Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick

  “See?” Tasso said. “A scout. It won't be long.”

  “You'll bring them back here to get me?”

  “Yes. As soon as possible.”

  Hendricks looked up at her. He studied her intently. “You're telling the truth?” A strange expression had come over his face, an avid hunger. “You will come back for me? You'll get me to the Moon Base?”

  “I'll get you to the Moon Base. But tell me where it is! There's only a little time left.”

  “All right.” Hendricks picked up a piece of rock, pulling himself to a sitting position. “Watch.”

  Hendricks began to scratch in the ash. Tasso stood by him, watching the motion of the rock. Hendricks was sketching a crude lunar map.

  “This is the Appenine range. Here is the Crater of Archimedes. The Moon Base is beyond the end of the Appenine, about two hundred miles. I don't know exactly where. No one on Terra knows. But when you're over the Appenine, signal with one red flare and a green flare, followed by two red flares in quick succession. The Base monitor will record your signal. The Base is under the surface, of course. They'll guide you down with magnetic controls.”

  “And the controls? Can I operate them?”

  “The controls are virtually automatic. All you have to do is give the right signal at the right time.”

  “I will.”

  “The seat absorbs most of the takeoff shock. Air and temperature are automatically controlled. The ship will leave Terra and pass out into free space. It'll line itself up with the Moon, falling into an orbit around it, about a hundred miles above the surface. The orbit will carry you over the Base. When you're in the region of the Appenine, release the signal rockets.”

  Tasso slid into the ship and lowered herself into the pressure seat. The arm locks folded automatically around her. She fingered the controls. “Too bad you're not going, Major. All this put here for you, and you can't make the trip.”

  “Leave me the pistol.”

  Tasso pulled the pistol from her belt. She held it in her hand, weighing it thoughtfully. “Don't go too far from this location. It'll be hard to find you, as it is.”

  “No, I'll stay here by the well.”

  Tasso gripped the takeoff switch, running her fingers over the smooth metal. “A beautiful ship, Major. Well built. I admire your workmanship.

  You people have always done good work. You build fine things. Your work, your creations, are your greatest achievement.”

  “Give me the pistol,” Hendricks said impatiently, holding out his hand. He struggled to his feet.

  “Good-bye, Major!” Tasso tossed the pistol past Hendricks. The pistol clattered against the ground, bouncing and rolling away. Hendricks hurried after it. He bent down, snatching it up.

  The hatch of the ship clanged shut. The bolts fell into place. Hendricks made his way back. The inner door was being sealed. He raised the pistol unsteadily.

  There was a shattering roar. The ship burst up from its metal cage, fusing the mesh behind it. Hendricks cringed, pulling back. The ship shot up into the rolling clouds of ash, disappearing into the sky.

  Hendricks stood watching a long time, until even the streamer had dissipated. Nothing stirred. The morning air was chill and silent. He began to walk aimlessly back the way they had come. Better to keep moving around. It would be a long time before help came—if it came at all.

  He searched his pockets until he found a package of cigarettes. He lit one grimly. They had all wanted cigarettes from him. But cigarettes were scarce.

  A lizard slithered by him, through the ash. He halted, rigid. The lizard disappeared. Above, the sun rose higher in the sky. Some flies landed on a flat rock to one side of him. Hendricks kicked at them with his foot.

  It was getting hot. Sweat trickled down his face, into his collar. His mouth was dry.

  Presently he stopped walking and sat down on some debris. He unfastened his medicine kit and swallowed a few narcotic capsules. He looked around him. Where was he?

  Something lay ahead. Stretched out on the ground. Silent and unmoving.

  Hendricks drew his gun quickly. It looked like a man. Then he remembered. It was the remains of Klaus. The Second Variety. Where Tasso had blasted him. He could see wheels and relays and metal parts, strewn around on the ash. Glittering and sparkling in the sunlight.

  Hendricks got to his feet and walked over. He nudged the inert form with his foot, turning it over a little. He could see the metal hull, the aluminum ribs and struts. More wiring fell out. Like viscera. Heaps of wiring, switches and relays. Endless motors and rods.

  He bent down. The brain cage had been smashed by the fall. The artificial brain was visible. He gazed at it. A maze of circuits. Miniature tubes. Wires as fine as hair. He touched the brain cage. It swung aside. The type plate was visible. Hendricks studied the plate.

  And blanched.

  IV-V.

  For a long time he stared at the plate. Fourth Variety. Not the Second. They had been wrong. There were more types. Not just three. Many more, perhaps. At least four. And Klaus wasn't the Second Variety.

  But if Klaus wasn't the Second Variety—

  Suddenly he tensed. Something was coming, walking through the ash beyond the hill. What was it? He strained to see. Figures. Figures coming slowly along, making their way through the ash.

  Coming toward him.

  Hendricks crouched quickly, raising his gun. Sweat dripped down into his eyes. He fought down rising panic, as the figures neared.

  The first was a David. The David saw him and increased its pace. The others hurried behind it. A second David. A third. Three Davids, all alike, coming toward him silently, without expression, their thin legs rising and falling. Clutching their teddy bears.

  He aimed and fired. The first two Davids dissolved into particles. The third came on. And the figure behind it. Climbing silently toward him across the gray ash. A Wounded Soldier, towering over the David. And—

  And behind the Wounded Soldier came two Tassos, walking side by side. Heavy belt, Russian army pants, shirt, long hair. The familiar figure, as he had seen her only a little while before. Sitting in the pressure seat of the ship. Two slim, silent figures, both identical.

  They were very near. The David bent down suddenly, dropping its teddy bear. The bear raced across the ground. Automatically Hendricks's fingers tightened around the trigger. The bear was gone, dissolved into mist. The two Tasso Types moved on, expressionless, walking side by side, through the gray ash.

  When they were almost to him, Hendricks raised the pistol waist high and fired.

  The two Tassos dissolved. But already a new group was starting up the rise, five or six Tassos, all identical, a line of them coming rapidly toward him.

  And he had given her the ship and the signal code. Because of him she was on her way to the moon, to the Moon Base. He had made it possible.

  He had been right about the bomb, after all. It had been designed with knowledge of other types, the David Type and the Wounded Soldier Type. And the Klaus Type. Not designed by human beings. It had been designed by one of the underground factories, apart from all human contact.

  The line of Tassos came up to him. Hendricks braced himself, watching them calmly. The familiar face, the belt, the heavy shirt, the bomb carefully in place.

  The bomb—

  As the Tassos reached for him, a last ironic thought drifted through Hendricks's mind. He felt a little better, thinking about it. The bomb. Made by the Second Variety to destroy the other varieties. Made for that end alone.

  They were already beginning to design weapons to use against each other.

  IMPOSTER

  “One of these days I'm going to take time off,” Spence Olham said at first-meal. He looked around at his wife.“I think I've earned a rest. Ten years is a long time.”

  “And the Project?”

  “The war will be won without me. This ball of clay of ours isn't really in much danger.” Olham sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. “The ne
ws-machines alter dispatches to make it appear the Outspacers are right on top of us. You know what I'd like to do on my vacation? I'd like to take a camping trip to those mountains outside of town, where we went that time. Remember? I got poison oak and you almost stepped on a gopher snake.”

  “Sutton Wood?” Mary began to clear away the food dishes. “The Wood was burned a few weeks ago. I thought you knew. Some kind of a flash fire.”

  Olham sagged. “Didn't they even try to find the cause?” His lips twisted. “No one cares anymore. All they can think of is the war.” He clamped his jaws together, the whole picture coming up in his mind, the Outspacers, the war, the needle-ships.

  “How can we think about anything else?”

  Olham nodded. She was right, of course. The dark little ships out of Alpha Centauri had bypassed the Earth cruisers easily, leaving them like helpless turtles. It had been one-way fights, all the way back to Terra.

  All the way, until the protec-bubble was demonstrated by Westinghouse Labs. Thrown around the major Earth cities and finally the planet itself, the bubble was the first real defense, the first legitimate answer to the Outspacers—as the news-machines labeled them.

  But to win the war, that was another thing. Every lab, every project was working night and day, endlessly, to find something more: a weapon for positive combat. His own project, for example. All day long, year after year.

  Olham stood up, putting out his cigarette. “Like the Sword of Damocles. Always hanging over us. I'm getting tired. All I want to do is take a long rest. But I guess everybody feels that way.”

  He got his jacket from the closet and went out on the front porch. The shoot would be along any moment, the fast little bug that would carry him to the Project.

  “I hope Nelson isn't late.” He looked at his watch. “It's almost seven.”

  “Here the bug comes,” Mary said, gazing between the rows of houses. The sun glittered behind the roofs, reflecting against the heavy lead plates. The settlement was quiet; only a few people were stirring. “I'll see you later. Try not to work beyond your shift, Spence.”

  Olham opened the car door and slid inside, leaning back against the seat with a sigh. There was an older man with Nelson.

  “Well?” Olham said, as the bug shot ahead. “Heard any interesting news?”

  “The usual,” Nelson said. “A few Outspace ships hit, another asteroid abandoned for strategic reasons.”

  “It'll be good when we get the Project into final stage. Maybe it's just the propaganda from the news-machines, but in the last month I've gotten weary of all this. Everything seems so grim and serious, no color to life.”

  “Do you think the war is in vain?” the older man said suddenly. “You are an integral part of it, yourself.”

  “This is Major Peters,” Nelson said. Olham and Peters shook hands. Olham studied the older man.

  “What brings you along so early?” he said. “I don't remember seeing you at the Project before.”

  “No, I'm not with the Project,” Peters said, “but I know something about what you're doing. My own work is altogether different.”

  A look passed between him and Nelson. Olham noticed it and he frowned. The bug was gaining speed, flashing across the barren, lifeless ground toward the distant rim of the Project building.

  “What is your business?” Olham said. “Or aren't you permitted to talk about it?”

  “I'm with the government,” Peters said.“With FSA, the security organ.”

  “Oh?” Olham raised an eyebrow. “Is there any enemy infiltration in this region?”

  “As a matter of fact I'm here to see you, Mr. Olham.”

  Olham was puzzled. He considered Peters's words, but he could make nothing of them. “To see me? Why?”

  “I'm here to arrest you as an Outspace spy. That's why I'm up so early this morning. Grab him, Nelson—”

  The gun drove into Olham's ribs. Nelson's hands were shaking, trembling with released emotion, his face pale. He took a deep breath and let it out again.

  “Shall we kill him now?” he whispered to Peters. “I think we should kill him now. We can't wait.”

  Olham stared into his friend's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Both men were staring at him steadily, rigid and grim with fright. Olham felt dizzy. His head ached and spun.

  “I don't understand,” he murmured.

  At that moment the shoot car left the ground and rushed up, heading into space. Below them the Project fell away, smaller and smaller, disappearing. Olham shut his mouth.

  “We can wait a little,” Peters said. “I want to ask him some questions first.”

  Olham gazed dully ahead as the bug rushed through space.

  “The arrest was made all right,” Peters said into the vidscreen. On the screen the features of the security chief showed. “It should be a load off everyone's mind.”

  “Any complications?”

  “None. He entered the bug without suspicion. He didn't seem to think my presence was too unusual.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “On our way out, just inside the protec-bubble. We're moving at a maximum speed. You can assume that the critical period is past. I'm glad the takeoff jets in this craft were in good working order. If there had been any failure at that point—”

  “Let me see him,” the security chief said. He gazed directly at Olham where he sat, his hands in his lap, staring ahead.

  “So that's the man.” He looked at Olham for a time. Olham said nothing. At last the chief nodded to Peters. “All right. That's enough.” A faint trace of disgust wrinkled his features. “I've seen all I want. You've done something that will be remembered for a long time. They're preparing some sort of citation for both of you.”

  “That's not necessary,” Peters said.

  “How much danger is there now? Is there still much chance that—”

  “There is some chance, but not too much. According to my understanding it requires a verbal key phrase. In any case we'll have to take the risk.”

  “I'll have the Moon base notified you're coming.”

  “No.” Peters shook his head. “I'll land the ship outside, beyond the base. I don't want it in jeopardy.”

  “Just as you like.” The chief's eyes flickered as he glanced again at Olham. Then his image faded. The screen blanked.

  Olham shifted his gaze to the window. The ship was already through the protec-bubble, rushing with greater and greater speed all the time. Peters was in a hurry; below him, rumbling under the floor, the jets were wide open. They were afraid, hurrying frantically, because of him.

  Next to him on the seat, Nelson shifted uneasily. “I think we should do it now,” he said. “I'd give anything if we could get it over with.”

  “Take it easy,” Peters said. “l want you to guide the ship for a while so I can talk to him.”

  He slid over beside Olham, looking into his face. Presently he reached out and touched him gingerly, on the arm and then on the cheek.

  Olham said nothing. If I could let Mary know, he thought again. If I could find some way of letting her know. He looked around the ship. How? The vidscreen? Nelson was sitting by the board, holding the gun. There was nothing he could do. He was caught, trapped.

  But why?

  “Listen,” Peters said, “I want to ask you some questions. You know where we're going. We're moving Moonward. In an hour we'll land on the far side, on the desolate side. After we land you'll be turned over immediately to a team of men waiting there. Your body will be destroyed at once. Do you understand that?” He looked at his watch. “Within two hours your parts will be strewn over the landscape. There won't be anything left of you.”

  Olham struggled out of his lethargy. “Can't you tell me—”

  “Certainly, I'll tell you.” Peters nodded. “Two days ago we received a report that an Outspace ship had penetrated the protec-bubble. The ship let off a spy in the form of a humanoid robot. The robot was to destroy a particular hum
an being and take his place.”

  Peters looked calmly at Olham.

  “Inside the robot was a U-Bomb. Our agent did not know how the bomb was to be detonated, but he conjectured that it might be by a particular spoken phrase, a certain group of words. The robot would live the life of the person he killed, entering into his usual activities, his job, his social life. He had been constructed to resemble that person. No one would know the difference.”

  Olham's face went sickly chalk.

  “The person whom the robot was to impersonate was Spence Olham, a high-ranking official at one of the research Projects. Because this particular Project was approaching crucial stage, the presence of an animate bomb, moving toward the center of the Project—”

  Olham stared down at his hands. “But I'm Olham!”

  “Once the robot had located and killed Olham it was a simple matter to take over his life. The robot was probably released from the ship eight days ago. The substitution was probably accomplished over the last weekend, when Olham went for a short walk in the hills.”

  “But I'm Olham.” He turned to Nelson, sitting at the controls. “Don't you recognize me? You've known me for twenty years. Don't you remember how we went to college together?” He stood up. “You and I were at the University. We had the same room.” He went toward Nelson.

  “Stay away from me!” Nelson snarled.

  “Listen. Remember our second year? Remember that girl? What was her name—” He rubbed his forehead.“The one with the dark hair. The one we met over at Ted's place.”

  “Stop!” Nelson waved the gun frantically. “I don't want to hear any more. You killed him! You … machine.”

  Olham looked at Nelson. “You're wrong. I don't know what happened, but the robot never reached me. Something must have gone wrong. Maybe the ship crashed.” He turned to Peters. “I'm Olham. I know it. No transfer was made. I'm the same as I've always been.”

  He touched himself, running his hands over his body. “There must be some way to prove it. Take me back to Earth. An X-ray examination, a neurological study, anything like that will show you. Or maybe we can find the crashed ship.”