The Ganymede Takeover

by Philip K. Dick

  Mekkis quickly turned the conversation back to the relatively safe topic of model airplanes. New converts to these native mystery cults could sometimes wax quite fanatical. “What’s this plane here?” he asked, closing his jaws over the tail-section of a biplane.

  Marshal Koli shut his eyes and said, “Would you allow my trained assistant to handle the items of this rare, even unique, collection, sir? By wousling them you cause me great mental anguish.”

  “My pardons, of course.” Mekkis set the biplane down carefully, and there was not a toothmark on it.

  The Marshal launched out on the subject of World War One aircraft once again, and half an hour passed before Mekkis managed to break into the flow long enough to reintroduce the topic of transfer of authority.

  “Enough Marshal; I would like to take command of this bale—”

  “Wait,” Koli touched a wall-stud and a section of the wall rolled aside—revealing further rows of scale model planes. “This section of my collection is devoted to the famous planes between the First and Second War. Let us initially consider the Ford Tri-motor.”

  The attendant, as he showed the Ford Tri-motor to Mekkis, said reverently, “He also has a complete collection of World War Two planes.”

  “I—am overwhelmed,” Mekkis managed to say.

  Matter-of-factly, Koli continued, “I cannot of course transfer these incredibly valuable models to Ganymede; they would be smashed beyond repair—you know the slipshod way in which our homeostatic unmanned cargo carries land.” He eyed Mekkis. “I am therefore leaving my collection, all of it, even that of the World War One fighters, to you.”

  “But,” Mekkis protested, “suppose I break one of the planes?”

  “You will not,” the Marshal said quietly. And that, evidently, was that. There the subject ended.

  Telepathically, Mekkis all at once detected some sort of confusion outside. “The creeches have captured someone,” he said. “Better have them bring him in.”

  Koli grew pale. The beautiful pelt was now so near, yet still out of reach. “Surely it would be better to wait until—”

  “If this is how you habitually act I’ll take authority as of now. Officially I have been in charge here since my arrival.” He sensed that Koli did not wish him to know of the disturbance outside. And for that reason he insisted on knowing.

  “Very well,” Koli muttered.

  Mekkis had lifted out a model of a 1911 pusher-type biplane when Marshal Koli returned from his errand, breathing erratically. With him appeared a Terran, a dark one, almost black. A Neeg.

  “Administrator,” Koli said sharply, “in an operation put into motion by myself before you arrived to relieve me of my desk as supreme authority in the bale of Tennessee I achieved this final, all-out coup, an ensnarement bordering on the divine. Do you know who this Terran is?”

  Mekkis made an attempt to tear himself away from the scale models of antique aircraft. He found himself unable to. One—not strictly a model but a 2-D photograph, non-color—showed a flimsy, ancient plane landing on the deck of a ship; he read the Terran words beneath it and learned that this, on January 18, 1911, constituted the first landing—

  Going to the far side of the office in a furious slithering of almost hoop-like rolling, Marshal Koli touched stud after stud in the cabinets there, cabinets which Mekkis had not even noticed, let alone investigated. “Ancient automobiles,” Koli said savagely. “From the 1898 Peugeot on. Hours, days; and once you finished with these there’s my scale model steam locomotive collection in office 4-A.” He turned, slithered ragingly back; Mekkis had rarely seen a fellow worm so in the grip of his thalamus. “I insist that you make official note of my capture of the leader of the Neeg-parts, Percy X, and that you certify that I am therefore the sole and unqualified owner of this quatropodia Terran entity, to do with as I want!”

  Mekkis caught a thought that smacked of treason flashing through Koli’s otherwise carefully scrambled mind; Koli had wondered who, in the case of a showdown, the troops would obey, Mekkis or himself. He said aloud, “You may take full credit, Marshal. It’s clear to me that you are what is known as a collector…a definite sub-variety of individual typology. Even your adoption of this obscure Terran religion could be regarded as a manifestation of the collector instinct. Let me guess, sir. You want the pelt of Percy X. For a wall-hanging. He would indeed make an attractive decoration, teeth and all—right, Marshal? There is, on many highly masculine, fully-ripened, sexually-endowed Terran males, a vestigial covering of fur, especially on the chest region and—in other areas.”

  Everyone in the room stared at him and then, in the silence, Percy X laughed. A hot, rich laugh, devoid of the slightest trace of sardonic or malicious overtones. And at the same time he grinned directly at Mekkis, and it was a personal, shockingly intimate grin; it was a creature-to-creature grin.

  For the life of him Mekkis could not imagine what so delighted the captured partisan leader; he felt mystified and at the same time fascinated at an ethnic response both so unexpected and so arcane. He tried to read the human’s mind and found a perfect scramble pattern waiting for him. That could only mean that Percy X was one of those very rare types, a Terran telepath.

  “Can I have him?” Koli said tensely.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Mekkis said, “I have other plans for this biped, Marshal. Plans that I’m sure you would oppose if you knew about them.” Addressing the guards he continued, “Place this captured Terran in comfortable surroundings where proper interrogation can take place. Tomorrow, when I am rested, I have various matters to talk over with him.”

  As Percy X was led out the creech who had made the capture said, “Mr. Administrator, we found another Terran with him at the time of capture. A female, of the white strain—that is, of the strain ordinarily hostile to the Neeg-parts. Dermal dye-codes and other identification make it clear that she is the well-known television personality—”

  “Later.” Mekkis said, and felt weary.

  “Shoot her,” Marshal Koli rasped.

  “No,” Mekkis countermanded. “Place her in the custody of…” He could not remember the name of the counter-intelligence agency operating here on this colony world. “Of the customary bureaus involved,” he finished lamely.

  “She’s a traitor,” Koli said. “She must be shot.”

  “Koli,” Mekkis said, “contain yourself. There is an old saying here on Earth, I understand. ‘A worm which turns once can turn again,’ or something like that. The artful use of traitors is the secret of bloodless conquest, and I am not fond of violence.” He had begun thinking back to his briefing on Terran psychology. A place existed on this planet, if he recalled correctly, which the occupation forces fancifully called the “School for Wiks,” run by a Terran psychologist named Balkani. The girl could be sent there right away, and as for Percy—he would talk to him first, scan him, test him out.

  Mekkis considered himself a gambler. But he liked to stack the deck.

  Later, after he had rested, Administrator Mekkis had the Terran brought to his office; he confronted Percy X alone, without the annoying presence of Marshal Koli.

  “What do you want out of me?” Percy demanded, not seating himself.

  “Understanding,” Mekkis said. “You are a telepath. If any human can bridge the gap between our two races a telepath should be able to do it.”

  “I mean specifically,” Percy said tautly. “What do you want me to do?”

  The worm made what might have been a shrug, then said, “Join us.”

  Percy caught a glimpse, in the worm’s mind, of himself, Percy X. Percy X, the hunted and hated Neeg-part, as Emperor of the whole bale of Tennessee. There he sat, ruling over all the whites, even over some of the lower caste Ganymedians.

  It would have been impossible to offer Percy anything that more exactly fitted his own ambitions.

  “I see that you understand,” Mekkis said with just the right shade of eagerness in his voic
e. “What is your decision? Remember that you need not make up your mind in haste; you may take days to think it over. Weeks, in fact. I, personally, have plenty of time. But while you wait our forces will have no choice but to continue their police action against your people in the hills. Every day that you delay will mean the unavoidable loss of more lives plus the—”

  Without warning Percy X leaped.

  Mekkis jerked sideways, trying to escape, but it was no use; the great black Terran landed on him with his full weight, almost knocking him unconscious, then Mekkis felt powerful fingers close over his windpipe and squeeze, squeeze the life out of him. A moment before he blacked out the creeches descended in a howling, squealing horde on the Earth-man’s back and dragged him off.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” the creeches screamed hysterically, but Mekkis gasped out, “No, just hold him down. It’s all right. He is just a little high-spirited, that’s all.” Though he felt badly bruised by the struggle Mekkis managed to retain his composure and slipped back into his niche behind the desk.

  “I regret having to do this,” Mekkis said to Percy, his voice shaking only slightly, “but I’m afraid that before we can continue this discussion you will need a little psychotherapy to discourage these violent tendencies. However, you will be happy to learn that you will be treated by a man often regarded by Terrans and Ganymedians alike as the greatest analyst of our time, Dr. Rudolph Balkani.”

  For just a fraction of a second Percy X dropped his scramble pattern; Mekkis was able to glimpse a swift flash of terror in the Neeg-part’s mind.

  What a pleasant surprise, Mekkis thought with satisfaction. I had begun to believe this brute was afraid of nothing.

  In the hushed silence of Paul Rivers’ seedy hotel room Dr. Newkom slowly, carefully lifted the telepathic amplifier from Paul’s head. “Did you get through to Percy X?” Newkom asked.

  “Yes.” Paul Rivers nodded. “But only to listen; I made no attempt to contact him. That excitement a little while back—creeches brought him in to the Gany military.”

  “Too bad,” Newkom said. “We should have started getting to him sooner.”

  “This gadget of yours is still too highly selective and directional,” Paul said. “I don’t know why I expected to achieve contact at the first crack.” And now we’ve had it, he thought. If anyone can break a man, it’s Balkani. Rudolph Balkani belongs to a school of therapy I wouldn’t touch with a ten-mile pole, but I have to admit he gets results. It’s always easier and more impressive to tear things down rather than to build them up or even to sustain them. A human being takes a long time to grow, to mature, but it only takes a moment to damage and destroy him.

  And, he thought, a wik Percy will be even worse than a skinned one. When the savior sells out—

  “You can’t win them all,” Newkom said. He shut off the power supply of the amplifier and prepared to leave.

  “I’m not finished yet,” Paul said.

  “But they’ve got Percy.”

  Paul said, “Want to go to Norway with me?” Without waiting for an answer he began quickly and efficiently packing his suitcase.

  VII

  COMING IN OUT of the bright sunlight into the dark hallway Joan Hiashi could hardly see where she was going.

  The guard said, “This way, Miss Hiashi,” and opened a door for her. The room she entered through this door seemed even darker than the hallway had been, but she could make out the figure of a bearded, slightly overweight and balding man who walked up to her and thrust out his hand.

  “Balkani is my name, Miss Hiashi,” he said in a businesslike way. “Dr. Rudolph Balkani. The depth analyst.” They shook hands and Balkani offered her a chair. It turned out to be a psychiatrist’s couch, but she did not lie down; she sat watching the dim shape of the psychiatrist with suspicion. “What is your religion, Miss Hiashi?” he asked as he casually filled his pipe.

  “Neeg-part,” she said defiantly. “If I wasn’t Neeg-part I wouldn’t be here.”

  “But on all the forms you have ever filled out before now you’ve listed your religion as Buddhism. Have you abandoned Buddhism?”

  “There were no Ganys on Earth when Buddha lived,” Joan answered. “Now a person is either a Neeg-part or nothing.”

  “I tend to take a different view, Miss Hiashi.” He paused to light his pipe, “I don’t regard Neeg-partism as a religion at all, but rather as a mental disease, a subtle form of psychic masochism.”

  “And you intend to cure me of it, is that right?”

  “With your cooperation.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joan said, “but cooperation is one thing you’re not going to get.”

  Balkani raised his eyebrows. “How hostile you are, Miss Hiashi. You have nothing to fear from me; after all, I’m a doctor.” He allowed a stream of fragrant smoke to drift from his mouth. “Do you feel guilty, Miss Hiashi?”

  “No,” she said. “Not particularly. Do you?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “For being alive. We should all be dead, every man, woman and child on this planet; we should have given our lives down to the last person rather than surrendering to the Ganys. Don’t you think that’s true, Miss Hiashi?”

  She had not expected to hear something of this sort from a wik psychiatrist. For a moment it occurred to her that this man might be her friend, might really be someone she could trust.

  “We’ve been bad, Miss Hiashi,” Balkani continued. “And so of course we should be punished. We yearn for punishment; we need it; we can’t in fact live without it. Right, Miss Hiashi? So we turn to a futile cause like Neeg-partism and that fills this deep and fundamental need in us all, the need for punishment. But there is, in us, an even deeper need. It’s for oblivion, Miss Hiashi. Each of my patients, each in his own way—they all want to cease to be. They all want to lose themselves.

  “And how is that possible, Miss Hiashi? It’s impossible, except in death. It’s an infinitely receding goal. And that is why it produces addiction. The seeker after oblivion is promised by drugs, by drink, by insanity, by rôle-playing, the fulfillment of his dream of nonbeing…but the promise is never kept. Only a little taste of oblivion is permitted; only enough to rouse the appetite for more. Participation in a lost cause, such as the Neeg-part movement, is only one more, slightly more subtle, form of this universal lemming-like drive for oblivion.”

  At the end of his tirade Dr. Balkani had become panting and sweating; his face shone with unnatural redness.

  “If you really believed all that,” Joan said, “you wouldn’t have to shout it so loud.” And yet he frightened her. And what he said next frightened her even more.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know the new therapy which I have planned out to cure these oblivion addicts?” Balkani demanded. “The new technique which I’ve spent so many years perfecting—which I am at last ready to test?”

  “No,” she said; the fanatical glow in the doctor’s eyes filled her with alarm.

  “I’m going to give them,” he said softly, “just what they want, what they most desire. I’m going to give them oblivion.” He pressed a button on his desk; two wheeled attendant robots entered. Carrying a restraining suit. She screamed and fought. But the robots had too much strength, too much weight, to be retarded by even her most violent efforts.

  Balkani watched, breathing heavily, his hands, as he grasped his now unlit pipe, shaking slightly.

  Most of the locks in the Psychedelic Research prison were combination locks, though they had taken the trouble to install a key-operated lock on Percy X’s room. By the end of the first week Percy had read the combinations to all the locks in his area from the minds of the guards and memorized them. The fact that all the guards thought in Norwegian had stopped him for a while, until he hit on the trick of simply watching what they did through their own eyes whenever they dialed a combination.

  Escape posed difficulties even for a telepath. But not impossible ones, he reasoned. True, he would have to make a try at getting Joan Hiashi out, too
…but there had to be a way; theoretically a way existed by which to accomplish everything.

  He lay on his cot, half-dozing, when a voice spoke in his mind. “Are you Percy X?” it asked.

  “Yes.” He put himself on guard instantly, expecting a trap—even though his usually reliable intuition told him that this came from someone friendly to him. “Who are you?” he thought back in response.

  “Someone who wants to get you out of there. But in case we can’t it’s best that you don’t know my name. They might find ways of making you reveal it.”

  A guard passed by the cell; Percy focused on him to see if he had telepathic abilities. He did not.

  “Do you know exactly where you are?” the voice in his mind continued. “You are in Norway, on Ulvöya Island, a few miles outside of Oslo. We are set up in Oslo, not far from you. While probing around Ulvöya Island, trying to locate you, I picked up rather ominous information. They plan to use Joan Hiashi against you.”

  “How?” he thought back tensely.

  “They’re involved in performing a psychiatric experiment on her; at least that’s what they call it.”

  “Can—” Percy thought with effort. “—you do anything?”

  Paul Rivers’ answer was gentle but unavoidably cruel. “We’re not ready to make our move yet. At present there’s not a thing we can do.”

  Just then the doorbell jingled in Paul’s little fortune-telling parlor; he snatched the telepathic amplifier from his head and said in a low voice to Ed Newkom, who sat nearby monitoring the controls, “Ring up Central in New York on the scrambler vidphone and ask them to hurry up with that hardware I ordered when I left the States. If it doesn’t come through soon they might as well forget it. It’ll be too late.”

  Ed slipped out into the back room and Paul, before opening the door, made sure that the hi-fi with its Hindu music was loud enough to drown out any stray noises his partner might make. He then passed on into the front parlor and prepared to greet a customer of their alleged enterprise—their cover while they worked here, trying to release the Neeg-part leader and Joan Hiashi.