Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

by Philip K. Dick

  “Tell him he can have his owl,” Eldon Rosen grated.

  “You can have the owl,” Rachael said, still eyeing him. “The one up on the roof. Scrappy. But we will want to mate it if we can get our hands on a male. And any offspring will be ours; that has to be absolutely understood.”

  Rick said, “I’ll divide the brood.”

  “No,” Rachael said instantly; behind her Eldon Rosen shook his head, backing her up. “That way you’d have claim to the sole bloodline of owls for the rest of eternity. And there’s another condition. You can’t will your owl to anybody; at your death it reverts back to the association.”

  “That sounds,” Rick said, “like an invitation for you to come in and kill me. To get your owl back immediately. I won’t agree to that; it’s too dangerous.”

  “You’re a bounty hunter,” Rachael said. “You can handle a laser gun—in fact you’re carrying one right now. If you can’t protect yourself, how are you going to retire the six remaining Nexus-6 andys? They’re a good deal smarter than the Grozzi Corporation’s old W-4.”

  “But I hunt them,” he said. “This way, with a reversion clause on the owl, someone would be hunting me.” And he did not like the idea of being stalked; he had seen the effect on androids. It brought about certain notable changes, even in them.

  Rachael said, “All right; we’ll yield on that. You can will the owl to your heirs. But we insist on getting the complete brood. If you can’t agree to that, go on back to San Francisco and admit to your superiors in the department that the Voigt-Kampff scale, at least as administered by you, can’t distinguish an andy from a human being. And then look for another job.”

  “Give me some time,” Rick said.

  “Okay,” Rachael said. “We’ll leave you in here, where it’s comfortable.” She examined her wristwatch.

  “Half an hour,” Eldon Rosen said. He and Rachael filed toward the door of the room, silently. They had said what they intended to say, he realized; the rest lay in his lap.

  As Rachael started to close the door after herself and her uncle, Rick said starkly, “You managed to set me up perfectly. You have it on tape that I missed on you; you know that my job depends on the use of the Voigt-Kampff scale; and you own that goddamn owl.”

  “Your owl, dear,” Rachael said. “Remember? We’ll tie your home address around its leg and have it fly down to San Francisco; it’ll meet you there when you get off work.”

  It, he thought. She keeps calling the owl it. Not her. “Just a second,” he said.

  Pausing at the door, Rachael said, “You’ve decided?”

  “I want,” he said, opening his briefcase, “to ask you one more question from the Voigt-Kampff scale. Sit down again.”

  Rachael glanced at her uncle; he nodded and she grudgingly returned, seating herself as before. “What’s this for?” she demanded, her eyebrows lifted in distaste—and wariness. He perceived her skeletal tension, noted it professionally.

  Presently he had the pencil of light trained on her right eye and the adhesive patch again in contact with her cheek. Rachael stared into the light rigidly, the expression of extreme distaste still manifest.

  “My briefcase,” Rick said as he rummaged for the Voigt-Kampff forms. “Nice, isn’t it? Department issue.”

  “Well, well,” Rachael said remotely.

  “Babyhide,” Rick said. He stroked the black leather surface of the briefcase. “One hundred percent genuine human babyhide.” He saw the two dial indicators gyrate frantically. But only after a pause. The reaction had come, but too late. He knew the reaction period down to a fraction of a second, the correct reaction period; there should have been none. “Thanks, Miss Rosen,” he said, and gathered together the equipment again; he had concluded his retesting. “That’s all.”

  “You’re leaving?” Rachael asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m satisfied.”

  Cautiously, Rachael said, “What about the other nine subjects?”

  “The scale has been adequate in your case,” he answered. “I can extrapolate from that; it’s clearly still effective.” To Eldon Rosen, who slumped morosely by the door of the room, he said, “Does she know?” Sometimes they didn’t; false memories had been tried various times, generally in the mistaken idea that through them, reactions to testing would be altered.

  Eldon Rosen said, “No. We programmed her completely. But I think toward the end she suspected.” To the girl he said, “You guessed when he asked for one more try.”

  Pale, Rachael nodded fixedly.

  “Don’t be afraid of him,” Eldon Rosen told her. “You’re not an escaped android on Earth illegally; you’re the property of the Rosen Association, used as a sales device for prospective emigrants.” He walked to the girl, put his hand comfortingly on her shoulder; at the touch the girl flinched.

  “He’s right,” Rick said. “I’m not going to retire you, Miss Rosen. Good day.” He started toward the door, then halted briefly. To the two of them he said, “Is the owl genuine?”

  Rachael glanced swiftly at the elder Rosen.

  “He’s leaving anyhow,” Eldon Rosen said. “It doesn’t matter; the owl is artificial. There are no owls.”

  “Hmm,” Rick muttered, and stepped numbly out into the corridor. The two of them watched him go. Neither said anything. Nothing remained to say. So that’s how the largest manufacturer of androids operates, Rick said to himself. Devious, and in a manner he had never encountered before. A weird and convoluted new personality type; no wonder law enforcement agencies were having trouble with the Nexus-6.

  The Nexus-6. He had now come up against it. Rachael, he realized; she must be a Nexus-6. I’m seeing one of them for the first time. And they damn near did it; they came awfully damn close to undermining the Voigt-Kampff scale, the only method we have for detecting them. The Rosen Association does a good job—makes a good try, anyhow—at protecting its products.

  And I have to face six more of them, he reflected. Before I’m finished.

  He would earn the bounty money. Every cent.

  Assuming he made it through alive.

  6

  The TV set boomed; descending the great empty apartment building’s dust-stricken stairs to the level below, John Isidore made out now the familiar voice of Buster Friendly, burbling happily to his system-wide vast audience.

  “—ho ho, folks! Zip click zip! Time for a brief note on tomorrow’s weather; first the Eastern seaboard of the U.S.A. Mongoose satellite reports that fallout will be especially pronounced toward noon and then will taper off. So all you dear folks who’ll be venturing out ought to wait until afternoon, eh? And speaking of waiting, it’s now only ten hours ’til that big piece of news, my special exposé! Tell your friends to watch! I’m revealing something that’ll amaze you. Now, you might guess that it’s just the usual—”

  As Isidore knocked on the apartment door, the television died immediately into nonbeing. It had not merely become silent; it had stopped existing, scared into its grave by his knock.

  He sensed, behind the closed door, the presence of life, beyond that of the TV. His straining faculties manufactured or else picked up a haunted, tongueless fear, by someone retreating from him, someone blown back to the farthest wall of the apartment in an attempt to evade him.

  “Hey,” he called. “I live upstairs. I heard your TV. Let’s meet; okay?” He waited, listening. No sound and no motion; his words had not pried the person loose. “I brought you a cube of margarine,” he said, standing close to the door in an effort to speak through its thickness. “My name’s J. R. Isidore and I work for the well-known animal vet Mr. Hannibal Sloat; you’ve heard of him. I’m reputable; I have a job. I drive Mr. Sloat’s truck.”

  The door, meagerly, opened and he saw within the apartment a fragmented and misaligned shrinking figure, a girl who cringed and slunk away and yet held onto the door, as if for physical support. Fear made her seem ill; it distorted her body lines, made her appear as if someone had broken her and
then, with malice, patched her together badly. Her eyes, enormous, glazed over fixedly as she attempted to smile.

  He said, with sudden understanding, “You thought no one lived in this building. You thought it was abandoned.”

  Nodding, the girl whispered, “Yes.”

  “But,” Isidore said, “it’s good to have neighbors. Heck, until you came along I didn’t have any.” And that was no fun, god knew.

  “You’re the only one?” the girl asked. “In this building besides me?” She seemed less timid now; her body straightened and with her hand she smoothed her dark hair. Now he saw that she had a nice figure, although small, and nice eyes markedly established by long black lashes. Caught by surprise, the girl wore pajama bottoms and nothing more. And as he looked past her he perceived a room in disorder. Suitcases lay here and there, opened, their contents half spilled onto the littered floor. But this was natural; she had barely arrived.

  “I’m the only one besides you,” Isidore said. “And I won’t bother you.” He felt glum; his offering, possessing the quality of an authentic old pre-war ritual, had not been accepted. In fact the girl did not even seem aware of it. Or maybe she did not understand what a cube of margarine was for. He had that intuition; the girl seemed more bewildered than anything else. Out of her depth and helplessly floating in now-receding circles of fear. “Good old Buster,” he said, trying to reduce her rigid postural stance. “You like him? I watch him every morning and then again at night when I get home; I watch him while I’m eating dinner and then his late late show until I go to bed. At least until my TV set broke.”

  “Who—” the girl began and then broke off; she bit her lip as if savagely angry. Evidently at herself.

  “Buster Friendly,” he explained. It seemed odd to him that this girl had never heard of Earth’s most knee-slapping TV comic. “Where did you come here from?” he asked curiously.

  “I don’t see that it matters.” She shot a swift glance upward at him. Something that she saw seemed to ease her concern; her body noticeably relaxed. “I’ll be glad to receive company,” she said, “later on when I’m more moved in. Right now, of course, it’s out of the question.”

  “Why out of the question?” He was puzzled; everything about her puzzled him. Maybe, he thought, I’ve been living here alone too long. I’ve become strange. They say chickenheads are like that. The thought made him feel even more glum. “I could help you unpack,” he ventured; the door, now, had virtually shut in his face. “And your furniture.”

  The girl said, “I have no furniture. All these things”—she indicated the room behind her—“they were here.”

  “They won’t do,” Isidore said. He could tell that at a glance. The chairs, the carpet, the tables—all had rotted away; they sagged in mutual ruin, victims of the despotic force of time. And of abandonment. No one had lived in this apartment for years; the ruin had become almost complete. He couldn’t imagine how she figured on living in such surroundings. “Listen,” he said earnestly. “If we go all over the building looking, we can probably find you things that aren’t so tattered. A lamp from one apartment, a table from another.”

  “I’ll do it,” the girl said. “Myself, thanks.”

  “You’d go into those apartments alone?” He could not believe it.

  “Why not?” Again she shuddered nervously, grimacing in awareness of saying something wrong.

  Isidore said, “I’ve tried it. Once. After that I just come home and go in my own place and I don’t think about the rest. The apartments in which no one lives—hundreds of them and all full of the possessions people had, like family photographs and clothes. Those that died couldn’t take anything and those who emigrated didn’t want to. This building, except for my apartment, is completely kipple-ized.”

  “Kipple-ized’?” She did not comprehend.

  “Kipple is useless objects, like junk mail or match folders after you use the last match or gum wrappers or yesterday’s homeopape. When nobody’s around, kipple reproduces itself. For instance, if you go to bed leaving any kipple around your apartment, when you wake up the next morning there’s twice as much of it. It always gets more and more.”

  “I see.” The girl regarded him uncertainly, not knowing whether to believe him. Not sure if he meant it seriously.

  “There’s the First Law of Kipple,” he said. “‘Kipple drives out nonkipple.’ Like Gresham’s law about bad money. And in these apartments there’s been nobody there to fight the kipple.”

  “So it has taken over completely,” the girl finished. She nodded. “Now I understand.”

  “Your place, here,” he said, “this apartment you’ve picked—it’s too kipple-ized to live in. We can roll the kipple-factor back; we can do like I said, raid the other apts. But—” He broke off.

  “But what?”

  Isidore said, “We can’t win.”

  “Why not?” The girl stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her; arms folded self-consciously before her small high breasts, she faced him, eager to understand. Or so it appeared to him, anyhow. She was at least listening.

  “No one can win against kipple,” he said, “except temporarily and maybe in one spot, like in my apartment I’ve sort of created a stasis between the pressure of kipple and nonkipple, for the time being. But eventually I’ll die or go away, and then the kipple will again take over. It’s a universal principle operating throughout the universe; the entire universe is moving toward a final state of total, absolute kippleization.” He added, “Except of course for the upward climb of Wilbur Mercer.”

  The girl eyed him. “I don’t see any relation.”

  “That’s what Mercerism is all about.” Again he found himself puzzled. “Don’t you participate in fusion? Don’t you own an empathy box?”

  After a pause the girl said carefully, “I didn’t bring mine with me. I assumed I’d find one here.”

  “But an empathy box,” he said, stammering in his excitement, “is the most personal possession you have! It’s an extension of your body; it’s the way you touch other humans, it’s the way you stop being alone. But you know that. Everybody knows that. Mercer even lets people like me—” He broke off. But too late; he had already told her, and he could see by her face, by the flicker of sudden aversion, that she knew. “I almost passed the IQ test,” he said in a low, shaky voice. “I’m not very special, only moderately; not like some you see. But that’s what Mercer doesn’t care about.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” the girl said, “you can count that as a major objection to Mercerism.” Her voice was clean and neutral; she intended only to state a fact, he realized. The fact of her attitude toward chickenheads.

  “I guess I’ll go back upstairs,” he said, and started away from her, his cube of margarine clutched; it had become plastic and damp from the squeeze of his hand.

  The girl watched him go, still with the neutral expression on her face. And then she called, “Wait.”

  Turning, he said, “Why?”

  “I’ll need you. For getting myself adequate furniture. From other apartments, as you said.” She strolled toward him, her bare upper body sleek and trim, without an excess gram of fat. “What time do you get home from work? You can help me then.”

  Isidore said, “Could you maybe fix dinner for us? If I brought home the ingredients?”

  “No, I have too much to do.” The girl shook off the request effortlessly, and he noticed that, perceived it without understanding it. Now that her initial fear had diminished, something else had begun to emerge from her. Something more strange. And, he thought, deplorable. A coldness. Like, he thought, a breath from the vacuum between inhabited worlds, in fact from nowhere: it was not what she did or said but what she did not do and say. “Some other time,” the girl said, and moved back toward her apartment door.

  “Did you get my name?” he said eagerly. “John Isidore, and I work for—”

  “You told me who you work for.” She had stopped briefly at her door; pus
hing it open she said, “Some incredible person named Hannibal Sloat, who I’m sure doesn’t exist outside your imagination. My name is—” She gave him one last warmthless glance as she returned to her apartment, hesitated, and said, “I’m Rachael Rosen.”

  “Of the Rosen Association?” he asked. “The system’s largest manufacturer of humanoid robots used in our colonization program?”

  A complicated expression instantly crossed her face, fleetingly, gone at once. “No,” she said. “I never heard of them; I don’t know anything about it. More of your chickenhead imagination, I suppose. John Isidore and his personal, private empathy box. Poor Mr. Isidore.”

  “But your name suggests—”

  “My name,” the girl said, “is Pris Stratton. That’s my married name; I always use it. I never use any other name but Pris. You can call me Pris.” She reflected, then said, “No, you’d better address me as Miss Stratton. Because we don’t really know each other. At least I don’t know you.” The door shut after her and he found himself alone in the dust-strewn dim hall.

  7

  Well, so it goes, J. R. Isidore thought as he stood clutching his soft cube of margarine. Maybe she’ll change her mind about letting me call her Pris. And possibly, if I can pick up a can of pre-war vegetables, about dinner, too.

  But maybe she doesn’t know how to cook, he thought suddenly. Okay, I can do it; I’ll fix dinner for both of us. And I’ll show her how so she can do it in the future if she wants. She’ll probably want to, once I show her how; as near as I can make out, most women, even young ones like her, like to cook: it’s an instinct.

  Ascending the darkened stairs, he returned to his own apartment.

  She’s really out of touch, he thought as he donned his white work uniform; even if he hurried he’d be late to work and Mr. Sloat would be angry, but so what? For instance, she’s never heard of Buster Friendly. And tha’s impossible; Buster is the most important human being alive, except of course for Wilbur Mercer…but Mercer, he reflected, isn’t a human being; he evidently is an archetypal entity from the stars, superimposed on our culture by a cosmic template. At least that’s what I’ve heard people say; that’s what Mr. Sloat says, for instance. And Hannibal Sloat would know.