Gather Yourselves Together

by Philip K. Dick

“I don’t see why you asked,” Barbara murmured.

  Teddy surveyed her. “You better go back to Boston. And get started on your welfare work.”

  Barbara slunk down in the seat and did not answer.

  They reached the bus depot. Teddy drove the car up to the curb. A couple of bus drivers were standing together, smoking and talking.

  She rolled the window down. “Hey!”

  One of them stepped over. “What do you want?”

  “When does the bus leave for Boston?”

  He looked at his watch. “About ten minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  She rolled the window back up and drove on. After a minute or so she parked the car and turned off the motor. They sat in silence.

  “You have your ticket money?” Teddy said.

  Barbara nodded. She took a deep breath. “I—”

  “You know where to catch it?”

  On the seat between them Verne stirred. He grunted, moving a little. He lifted his head.

  “Verne—” Barbara said. He groaned and turned over, his head in his arms, sinking down into a little bundle, a soft shapeless heap on the seat. She gazed down at him. His knees were pulled up, his shoulders pulled together. A little wadded-up bundle. The little tailor, his glasses falling off, hanging from one ear.

  “Come on,” Teddy said. “You’ll miss your bus.” She reached past Barbara and pushed the door open.

  Barbara hesitated uncertainly. “Teddy, I—”

  “Hurry up. Get out.”

  She slid from the seat onto the sidewalk. The pavement was cold. A wind blew about her.

  “Good night,” Teddy said. She slammed the car door. The motor came on. The car drove off, down the street, into the darkness. Barbara stood watching it until it disappeared and the sound died into silence.

  Some people waiting for the bus observed her with interest, a sailor, a girl, a middle-aged man.

  She walked slowly into the depot.

  9

  “WHAT’S THE MATTER?” Carl Fitter asked.

  Barbara started, coming suddenly back to the present. She blinked. “What?”

  “You were a million miles away.” Carl waved around him. “It’s too nice a day to miss! This is one of the nicest days I can remember. Don’t you think so? There isn’t even one cloud in the sky, unless you count that unimportant little puff over there.”

  They went along the path, toward the commissary. “It is nice,” Barbara admitted.

  “Look at the towers over there. Like birds of some kind, standing on one foot. They must be abandoned machinery. You usually don’t notice them because of the fog. I’m glad the fog has lifted today. It’s our day to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Full and complete possession of all the world.”

  “Really?”

  “All the world, as far as we know it.” He pointed at the mountains, beyond the Company property. “What do we know of them? They’re not part of my world. Are they part of your world? Like the moon. You can see the moon, but it’s not the same as living with it. How can you believe in something that’s only a sort of painting someone has hung up in the sky? Actually, our world ends before those mountains begin. At the edge of the Company land.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Carl laughed, kicking some stones away. “Today I believe a lot of things. Sure, the world ends at that line. And we own every bit of it. It’s ours.”

  “Why are you so happy? The weather?”

  “Partly. And partly because in a way I’m glad to see all the people gone. Of course—” his face clouded. “Of course, I’ll admit I wasn’t so pleased when I first learned about it. I was just about to go. I had my suitcase under my arm and everything. They didn’t tell me until I was practically getting into the car. It made me feel sort of bad.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But that’s all over now. Today I’ve forgotten it. It was yesterday, in the past. Over with.”

  “So it doesn’t exist any more?”

  “Of course not. How can something exist in the past? Things only exist in the present.” Carl’s face took on a glow of excitement. “Do you know Aristotle’s theory of the actualization of objects? It’s a concept of the gradual developing of things, our view of which—”

  “Let’s forget it,” Barbara murmured.

  “What?” Carl’s glow darkened to a flush of embarrassment. “Of course. I’m sorry.” His head sank down. He ran on a little way ahead.

  But after a minute his good spirits returned.

  “Just think!” he cried.

  “Of what?”

  “Of all our—our wealth.”

  “What wealth?”

  “The food! The beds! We can sleep everywhere, anywhere, even in the station manager’s home. Most of his stuff is still here, I think. His books, his blankets, his library, his kitchen. It’s all boarded up, but it’s there. All we need is a hammer and crowbar. The yuks won’t know if we take a few little things out. We have a whole week to do it—seven days. Maybe more!”

  He danced, leaping up into the air. Finally he became winded and gradually calmed down.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away like that. I guess you must think I’m crazy.”

  Barbara had been walking along behind him. She smiled a little. “No. Not crazy. It is a nice day. I—I felt a little like that myself, earlier. When I first woke up and saw the sun streaming into the room.”

  Now they were both embarrassed. They walked on in silence, Carl ahead, Barbara plodding along behind. At last the commissary appeared ahead.

  Carl turned around, stopping to wait for the girl to catch up with him. “Can I ask you something?”

  “What is it?”

  “Is Verne an old friend of yours?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  Carl hesitated. “Well, he seems to know you, and you seem to know him, but both of you freeze up when you’re together. And neither of you’ll say anything. Why? What’s the matter? Don’t you like each other? Did something—”

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Barbara said, her voice gruff. “Okay?”

  “See? That’s what happens. But I know you’re old friends. I can tell.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘old friends.’ We knew each other, for a while.”

  “Before you went to work for the Company?”

  “Yes. I came out here without—without knowing that he was here. We were both surprised to see each other. Not that it matters. I haven’t talked to him for years.”

  “You talked to him last night.”

  “I don’t mean that.”

  “Where did you meet each other?”

  “For Christ’s sake! Can’t we forget it? Don’t you ever stop talking about things?”

  Carl slunk away along the path. “Sorry.”

  She hurried and caught up with him. “We can talk about it some other time. Later on.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

  “No, I realize that.”

  Suddenly Carl pricked up his ears. His whole expression changed. “Hey! What do I smell? Do I smell somebody cooking something? Verne must have started!”

  He ran up the commissary steps, two at a time. Barbara followed after him, feeling some of his excitement. They pushed the door open and went inside. Verne was at the stove, squatting down beside it, examining its works. The burners were discharging jets of blue flame. The temperature of the room was beginning to rise.

  “Greetings,” Verne murmured.

  “What are you doing?”

  Verne glanced up at Carl. “Taking a bath.”

  “I never realized how hot it gets in here with the stove going,” Barbara said. “Those poor people! That old cook, the fat one. What a time she must have had.”

  Verne had put the big frying pan on the burners. The bottom was damp with smoking grease. Carl peered down at it with interest. “What’s this for?” he asked.

/>   “Pancakes.”

  “I wish we were going to have waffles.” Carl found the sack of flour. “This is for waffles, too. Besides just pancakes.” He waited hopefully.

  “We don’t have a waffle iron.”

  “Oh. I guess that’s right. But I certainly like waffles. Pancakes are always the same.”

  “Help me set the table,” Barbara said to him. She was getting dishes out of the cupboard.

  “What shall I put on?”

  “Those little bowls up there. I can’t reach them.”

  Carl got the bowls down. “I never saw any bowls like these before. They must have been used by the staff. And a lot of this food. We never had a lot of this. Like this.” He held up a package of frozen chicken from one of the refrigerators. “Did we ever have frozen chicken?”

  “Once in a while,” Barbara said. “Put the bowls on the table.”

  “All right.”

  The pancakes were ready. They sat down at the table and prepared to eat. Barbara brought the platter to the table and set it down.

  “Butter?” she said.

  “In the refrigerator,” Verne said.

  “I’ll get it.” Carl scrambled up, pushing his chair back. He returned with the butter. “There’s tons of it. I never saw so much. We won’t run out. And cottage cheese and sour milk and eggs and regular milk.”

  Verne punched a hole in the lid of the syrup can. Barbara distributed the pancakes to their plates. Now the coffee was ready. Carl brought it over from the stove, setting the pot down on a piece of cold tile.

  “Let’s go,” Verne said.

  They ate, enjoying the food. The window over the table was open, and fresh air blew around them.

  “Look how much color there is in the food,” Carl said. “The syrup looks like mahogany finish. Look at the butter! I’ve never seen butter so yellow. And the coffee is like—” He pondered.

  “Mimeograph ink,” Verne murmured.

  For dessert they had frozen strawberries with cream, in the little bowls Carl had got down. Carl found some ice cream and brought it over to be used on the strawberries.

  “None for me,” Barbara said firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like things mixed together.”

  Carl put a little on his strawberries but not as much as he would have liked. Both Verne and Barbara seemed strangely silent, eating with great seriousness and preoccupation. He glanced from one to the other but they said nothing.

  “Anybody want any more?” Carl asked.

  They shook their heads.

  Verne pushed his plate away. “That’s all for me.” He leaned back in his chair, pushing himself away from the table.

  “There’s still some ice cream left.”

  They shook their heads.

  Carl sniffed the air, blowing through the window. “It’s a wonderful day out, isn’t it? It’s a good omen. Our first day here. It makes it more like a real vacation, having all the sunlight.”

  “A vacation?”

  “We don’t have to do any work, do we? All we have to do is be here when the yuks come. We can do anything we want. A whole week to do as we please.” Carl grinned at them happily. “I can’t wait to get started.”

  “Get started what?”

  “Finding things. Seeing what there is.”

  Verne grunted. He looked across the table at Barbara. She did not meet his gaze. She was staring down at the floor, deep in thought. What was she thinking about? What did she think of this?

  He pushed his glasses up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Could this really be? The two of them sitting like this, across from each other, after so many years. As if they had got out of the same bed. He lowered his glasses into place. It was unreal. Like finding an old album of snapshots and poring over them. Or like being dead and in the Great Beyond and having everything come back and swirl around, echoing and gibbering, made of grey dust.

  Or like judgment day.

  Verne shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Not a pleasant thought. And sheer phantasy, as well. But it was strange how people could come back after years of being outside your existence, come back and reappear; and fully three-dimensional, too. Suddenly no longer ghosts, vague shadows. Was there a cosmic law about it? A law that demanded events and people stay alive, retain existence, on and on, until some prearranged end could be brought about?

  Verne smiled. It was only a chance thing, three names pulled out at random, his and Barbara’s and Carl’s. It meant nothing. He continued to study her, as she sat, staring down. Chance had recreated this, the two of them sitting at the same breakfast table, in the warm sunlight. As they had sat once before.

  Once before. Only once. Something to do with her parents being home and expecting her. Had that really been true? The trip. The hotel, outside New York. He thought idly back. Their night together, and then breakfast the next morning. Almost like this.

  But not quite. There had been no Carl around. It was not really the same at all. And Barbara had changed. She was different, very different. Even the few words he had spoken to her in the office had told him that She was hard, hard and sour. Like him, in a way. Not an innocent bit of lonely fluff any longer. Not by a long shot.

  When had he last seen her? She had come to New York. That was the last time he had really talked to her. He had seen her once or twice since she came to work for the Company, but never to talk. She had avoided him. Well, it hadn’t mattered.

  The day she came, a Thursday… He was broadcasting at the station. That was before he lost his program. He warmed inwardly, thinking about his old show. What was it called? Potluck Party. The warmth turned to an ache. That had been a good time in his life. The program, his job at the station.

  He thought about Teddy. It was because of her that he had left New York and gone to work for the Company. Her, and losing the program. Had she been responsible for him losing it? He had considered it a million times in the last four years. Had she done it?

  He shrugged. It was all over now.

  Teddy and Barbara had both come to the station, that night. They had gone out to a restaurant and then to a bar. They had sat around talking together. The last of the evening he could not remember. It was hazy, sloping off into dark shadow. Something to do with his car. They had gone someplace after the bar. Then he and Teddy were back at her apartment. And the evening was over.

  Barbara had gone back to Boston. He wrote to her a few times, but she did not answer. After a while he had given up. There were too many fish in the sea…

  “What do you think, Verne?” Carl was saying.

  Verne blinked. What had he said? “I didn’t hear you.”

  “What’s the matter with you two? You’re both a million miles away. I said, what do you think of the idea of getting out and sizing up the situation? We should try to get some idea of what we have here. We might begin some kind of exploration to determine—”

  Verne gazed past Carl, out the window at the towers and silent factories. He had already begun to lose the thread of what Carl was saying. He felt dull and listless. He yawned again, and looked in the coffee pot to see if there were any more coffee to drink.

  “Well?” Carl said.

  “Let’s wait a while.” There was no more coffee.

  “All right,” Carl said sadly. “I guess there’s no hurry. It’s just a suggestion for what we might do when we do want to go outdoors.” He fidgeted around on his chair. “It’s one of those days when you really like to be out in the sun, isn’t it? I can’t see staying inside when the sky is blue and the air smells the way it does. It seems as if something’s going on out there. Something we should know about. Be in on.”

  “Open another window,” Verne murmured.

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Why do you have to go running out after it? Let the air come in here. It’ll come, if you wait long enough.”

  “It’s like sitting on the shore and watching the ocean, instead of going in. It’s not the same
at all.”

  Both Verne and Barbara turned in annoyance. Verne caught her eye and he smiled. So she was thinking about it, too. She looked quickly away, but he knew. He crossed his legs, relaxing. She was thinking about those times the same way he was. For some reason this awareness gave him pleasure.

  “Maybe Carl’s right,” he said. “There’s nothing like rolling around in the ocean. The surf, the spray—”

  Barbara said nothing. Verne let the matter drop. He was becoming sleepy; the warm sun was shining down on him, all over him. Before long he took off his coat and tossed it in the corner. He unfastened his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves.

  “It’s hot,” Barbara said.

  The warmth of the sun was making perspiration come out on her face. Little warm drops standing on her forehead and neck, rolling slowly down into her collar. Verne felt it, too. The glare of the sun was working itself into high gear; it was only eleven o’clock and already the heat was too much. But noon it would be like a furnace. Maybe the fog wasn’t so bad, after all.

  “What’s the matter?” Carl asked.

  “It’s hot.”

  “Hot? This isn’t hot. Wait until you’ve lived down in the South for a while.”

  “I lived in the South,” Verne said. “And this is hot I don’t like it.”

  “It’s actually hotter in here, than outside,” Carl said. “What you’re feeling is the amount of moisture in the air. This room is very moist. The water from the sink evaporating, the—”

  “I know,” Verne said. He lapsed into sullen silence. The talk annoyed him. What did it matter? Why did they have to sit around and discuss everything? He tried to relax. What was it that made Carl turn everything around and around, studying, examining? Every idea, every thought was like a bug under a lens, to Carl.

  But it wasn’t really Carl that annoyed him; he knew that. Verne glanced up at Barbara. She had got to her feet and was gathering up the dishes. She had filled out, in four years. She was much heavier, solid. She had been rather light, before. But she was only twenty, in those days. He could see fine gold fuzz along her arms, as she lifted up the dishes. In the sunlight, her skin was a rich, mellow gold. Her arms were rounded. He watched her until she noticed him. Then he looked away.