The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford and Other Classic Stories

by Philip K. Dick

  “It is necessary for this hatred within the culture to be directed outward, toward an external group, so that the culture itself may survive its crisis. War is the result. War, to a logical mind, is absurd. But in terms of human needs, it plays a vital role. And it will continue to until Man has grown up enough so that no hatred lies within him.”

  Taylor was listening intently. “Do you think this time will come?”

  “Of course. It has almost arrived now. This is the last war. Man is almost united into one final culture—a world culture. At this point he stands continent against continent, one half of the world against the other half. Only a single step remains, the jump to a unified culture. Man has climbed slowly upward, tending always toward unification of his culture. It will not be long—

  “But it has not come yet, and so the war had to go on, to satisfy the last violent surge of hatred that Man felt. Eight years have passed since the war began. In these eight years, we have observed and noted important changes going on in the minds of men. Fatigue and disinterest, we have seen, are gradually taking the place of hatred and fear. The hatred is being exhausted gradually, over a period of time. But for the present, the hoax must go on, at least for a while longer. You are not ready to learn the truth. You would want to continue the war.”

  “But how did you manage it?” Moss asked. “All the photographs, the samples, the damaged equipment—”

  “Come over here.” The leady directed them toward along, low building. “Work goes on constantly, whole staffs laboring to maintain a coherent and convincing picture of a global war.”

  They entered the building. Leadies were working everywhere, poring over tables and desks.

  “Examine this project here,” the A-class leady said. Two leadies were carefully photographing something, an elaborate model on a table top. “It is a good example.”

  The men grouped around, trying to see. It was a model of a ruined city.

  Taylor studied it in silence for a long time. At last he looked up.

  “It’s San Francisco,” he said in a low voice. “This is a model of San Francisco, destroyed. I saw this on the vidscreen, piped down to us. The bridges were hit—”

  “Yes, notice the bridges.” The leady traced the ruined span with his metal finger, a tiny spider-web, almost invisible.

  “You have no doubt seen photographs of this many times, and of the other tables in this building.

  “San Francisco itself is completely intact. We restored it soon after you left, rebuilding the parts that had been damaged at the start of the war. The work of manufacturing news goes on all the time in this particular building. We are very careful to see that each part fits in with all the other parts. Much time and effort are devoted to it.”

  Franks touched one of the tiny model buildings, lying half in ruins. “So this is what you spend your time doing—making model cities and then blasting them.”

  “No, we do much more. We are caretakers, watching over the whole world. The owners have left for a time, and we must see that the cities are kept clean, that decay is prevented, that everything is kept oiled and in running condition. The gardens, the streets, the water mains, everything must be maintained as it was eight years ago, so that when the owners return, they will not be displeased. We want to be sure that they will be completely satisfied.”

  Franks tapped Moss on the arm.

  “Come over here,” he said in a low voice. “I want to talk to you.”

  He led Moss and Taylor out of the building, away from the leadies, outside on the hillside. The soldiers followed them. The sun was up and the sky was turning blue. The air smelled sweet and good, the smell of growing things.

  Taylor removed his helmet and took a deep breath.

  “I haven’t smelled that smell for a long tune,” he said.

  “Listen,” Franks said, his voice low and hard. “We must get back down at once. There’s a lot to get started on. All this can be turned to our advantage.”

  “What do you mean?” Moss asked.

  “It’s a certainty that the Soviets have been tricked, too, the same as us. But we have found out. That gives us an edge over them.”

  “I see.” Moss nodded. “We know, but they don’t. Their Surface Council has sold out, the same as ours. It works against them the same way. But if we could—”

  “With a hundred top-level men, we could take over again, restore things as they should be! It would be easy!”

  Moss touched him on the arm. An A-class leady was coming from the building toward them.

  “We’ve seen enough,” Franks said, raising his voice. “All this is very serious. It must be reported below and a study made to determine our policy.”

  The leady said nothing.

  Franks waved to the soldiers. “Let’s go.” He started toward the warehouse.

  Most of the soldiers had removed their helmets. Some of them had taken their lead suits off, too, and were relaxing comfortably in their cotton uniforms. They stared around them, down the hillside at the trees and bushes, the vast expanse of green, the mountains and the sky.

  “Look at the sun,” one of them murmured.

  “It sure is bright as hell,” another said.

  “We’re going back down,” Franks said. “Fall in by twos and follow us.”

  Reluctantly, the soldiers regrouped. The leadies watched without emotion as the men marched slowly back toward the warehouse. Franks and Moss and Taylor led them across the ground, glancing alertly at the leadies as they walked.

  They entered the warehouse. D-class leadies were loading material and weapons on surface carts. Cranes and derricks were working busily everywhere. The work was done with efficiency, but without hurry or excitement.

  The men stopped, watching. Leadies operating the little carts moved past them, signaling silently to each other. Guns and parts were being hoisted by magnetic cranes and lowered gently onto waiting carts. “Come on,” Franks said.

  He turned toward the lip of the Tube. A row of D-class leadies was standing in front of it, immobile and silent. Franks stopped, moving back. He looked around. An A-class leady was coming toward him.

  “Tell them to get out of the way,” Franks said. He touched his gun. “You had better move them.”

  Time passed, an endless moment, without measure. The men stood, nervous and alert, watching the row of leadies in front of them.

  “As you wish,” the A-class leady said. It signaled and the D-class leadies moved into life. They stepped slowly aside.

  Moss breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” he said to Franks. “Look at them all. Why don’t they try to stop us? They must know what we’re going to do.”

  Franks laughed. “Stop us? You saw what happened when they tried to stop us before. They can’t; they’re only machines. We built them so they can’t lay hands on us, and they know that.”

  His voice trailed off.

  The men stared at the Tube entrance. Around them the leadies watched, silent and impassive, their metal faces expressionless.

  For a long time the men stood without moving. At last Taylor turned away.

  “Good God,” he said. He was numb, without feeling of any kind.

  The Tube was gone. It was sealed shut, fused over. Only a dull surface of cooling metal greeted them.

  The Tube had been closed.

  Franks turned, his face pale and vacant.

  The A-class leady shifted. “As you can see, the Tube has been shut. We were prepared for this. As soon as all of you were on the surface, the order was given. If you had gone back when we asked you, you would now be safely down below. We had to work quickly because it was such an immense operation.”

  “But why?” Moss demanded angrily.

  “Because it is unthinkable that you should be allowed to resume the war. With all the Tubes sealed, it will be many months before forces from below can reach the surface, let alone organize a military program. By that time the cycle will have entered
its last stages. You will not be so perturbed to find your world intact.

  “We had hoped that you would be undersurface when the sealing occurred. Your presence here is a nuisance. When the Soviets broke through, we were able to accomplish their sealing without—”

  “The Soviets? They broke through?”

  “Several months ago, they came up unexpectedly to see why the war had not been won. We were forced to act with speed. At this moment they are desperately attempting to cut new Tubes to the surface, to resume the war. We have, however, been able to seal each new one as it appears.”

  The leady regarded the three men calmly.

  “We’re cut off,” Moss said, trembling. “We can’t get back. What’ll we do?”

  “How did you manage to seal the Tube so quickly?” Franks asked the leady. “We’ve been up here only two hours.”

  “Bombs are placed just above the first stage of each Tube for such emergencies. They are heat bombs. They fuse lead and rock.”

  Gripping the handle of his gun, Franks turned to Moss and Taylor.

  “What do you say? We can’t go back, but we can do a lot of damage, the fifteen of us. We have Bender guns. How about it?”

  He looked around. The soldiers had wandered away again, back toward the exit of the building. They were standing outside, looking at the valley and the sky. A few of them were carefully climbing down the slope.

  “Would you care to turn over your suits and guns?” the A-class leady asked politely. “The suits are uncomfortable and you’ll have no need for weapons. The Russians have given up theirs, as you can see.”

  Fingers tensed on triggers. Four men in Russian uniforms were coming toward them from an aircraft that they suddenly realized had landed silently some distance away.

  “Let them have it!” Franks shouted.

  “They are unarmed,” said the leady. “We brought them here so you could begin peace talks.”

  “We have no authority to speak for our country,” Moss said stiffly.

  “We do not mean diplomatic discussions,” the leady explained. “There will be no more. The working out of daily problems of existence will teach you how to get along in the same world. It will not be easy, but it will be done.”

  The Russians halted and they faced each other with raw hostility.

  “I am Colonel Borodoy and I regret giving up our guns,” the senior Russian said. “You could have been the first Americans to be killed in almost eight years.”

  “Or the first Americans to kill,” Franks corrected.

  “No one would know of it except yourselves,” the leady pointed out. “It would be useless heroism. Your real concern should be surviving on the surface. We have no food for you, you know.”

  Taylor put his gun in its holster. “They’ve done a neat job of neutralizing us, damn them. I propose we move into a city, start raising crops with the help of some leadies, and generally make ourselves comfortable.” Drawing his lips tight over his teeth, he glared at the A-class leady.

  “Until our families can come up from undersurface, it’s going to be pretty lonesome, but we’ll have to manage.”

  “If I may make a suggestion,” said another Russian uneasily. “We tried living in a city. It is too empty. It is also too hard to maintain for so few people. We finally settled in the most modern village we could find.”

  “Here in this country,” a third Russian blurted. “We have much to learn from you.”

  The Americans abruptly found themselves laughing.

  “You probably have a thing or two to teach us yourselves,” said Taylor generously, “though I can’t imagine what.”

  The Russian colonel grinned. “Would you join us in our village? It would make our work easier and give us company.”

  “Your village?” snapped Franks. “It’s American, isn’t it? It’s ours!”

  The leady stepped between them. “When our plans are completed, the term will be interchangeable. ‘Ours’ will eventually mean mankind’s.” It pointed at the aircraft, which was warming up. “The ship is waiting. Will you join each other in making a new home?”

  The Russians waited while the Americans made up their minds.

  “I see what the leadies mean about diplomacy becoming outmoded,” Franks said at last. “People who work together don’t need diplomats. They solve their problems on the operational level instead of at a conference table.”

  The leady led them toward the ship. “It is the goal of history, unifying the world. From family to tribe to city-state to nation to hemisphere, the direction has been toward unification. Now the hemispheres will be joined and—”

  Taylor stopped listening and glanced back at the location of the Tube. Mary was undersurface there. He hated to leave her, even though he couldn’t see her again until the Tube was unsealed. But then he shrugged and followed the others.

  If this tiny amalgam of former enemies was a good example, it wouldn’t be too long before he and Mary and the rest of humanity would be living on the surface like rational human beings instead of blindly hating moles.

  “It has taken thousands of generations to achieve,” the A-class leady concluded. “Hundreds of centuries of bloodshed and destruction. But each war was a step toward uniting mankind. And now the end is in sight: a world without war. But even that is only the beginning of a new stage of history.”

  “The conquest of space,” breathed Colonel Borodoy.

  “The meaning of life,” Moss added.

  “Eliminating hunger and poverty,” said Taylor.

  The leady opened the door of the ship. “All that and more. How much more? We cannot foresee it any more than the first men who formed a tribe could foresee this day. But it will be unimaginably great.”

  The door closed and the ship took off toward their new home.

  Mr. Spaceship

  Kramer leaned back. “You can see the situation. How can we deal with a factor like this? The perfect variable.”

  “Perfect? Prediction should still be possible. A living thing still acts from necessity, the same as inanimate material. But the cause-effect chain is more subtle; there are more factors to be considered. The difference is quantitative, I think. The reaction of the living organism parallels natural causation, but with greater complexity.”

  Gross and Kramer looked up at the board plates, suspended on the wall, still dripping, the images hardening into place. Kramer traced a line with his pencil.

  “See that? It’s a pseudopodium. They’re alive, and so far, a weapon we can’t beat. No mechanical system can compete with that, simple or intricate. We’ll have to scrap the Johnson Control and find something else.”

  “Meanwhile the war continues as it is. Stalemate. Checkmate. They can’t get to us, and we can’t get through their living minefield.”

  Kramer nodded. “It’s a perfect defense, for them. But there still might be one answer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Wait a minute.” Kramer turned to his rocket expert, sitting with the charts and files. “The heavy cruiser that returned this week. It didn’t actually touch, did it? It came close but there was no contact.”

  “Correct.” The expert nodded. “The mine was twenty miles off. The cruiser was in space-drive, moving directly toward Proxima, line-straight, using the Johnson Control, of course. It had deflected a quarter of an hour earlier for reasons unknown. Later it resumed its course. That was when they got it.”

  “It shifted,” Kramer said. “But not enough. The mine was coming along after it, trailing it. It’s the same old story, but I wonder about the contact.”

  “Here’s our theory,” the expert said. “We keep looking for contact, a trigger in the pseudopodium. But more likely we’re witnessing a psychological phenomena, a decision without any physical correlative. We’re watching for something that isn’t there. The mine decides to blow up. It sees our ship, approaches, and then decides.”

  “Thanks.” Kramer turned to Gross. “Well, that confirms what I’m sa
ying. How can a ship guided by automatic relays escape a mine that decides to explode? The whole theory of mine penetration is that you must avoid tripping the trigger. But here the trigger is a state of mind in a complicated, developed life-form.”

  “The belt is fifty thousand miles deep,” Gross added. “It solves another problem for them, repair and maintenance. The damn things reproduce, fill up the spaces by spawning into them. I wonder what they feed on?”

  “Probably the remains of our first-line. The big cruisers must be a delicacy. It’s a game of wits, between a living creature and a ship piloted by automatic relays. The ship always loses.” Kramer opened a folder. “I’ll tell you what I suggest.”

  “Go on,” Gross said. “I’ve already heard ten solutions today. What’s yours?”

  “Mine is very simple. These creatures are superior to any mechanical system, but only because they’re alive. Almost any other life-form could compete with them, any higher life-form. If the yuks can put out living mines to protect their planets, we ought to be able to harness some of our own life-forms in a similar way. Let’s make use of the same weapon ourselves.”

  “Which life-form do you propose to use?”

  “I think the human brain is the most agile of known living forms. Do you know of any better?”

  “But no human being can withstand outspace travel. A human pilot would be dead of heart failure long before the ship got anywhere near Proxima.”

  “But we don’t need the whole body,” Kramer said. “We need only the brain.”

  “What?”

  “The problem is to find a person of high intelligence who would contribute, in the same manner that eyes and arms are volunteered.”

  “But a brain…”

  “Technically, it could be done. Brains have been transferred several times, when body destruction made it necessary. Of course, to a spaceship, to a heavy outspace cruiser, instead of an artificial body, that’s new.”

  The room was silent.