pawed the laser cane, wishing for a target—and knowing he could never, not in a million years, have one. As always the 'robs did their work at night; steadily, surely, they pushed the settlement back.

  Already ten families had packed up and taken passage for Terra. To resume—if they could—the old lives which they had abandoned.

  And, soon, it would be his turn.

  If only there was something they could do. Some way they could fight back. He thought, I'd do anything, give anything, for a chance to get those 'robs. I swear it. I'd go into debt or bondage or servitude or anything, just for a chance of freeing the area of them.

  He was shuffling morosely away from the canal, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his jacket, when he heard the booming roar of the inter-system ship overhead.

  Calcified, he stood peering up, his heart collapsing inside him. Them back? he asked himself. The Falling Star Entertainment Enterprises ship … are they going to hit us all over again, finish us off finally? Shielding his eyes he peered frantically, not able even to run, his body not knowing its way even to instinctive, animal panic.

  The ship, like a gigantic orange, lowered. Shaped like an orange, colored like an orange … it was not the blue tubular ship of the Falling Star people; he could see that. But also it was not from Terra; it was not UN. He had never seen a ship exactly like it before and he knew that he was definitely seeing another vehicle from beyond the Sol System, much more blatantly so than the blue ship of the Falling Star creatures. Not even a cursory attempt had been made to make it appear Terran.

  And yet, on its sides, it had huge letters, which spelled out words in English.

  His lips moving, he read the words as the ship settled to a landing northeast of the spot at which he stood.

  SIX SYSTEM EDUCATIONAL PLAYTIME ASSOCIATES

  IN A RIOT OF FUN AND FROLIC FOR ALL!

  It was—God in heaven—another itinerant carnival company.

  He wanted to look away, to turn and hurry off. And yet he could not; the old familiar drive within him, the craving, the fixated curiosity, was too strong. So he continued to watch; he could see several hatches open and autonomic mechanisms beginning to nose, like flattened doughnuts, out onto the sand.

  They were pitching camp.

  Coming up beside him his neighbor Vince Guest said hoarsely, “Now what?”

  “You can see.” Turk gestured frantically. “Use your eyes.” Already the auto-mechs were erecting a central tent; colored streamers hurled themselves upward into the air and then rained down on the still two-dimensional booths. And the first humans—or humanoids—were emerging. Vince and Bob saw men wearing bright clothing and then women in tights. Or rather something considerably less than tights.

  “Wow,” Vince managed to say, swallowing. “You see those ladies? You ever seen women with such—”

  “I see them,” Turk said. “But I'm never going back to one of these non-Terran carnivals from beyond the system and neither is Hoagland; I know that as well as I know my own name.”

  How rapidly they were going to work. No time wasted; already faint, tinny music, of a carousel nature, filtered to Bob Turk. And the smells. Cotton candy, roasting peanuts, and with those the subtle smell of adventure and exciting sights, of the illicit. One woman with long braided red hair had hopped lithely up onto a platform; she wore a meager bra and wisp of silk at her waist and as he watched fixedly she began to practice her dance. Faster and faster she spun until at last, carried away by the rhythm, she discarded entirely what little she wore. And the funny thing about it all was that it seemed to him real art; it was not the usual carny shimmying at the midsection. There was something beautiful and alive about her movements; he found himself spellbound.

  “I—better go get Hoagland,” Vince managed to say, finally. Already a few settlers, including a number of children, were moving as if hypnotized toward the lines of booths and the gaudy streamers that fluttered and shone in the otherwise drab Martian air.

  “I'll go over and get a closer look,” Bob Turk said, “while you're locating him.” He started toward the carnival on a gradually accelerated run, scuffling sand as he hurried.

  To Hoagland, Tony Costner said, “At least let's see what they have to offer. You know they're not the same people; it wasn't them who dumped those horrible damn microrobs off here—you can see that.”

  “Maybe it's something worse,” Hoagland said, but he turned to the boy, Fred. “What do you say?” he demanded.

  “I want to look,” Fred Costner said. He had made up his mind.

  “Okay,” Hoagland said, nodding. “That's good enough for me. It won't hurt us to look. As long as we remember what that UN secret police general told us. Let's not kid ourselves into imagining we can outsmart them.” He put down his wrench, rose from his workbench, and walked to the closet to get his fur-lined outdoor coat.

  When they reached the carnival they found that the games of chance had been placed—conveniently—ahead of even the girly shows and the freaks. Fred Costner rushed forward, leaving the group of adults behind; he sniffed the air, took in the scents, heard the music, saw past the games of chance the first freak platform: it was his favorite abomination, one he remembered from previous carnivals, only this one was superior. It was a no-body. In the midday Martian sunlight it reposed quietly: a bodiless head complete with hair, ears, intelligent eyes; heaven only knew what kept it alive … in any case he knew intuitively that it was genuine.

  “Come and see Orpheus, the head without a visible body!” the pitch-man called through his megaphone, and a group, mostly children, had gathered in awe to gape. “How does it stay alive? How does it propel itself? Show them, Orpheus.” The pitchman tossed a handful of food pellets— Fred Costner could not see precisely what—at the head; it opened its mouth to enormous, frightening proportions, managed to snare most of what landed near it. The pitchman laughed and continued with his spiel. The no-body was now rolling industriously after the bits of food which it had missed. Gee, Fred thought.

  “Well?” Hoagland said, coming up beside him. “Do you see any games we might profit from?” His tone was drenched with bitterness. “Care to throw a baseball at anything?” He started away, then, not waiting, a tired little fat man who had been defeated too much, who had already lost too many times. “Let's go,” he said to the other adults of the settlement. “Let's get out of here before we get into another—”

  “Wait,” Fred said. He had caught it, the familiar, pleasing stench. It came from a booth on his right and he turned at once in that direction.

  A plump, gray-colored middle-aged woman stood in a ringtoss booth, her hands full of the light wicker rings.

  Behind Fred his father said to Hoagland Rae, “You get the rings over the merchandise; you win whatever you manage to toss the ring onto so that it stays.” With Fred he walked slowly in that direction. “It would be a natural,” he murmured, “for a psychokinetic. I would think.”

  “I suggest,” Hoagland said, speaking to Fred, “that you look more closely this time at the prizes. At the merchandise.” However, he came along, too.

  At first Fred could not make out what the neat stacks were, each of them exactly alike, intricate and metallic; he came up to the edge of the booth and the middle-aged woman began her chant-like litany, offering him a handful
of rings. For a dollar, or whatever of equal value the settlement had to offer.

  “What are they?” Hoagland said, peering. “I—think they're some kind of machines.”

  Fred said, “I know what they are.” And we've got to play, he realized. We must round up every item in the settlement that we can possibly trade these people, every cabbage and rooster and sheep and wool blanket.

  Because, he realized, this is our chance. Whether General Wolff knows about it or likes it.

  “My God,” Hoagland said quietly. “Those are traps.”

  “That's right, mister,” the middle-aged woman chanted. “Homeostatic traps; they do all the work, think for themselves, you just let them go and they travel and travel and they never give up until they catch—” She winked. “You know what. Yes, you know what they catch, mister, those little pesky things you can't ever possibly catch by yourselves, that are poisoning your water and killing your steers and ruining your settlement—win a trap, a valuable, useful trap, and you'll see, you'll see!” She tossed a wicker ring and it nearly settled over one of the complex, sleek-metal traps; it might very well have, if she had thrown it just a little more carefully. At least that was the impression given. They all felt this.

  Hoagland said to Tony Costner and Bob Turk, “We'll need a couple hundred of them at least.”

  “And for that,” Tony said, “we'll have to hock everything we own. But it's worth it; at least we won't be completely wiped out.” His eyes gleamed. “Let's get started.” To Fred he said,“Can you play this game? Can you win?”

  “I—think so,” Fred said. Although somewhere nearby, someone in the carnival was ready with a contrary power of psychokinesis. But not enough, he decided. Not quite enough.

  It was almost as if they worked it that way on purpose.

  WE CAN REMEMBER IT FOR YOU WHOLESALE

  He awoke—and wanted Mars. The valleys, he thought. What would it be like to trudge among them? Great and greater yet: the dream grew as he became fully conscious, the dream and the yearning. He could almost feel the enveloping presence of the other world, which only Government agents and high officials had seen. A clerk like himself? Not likely.

  “Are you getting up or not?” his wife, Kirsten, asked drowsily, with her usual hint of fierce crossness. “If you are, push the hot coffee button on the darn stove.”

  “Okay,” Douglas Quail said, and made his way barefoot from the bedroom of their conapt to the kitchen. There, having dutifully pressed the hot coffee button, he seated himself at the kitchen table, brought out a yellow, small tin of fine Dean Swift snuff. He inhaled briskly, and the Beau Nash mixture stung his nose, burned the roof of his mouth. But still he inhaled; it woke him up and allowed his dreams, his nocturnal desires and random wishes, to condense into a semblance of rationality.

  I will go, he said to himself. Before I die I'll see Mars.

  It was, of course, impossible, and he knew this even as he dreamed. But the daylight, the mundane noise of his wife now brushing her hair before the bedroom mirror—everything conspired to remind him of what he was. A miserable little salaried employee, he said to himself with bitterness. Kirsten reminded him of this at least once a day and he did not blame her; it was a wife's job to bring her husband down to Earth. Down to Earth, he thought, and laughed. The figure of speech in this was literally apt.

  “What are you sniggering about?” his wife asked as she swept into the kitchen, her long busy-pink robe wagging after her. “A dream, I bet. You're always full of them.”

  “Yes,” he said, and gazed out the kitchen window at the hover-cars and traffic runnels, and all the little energetic people hurrying to work. In a little while he would be among them. As always.

  “I'll bet it had to do with some woman,” Kirsten said witheringly.

  “No,” he said. “A god. The god of war. He has wonderful craters with every kind of plant-life growing deep down in them.”

  “Listen.” Kirsten crouched down beside him and spoke earnestly, the harsh quality momentarily gone from her voice.“The bottom of the ocean— our ocean is much more, an infinity of times more beautiful. You know that; everyone knows that. Rent an artificial gill-outfit for both of us, take a week off from work, and we can descend and live down there at one of those year-round aquatic resorts. And in addition—” She broke off.“You're not listening. You should be. Here is something a lot better than that compulsion, that obsession you have about Mars, and you don't even listen!” Her voice rose piercingly. “God in heaven, you're doomed, Doug! What's going to become of you?”

  “I'm going to work,” he said, rising to his feet, his breakfast forgotten. “That's what's going to become of me.”

  She eyed him. “You're getting worse. More fanatical every day. Where's it going to lead?”

  “To Mars,” he said, and opened the door to the closet to get down a fresh shirt to wear to work.

  Having descended from the taxi Douglas Quail slowly walked across three densely populated foot runnels and to the modern, attractively inviting doorway. There he halted, impeding mid-morning traffic, and with caution read the shifting-color neon sign. He had, in the past, scrutinized this sign before…but never had he come so close. This was very different; what he did now was something else. Something which sooner or later had to happen.

  rekal, incorporated

  Was this the answer? After all, an illusion, no matter how convincing, remained nothing more than an illusion. At least objectively. But subjectively—quite the opposite entirely.

  And anyhow he had an appointment. Within the next five minutes. Taking a deep breath of mildly smog-infested Chicago air, he walked through the dazzling polychromatic shimmer of the doorway and up to the receptionist's counter.

  The nicely articulated blonde at the counter, bare-bosomed and tidy, said pleasantly, “Good morning, Mr. Quail.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I'm here to see about a Rekal course. As I guess you know.”

  “Not ‘rekal' but recall,” the receptionist corrected him. She picked up the receiver of the vidphone by her smooth elbow and said into it, “Mr. Douglas Quail is here, Mr. McClane. May he come inside, now? Or is it too soon?”

  “Giz wetwa wum-wum wamp,” the phone mumbled.

  “Yes, Mr. Quail,” she said. “You may go in; Mr. McClane is expecting you.” As he started off uncertainly she called after him, “Room D, Mr. Quail. To your right.”

  After a frustrating but brief moment of being lost he found the proper room. The door hung open and inside, at a big genuine walnut desk, sat a genial-looking man, middle-aged, wearing the latest Martian frog-pelt gray suit; his attire alone would have told Quail that he had come to the right person.

  “Sit down, Douglas,” McClane said, waving his plump hand toward a chair which faced the desk. “So you want to have gone to Mars. Very good.”

  Quail seated himself, feeling tense. “I'm not so sure this is worth the fee,” he said. “It costs a lot and as far as I can see I really get nothing.” Costs almost as much as going, he thought.

  “You get tangible proof of your trip,” McClane disagreed emphatically. “All the proof you'll need. Here; I'll show you.” He dug within a drawer of his impressive desk. “Ticket stub.” Reaching into a manila folder, he produced a small square of embossed cardboard. “It proves you went—and returned. Postcards.” He laid out four franked picture 3-D full-color postcards in a neatly arranged row on the desk for Quail to see. “Film. Shots you took of local sights on Mars with a rented moving camera.” To Quail he displayed those, too. “Plus the names of people you met, two hundred poscreds' worth of souvenirs, which will arrive—from Mars—within the following month. And passport, certificates listing the shots you received. And more.” He glanced up keenly at Quail. “You'll know you went, all right,” he said. “You won't remember us, won't remember me or ever having been here. It'll be a real trip in your mind; we guarantee that. A full two weeks of recall; every last piddling detail. Remember this: if at any time you doubt
that you really took an extensive trip to Mars you can return here and get a full refund. You see?”

  “But I didn't go,” Quail said. “I won't have gone, no matter what proofs you provide me with.” He took a deep, unsteady breath. “And I never was a secret agent with Interplan.” It seemed impossible to him that Rekal, Incorporated's extra-factual memory implant would do its job—despite what he had heard people say.

  “Mr. Quail,” McClane said patiently. “As you explained in your letter to us, you have no chance, no possibility in the slightest, of ever actually getting to Mars; you can't afford it, and what is much more important, you could never qualify as an undercover agent for Interplan or anybody else. This is the only way you can achieve your, ahem, lifelong dream; am I not correct, sir? You can't be this; you can't actually do this.” He chuckled. “But you can have been and have done. We see to that. And our fee is reasonable; no hidden charges.” He smiled encouragingly.

  “Is an extra-factual memory that convincing?” Quail asked.

  “More than the real thing, sir. Had you really gone to Mars as an Inter-plan agent, you would by now have forgotten a great deal; our analysis of true-mem systems—authentic recollections of major events in a person's life—shows that a variety of details are very quickly lost to the person. Forever. Part of the package we offer you is such deep implantation of recall that nothing is forgotten. The packet which is fed to you while you're comatose is the creation of trained experts, men who have spent years on Mars; in every case we verify details down to the last iota. And you've picked a rather easy extra-factual system; had you picked Pluto or wanted to be Emperor of the Inner Planet Alliance we'd have much more difficulty … and the charges would be considerably greater.”

  Reaching into his coat for his wallet, Quail said, “Okay. It's been my lifelong ambition and so I see I'll never really do it. So I guess I'll have to settle for this.”

  “Don't think of it that way,” McClane said severely. “You're not accepting second best. The actual memory, with all its vagueness, omissions, and ellipses, not to say distortions—that's second best.” He accepted the money and pressed a button on his desk. “All right, Mr. Quail,” he said, as the door of his office opened and two burly men swiftly entered.“You're on your way to Mars as a secret agent.” He rose, came over to shake Quail's nervous, moist hand. “Or rather, you have been on your way. This afternoon at four-thirty you will, um, arrive back here on Terra; a cab will leave you off at your conapt and, as I say, you will never remember seeing me or coming here; you won't, in fact, even remember having heard of our existence.”