The Complete Stories of Philip K. Dick Vol. 2

  "There was quite a bit of material." She patted the sheaf of notes. "I summed up the major parts for you."

  "Let's have the summation."

  "Seven years ago this August the county board of supervisors voted on three new suburban housing tracts to be set up outside the city. Macon Heights was one of them. There was a big debate. Most of the city merchants opposed the new tracts. Said they would draw too much retail business away from the city."

  "Go on."

  "There was a long fight. Finally two of the three tracts were approved. Waterville and Cedar Groves. But not Macon Heights."

  "I see," Paine murmured thoughtfully.

  "Macon Heights was defeated. A compromise; two tracts instead of three. The two tracts were built up right away. You know. We passed through Waterville one afternoon. Nice little place."

  "But no Macon Heights."

  "No. Macon Heights was given up."

  Paine rubbed his jaw. "That's the story, then."

  "That's the story. Do you realize I lose a whole half-day's pay because of this? You have to take me out, tonight. Maybe I should get another fellow. I'm beginning to think you're not such a good bet."

  Paine nodded absently. "Seven years ago." All at once a thought came to him. "The vote! How close was the vote on Macon Heights?"

  Laura consulted her notes. "The project was defeated by a single vote."

  "A single vote. Seven years ago." Paine moved out into the hall. Thanks, honey. Things are beginning to make sense. Lots of sense!"

  He caught a cab out front. The cab raced him across the city, toward the train station. Outside, signs and streets flashed by. People and stores and cars.

  His hunch had been correct. He had heard the name before. Seven years ago. A bitter county debate on a proposed suburban tract. Two towns approved; one defeated and forgotten.

  But now the forgotten town was coming into existence – seven years later. The town and an undetermined slice of reality along with it. Why? Had something changed in the past? Had an alteration occurred in some past continuum?

  That seemed like the explanation. The vote had been close. Macon Heights had almost been approved. Maybe certain parts of the past were unstable. Maybe that particular period, seven years ago, had been critical. Maybe it had never completely "jelled". An odd thought: the past changing, after it had already happened.

  Suddenly Paine's eyes focused. He sat up quickly. Across the street was a store sign, halfway along the block. Over a small, inconspicuous establishment. As the cab moved forward Paine peered to see.

  BRADSHAW INSURANCE

  [OR]

  NOTARY PUBLIC

  He pondered. Critchet's place of business. Did it also come and go? Had it always been there? Something about it made him uneasy.

  "Hurry it up," Paine ordered the driver. "Let's get going."

  When the train slowed down at Macon Heights, Paine got quickly to his feet and made his way up the aisle to the door. The grinding wheels jerked to a halt and Paine leaped down onto the hot gravel siding. He looked around him.

  In the afternoon sunlight, Macon Heights glittered and sparkled, its even rows of houses stretching out in all directions. In the center of the town the marquee of the theater rose up.

  A theater, even. Paine headed across the track toward the town. Beyond the train station was a parking lot. He stepped up onto the lot and crossed it, following a path past a filling station and onto a sidewalk.

  He came out on the main street of the town. A double row of stores stretched out ahead of him. A hardware store. Two drugstores. A dime store. A modern department store.

  Paine walked along, hands in his pockets, gazing around him at Macon Heights. An apartment building stuck up, tall and fat. A janitor was washing down the front steps. Everything looked new and modern. The houses, the stores, the pavement and sidewalks. The parking meters. A brown-uniformed cop was giving a car a ticket. Trees, growing at intervals. Neatly clipped and pruned.

  He passed a big supermarket. Out in front was a bin of fruit, oranges and grapes. He picked a grape and bit into it.

  The grape was real, all right. A big black concord grape, sweet and ripe. Yet twenty-four hours ago there had been nothing here but a barren field.

  Paine entered one of the drugstores. He leafed through some magazines and then sat down at the counter. He ordered a cup of coffee from the red-cheeked little waitress.

  "This is a nice town," Paine said, as she brought the coffee.

  "Yes, isn't it?"

  Paine hesitated. "How – how long have you been working here?"

  "Three months."

  "Three months?" Paine studied the buxom little blonde. "You live here in Macon Heights?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "How long?"

  "A couple of years, I guess." She moved away to wait on a young soldier who had taken a stool down the counter.

  Paine sat drinking his coffee and smoking, idly watching the people passing by outside. Ordinary people. Men and women, mostly women. Some had grocery bags and little wire carts. Automobiles drove slowly back and forth. A sleepy little suburban town. Modern, upper middle-class. A quality town. No slums here. Small, attractive houses. Stores with sloping grass fronts and neon signs.

  Some high school kids burst into the drugstore, laughing and bumping into each other. Two girls in bright sweaters sat down next to Paine and ordered lime drinks. They chatted gaily, bits of their conversation drifting to him.

  He gazed at them, pondering moodily. They were real, all right. Lipstick and red fingernails. Sweaters and armloads of school books. Hundreds of high school kids, crowding eagerly into the drugstore.

  Paine rubbed his forehead wearily. It didn't seem possible. Maybe he was out of his mind. The town was real. Completely real. It must have always existed. A whole town couldn't rise up out of nothing; out of a cloud of gray haze. Five thousand people, houses and streets and stores.

  Stores. Bradshaw Insurance.

  Stabbing realization chilled him. Suddenly he understood. It was spreading. Beyond Macon Heights. Into the city. The city was changing, too. Bradshaw Insurance. Crichet's place of business.

  Macon Heights couldn't exist without warping the city. They interlocked. The five thousand people came from the city. Their jobs. Their lives. The city was involved.

  But how much? How much was the city changing?

  Paine threw a quarter on the counter and hurried out of the drugstore, toward the train station. He had to get back to the city. Laura, the change. Was she still there? Was his own life safe?

  Fear gripped him. Laura, all his possessions, his plans, hopes and dreams. Suddenly Macon Heights was unimportant. His own world was in jeopardy. Only one thing mattered now. He had to make sure of it; make sure his own life was still there. Untouched by the spreading circle of change that was lapping out from Macon Heights.

  "Where to, buddy?" the cabdriver asked, as Paine came rushing out of the train station.

  Paine gave him the address of the apartment. The cab roared out into traffic. Paine settled back nervously. Outside the window the streets and office buildings flashed past. White collar workers were already beginning to get off work, swelling out onto the sidewalks to stand in clumps at each corner.

  How much had changed? He concentrated on a row of buildings. The big department store. Had that always been there? The little boot-black shop next to it. He had never noticed that before.

  MORRIS HOME FURNISHINGS.

  He didn't remember that. But how could he be sure? He felt confused. How could he tell?

  The cab let him off in front of the apartment house. Paine stood for a moment, looking around him. Down at the end of the block the owner of the Italian delicatessen was out putting up the awning. Had he ever noticed a delicatessen there before?

  He could not remember.

  What had happened to the big meat market across the street? There was nothing but neat little houses; older houses that looked like they'd been there plen
ty long. Had a meat market ever been there? The houses looked solid.

  In the next block the striped pole of a barbershop glittered. Had there always been a barbershop there?

  Maybe it had always been there. Maybe, and maybe not. Everything was shifting. New things were coming into existence, others going away. The past was altering, and memory was tied to the past. How could he trust his memory? How could he be sure?

  Terror gripped him. Laura. His world…

  Paine raced up the front steps and pushed open the door of the apartment house. He hurried up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. The door of the apartment was unlocked. He pushed it open and entered, his heart in his mouth, praying silently.

  The living-room was dark and silent. The shades were half pulled. He glanced around wildly. The light blue couch, magazines on its arms. The low blond-oak table. The television set. But the room was empty.

  "Laura!" he gasped.

  Laura hurried from the kitchen, eyes wide with alarm. "Bob! What are you doing home? Is anything the matter?"

  Paine relaxed, sagging with relief. "Hello, honey." He kissed her, holding her tight against him. She was warm and substantial; completely real. "No, nothing's wrong. Everything's fine."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure." Paine took off his coat shakily and dropped it over the back of the couch. He wandered around the room, examining things, his confidence returning. His familiar blue couch, cigarette burns on its arms. His ragged footstool. His desk where he did his work at night. His fishing rods leaning up against the wall behind the bookcase.

  The big television set he had purchased only last month; that was safe, too.

  Everything, all he owned, was untouched. Safe. Unharmed.

  "Dinner won't be ready for half an hour," Laura murmured anxiously, unfastening her apron. "I didn't expect you home so early. I've just been sitting around all day. I did clean the stove. Some salesman left a sample of a new cleaner."

  "That's okay." He examined a favorite Renoir print on the wall. "Take your time. It's good to see all these things again. I -"

  From the bedroom a crying sound came. Laura turned quickly. "I guess we woke up Jimmy."

  "Jimmy?"

  Laura laughed. "Darling, don't you remember your own son?"

  "Of course," Paine murmured, annoyed. He followed Laura slowly into the bedroom. "Just for a minute everything seemed strange." He rubbed his forehead, frowning. "Strange and unfamiliar. Sort of out of focus."

  They stood by the crib, gazing down at the baby. Jimmy glared back up at his mother and dad.

  "It must have been the sun," Laura said. "It's so terribly hot outside."

  "That must be it. I'm okay now." Paine reached down and poked at the baby. He put his arm around his wife, hugging her to him. "It must have been the sun," he said. He looked down into her eyes and smiled.

  The World She Wanted

  Half-dozing, Larry Brewster contemplated the litter of cigarette-butts, empty beer-bottles, and twisted match-folders heaped on the table before him. He reached out and adjusted one beer-bottle – thereby achieving just the right effect.

  In the back of the Wind-Up the small dixieland jazz combo played noisily. The harsh jazz-sound mixed with the murmur of voices, the semi-darkness, the clink of glasses at the bar. Larry Brewster sighed in happy contentment. "This," he stated, "is Nirvana." He nodded his head slowly, agreeing with the words uttered. "Or at least the seventh level of zen-buddhist heaven."

  "There aren't seven levels in the zen-buddhist heaven," a competent female voice corrected, from directly above him.

  "That's a fact," Larry admitted, reflecting on the matter. "I was speaking metaphorically, not literally."

  "You should be more careful; you should mean exactly what you say."

  "And say exactly what you mean?" Larry peered up. "Have I had the pleasure of knowing you, young lady?"

  The slender, golden-haired girl dropped into the seat across the table from Larry, her eyes sharp and bright in the half-gloom of the bar. She smiled at him, white teeth sparkling. "No," she said. "We've never met; our time has just now arrived."

  "Our – our time?" Larry drew himself up slowly, pulling his lanky frame together. There was something in the girl's bright, competent face that vaguely alarmed him, penetrating his alcoholic haze. Her smile was too calm, too assured. "Just exactly what do you mean?" Larry murmured. "What's this all about?"

  The girl slipped out of her coat, revealing full, rounded breasts and a supple figure. "I'll have a martini," she said. "And by the way – my name is Allison Holmes."

  "Larry Brewster." Larry studied the girl intently. "What did you say you wanted?"

  "A martini. Dry." Allison smiled coolly across at him. "And get one for yourself, why don't you?"

  Larry grunted under his breath. He signaled to the waiter. "A dry martini, Max."

  "Okay, Mr Brewster."

  A few minutes later Max returned and set a martini glass on the table. When he had gone, Larry leaned toward the blonde-haired girl. "Now, Miss Holmes -"

  "None for you?"

  "None for me." Larry watched her sip her drink. Her hands were small and dainty. She wasn't bad-looking, but he didn't like the self-satisfied calmness in her eyes. "What's this business about our time having come? Let me in on it."

  "It's very simple. I saw you sitting here and I knew you were the one. In spite of the messy table." She wrinkled her nose at the litter of bottles and match-folders. "Why don't you have them clear it off?"

  "Because I enjoy it. You knew I was the one? Which one?" Larry was getting interested. "Go on."

  "Larry, this is a very important moment in my life." Allison gazed around her. "Who would think I'd find you in a place like this? But that's the way it's always been for me. This is only one link of a great chain going back – well, as far back as I can remember."

  "What chain is that?"

  Allison laughed. "Poor Larry. You don't understand." She leaned toward him, her lovely eyes dancing. "You see, Larry, I know something no one else knows – no one else in this world. Something I learned when I was a little girl. Something -"

  "Wait a minute. What do you mean by 'this world'? You mean there are nicer worlds than this? Better worlds? Like in Plato? This world is only a -"

  "Certainly not!" Allison frowned. "This is the best world, Larry. The best of all possible worlds."

  "Oh. Herbert Spencer."

  "The best of all possible worlds – for me." She smiled at him, a cold, secret smile.

  "Why for you?"

  There was something almost predatory in the girl's finely-chiseled face as she answered. "Because," she said calmly, "this is my world."

  Larry raised an eyebrow. "Your world?" Then he grinned good-naturedly. "Sure it is, baby; it belongs to all of us." He waved expansively around at the room. "Your world, my world, the banjo player's world -"

  "No." Allison shook her head firmly. "No, Larry. My world; it belongs to me. Everything and everybody. All mine." She moved her chair around until she was close by him. He could smell her perfume, warm and sweet and tantalizing. "Don't you understand? This is mine. All these things – they're here for me; for my happiness."

  Larry edged away a little. "Oh? You know, as a philosophical tenet that's a bit hard to maintain. I'll admit Descartes said the world is known to us only through our senses, and our senses reflect our own -"

  Allison laid her small hand on his arm. "I don't mean that. You see, Larry, there are many worlds. All kinds of worlds. Millions and millions. As many worlds as there are people. Each person has his own world, Larry, his own private world. A world that exists for him, for his happiness." She lowered her gaze modestly. "This happens to be my world."

  Larry considered. "Very interesting, but what about other people? Me, for example."

  "You exist for my happiness, of course; that's what I'm talking about." The pressure of her small hand increased. "As soon as I saw you, I knew you were the one. I've bee
n thinking about this for several days now. It's time he came along. The man for me. The man intended for me to marry – so my happiness can be complete."

  "Hey!" Larry exclaimed, drawing back.

  "What's wrong?"

  "What about me?" Larry demanded. "That's not fair! Doesn't my happiness count?"

  "Yes… but not here, not in this world." She gestured vaguely. "You have a world someplace else, a world of your own; in this world you're merely a part of my life. You're not completely real. I'm the only one in this world who's completely real. All the rest of you are here for me. You're just – just partly real."

  "I see." Larry sat back slowly, rubbing his jaw. "Then I sort of exist in a lot of different worlds. A little bit here, a little bit there, according to where I'm needed. Like now, for instance, in this world. I've been wandering around for twenty-five years, just so I could turn up when you needed me."

  "That's right." Allison's eyes danced merrily; "you have the idea." Suddenly she glanced at her wristwatch. "It's getting late. We better go."

  "Go?"

  Allison stood up quickly, picking up her tiny purse and pulling her coat around her. "I want to do so many things with you, Larry! So many places to see! So much to do!" She took hold of his arm. "Come on. Hurry up."

  Larry rose slowly. "Say, listen -"

  "We're going to have lots of fun." Allison steered him toward the door. "Let's see… What would be nice…"

  Larry halted angrily. "The check! I can't just walk out." He fumbled in his pocket. "I owe about -"

  "No check; not tonight. This is my special night." Allison spun toward Max, cleaning up the vacated table. "Isn't that right?"

  The old waiter looked up slowly. "What's that, Miss?"

  "No check tonight."

  Max shook his head. "No check tonight, Miss. The boss's birthday; drinks on the house."

  Larry gaped. "What?"

  "Come on." Allison tugged at him, pulling him through the heavy plush doors, out onto the cold, dark New York sidewalk. "Come on, Larry – we have so much to do!"

  Larry murmured, "I still don't know where that cab came from."