Dr. Pacemaker touched command-request buttons on the console of the vast computer, asking it: WHO ARE YOU?
The answer appeared on the vidscreen at once.
TOM SAWYER
"You see?" Doubledome said. "It is totally out of touch with the reality situation. Has reactivation of Ms. Simpson begun?"
"That's affirmative, Doubledome," Pacemaker said. And, as if proving him correct, doors slid aside to reveal the lead-lined container in which Ms. Simpson slept, listening to her favorite daytime soap opera, Ma Perkins.
"Ms. Simpson," Pacemaker said, bending over her. "We are having a problem with Mr. Computer again. It has totally spaced out. An hour ago it routed all the whipples in New York across the same intersection. Loss of life was heavy. And instead of responding to the disaster with fire and police rescue teams it dispatched a circus troop of clowns."
"I see," Ms. Simpson's voice came through the transduction and boosting system by which they communicated with her. "But first, I must attend to a fire at Ma's lumber yard. You see, her friend Shuffle -"
"Ms. Simpson," Pacemaker said, "our situation is grave. We need you. Come out of your customary fog and get to work restoring Mr. Computer to sanity. Then you may return to your radio serials."
Gazing down at Ms. Simpson he was, as always, startled by her virtually unnatural beauty. Great dark eyes with long lashes, the husky, sensuous voice, the intensely black short-cropped hair (so fashionable in a world of dreck!), the firm and supple body, the warm mouth suggesting love and comfort – amazing, he thought, that the one really sane human left on earth (and the only one capable of saving same) could at the same time be startlingly lovely.
But no matter; this was not the time to think such thoughts. NBC TV news had already reported that Mr. Computer had closed down all the airports in the world and turned them into baseball stadiums.
Shortly, Ms. Simpson was studying a composite abstract delineating Mr. Computer's erratic commands.
"It is clearly regressive," she informed them, sipping absently at a cup of coffee.
"Ms. Simpson," Doubledome said, "I'm afraid that's soapy water you're drinking."
"You're right," Ms. Simpson said, putting the cup down. "I see here that Mr. Computer is playing childish pranks on the mass of mankind. It fits with my hypostatized hypothesis."
"How will you render a return of normalcy to the vast construct?" Pacemaker asked.
"Evidently it encountered a traumatic situation which caused it to regress," Ms. Simpson said. "I shall locate the trauma and then proceed by desensitizing Mr. Computer vis-a-vis that trauma. My M.O. in that regard will be to present Mr. Computer with each letter of the alphabet in turn, gauging its reactions until I perceive what we in the mental health movement call a flinch reaction."
She did so. Mr. Computer, upon the letter J, emitted a faint whine; smoke billowed up. Ms. Simpson then repeated the sequence of letters. This time the faint whine and billows of smoke came at the letter C.
"J.C.," Ms. Simpson said. "Perhaps Jesus Christ. Perhaps the Second Coming has taken place, and Mr. Computer fears that it will be pre-empted. I will start on that assumption. Have Mr. Computer placed in a semi-comatose state so that it can free associate."
Technicians hurried to the task assigned.
The virtually unconscious mumbling of the great computer issued forth from the aud channels mounted through the control chamber.
"… programming himself to die," the computer rambled on. "Fine person like that. DNA command analysis. Going to ask not for a reprieve but for an acceleration of the death process. Salmon swimming upstream to die… appeals to him… after all I've done for him. Rejection of life. Conscious of it. Wants to die. I cannot endure the voluntary death, the reprogramming 180 degrees from the matrix purpose of DNA command programming…" On and on it rambled.
Ms. Simpson said sharply, "What name comes to you, Mr. Computer? A name!"
"Clerk in a record store," the computer mumbled. "An authority on German Lieder and bubblegum rock of the '60s. What a waste. My but the water is warm. Think I'll fish. Let down my line and catch a big catfish. Won't Huck be surprised, and Jim, too! Jim's a man even though -"
"What name?" Ms. Simpson repeated.
The vague mumble continued.
Swiftly, Ms. Simpson said to Doubledome and Pacemaker, who stood rigid and attentive, "Find a record clerk whose initials are J.C. and who is an authority on German Lieder and bubblegum rock of the '60s. And hurry! We don't have much time!''
Having left his conapt by a window, Joe Contemptible made his way among wrecked whipples and shouting, angry drivers in the direction of Artistic Music Company, the record store at which he had worked most of his life. At least he had gotten out of -
Suddenly two gray-clad police materialized before him, faces grim; both held punch-guns aimed at Joe's chest. "You're coming with us," they said, virtually in unison.
The urge to run overcame Joe; turning, he started away. But then furious pain settled over him; the police had punched him out, and now, falling, he realized that it was too late to flee. He was a captive of the authorities. But why? he wondered. Is it merely a random sweep? Or are they putting down an abortive coup against the government? Or – his fading thoughts raced – have ETIs come at last to help us in our fight for freedom? And then darkness closed over him, merciful darkness.
The next he knew, he was being served a cup of soapy water by two members of the technocrat class; an armed policeman lounged in the background, punch-gun ready were the situation to require it.
Seated in the corner of the chamber was an extraordinarily beautiful dark-haired woman; she wore a miniskirt and boots – old-fashioned but enticingly foxy – and, he saw, she had the most enormous and warm eyes he had ever seen in his life. Who was she? And – what did she want with him? Why had he been brought before her?
"Your name," one of the white-clad technocrats said.
"Contemptible," he managed to say, unable to take his eyes off the extraordinarily beautiful young woman.
"You have an appointment with DNA Reappraisal," the other of the white-clad technocrats said crisply. "What is your purpose? What ukase emanating from the gene pool do you intend – did you intend, I should say – to alter?"
Joe said lamely, "I – wanted to be reprogrammed for… you know. Longer life. The encoding for death was about to come up for me, and I -"
"We know that isn't true," the lovely dark-haired woman said in a husky, sexy voice, but a voice nonetheless filled with intelligence and authority. "You were attempting suicide, were you not, Mr. Contemptible, by having your DNA coding tinkered with, not to postpone your death, but to bring it on?"
He said nothing. Obviously, they knew.
"WHY?" the woman said sharply.
"I -" He hesitated. Then, slumping in defeat he managed to say, "I'm not married. I've got no wife. Nothing. Just my damn job at the record store. All those damn German songs and those bubblegum rock lyrics; they go through my head night and day, constantly, mixtures of Goethe and Heine and Neil Diamond." Lifting his head he said with furious defiance, "So why should I live on? Call that living? It's existence, not living."
There was silence.
Three frogs hopped across the floor. Mr. Computer was now turning out frogs from all the airducts on earth. Half an hour before, it had been dead cats.
"Do you know what it is like," Joe said quietly, "to have such lyrics as 'The song I sang to you / The love I brang to you' keep floating through your head?"
The dark-haired lovely woman said, suddenly, "I think I do know, Contemptible. You see, I am Joan Simpson."
"Then -" Joe understood in an instant. "You're down there at the center of the earth watching endless daytime soap operas! On a closed loop!"
"Not watching," Joan Simpson said. "Hearing. They're from radio, not TV."
Joe said nothing. There was nothing to say.
One of the white-clad technocrats said, "Ms. Simpson, work must begin r
estoring Mr. Computer to sanity. It is presently turning out hundreds of thousands of Pollys."
" 'Pollys'?" Joan Simpson said, puzzled; then understanding flooded her warm features. "Oh yes. His childhood sweetheart."
"Mr. Contemptible," one of the white-clad technocrats said to Joe, "it is because of your lack of love for life that Mr. Computer has gone crackers. To bring Mr. Computer back to sanity we must first bring you back to sanity." To Joan Simpson, he said, "Am I correct?"
She nodded, lit a cigarette, leaned back thoughtfully. "Well?" she said presently. "What would it take to reprogram you, Joe? So you'd want to live instead of die? Mr. Computer's abreactive syndrome is directly related to your own. Mr. Computer feels it has failed the world because, in examining a cross index of humans whom it cares for, it has found that you -"
" 'Cares for'?" Joe Contemptible said. "You mean Mr. Computer likes me?"
"Takes care of," one of the white-clad technocrats explained.
"Wait." Joan Simpson scrutinized Joe Contemptible. "You reacted to that phrase 'cares for.' What did you think it meant?"
He said, with difficulty, "Likes me. Cares for in that sense."
"Let me ask you this," Joan Simpson said, presently, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another. "Do you feel that no one cares for you, Joe?"
"That's what my mother said," Joe Contemptible said.
"And you believed her?" Joan Simpson said.
"Yes." He nodded.
Suddenly Joan Simpson put out her cigarette. "Well, Doubledome," she said in a quiet, brisk voice. "There aren't going to be any more radio soap operas nattering at me any more. I'm not going back down to the center of the earth. It's over, gentlemen. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."
"You're going to leave Mr. Computer insane as -"
"I will heal Mr. Computer," Joan Simpson said in an even voice, "by healing Joe. And -" A slight smile played about her lips. "And myself, gentlemen."
There was silence.
"All right," one of the two white-clad technicians said presently. "We will send you both down to the center of the earth. And you can rattle on at each other throughout eternity. Except when it is necessary to lift you out of Dismal Pak to heal Mr. Computer. Is that a fair trade-off?"
"Wait," Joe Contemptible said feebly, but already Ms. Simpson was nodding.
"It is," she said.
"What about my conapt?" Joe protested. "My job? My wretched little pointless life as I am normally accustomed to living it?"
Joan Simpson said, "That is already changing, Joe. You have already encountered me."
"But I thought you would be old and ugly!" Joe said. "I had no idea -"
"The universe is full of surprises," Joan Simpson said, and held out her waiting arms for him.
The Exit Door Leads In
Bob Bibleman had the impression that robots wouldn't look you in the eye. And when one had been in the vicinity small valuable objects disappeared. A robot's idea of order was to stack everything into one pile. Nonetheless, Bibleman had to order lunch from robots, since vending ranked too low on the wage scale to attract humans.
"A hamburger, fries, strawberry shake, and -" Bibleman paused, reading the printout. "Make that a supreme double cheeseburger, fries, a chocolate malt -"
"Wait a minute," the robot said. "I'm already working on the burger. You want to buy into this week's contest while you're waiting?"
"I don't get the royal cheeseburger," Bibleman said.
"That's right."
It was hell living in the twenty-first century. Information transfer had reached the velocity of light. Bibleman's older brother had once fed a ten-word plot outline into a robot fiction machine, changed his mind as to the outcome, and found that the novel was already in print. He had had to program a sequel in order to make his correction.
"What's the prize structure in the contest?" Bibleman asked.
At once the printout posted all the odds, from first prize down to last. Naturally, the robot blanked out the display before Bibleman could read it.
"What is first prize?" Bibleman said.
"I can't tell you that," the robot said. From its slot came a hamburger, french fries, and a strawberry shake. "That'll be one thousand dollars in cash."
"Give me a hint," Bibleman said as he paid.
"It's everywhere and nowhere. It's existed since the seventeenth century. Originally it was invisible. Then it became royal. You can't get it unless you're smart, although cheating helps and so does being rich. What does the word 'heavy' suggest to you?"
"Profound."
"No, the literal meaning."
"Mass." Bibleman pondered. "What is this, a contest to see who can figure out what the prize is? I give up."
"Pay the six dollars," the robot said, "to cover our costs, and you'll receive an -"
"Gravity," Bibleman broke in. "Sir Isaac Newton. The Royal College of England. Am I right?"
"Right," the robot said. "Six dollars entitles you to a chance to go to college – a statistical chance, at the posted odds. What's six dollars? Prat-fare."
Bibleman handed over a six-dollar coin.
"You win," the robot said. "You get to go to college. You beat the odds, which were two trillion to one against. Let me be the first to congratulate you. If I had a hand, I'd shake hands with you. This will change your life. This has been your lucky day."
"It's a setup," Bibleman said, feeling a rush of anxiety.
"You're right," the robot said, and it looked Bibleman right in the eye. "It's also mandatory that you accept your prize. The college is a military college located in Buttfuck, Egypt, so to speak. But that's no problem; you'll be taken there. Go home and start packing."
"Can't I eat my hamburger and drink -"
"I'd suggest you start packing right away."
Behind Bibleman a man and woman had lined up; reflexively he got out of their way, trying to hold on to his tray of food, feeling dizzy.
"A charbroiled steak sandwich," the man said, "onion rings, root beer, and that's it."
The robot said, "Care to buy into the contest? Terrific prizes." It flashed the odds on its display panel.
When Bob Bibleman unlocked the door of his one-room apartment, his telephone was on. It was looking for him.
"There you are," the telephone said.
"I'm not going to do it," Bibleman said.
"Sure you are," the phone said. "Do you know who this is? Read over your certificate, your first-prize legal form. You hold the rank of shavetail. I'm Major Casals. You're under my jurisdiction. If I tell you to piss purple, you'll piss purple. How soon can you be on a transplan rocket? Do you have friends you want to say goodbye to? A sweetheart, perhaps? Your mother?"
"Am I coming back?" Bibleman said with anger. "I mean, who are we fighting, this college? For that matter, what college is it? Who is on the faculty? Is it a liberal arts college or does it specialize in the hard sciences? Is it government-sponsored? Does it offer -"
"Just calm down," Major Casals said quietly.
Bibleman seated himself. He discovered that his hands were shaking. To himself he thought, I was born in the wrong century. A hundred years ago this wouldn't have happened and a hundred years from now it will be illegal. What I need is a lawyer.
His life had been a quiet one. He had, over the years, advanced to the modest position of floating-home salesman. For a man twenty-two years old, that wasn't bad. He almost owned his one-room apartment; that is, he rented with an option to buy. It was a small life, as lives went; he did not ask too much and he did not complain – normally – at what he received. Although he did not understand the tax structure that cut through his income, he accepted it; he accepted a modified state of penury the same way he accepted it when a girl would not go to bed with him. In a sense this defined him; this was his measure. He submitted to what he did not like, and he regarded this attitude as a virtue. Most people in authority over him considered him a good person. As to those over whom he had authorit
y, that was a class with zero members. His boss at Cloud Nine Homes told him what to do and his customers, really, told him what to do. The government told everyone what to do, or so he assumed. He had very few dealings with the government. That was neither a virtue nor a vice; it was simply good luck.
Once he had experienced vague dreams. They had to do with giving to the poor. In high school he had read Charles Dickens and a vivid idea of the oppressed had fixed itself in his mind to the point where he could see them: all those who did not have a one-room apartment and a job and a high school education. Certain vague place names had floated through his head, gleaned from TV, places like India, where heavy-duty machinery swept up the dying. Once a teaching machine had told him, You have a good heart. That amazed him – not that a machine would say so, but that it would say it to him. A girl had told him the same thing. He marveled at this. Vast forces colluding to tell him that he was not a bad person! It was a mystery and a delight.
But those days had passed. He no longer read novels, and the girl had been transferred to Frankfurt. Now he had been set up by a robot, a cheap machine, to shovel shit in the boonies, dragooned by a mechanical scam that was probably pulling citizens off the streets in record numbers. This was not a college he was going to; he had won nothing. He had won a stint at some kind of forced-labor camp, most likely. The exit door leads in, he thought to himself. Which is to say, when they want you they already have you; all they need is the paperwork. And a computer can process the forms at the touch of a key. The H key for hell and the S key for slave, he thought. And the Y key for you.
Don't forget your toothbrush, he thought. You may need it.
On the phone screen Major Casals regarded him, as if silently estimating the chances that Bob Bibleman might bolt. Two trillion to one I will, Bibleman thought. But the one will win, as in the contest; I'll do what I'm told.
"Please," Bibleman said, "let me ask you one thing, and give me an honest answer."
"Of course," Major Casals said.
"If I hadn't gone up to that Earl's Senior robot and -"
The Complete Stories of Philip K. Dick Vol. 5: The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Stories Page 40