The Complete Stories of Philip K. Dick Vol. 2

  After awhile Tommy closed the door of the room. Holding his breath he unfastened the cage, opening one side wide. He reached in his hand and caught one of the little men. He drew him out of the cage and then opened his hand carefully.

  The little man clung to his palm, peering over the edge and up at him, antennae waving wildly.

  "Don't be afraid," Tommy said.

  The little man got cautiously to his feet. He walked across Tommy's palm, to his wrist. Slowly he climbed Tommy's arm, glancing over the side. He reached Tommy's shoulder and stopped, gazing up into his face.

  "You're sure small," Tommy said. He got another one from the cage and put the two of them on the bed. They walked around the bed for a long time. More had come to the open side of the cage and were staring cautiously out onto the dresser. One found Tommy's comb. He inspected it, tugging at the teeth. A second joined him. The two tiny creatures tugged at the comb, but without success.

  "What do you want?" Tommy asked. After a while they gave up. They found a nickel lying on the dresser. One of them managed to turn it up on end. He rolled it. The nickel gained speed, rushing toward the edge of the dresser. The tiny men ran after it in consternation. The nickel fell over the side.

  "Be careful," Tommy warned. He didn't want anything to happen to them. He had too many plans. It would be easy to rig up things for them to do – like fleas he had seen at the circus. Little carts to pull. Swings, slides. Things they could operate. He could train them, and then charge admission.

  Maybe he could take them on tour. Maybe he'd even get a write-up in the newspaper. His mind raced. All kinds of things. Endless possibilities. But he had to start out easy – and be careful.

  The next day he took one to school in his pocket, inside a fruit jar. He punched holes in the lid so it could breathe.

  At recess he showed it to Dave and Joan Grant. They were fascinated.

  "Where did you get it?" Dave demanded.

  "That's my business."

  "Want to sell it?"

  "It's not it. It's him."

  Jean blushed. "It doesn't have anything on. You better make it put clothes on right away."

  "Can you make clothes for them? I have eight more. Four men and four women."

  Joan was excited. "I can – if you'll give me one of them."

  "The heck I will. They're mine."

  "Where did they come from? Who made them?"

  "None of your business."

  Joan made little clothes for the four women. Little skirts and blouses. Tommy lowered the clothing into the cage. The little people moved around the heap uncertainly, not knowing what to do.

  "You better show them," Joan said.

  "Show them? Nuts to you."

  "I'll dress them." Joan took one of the tiny women from the cage and carefully dressed her in a blouse and skirt. She dropped the figure back in. "Now let's see what happens."

  The others crowded around the dressed woman, plucking curiously at the clothing. Presently they began to divide up the remaining clothes, some taking blouses, some skirts.

  Tommy laughed and laughed. "You better make pants for the men. So they'll all be dressed."

  He took a couple of them out and let them run up and down his arms.

  "Be careful," Joan warned. "You'll lose them. They'll get away."

  "They're tame. They won't run away. I'll show you." Tommy put them down onto the floor. "We have a game. Watch."

  "A game?"

  "They hide and I find them."

  The figures scampered off, looking for places to hide. In a moment none were in sight. Tommy got down on his hands and knees, reaching under the dresser, among the bedcovers. A shrill squeak. He had found one.

  "See? They like it." He carried them back to the cage, one by one. The last one stayed hidden a long time. It had got into one of the dresser drawers, down in a bag of marbles, pulling the marbles over its head.

  "They're clever," Joan said. "Wouldn't you give me even one of them?"

  "No," Tommy said emphatically. "They're mine. I'm not letting them get away from me. I'm not giving any of them to anybody."

  Tommy met Joan after school the next day. She had made little trousers and shirts for the men.

  "Here." She gave them to him. They walked along the sidewalk. "I hope they fit."

  "Thanks." Tommy took the clothes and put them in his pocket. They cut across the vacant lot. At the end of the lot Dave Grant and some kids were sitting around in a circle, playing marbles.

  "Who's winning?" Tommy said, stopping.

  "I am," Dave said, not looking up.

  "Let me play." Tommy dropped down. "Come on." He held out his hand. "Give me your agate."

  Dave shook his head. "Get away."

  Tommy punched him on the arm. "Come on! Just one shot." He considered. "Tell you what -"

  A shadow fell over them.

  Tommy looked up. And blanched.

  Edward Billings gazed down silently at the boy, leaning on his umbrella, its metal point lost in the soft ground. He said nothing. His aged face was lined and hard, his eyes like faded blue stones.

  Tommy got slowly to his feet. Silence had fallen over the children. Some of them scrambled away, snatching up their marbles.

  "Whaft do you want?" Tommy demanded. His voice was dry and husky, almost inaudible.

  Billings's cold eyes bored into him, two keen orbs, without warmth of any kind. "You took them. I want them back. Right away." His voice was hard, colorless. He held out his hand. "Where are they?"

  "What are you talking about?" Tommy muttered. He backed away. "I don't know what you mean."

  "The Project. You stole them from my room. I want them back."

  "The heck I did. What do you mean?"

  Billings turned toward Dave Grant. "He's the one you meant, isn't he?"

  Dave nodded. "I saw them. He has them in his room. He won't let anybody near them."

  "You came and stole them. Why?" Billings moved toward Tommy ominously. "Why did you take them? What do you want with them?"

  "You're crazy," Tommy murmured, but his voice trembled. Dave Grant said nothing. He looked away sheepishly. "It's a lie," Tommy said.

  Billings grabbed him. Cold, ancient hands gripped him, digging into his shoulders. "Give them back! I want them. I'm responsible for them."

  "Let go." Tommy jerked loose. "I don't have them with me." He caught his breath. "I mean -"

  "Then you do have them. At home. In your room. Bring them there. Go and get them. All nine."

  Tommy put his hands in his pockets. Some of his courage was returning. "I don't know," he said. "What'll you give me?"

  Billings's eyes flashed. "Give you?" He raised his arm threateningly. "Why, you little -"

  Tommy jumped back. "You can't make me return them. You don't have any control over us." He grinned boldly. "You said so yourself. We're out of your power. I heard you say so."

  Billings's face was like granite. "I'll take them. They're mine. They belong to me."

  "If you try to take them I'll call the cops. And my Dad'll be there. My Dad and the cops."

  Billings gripped his umbrella. He opened and shut his mouth, his face a dark, ugly red. Neither he nor Tommy spoke. The other kids gazed at the two of them wide-eyed, awed and subdued.

  Suddenly a thought twisted across Billings's face. He looked down at the ground, the crude circle and the marbles. His cold eyes flickered. "Listen to this. I will – I will play against you for them."

  "What?"

  "The game. Marbles. If you win you can keep them. If I win I get them back at once. All of them."

  Tommy considered, glancing from Mr Billings down at the circle on the ground. "If I win you won't ever try to take them? You will let me keep them – for good?"

  "Yes."

  "All right." Tommy moved away. "It's a deal. If you win you can have them back. But if I win they belong to me. And you don't ever get them back."

  "Bring them here at once."

  "Sure. I'll
go get them." – And my agate, too, he thought to himself. "I'll be right back."

  "I'll wait here," Mr Billings said, his huge hands gripping the umbrella.

  Tommy ran down the porch steps, two at a time.

  His mother came to the door. "You shouldn't be going out again so late. If you're not home in half an hour you don't get any dinner."

  "Half an hour," Tommy cried, running down the dark sidewalk, his hands pressed against the bulge in his jacket. Against the wood cigar box that moved and squirmed. He ran and ran, gasping for breath.

  Mr Billings was still standing by the edge of the lot, waiting silently. The sun had set. Evening was coming. The children had gone home. As Tommy stepped onto the vacant lot a chill, hostile wind moved among the weeds and grass, flapping against his pants legs.

  "Did you bring them?" Mr Billings demanded.

  "Sure." Tommy halted, his chest rising and falling. He reached slowly under his jacket and brought out the heavy wood cigar box. He slipped the rubber band off it, lifting the lid a crack. "In here."

  Mr Billings came close, breathing hoarsely. Tommy snapped the lid shut and restored the rubber band. "We have to play." He put the box down on the ground. "They're mine – unless you win them back."

  Billings subsided. "All right. Let's begin, then."

  Tommy searched his pockets. He brought out his agate, holding it carefully. In the fading light the big red-black marble gleamed, rings of sand and white. Like Jupiter. An immense, hard marble.

  "Here we go," Tommy said. He knelt down, sketching a rough circle on the ground. He emptied out a sack of marbles into the ring. "You got any?"

  "Any?"

  "Marbles. What are you going to shoot with?"

  "One of yours."

  "Sure." Tommy took a marble from the ring and tossed it to him. "Want me to shoot first?"

  Billings nodded.

  "Fine." Tommy grinned. He took aim carefully, closing one eye. For a moment his body was rigid, set in an intense, hard arc. Then he shot. Marbles rattled and clinked, rolling out of the circle and into the grass and weeds beyond. He had done well. He gathered up his winnings, collecting them back in the cloth sack.

  "Is it my turn?" Billings asked.

  "No. My agate's still in the ring." Tommy squatted down again. "I get another shot."

  He shot. This time he collected three marbles. Again his agate was within the circle.

  "Another shot," Tommy said, grinning. He had almost half. He knelt and aimed, holding his breath. Twenty-four marbles remained. If he could get four more he would have won. Four more -

  He shot. Two marbles left the circle. And his agate. The agate rolled out, bouncing into the weeds.

  Tommy collected the two marbles and the agate. He had nineteen in all. Twenty-two remained in the ring.

  "Okay," he murmured reluctantly. "It's your shot this time. Go ahead."

  Edward Billings knelt down stiffly, gasping and tottering. His face was gray. He turned his marble around in his hand uncertainly.

  "Haven't you ever played before?" Tommy demanded. "You don't know how to hold it, do you?"

  Billings shook his head. "No."

  "You have to get it between your first finger and your thumb." Tommy watched the stiff old fingers with the marble. Billings dropped it once and picked it quickly up again. "Your thumb makes it go. Like this. Here, I'll show you."

  Tommy took hold of the ancient fingers and bent them around the marble. Finally he had them in place. "Go ahead." Tommy straightened up. "Let's see how you do."

  The old man took a long time. He gazed at the marbles in the ring, his hand shaking. Tommy could hear his breathing, the hoarse, deep panting, in the damp evening air.

  The old man glanced at the cigar box resting in the shadows. Then back at the circle. His fingers moved -

  There was a flash. A blinding flash. Tommy gave a cry, wiping at his eyes. Everything spun, lashing and tilting. He stumbled and fell, sinking into the wet weeds. His head throbbed. He sat on the ground, rubbing his eyes, shaking his head, trying to see.

  At last the drifting sparks cleared. He looked around him, blinking.

  The circle was empty. There were no marbles in the ring. Billings had got them all.

  Tommy reached out. His fingers touched something hot. He jumped. It was a fragment of glass, a glowing red fragment of molten glass. All round him, in the damp weeds and grass, fragments of glass gleamed, cooling slowly into darkness. A thousand splinters of stars, glowing and fading around him.

  Edward Billings stood up slowly, rubbing his hands together. "I'm glad that's over," he gasped. "I'm too old to bend down like that."

  His eyes made out the cigar box, lying on the ground.

  "Now they can go back. And I can continue with my work." He picked up the wood box, putting it under his arm. He gathered up his umbrella and snuffled away, toward the sidewalk beyond the lot.

  "Goodbye," Billings said, stopping for a moment. Tommy said nothing.

  Billings hurried off down the sidewalk, the cigar box clutched tightly.

  He entered his apartment, breathing rapidly. He tossed his black umbrella into the corner and sat down before the desk, laying the cigar box in front of him. For a moment he sat, breathing deeply and gazing down at the brown and white square of wood and cardboard.

  He had won. He had got them back. They were his, again. And just in time. The filing date for the report was practically upon him.

  Billings slid out of his coat and vest. He rolled up his sleeves, trembling a little. He had been lucky. Control over the B type was extremely limited. They were virtually out of jurisdiction. That, of course, was the problem itself. Both the A and B types had managed to escape supervision. They had rebelled, disobeying orders and therefore putting themselves outside the limit of the plan.

  But these – the new type, Project C. Everything depended on them. They had left his hands, but now they were back again. Under control, as intended. Within the periphery of supervisory instruction.

  Billings slid the rubber band from the box. He raised the lid, slowly and carefully.

  Out they swarmed – fast. Some headed to the right, some to the left. Two columns of tiny figures racing off, head down. One reached the edge of the desk and leaped. He landed on the rug, rolling and falling. A second jumped after him, then a third.

  Billings broke out of his paralysis. He grabbed frantically, wildly. Only two remained. He swiped at one and missed. The other -

  He grabbed it, squeezing it tight between his clenched fingers. Its companion wheeled. It had something in its hand. A splinter. A splinter of wood, torn from the inside of the cigar box.

  It ran up and stuck the end of the splinter into Billings's finger.

  Billings gasped in pain. His fingers flew open. The captive tumbled out, rolling on its back. Its companion helped it up, half-dragging it to the edge of the desk. Together the two of them leaped.

  Billings bent down, groping for them. They scampered rapidly, toward the door to the porch. One of them was at the lamp plug. It tugged. A second joined it and the two tiny figures pulled together. The lamp cord came out of the wall. The room plunged into darkness.

  Billings found the desk drawer. He yanked it open, spilling its contents onto the floor. He found some big sulphur matches and lit one.

  They were gone – out onto the porch.

  Billings hurried after them. The match blew out. He lit another, shielding it with his hand.

  The creatures had got to the railing. They were going over the edge, catching hold of the ivy and swinging down into the darkness.

  He got to the edge too late. They were gone, all of them. All nine, over the side of the roof, into the blackness of the night.

  Billings ran downstairs and out onto the back porch. He reached the ground, hurrying around the side of the house, where the ivy grew up the side.

  Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. Silence. No sign of them anywhere.

  They had escaped. They were
gone. They had worked out a plan of escape and put it into operation. Two columns, going in opposite directions, as soon as the lid was lifted. Perfectly timed and executed.

  Slowly Billings climbed the stairs to his room. He pushed the door open and stood, breathing deeply, dazed from the shock.

  They were gone. Project C was already over. It had gone like the others. The same way. Rebellion and independence. Out of supervision. Beyond control. Project A had influenced Project B – and now, in the same way, the contamination had spread to C.

  Billings sat down heavily at his desk. For a long time he sat immobile, silent and thoughtful, gradual comprehension coming to him. It was not his fault. It had happened before – twice before. And it would happen again. Each Project would carry the discontent to the next. It would never end, no matter how many Projects were conceived and put into operation. The rebellion and escape. The evasion of the plan.

  After a time, Billings reached out and pulled his big report book to him. Slowly he opened it to the place he had left off. From the report he removed the entire last section. The summary. There was no use scrapping the current Project. One Project was as good as any other. They would all be equal – equal failures.

  He had known as soon as he saw them. As soon as he had raised the lid. They had clothes on. Little suits of clothing. Like the others, a long time before.

  The Trouble with Bubbles

  Nathan Hull left his surface car and crossed the pavement on foot, sniffing the chill morning air. Robot work-trucks were starting to rumble past. A gutter slot sucked night debris greedily. A vanishing headline caught his eye momentarily:

  PACIFIC TUBE COMPLETED;

  ASIAN LAND MASS LINKED

  He passed on away from the corner, hands in his pockets, looking for Farley's house.

  Past the usual Worldcraft Store with its conspicuous motto: "Own Your Own World!" Down a short grass-lined walk and onto a sloping tilt-front porch. Up three imitation marble stairs. Then Hull flicked his hand before the code beam and the door melted away.

  The house was still. Hull found the ascent tube to the second floor and peered up. No sound. Warm air blew around him, tinged with faint smells – smells of food and people and familiar objects. Had they gone? No. It was only the third day; they'd be around someplace, maybe up on the roof terrace.