The Philip K. Dick Reader

by Philip K. Dick

  Tolby moved up to the bar. "Beer," he said. "Three beers." Penn and Silvia sank down at a table and removed their packs, as the bartender served Tolby three mugs of thick, dark beer. He showed his card and carried the mugs over to the table.

  The youths in the back had stopped playing. They were watching the three as they sipped their beer and unlaced their hiking boots. After a while one of them came slowly over.

  "Say," he said. "You're from the League."

  "That's right," Tolby murmured sleepily.

  Everyone in the place was watching and listening. The youth sat down across from the three; his companions flocked excitedly around and took seats on all sides. The juveniles of the town. Bored, restless, dissatisfied. Their eyes took in the ironite staffs, the guns, the heavy metal-cleated boots. A murmured whisper rustled through them. They were about eighteen. Tanned, rangy.

  "How do you get in?" one demanded bluntly.

  "The League?" Tolby leaned back in his chair, found a match, and lit his cigarette. He unfastened his belt, belched loudly, and settled back content­edly. "You get in by examination."

  "What do you have to know?"

  Tolby shrugged. "About everything." He belched again and scratched thoughtfully at his chest, between two buttons. He was conscious of the ring of people around on all sides. A little old man with a beard and horn-rimmed glasses. At another table, a great tub of a man in a red shirt and blue-striped trousers, with a bulging stomach.

  Youths. Farmers. A Negro in a dirty white shirt and trousers, a book under his arm. A hard-jawed blonde, hair in a net, red nails and high heels, tight yellow dress. Sitting with a gray-haired businessman in a dark brown suit. A tall young man holding hands with a young black-haired girl, huge eyes, in a soft white blouse and skirt, little slippers kicked under the table. Under the table her bare, tanned feet twisted; her slim body was bent forward with interest.

  "You have to know," Tolby said, "how the League was formed. You have to know how we pulled down the governments that day. Pulled them down and destroyed them. Burned all the buildings. And all the records. Billions of microfilms and papers. Great bonfires that burned for weeks. And the swarms of little white things that poured out when we knocked the buildings over."

  "You killed them?" the great tub of a man asked, lips twitching avidly.

  "We let them go. They were harmless. They ran and hid. Under rocks." Tolby laughed. "Funny little scurrying things. Insects. Then we went in and gathered up all the records and equipment for making records. By God, we burned everything."

  "And the robots," a youth said.

  "Yeah, we smashed all the government robots. There weren't many of them. They were used only at high levels. When a lot of facts had to be inte­grated."

  The youth's eyes bulged. "You saw them? You were there when they smashed the robots?"

  Penn laughed. "Tolby means the League. That was two hundred years ago."

  The youth grinned nervously. "Yeah. Tell us about the marches."

  Tolby drained his mug and pushed it away. "I'm out of beer."

  The mug was quickly refilled. He grunted his thanks and continued, voice deep and furry, dulled with fatigue. "The marches. That was really some­thing, they say. All over the world, people getting up, throwing down what they were doing --"

  "It started in East Germany," the hard-jawed blonde said. "The riots."

  "Then it spread to Poland," the Negro put in shyly. "My grandfather used to tell me how everybody sat and listened to the television. His grandfather used to tell him. It spread to Czechoslovakia and then Austria and Roumania and Bulgaria. Then France. And Italy."

  "France was first!" the little old man with beard and glasses cried violently. "They were without a government a whole month. The people saw they could live without a government!"

  "The marches started it," the black-haired girl corrected. "That was the first time they started pulling down the government buildings. In East Ger­many and Poland. Big mobs of unorganized workers."

  "Russia and America were the last," Tolby said. "When the march on Washington came there was close to twenty million of us. We were big in those days! They couldn't stop us when we finally moved."

  "They shot a lot," the hard-faced blonde said.

  "Sure. But the people kept coming. And yelling to the soldiers. 'Hey, Bill! Don't shoot!' 'Hey, Jack! It's me, Joe.' 'Don't shoot -- we're your friends!' 'Don't kill us, join us!' And by God, after a while they did. They couldn't keep shooting their own people. They finally threw down their guns and got out of the way."

  "And then you found the place," the little black-haired girl said breath­lessly.

  "Yeah. We found the place. Six places. Three in America. One in Britain. Two in Russia. It took us ten years to find the last place -- and make sure it was the last place."

  "What then?" the youth asked, bug-eyed.

  "Then we busted every one of them." Tolby raised himself up, a massive man, beer mug clutched, heavy face flushed dark red. "Every damn A-bomb in the whole world."

  There was an uneasy silence.

  "Yeah," the youth murmured. "You sure took care of those war people."

  "Won't be any more of them," the great tub of a man said. "They're gone for good."

  Tolby fingered his ironite staff. "Maybe so. And maybe not. There just might be a few of them left."

  "What do you mean?" the tub of a man demanded.

  Tolby raised his hard gray eyes. "It's time you people stopped kidding us. You know damn well what I mean. We've heard rumors. Someplace around this area there's a bunch of them. Hiding out."

  Shocked disbelief, then anger hummed to a roar. "That's a lie!" the tub of a man shouted.

  "Is it?"

  The little man with beard and glasses leaped up. "There's nobody here has anything to do with governments! We're all good people!"

  "You better watch your step," one of the youths said softly to Tolby. "People around here don't like to be accused."

  Tolby got unsteadily to his feet, his ironite staff gripped. Penn got up beside him and they stood together. "If any of you knows something," Tolby said, "you better tell it. Right now."

  "Nobody knows anything," the hard-faced blonde said. "You're talking to honest folks."

  "That's so," the Negro said, nodding his head. "Nobody here's doing anything wrong."

  "You saved our lives," the black-haired girl said. "If you hadn't pulled down the governments we'd all be dead in the war. Why should we hold back something?"

  "That's true," the great tub of a man grumbled. "We wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for the League. You think we'd do anything against the League?"

  "Come on," Silvia said to her father. "Let's go." She got to her feet and tossed Penn his pack.

  Tolby grunted belligerently. Finally he took his own pack and hoisted it to his shoulder. The room was deathly silent. Everyone stood frozen, as the three gathered their things and moved toward the door.

  The little dark-haired girl stopped them. "The next town is thirty miles from here," she said.

  "The road's blocked," her tall companion explained. "Slides closed it years ago."

  "Why don't you stay with us tonight? There's plenty of room at our place. You can rest up and get an early start tomorrow."

  "We don't want to impose," Silvia murmured.

  Tolby and Penn glanced at each other, then at the girl. "If you're sure you have plenty of room --"

  The great tub of a man approached them. "Listen. I have ten yellow slips. I want to give them to the League. I sold my farm last year. I don't need any more slips; I'm living with my brother and his family." He pushed the slips at Tolby. "Here."

  Tolby pushed them back. "Keep them."

  "This way," the tall young man said, as they clattered down the sagging steps, into a sudden blinding curtain of heat and dust. "We have a car. Over this way. An old gasoline car. My dad fixed it so it burns oil."

  "You should have taken the slips," Penn said to Tolby, as they got in
to the ancient, battered car. Flies buzzed around them. They could hardly breathe; the car was a furnace. Silvia fanned herself with a rolled-up paper. The black-haired girl unbuttoned her blouse.

  "What do we need money for?" Tolby laughed good-naturedly. "I haven't paid for anything in my life. Neither have you."

  The car sputtered and moved slowly forward, onto the road. It began to gain speed. Its motor banged and roared. Soon it was moving surprisingly fast.

  "You saw them," Silvia said, over the racket. "They'd give us anything they had. We saved their lives." She waved at the fields, the farmers and their crude teams, the withered crops, the sagging old farmhouses. "They'd all be dead, if it hadn't been for the League." She smashed a fly peevishly. "They depend on us."

  The black-haired girl turned toward them, as the car rushed along the decaying road. Sweat streaked her tanned skin. Her half-covered breasts trembled with the motion of the car. "I'm Laura Davis. Pete and I have an old farmhouse his dad gave us when we got married."

  "You can have the whole downstairs," Pete said.

  "There's no electricity, but we've got a big fireplace. It gets cold at night. It's hot in the day, but when the sun sets it gets terribly cold."

  "We'll be all right," Penn murmured. The vibration of the car made him a little sick.

  "Yes," the girl said, her black eyes flashing. Her crimson lips twisted. She leaned toward Penn intently, her small face strangely alight. "Yes, we'll take good care of you."

  At that moment the car left the road.

  Silvia shrieked. Tolby threw himself down, head between his knees, dou­bled up in a ball. A sudden curtain of green burst around Penn. Then a sickening emptiness, as the car plunged down. It struck with a roaring crash that blotted out everything. A single titanic cataclysm of fury that picked Penn up and flung his remains in every direction.

  "Put me down," Bors ordered. "On this railing for a moment before I go inside."

  The crew lowered him onto the concrete surface and fastened magnetic grapples into place. Men and women hurried up the wide steps, in and out of the massive building that was Bors' main offices.

  The sight from these steps pleased him. He liked to stop here and look around at his world. At the civilization he had carefully constructed. Each piece added painstakingly, scrupulously with infinite care, throughout the years.

  It wasn't big. The mountains ringed it on all sides. The valley was a level bowl, surrounded by dark violet hills. Outside, beyond the hills, the regular world began. Parched fields. Blasted, poverty-stricken towns. Decayed roads. The remains of houses, tumbled-down farm buildings. Ruined cars and machinery. Dust-covered people creeping listlessly around in hand-made clothing, dull rags and tatters.

  He had seen the outside. He knew what it was like. At the mountains the blank faces, the disease, the withered crops, the crude plows and ancient tools all ended here. Here, within the ring of hills, Bors had constructed an accu­rate and detailed reproduction of a society two centuries gone. The world as it had been in the old days. The time of governments. The time that had been pulled down by the Anarchist League.

  Within his five synapsis-coils the plans, knowledge, information, blue­prints of a whole world existed. In the two centuries he had carefully recreated that world, had made this miniature society that glittered and hummed on all sides of him. The roads, buildings, houses, industries of a dead world, all a fragment of the past, built with his hands, his own metal fingers and brain.

  "Fowler," Bors said.

  Fowler came over. He looked haggard. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. "What is it? You want to go inside?"

  Overhead, the morning patrol thundered past. A string of black dots against the sunny, cloudless sky. Bors watched with satisfaction. "Quite a sight."

  "Right on the nose," Fowler agreed, examining his wristwatch. To their right, a column of heavy tanks snaked along a highway between green fields. Their gun-snouts glittered. Behind them a column of foot soldiers marched, faces hidden behind bacteria masks.

  "I'm thinking," Bors said, "that it may be unwise to trust Green any longer."

  "Why the hell do you say that?"

  "Every ten days I'm inactivated. So your crew can see what repairs are needed." Bors twisted restlessly. "For twelve hours I'm completely helpless. Green takes care of me. Sees nothing happens. But --"

  "But what?"

  "It occurs to me perhaps there'd be more safety in a squad of troops. It's too much of a temptation for one man, alone."

  Fowler scowled. "I don't see that. How about me? I have charge of inspecting you. I could switch a few leads around. Send a load through your synapsis-coils. Blow them out."

  Bors whirled wildly, then subsided. "True. You could do that." After a moment he demanded, "But what would you gain? You know I'm the only one who can keep all this together. I'm the only one who knows how to maintain a planned society, not a disorderly chaos! If it weren't for me, all this would collapse, and you'd have dust and ruins and weeds. The whole outside would come rushing in to take over!"

  "Of course. So why worry about Green?"

  Trucks of workers rumbled past. Loads of men in blue-green, sleeves rolled up, armloads of tools. A mining team, heading for the mountains.

  "Take me inside," Bors said abruptly.

  Fowler called McLean. They hoisted Bors and carried him past the throngs of people, into the building, down the corridor and to his office. Officials and technicians moved respectfully out of the way as the great pitted, corroded tank was carried past.

  "All right," Bors said impatiently. "That's all. You can go."

  Fowler and McLean left the luxurious office, with its lush carpets, furni­ture, drapes and rows of books. Bors was already bent over his desk, sorting through heaps of reports and papers.

  Fowler shook his head, as they walked down the hall. "He won't last much longer."

  "The motor system? Can't we reinforce the --"

  "I don't mean that. He's breaking up mentally. He can't take the strain any longer."

  "None of us can," McLean muttered.

  "Running this thing is too much for him. Knowing it's all dependent on him. Knowing as soon as he turns his back or lets down it'll begin to come apart at the seams. A hell of a job, trying to shut out the real world. Keeping his model universe running."

  "He's gone on a long time," McLean said.

  Fowler brooded. "Sooner or later we're going to have to face the situa­tion." Gloomily, he ran his fingers along the blade of a large screwdriver. "He's wearing out. Sooner or later somebody's going to have to step in. As he continues to decay..." He stuck the screwdriver back in his belt, with his pliers and hammer and soldering iron. "One crossed wire."

  "What's that?"

  Fowler laughed. "Now he's got me doing it. One crossed wire and -- poof. But what then? That's the big question."

  "Maybe," McLean said softly, "you and I can then get off this rat race. You and I and all the rest of us. And live like human beings."

  "Rat race," Fowler murmured. "Rats in a maze. Doing tricks. Performing chores thought up by somebody else."

  McLean caught Fowler's eye. "By somebody of another species."

  Tolby struggled vaguely. Silence. A faint dripping close by. A beam pinned his body down. He was caught on all sides by the twisted wreck of the car. He was head down. The car was turned on its side. Off the road in a gully, wedged between two huge trees. Bent struts and smashed metal all around him. And bodies.

  He pushed up with all his strength. The beam gave, and he managed to get to a sitting position. A tree branch had burst in the windshield. The black-haired girl, still turned toward the back seat, was impaled on it. The branch had driven through her spine, out her chest, and into the seat; she clutched at it with both hands, head limp, mouth half-open. The man beside her was also dead. His hands were gone; the windshield had burst around him. He lay in a heap among the remains of the dashboard and the bloody shine of his own internal organs.

 
Penn was dead. Neck snapped like a rotten broom handle. Tolby pushed his corpse aside and examined his daughter. Silvia didn't stir. He put his ear to her shirt and listened. She was alive. Her heart beat faintly. Her bosom rose and fell against his ear.

  He wound a handkerchief around her arm, where the flesh was ripped open and oozing blood. She was badly cut and scratched; one leg was doubled under her, obviously broken. Her clothes were ripped, her hair matted with blood. But she was alive. He pushed the twisted door open and stumbled out. A fiery tongue of afternoon sunlight struck him and he winced. He began to ease her limp body out of the car, past the twisted door-frame.

  A sound.

  Tolby glanced up, rigid. Something was coming. A whirring insect that rapidly descended. He let go of Silvia, crouched, glanced around, then lum­bered awkwardly down the gully. He slid and fell and rolled among the green vines and jagged gray boulders. His gun gripped, he lay gasping in the moist shadows, peering, upward.

  The insect landed. A small air-ship, jet-driven. The sight stunned him. He had heard about jets, seen photographs of them. Been briefed and lectured in the history-indoctrination courses at the League Camps. But to see a jet!

  Men swarmed out. Uniformed men who started from the road, down the side of the gully, bodies crouched warily as they approached the wrecked car. They lugged heavy rifles. They looked grim and experienced, as they tore the car doors open and scrambled in.

  "One's gone," a voice drifted to him.

  "Must be around somewhere."

  "Look, this one's alive! This woman. Started to crawl out. The rest all dead."

  Furious cursing. "Damn Laura! She should have leaped! The fanatic little fool!"

  "Maybe she didn't have time. God's sake, the thing's all the way through her." Horror and shocked dismay. "We won't hardly be able to get her loose."