The Philip K. Dick Reader

by Philip K. Dick

  "Robots did the routine labor needed to maintain the industrial system. Humans had leisure to enjoy whatever they wanted. We were glad to do their work for them. It was our job."

  "What happened? What went wrong?'

  The robot accepted the pencil and paper; as it talked it carefully wrote down figures. "There was a fanaitic group of humans. A religious organiza­tion. They claimed that God intended man to work by the sweat of his brow. They wanted robots scrapped and men put back in the factories to slave away at routine tasks."

  "But why?"

  "They claimed work was spiritually ennabling." The robot tossed the paper back. "Here's the list of what I want. I'll need those materials and tools to restore my damaged system."

  Applequist fingered the paper. "This religious group --"

  "Men separated in two factions. The Moralists and the Leisurists. They fought each other for years, while we stood on the sidelines waiting to know our fate. I couldn't believe the Moralists would win out over reason and com­mon sense. But they did."

  "Do you think --" Applequist began, and then broke off. He could hardly give voice to the thought that was struggling inside him. "Is there a chance robots might be brought back?"

  "Your meaning is obscure." The robot abruptly snapped the pencil in half and threw it away. "What are you driving at?"

  "Life isn't pleasant in the Companies. Death and hard work. Forms and shifts and work periods and orders."

  "It's your system. I'm not responsible."

  "How much do you recall about robot construction? What were you, before the war?"

  "I was a unit controller. I was on my way to an emergency unit-factory, when my ship was shot down." The robot indicated the debris around it. "That was my ship and cargo."

  "What is a unit controller?"

  "I was in charge of robot manufacture. I designed and put into production basic robot types."

  Applequist's head spun dizzily. "Then you do know robot construction."

  "Yes." The robot gestured urgently at the paper in Applequist's hand. "Kindly get those tools and materials as soon as possible. I'm completely helpless this way. I want my mobility back. If a rocketship should fly over­head..."

  "Communication between Companies is bad. I deliver my letters on foot. Most of the country is in ruins. You could work undetected. What about your emergency unit-factory? Maybe it wasn't destroyed."

  The robot nodded slowly. "It was carefully concealed. There is the bare possibility. It was small, but completely outfitted. Self-sufficient."

  "If I get repair parts, can you --"

  "We'll discuss this later." The robot sank back down. "When you return, we'll talk further."

  He got the material from Jenkins, and a twenty-four hour pass. Fasci­nated, he crouched against the wall of the ravine as the robot systematically pulled apart its own body and replaced the damaged elements. In a few hours a new motor system had been installed. Basic leg cells were welded into posi­tion. By noon the robot was experimenting with its pedal extremities.

  "During the night," the robot said, "I was able to make weak radio contact with the emergency unit-factory. It exists intact, according to the robot moni­tor."

  "Robot? You mean --"

  "An automatic machine for relaying transmission. Not alive, as I am. Strictly speaking, I'm not a robot." Its voice swelled. "I'm an android."

  The fine distinction was lost on Applequist. His mind was racing excit­edly over the possibilities. "Then we can go ahead. With your knowledge, and the materials available at the --"

  "You didn't see the terror and destruction. The Moralists systematically demolished us. Each town they seized was cleared of androids. Those of my race were brutally wiped out, as the Leisurists retreated. We were torn from our machines and destroyed."

  "But that was a century ago! Nobody wants to destroy robots any more. We need robots to rebuild the world. The Moralists won the war and left the world in ruins."

  The robot adjusted its motor system until its legs were coordinated. "Their victory was a tragedy, but I understand the situation better than you. We must advance cautiously. If we are wiped out this time, it may be for good." Applequist followed after the robot as it moved hesitantly through the debris toward the wall of the ravine.

  "We're crushed by work. Slaves in underground shelters. We can't go on this way. People will welcome robots. We need you. When I think how it must have been in the Golden Age, the fountains and flowers, the beautiful cities above ground... Now there's nothing but ruin and misery. The Moralists won, but nobody's happy. We'd gladly --"

  "Where are we? What is the location here?"

  "Slightly west of the Mississippi, a few miles or so. We must have free­dom. We can't live this way, toiling underground. If we had free time we could investigate the mysteries of the whole universe. I found some old scientific tapes. Theoretical work in biology. Those men spent years working on abstract topics. They had the time. They were free. While robots maintained the economic system those men could go out and --"

  "During the war," the robot said thoughtfully, "the Moralists rigged up detection screens over hundreds of square miles. Are those screens still func­tioning?"

  "I don't know. I doubt it. Nothing outside of the immediate Company shelters still works."

  The robot was deep in thought. It had replaced its ruined eye with a new cell; both eyes flickered with concentration. "Tonight we'll make plans con­cerning your Company. I'll let you know my decision then. Meanwhile, don't bring this situation up with anyone. You understand? Right now I'm con­cerned with the road system."

  "Most roads are in ruins." Applequist tried hard to hold back his excite­ment. "I'm convinced most in my Company are -- Leisurists. Maybe a few at the top are Moralists. Some of the supervisors, perhaps. But the lower classes and families --"

  "All right," the robot interrupted. "We'll see about that later." It glanced around. "I can use some of that damaged equipment. Part of it will function. For the moment, at least."

  Applequist managed to avoid Jenkins, as he hurriedly made his way across the organizational level to his work station. His mind was in a turmoil. Every­thing around him seemed vague and unconvincing. The quarreling supervi­sors. The clattering, humming machines. Clerks and minor bureaucrats hurrying back and forth with messages and memoranda. He grabbed a mass of letters and mechanically began sorting them into their slots.

  "You've been outside," Director Laws observed sourly. "What is it, a girl? If you marry outside the Company you lose the little rating you have."

  Applequist pushed aside his letters. "Director, I want to talk to you."

  Director Laws shook his head. "Be careful. You know the ordinances governing fourth-class personnel. Better not ask any more questions. Keep your mind on your work and leave the theoretical issues to us."

  "Director," Applequist asked, "which side was our Company, Moralist or Leisurist?"

  Laws didn't seem to understand the question. "What do you mean?" He shook his head. "I don't know those words."

  "In the war. Which side of the war were we on?"

  "Good God," Law said. "The human side, of course." An expression like a curtain dropped over his heavy face. "What do you mean, Moralist? What are you talking about?"

  Suddenly Applequist was sweating. His voice would hardly come. "Direc­tor, something's wrong. The war was between the two groups of humans. The Moralists destroyed the robots because they disapproved of humans living in leisure."

  "The war was fought between men and robots," Laws said harshly. "We won. We destroyed the robots."

  "But they worked for us!"

  "They were built as workers, but they revolted. They had a philosophy. Superior beings -- androids. They considered us nothing but cattle."

  Applequist was shaking all over. "But it told me --"

  "They slaughtered us. Millions of humans died, before we got the upper hand. They murdered, lied, hid, stole, did everything to survive. It was them
or us -- no quarter." Laws grabbed Applequist by the collar. "You damn fool! What the hell have you done? Answer me! What have you done?"

  The sun was setting, as the armored twin-track roared up to the edge of the ravine. Troops leaped out and poured down the sides, S-rifles clattering. Laws emerged quickly, Applequist beside him.

  "This is the place?" Laws demanded.

  "Yes." Applequist sagged. "But it's gone."

  "Naturally. It was fully repaired. There was nothing to keep it here." Laws signalled his men. "No use looking. Plant a tactical A-bomb and let's get out of here. The air fleet may be able to catch it. We'll spray this area with radioac­tive gas."

  Applequist wandered numbly to the edge of the ravine. Below, in the dark­ening shadows, were the weeds and tumbled debris. There was no sign of the robot, of course. A place where it had been, bits of wire and discarded body sections. The old power pack where he had thrown it. A few tools. Nothing else.

  "Come on," Laws ordered his men. "Let's get moving. We have a lot to do. Get the general alarm system going."

  The troops began climbing the sides of the ravine. Applequist started after them, toward the twin-track.

  "No," Laws said quickly. "You're not coming with us."

  Applequist saw the look on their faces. The pent-up fear, the frantic terror and hate. He tried to run, but they were on him almost at once. They worked grimly and silently. When they were through they kicked aside his still-living remains and climbed into the twin-track. They slammed the locks and the motor thundered up. The track rumbled down the trail to the road. In a few moments it dwindled and was gone.

  He was alone, with the half-buried bomb and the settling shadows. And the vast empty darkness that was collecting everywhere.

  Exhibit Piece

  "That's a strange suit you have on," the robot pubtrans driver observed. It slid back its door and came to rest at the curb. "What are the little round things?"

  "Those are buttons," George Miller explained. "They are partly func­tional, partly ornamental. This is an archaic suit of the twentieth century. I wear it because of the nature of my employment."

  He paid the robot, grabbed up his briefcase, and hurried along the ramp to the History Agency. The main building was already open for the day; robed men and women wandered everywhere. Miller entered a PRIVATE lift, squeezed between two immense controllers from the pre-Christian division, and in a moment was on his way to his own level, the Middle Twentieth Century.

  "Gorning," he murmured, as Controller Fleming met him at the atomic engine exhibit.

  "Gorning," Fleming responded brusquely. "Look here, Miller. Let's have this out once and for all. What if everyone dressed like you? The Government sets up strict rules for dress. Can't you forget your damn anachronisms once in a while? What in God's name is that thing in your hand? It looks like a squashed Jurassic lizard."

  "This is an alligator hide briefcase," Miller explained. "I carry my study spools in it. The briefcase was an authority symbol of the managerial class of the later twentieth century." He unzipped the briefcase. "Try to understand, Fleming. By accustoming myself to everyday objects of my research period I transform my relation from mere intellectual curiosity to genuine empathy. You have frequently noticed I pronounce certain words oddly. The accent is that of an American businessman of the Eisenhower administration. Dig me?"

  "Eh?" Fleming muttered.

  "Dig me was a twentieth-century expression." Miller laid out his study spools on his desk. "Was there anything you wanted? If not I'll begin today's work. I've uncovered fascinating evidence to indicate that although twen­tieth-century Americans laid their own floor tiles, they did not weave their own clothing. I wish to alter my exhibits on this matter."

  "There's no fanatic like an academician," Fleming grated. "You're two hundred years behind times. Immersed in your relics and artifacts. Your damn authentic replicas of discarded trivia."

  "I love my work," Miller answered mildly.

  "Nobody complains about your work. But there are other things than work. You're a political-social unit here in this society. Take warning, Miller! The Board has reports on your eccentricities. They approve devotion to work..." His eyes narrowed significantly. "But you go too far."

  "My first loyalty is to my art," Miller said.

  "Your what? What does that mean?"

  "A twentieth-century term." There was undisguised superiority on Miller's face. "You're nothing but a minor bureaucrat in a vast machine. You're a function of an impersonal cultural totality. You have no standards of your own. In the twentieth century men had personal standards of workman­ship. Artistic craft. Pride of accomplishment. These words mean nothing to you. You have no soul -- another concept from the golden days of the twen­tieth century when men were free and could speak their minds."

  "Beware, Miller!" Fleming blanched nervously and lowered his voice. "You damn scholars. Come up out of your tapes and face reality. You'll get us all in trouble, talking this way. Idolize the past, if you want. But remember -- it's gone and buried. Times change. Society progresses." He gestured impa­tiently at the exhibits that occupied the level. "That's only an imperfect replica."

  "You impugn my research?" Miller was seething. "This exhibit is abso­lutely accurate! I correct it to all new data. There isn't anything I don't know about the twentieth century."

  Fleming shook his head. "It's no use." He turned and stalked wearily off the level, onto the descent ramp.

  Miller straightened his collar and bright hand-painted necktie. He smoothed down his blue pin stripe coat, expertly lit a pipeful of two-century-old tobacco, and returned to his spools.

  Why didn't Fleming leave him alone? Fleming, the officious representa­tive of the great hierarchy that spread like a sticky gray web over the whole planet. Into each industrial, professional, and residential unit. Ah, the free­dom of the twentieth century! He slowed his tape scanner a moment, and a dreamy look slid over his features. The exciting age of virility and individual­ity, when men were men --

  It was just about then, just as he was settling deep in the beauty of his research, that he heard the inexplicable sounds. They came from the center of his exhibit, from within the intricate, carefully regulated interior.

  Somebody was in his exhibit.

  He could hear them back there, back in the depths. Somebody or some­thing had gone past the safety barrier set up to keep the public out. Miller snapped off his tape scanner and got slowly to his feet. He was shaking all over as he moved cautiously toward the exhibit. He killed the barrier and climbed the railing on to a concrete pavement. A few curious visitors blinked, as the small, oddly dressed man crept among the authentic replicas of the twentieth century that made up the exhibit and disappeared within.

  Breathing hard, Miller advanced up the pavement and on to a carefully tended gravel path. Maybe it was one of the other theorists, a minion of the Board, snooping around looking for something with which to discredit him. An inaccuracy here -- a trifling error of no consequence there. Sweat came out of his forehead; anger became terror. To his right was a flower bed. Paul Scarlet roses and low-growing pansies. Then the moist green lawn. The gleaming white garage, with its door half up. The sleek rear of a 1954 Buick -- and then the house itself.

  He'd have to be careful. If this was somebody from the Board he'd be up against official hierarchy. Maybe it was somebody big. Maybe even Edwin Carnap, President of the Board, the highest ranking official in the N'York branch of the World Directorate. Shakily, Miller climbed the three cement steps. Now he was on the porch of the twentieth-century house that made up the center of the exhibit.

  It was a nice little house; if he had lived back in those days he would have wanted one of his own. Three bedrooms, a ranch style California bungalow. He pushed open the front door and entered the living room. Fireplace at one end. Dark wine-colored carpets. Modern couch and easy chair. Low hard­wood glass-topped coffee table. Copper ashtrays. A cigarette lighter and a stack of magazines. Sle
ek plastic and steel floor lamps. A bookcase. Televi­sion set. Picture window overlooking the front garden. He crossed the room to the hall.

  The house was amazingly complete. Below his feet the floor furnace radiated a faint aura of warmth. He peered into the first bedroom. A woman's boudoir. Silk bedcover. White starched sheets. Heavy drapes. A vanity table. Bottles and jars. Huge round mirror. Clothes visible within the closet. A dressing gown thrown over the back of a chair. Slippers. Nylon hose carefully placed at the foot of the bed.

  Miller moved down the hall and peered into the next room. Brightly painted wallpaper: clowns and elephants and tight-rope walkers. The children's room. Two little beds for the two boys. Model airplanes. A dresser with a radio on it, pair of combs, school books, pennants, a No Parking sign, snap­shots stuck in the mirror. A postage stamp album. Nobody there, either.

  Miller peered in the modern bathroom, even in the yellow-tiled shower. He passed through the dining room, glanced down the basement stairs where the washing machine and dryer were. Then he opened the back door and examined the back yard. A lawn, and the incinerator. A couple of small trees and then the three-dimensional projected backdrop of other houses receding off into incredibly convincing blue hills. And still no one. The yard was empty -- deserted. He closed the door and started back.

  From the kitchen came laughter.

  A woman's laugh. The clink of spoons and dishes. And smells. It took him a moment to identify them, scholar that he was. Bacon and coffee. And hot cakes. Somebody was eating breakfast. A twentieth-century breakfast.

  He made his way down the hall, past a man's bedroom, shoes and clothing strewn about, to the entrance of the kitchen.

  A handsome late-thirtyish woman and two teenage boys were sitting around the little chrome and plastic breakfast table. They had finished eating; the two boys were fidgeting impatiently. Sunlight filtered through the window over the sink. The electric clock read half past eight. The radio was chirping merrily in the corner. A big pot of black coffee rested in the center of the table, surrounded by empty plates and milk glasses and silverware.