Galactic Pot-Healer Read online

  Let us go, Joe thought. That ever yet remains.

  “Yes!” others of them dinned. “Release us!”

  Glimmung hesitated; Joe felt her conflicting thoughts ebb back and forth. No, she thought. Because of you I have great authority; if I release you I will sink again, dwindle into smallness.

  You must, Joe thought. That was our compact.

  True, Glimmung thought. But you have so much to gain as portions of me. We can function for a thousand years, and none of us will be alone.

  “A vote,” Mali Yojez said.

  Yes, Glimmung thought. A vote among you, to see who wishes to remain within me and who chooses to separate into an individual entity.

  I’ll stay, Nurb K’ohl Dáq thought.

  So will I, the quasiarachnid thought.

  The vote continued; Joe listened to them, some of them electing to remain, some of them electing to break free. I want to be released, he said, when his time came to vote. At this Glimmung shuddered with dismay. Joe Fernwright, Glimmung thought. You are the best of them; won’t you remain?

  No, Joe thought.

  He walked a shadowy shore with dark shapes looming, a dense and permanent swamp somewhere in the wilds of Plowman’s Planet. How long had he been here? He did not know. Sometime before, he had been within Glimmung, and now he trudged painfully, the sharp sand lancing his feet as he struggled on.

  Am I alone? he wondered. Halting, he peered into the twilight, trying to make out another life-form in his proximity.

  The multilegged gastropod wriggled toward him. “I left with you,” the gastropod said.

  “Anyone else?” Joe asked.

  The gastropod said, “In the final vote only the two of us. All the others remained. I consider it incredible, but it is so—they remained.”

  “Including Mali Yojez?”

  “Yes,” the gastropod said.

  So that was that. He felt the weight of centuries on him; the task of raising the cathedral and now the loss of Mali were too much. “Do you know where we are?” he asked the gastropod. “I can’t walk much farther.”

  “Neither can I,” the gastropod said. “But there is a light to the north; I have drawn a paralactic fix on it and we are peregrinating in that direction. In another hour we should reach it, if I have computed our velocity correctly.”

  “I can’t see the light,” Joe said.

  “My vision is superior to yours. You will see it in another twenty minutes. It winks almost out; it is very fragile. Probably a spiddle colony, I would guess.”

  “Spiddles,” Joe said. “Are we going to live the rest of our life with spiddles? Is that how we wind up after leaving all the others and Glimmung?”

  The gastropod said, “From there we can go by hovercar to the Olympia Hotel, where our possessions can be found. And then we can return to our own planets. We did a good job; we did what we came here for. We should rejoice.”

  “Yes,” Joe said somberly. “We should rejoice.”

  “It was a great feat,” the gastropod insisted. “You can see that the legends which maintain that Faust must fail are not only false in relation to reality, but in addition—”

  “Let’s talk about it,” Joe broke in, “when we get back to the Olympia Hotel.” He trudged on. After a moment of hesitation the multilegged creature followed after him.

  “Is it very bad on your planet?” the gastropod inquired. “On Earth, as you call it?”

  “‘On Earth,’” Joe said. “As it is in heaven.”

  “It is bad, then.”

  “Yes,” Joe said.

  The gastropod said, “Why don’t you come with me to my world? I can get you a task…you’re a pot-healer, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” Joe said.

  “We have many ceramics on Betelgeuse two,” the gastropod said. “Your services would be in great demand.”

  “Mali,” he said, half to himself.

  Perceptively, the gastropod said, “I understand. But she’s not coming; she’s staying within Glimmung. Because, like the others, she is afraid to return to failure.”

  “I think I’ll go to her planet,” Joe said. “From what she said about it—” He ceased speaking, continued to trudge. “Anyhow,” he said presently, “it would be better than Earth.” And, he thought, I’d still be among humanoids. Maybe, he thought, I’ll meet someone like Mali there. There is at least a chance.

  In silence, the two of them continued on. Toward the far-off spiddle colony which, with each exhausted, halting, meager step, grew nearer.

  “You know what I think your problem is?” the gastropod said. “I think you ought to create a new pot, rather than merely patching up old ones.”

  “But,” Joe said, “my father was a pot-healer before me.”

  “Observe the success of Glimmung’s aspirations. Emulate him, who in his Undertaking fought and destroyed the Book of the Kalends and thus the tyrannic rule of fate itself. Be creative. Work against fate. Try.”

  Joe said, “‘Try.’” He had never thought about it, a new pot of his own creation. Technically, he knew how; he understood exactly how a ceramic piece was made.

  “In the workshop Glimmung provided you,” the gastropod said. “You have all the equipment and materials. With your knowledge and ability it should be a good pot.”

  “Okay,” Joe said harshly. “Okay I will. I’ll try.”

  In the new, gleaming workshop he stood, the overhead lights flooding down on him. He studied the major workbench, the three sets of waldoes, the self-focusing magnifying glasses, the ten separate heat-needles, and—every glaze: every tint, shade, and hue. The weightless area; he inspected that. The kiln. Jars of wet clay. And the potter’s wheel, electrically driven.

  Hope welled up within him. He had all he needed. Wheel, clay, glazes, kiln.

  Opening a jar he got out of it a dripping lump of gray clay; he carried the clay to the potter’s wheel, started it turning, and plopped the clay down dead center. And on my first try, he said to himself, feeling pleased. Using his strong thumbs he began to dig into the lump, meanwhile, with his fingers, drawing the lump into something high. And virtually symmetric. Higher and higher the mound grew, and deeper and deeper his thumbs sank into it, hollowing out the center.

  At last it was done.

  He dried the clay in an infrared oven and then, taking a simple glaze, he ornamented the pot. One more color? He selected a second glaze, and that was enough. Time to go into the kiln.

  He placed it in the already hot kiln, bolted the door, and seated himself at the workbench to wait. He had plenty of time. A lifetime, if necessary.

  An hour later the kiln’s timer pinged. The kiln had shut off; the pot was done.

  With an asbestos glove, he tremblingly reached into the still-hot kiln and brought out the tall, now blue-and-white pot. His first pot. Taking it to a table, under direct light, he set it down and took a good look at it. He professionally appraised its artistic worth. He appraised what he had done, and, within it, what he would do, what later pots would be like, the future of them lying before him. And his justification, in a sense, for leaving Glimmung and all the others. Mali most of all. Mali whom he loved.

  The pot was awful.

  First Vintage Books Edition, June 1994

  Copyright © 1969 by Philip K. Dick

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

  Conventions.

  Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random

  House, Inc., New York.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dick, Philip K.

  Galactic pot-healer / Philip K. Dick.—1st Vintage Books ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-49561-7

  I. Title.

  PS3554.I3G29 1994

  813′.54—dc20 93-42195

  CIP

  v3.0

    (Series: # )