Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick Page 3

  The black dog lay under the porch, listening, his eyes wide and staring. His coat was stiff with hoarfrost and the breath from his nostrils made clouds of steam in the thin air. Suddenly he turned his head and leaped up.

  From far off, a long way away, a faint sound came, a kind of crashing sound.

  “Roog!” Boris cried, looking around. He hurried to the gate and stood up, his paws on top of the fence.

  In the distance the sound came again, louder now, not as far away as before. It was a crashing, clanging sound, as if something were being rolled back, as if a great door were being opened.

  “Roog!” Boris cried. He stared up anxiously at the darkened windows above him. Nothing stirred, nothing.

  And along the street the Roogs came. The Roogs and their truck moved along, bouncing against the rough stones, crashing and whirring.

  “Roog!” Boris cried, and he leaped, his eyes blazing. Then he became more calm. He settled himself down on the ground and waited, listening.

  Out in front the Roogs stopped their truck. He could hear them opening the doors, stepping down onto the sidewalk. Boris ran around in a little circle. He whined, and his muzzle turned once again toward the house.

  Inside the warm, dark bedroom, Mr. Cardossi sat up a little in bed and squinted at the clock.

  “That damn dog,” he muttered. “That damn dog.” He turned his face toward the pillow and closed his eyes.

  The Roogs were coming down the path now. The first Roog pushed against the gate and the gate opened. The Roogs came into the yard. The dog backed away from them.

  “Roog! Roog!” he cried. The horrid, bitter smell of Roogs came to his nose, and he turned away.

  “The offering urn,” the first Roog said. “It is full, I think.” He smiled at the rigid, angry dog. “How very good of you,” he said.

  The Roogs came toward the metal can, and one of them took the lid from it.

  “Roog! Roog!” Boris cried, huddled against the bottom of the porch steps. His body shook with horror. The Roogs were lifting up the big metal can, turning it on its side. The contents poured out onto the ground, and the Roogs scooped the sacks of bulging, splitting paper together, catching at the orange peels and fragments, the bits of toast and egg shells.

  One of the Roogs popped an egg shell into his mouth. His teeth crunched the egg shell.

  “Roog!” Boris cried hopelessly, almost to himself. The Roogs were almost finished with their work of gathering up the offering. They stopped for a moment, looking at Boris.

  Then, slowly, silently, the Roogs looked up, up the side of the house, along the stucco, to the window, with its brown shade pulled tightly down.

  “ROOG!” Boris screamed, and he came toward them, dancing with fury and dismay. Reluctantly, the Roogs turned away from the window. They went out through the gate, closing it behind them.

  “Look at him,” the last Roog said with contempt, pulling his corner of the blanket up on his shoulder. Boris strained against the fence, his mouth open, snapping wildly. The biggest Roog began to wave his arms furiously and Boris retreated. He settled down at the bottom of the porch steps, his mouth still open, and from the depths of him an unhappy, terrible moan issued forth, a wail of misery and despair.

  “Come on,” the other Roog said to the lingering Roog at the fence.

  They walked up the path.

  “Well, except for these little places around the Guardians, this area is well cleared,” the biggest Roog said. “I'll be glad when this particular Guardian is done. He certainly causes us a lot of trouble.”

  “Don't be impatient,” one of the Roogs said. He grinned. “Our truck is full enough as it is. Let's leave something for next week.”

  All the Roogs laughed.

  They went on up the path, carrying the offering in the dirty, sagging blanket.

  PAYCHECK

  All at once he was in motion. Around him smooth jets hummed. He was on a small private rocket cruiser, moving leisurely across the afternoon sky, between cities.

  “Ugh!” he said, sitting up in his seat and rubbing his head. Beside him Earl Rethrick was staring keenly at him, his eyes bright.

  “Coming around?”

  “Where are we?” Jennings shook his head, trying to clear the dull ache.

  “Or maybe I should ask that a different way.” Already, he could see that it was not late fall. It was spring. Below the cruiser the fields were green. The last thing he remembered was stepping into an elevator with Rethrick. And it was late fall. And in New York.

  “Yes,” Rethrick said. “It's almost two years later. You'll find a lot of things have changed. The Government fell a few months ago. The new Government is even stronger. The SP, Security Police, have almost unlimited power. They're teaching the schoolchildren to inform, now. But we all saw that coming. Let's see, what else? New York is larger. I understand they've finished filling in San Francisco Bay.”

  “What I want to know is what the hell I've been doing the last two years!” Jennings lit a cigarette nervously, pressing the strike end. “Will you tell me that?”

  “No. Of course I won't tell you that.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the New York Office. Where you first met me. Remember? You probably remember it better than I. After all, it was just a day or so ago for you.”

  Jennings nodded. Two years! Two years out of his life, gone forever. It didn't seem possible. He had still been considering, debating, when he stepped into the elevator. Should he change his mind? Even if he were getting that much money—and it was a lot, even for him—it didn't really seem worth it. He would always wonder what work he had been doing. Was it legal? Was it—But that was past speculation, now. Even while he was trying to make up his mind the curtain had fallen. He looked ruefully out the window at the afternoon sky. Below, the earth was moist and alive. Spring, spring two years later. And what did he have to show for the two years?

  “Have I been paid?” he asked. He slipped his wallet out and glanced into it. “Apparently not.”

  “No. You'll be paid at the Office. Kelly will pay you.”

  “The whole works at once?”

  “Fifty thousand credits.”

  Jennings smiled. He felt a little better, now that the sum had been spoken aloud. Maybe it wasn't so bad, after all. Almost like being paid to sleep. But he was two years older; he had just that much less to live. It was like selling part of himself, part of his life. And life was worth plenty, these days. He shrugged. Anyhow, it was in the past.

  “We're almost there,” the older man said. The robot pilot dropped the cruiser down, sinking toward the ground. The edge of New York City became visible below them. “Well, Jennings, I may never see you again.” He held out his hand. “It's been a pleasure working with you. We did work together, you know. Side by side. You're one of the best mechanics I've ever seen. We were right in hiring you, even at that salary. You paid us back many times—although you don't realize it.”

  “I'm glad you got your money's worth.”

  “You sound angry.”

  “No. I'm just trying to get used to the idea of being two years older.”

  Rethrick laughed. “You're still a very young man. And you'll feel better when she gives you your pay.”

  They stepped out onto the tiny rooftop field of the New York office building. Rethrick led him over to an elevator. As the doors slid shut Jennings got a mental shock. This was the last thing he remembered, this elevator. After that he had blacked out.

  “Kelly will be glad to see you,” Rethrick said, as they came out into a lighted hall. “She asks about you, once in a while.”

  “Why?”

  “She says you're good-looking.” Rethrick pushed a code key against a door. The door responded, swinging wide. They entered the luxurious office of Rethrick Construction. Behind a long mahogany desk a young woman was sitting, studying a report.

  “Kelly,” Rethrick said, “look whose time finally expired.”

&nb
sp; The girl looked up, smiling.“Hello, Mr. Jennings. How does it feel to be back in the world?”

  “Fine.” Jennings walked over to her.“Rethrick says you're the paymaster.”

  Rethrick clapped Jennings on the back.“So long, my friend. I'll go back to the plant. If you ever need a lot of money in a hurry come around and we'll work out another contract with you.”

  Jennings nodded. As Rethrick went back out he sat down beside the desk, crossing his legs. Kelly slid a drawer open, moving her chair back. “All right. Your time is up, so Rethrick Construction is ready to pay. Do you have your copy of the contract?”

  Jennings took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. “There it is.”

  Kelly removed a small cloth sack and some sheets of handwritten paper from the desk drawer. For a time she read over the sheets, her small face intent.

  “What is it?”

  “I think you're going to be surprised.” Kelly handed him his contract back. “Read that over again.”

  “Why?” Jennings unfastened the envelope.

  “There's an alternate clause. ‘If the party of the second part so desires, at any time during his time of contract to the aforesaid Rethrick Construction Company—'”

  “‘If he so desires, instead of the monetary sum specified, he may choose instead, according to his own wish, articles or products which, in his own opinion, are of sufficient value to stand in lieu of the sum—'”

  Jennings snatched up the cloth sack, pulling it open. He poured the contents into his palm. Kelly watched.

  “Where's Rethrick?” Jennings stood up. “If he has an idea that this—”

  “Rethrick has nothing to do with it. It was your own request. Here, look at this.” Kelly passed him the sheets of paper.“In your own hand. Read them. It was your idea, not ours. Honest.” She smiled up at him. “This happens every once in a while with people we take on contract. During their time they decide to take something else instead of money. Why, I don't know. But they come out with their minds clean, having agreed—”

  Jennings scanned the pages. It was his own writing. There was no doubt of it. His hands shook. “I can't believe it. Even if it is my own writing.” He folded up the paper, his jaw set. “Something was done to me while I was back there. I never would have agreed to this.”

  “You must have had a reason. I admit it doesn't make sense. But you don't know what factors might have persuaded you, before your mind was cleaned. You aren't the first. There have been several others before you.”

  Jennings stared down at what he held in his palm. From the cloth sack he had spilled a little assortment of items. A code key. A ticket stub. A parcel receipt. A length of fine wire. Half a poker chip, broken across. A green strip of cloth. A bus token.

  “This, instead of fifty thousand credits,” he murmured.“Two years …”

  He went out of the building, onto the busy afternoon street. He was still dazed, dazed and confused. Had he been swindled? He felt in his pocket for the little trinkets, the wire, the ticket stub, all the rest. That, for two years of work! But he had seen his own handwriting, the statement of waiver, the request for the substitution. Like Jack and the Beanstalk. Why? What for? What had made him do it?

  He turned, starting down the sidewalk. At the corner he stopped for a surface cruiser that was turning.

  “All right, Jennings. Get in.”

  His head jerked up. The door of the cruiser was open. A man was kneeling, pointing a heat-rifle straight at his face. A man in blue-green. The Security Police.

  Jennings got in. The door closed, magnetic locks slipping into place behind him. Like a vault. The cruiser glided off down the street. Jennings sank back against the seat. Beside him the SP man lowered his gun. On the other side a second officer ran his hands expertly over him, searching for weapons. He brought out Jennings's wallet and the handful of trinkets. The envelope and contract.

  “What does he have?” the driver said.

  “Wallet, money. Contract with Rethrick Construction. No weapons.” He gave Jennings back his things.

  “What's this all about?” Jennings said.

  “We want to ask you a few questions. That's all. You've been working for Rethrick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two years?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “At the Plant?”

  Jennings nodded. “I suppose so.”

  The officer leaned toward him. “Where is that Plant, Mr. Jennings? Where is it located?”

  “I don't know.”

  The two officers looked at each other. The first one moistened his lips, his face sharp and alert. “You don't know? The next question. The last. In those two years, what kind of work did you do? What was your job?”

  “Mechanic. I repaired electronic machinery.”

  “What kind of electronic machinery?”

  “I don't know.” Jennings looked up at him. He could not help smiling, his lips twisting ironically. “I'm sorry, but I don't know. It's the truth.”

  There was silence.

  “What do you mean, you don't know? You mean you worked on machinery for two years without knowing what it was? Without even knowing where you were?”

  Jennings roused himself. “What is all this? What did you pick me up for? I haven't done anything. I've been—”

  “We know. We're not arresting you. We only want to get information for our records. About Rethrick Construction. You've been working for them, in their Plant. In an important capacity. You're an electronic mechanic?”

  “Yes.”

  “You repair high-quality computers and allied equipment?” The officer consulted his notebook. “You're considered one of the best in the country, according to this.”

  Jennings said nothing.

  “Tell us the two things we want to know, and you'll be released at once. Where is Rethrick's Plant? What kind of work are they doing? You serviced their machines for them, didn't you? Isn't that right? For two years.”

  “I don't know. I suppose so. I don't have any idea what I did during the two years. You can believe me or not.” Jennings stared wearily down at the floor.

  “What'll we do?” the driver said finally. “We have no instructions past this.”

  “Take him to the station. We can't do any more questioning here.” Beyond the cruiser, men and women hurried along the sidewalk. The streets were choked with cruisers, workers going to their homes in the country.

  “Jennings, why don't you answer us? What's the matter with you? There's no reason why you can't tell us a couple of simple things like that. Don't you want to cooperate with your Government? Why should you conceal information from us?”

  “I'd tell you if I knew.”

  The officer grunted. No one spoke. Presently the cruiser drew up before a great stone building. The driver turned the motor off, removing the control cap and putting it in his pocket. He touched the door with a code key, releasing the magnetic lock.

  “What shall we do, take him in? Actually, we don't—”

  “Wait.” The driver stepped out. The other two went with him, closing and locking the doors behind them. They stood on the pavement before the Security Station, talking.

  Jennings sat silently, staring down at the floor. The SP wanted to know about Rethrick Construction. Well, there was nothing he could tell them. They had come to the wrong person, but how could he prove that? The whole thing was impossible. Two years wiped clean from his mind. Who would believe him? It seemed unbelievable to him, too.

  His mind wandered, back to when he had first read the ad. It had hit home, hit him direct. Mechanic wanted, and a general outline of the work, vague, indirect, but enough to tell him that it was right up his line. And the pay! Interviews at the Office. Tests, forms. And then the gradual realization that Rethrick Construction was finding all about him while he knew nothing about them. What kind of work did they do? Construction, but what kind? What sort of machines did they have? Fifty thousand credits for two ye
ars …

  And he had come out with his mind washed clean. Two years, and he remembered nothing. It took him a long time to agree to that part of the contract. But he had agreed.

  Jennings looked out the window. The three officers were still talking on the sidewalk, trying to decide what to do with him. He was in a tough spot. They wanted information he couldn't give, information he didn't know. But how could he prove it? How could he prove that he had worked two years and come out knowing no more than when he had gone in! The SP would work him over. It would be a long time before they'd believe him, and by that time—

  He glanced quickly around. Was there any escape? In a second they would be back. He touched the door. Locked, the triple-ring magnetic locks. He had worked on magnetic locks many times. He had even designed part of a trigger core. There was no way to open the doors without the right code key. No way, unless by some chance he could short out the lock. But with what?

  He felt in his pockets. What could he use? If he could short the locks, blow them out, there was a faint chance. Outside, men and women were swarming by, on their way home from work. It was past five; the great office buildings were shutting down, the streets were alive with traffic. If he once got out they wouldn't dare fire. —If he could get out.

  The three officers separated. One went up the steps into the Station building. In a second the others would reenter the cruiser. Jennings dug into his pocket, bringing out the code key, the ticket stub, the wire. The wire! Thin wire, thin as human hair. Was it insulated? He unwound it quickly. No.

  He knelt down, running his fingers expertly across the surface of the door. At the edge of the lock was a thin line, a groove between the lock and the door. He brought the end of the wire up to it, delicately maneuvering the wire into the almost invisible space. The wire disappeared an inch or so. Sweat rolled down Jennings' forehead. He moved the wire a fraction of an inch, twisting it. He held his breath. The relay should be—

  A flash.

  Half blinded, he threw his weight against the door. The door fell open, the lock fused and smoking. Jennings tumbled into the street and leaped to his feet. Cruisers were all around him, honking and sweeping past. He ducked behind a lumbering truck, entering the middle lane of traffic. On the sidewalk he caught a momentary glimpse of the SP men starting after him.