The Complete Stories of Philip K. Dick Vol. 5: The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Stories

by Philip K. Dick

  "Just sick of listening to how the earth rests on the back of a giant turtle."

  "Or is suspended on a long string," Mary said. Together they made their way among the other students to an empty table. "You're not eating much."

  "Feeling like eating," Bibleman said as he drank his cup of coffee, "is what got me here in the first place."

  "You could flunk out."

  "And go to jail."

  Mary said, "The College is programmed to say that. Much of it is probably just threats. Talk loudly and carry a small stick, so to speak."

  "I have it," Bibleman said.

  "You have what?" She ceased eating and regarded him.

  He said, "The Panther Engine."

  Gazing at him, the girl was silent.

  "The schematics," he said.

  "Lower your goddam voice."

  "They missed a citation in the memory storage. Now that I have them I don't know what to do. Just start walking, probably. And hope no one stops me.

  "They don't know? The College didn't self-monitor?"

  "I have no reason to think it's aware of what it did."

  "Jesus Christ," Mary said softly. "On your first day. You had better do a lot of slow, careful thinking."

  "I can destroy them," he said. "Or sell them."

  He said, "I looked them over. There's an analysis on the final page. The Panther -"

  "Just say it," Mary said.

  "It can be used as a hydroelectric turbine and cut costs in half. I couldn't understand the technical language, but I did figure out that. Cheap power source. Very cheap."

  "So everyone would benefit."

  He nodded.

  "They really screwed up," Mary said. "What was it Casals told us? 'Even if someone fed data into the College about the – about it, the College would eject the data.' " She began eating slowly, meditatively. "And they're withholding it from the public. It must be industry pressure. Nice."

  "What should I do?" Bibleman said.

  "I can't tell you that."

  "What I was thinking is that I could take the schematics to one of the colony planets where the authorities have less control. I could find an independent firm and make a deal with them. The government wouldn't know how -"

  "They'd figure out where the schematics came from," Mary said. "They'd trace it back to you."

  "Then I better burn them."

  Mary said, "You have a very difficult decision to make. On the one hand, you have classified information in your possession which you obtained illegally. On the other -"

  "I didn't obtain it illegally. The College screwed up."

  Calmly, she continued, "You broke the law, military law, when you asked for a written transcript. You should have reported the breach of security as soon as you discovered it. They would have rewarded you. Major Casals would have said nice things to you."

  "I'm scared," Bibleman said, and he felt the fear moving around inside him, shifting about and growing; as he held his plastic coffee cup it shook, and some of the coffee spilled onto his uniform.

  Mary, with a paper napkin, dabbed at the coffee stain.

  "I won't come off," she said.

  "Symbolism," Bibleman said. "Lady Macbeth. I always wanted to have a dog named Spot so I could say, 'Out, out, damned Spot.' "

  "I am not going to tell you what to do," Mary said. "This is a decision that you will make alone. It isn't ethical for you even to discuss it with me; that could be considered conspiracy and put us both in prison."

  "Prison," he echoed.

  "You have it within your – Christ, I was going to say, 'You have it within your power to provide a cheap power source to human civilization.' " She laughed and shook her head. "I guess this scares me, too. Do what you think is right. If you think it's right to publish the schematics -"

  "I never thought of that. Just publish them. Some magazine or newspaper. A slave printing construct could print it and distribute it all over the solar system in fifteen minutes." All I have to do, he realized, is pay the fee and then feed in the three pages of schematics. As simple as that. And then spend the rest of my life in jail or anyhow in court. Maybe the adjudication would go in my favor. There are precedents in history where vital classified material – military classified material – was stolen and published, and not only was the person found innocent but we now realize that he was a hero; he served the welfare of the human race itself, and risked his life.

  Approaching their table, two armed military security guards closed in on Bob Bibleman; he stared at them, not believing what he saw but thinking, Believe it.

  "Student Bibleman?" one of them said.

  "It's on my uniform," Bibleman said.

  "Hold out your hands, Student Bibleman." The larger of the two security guards snapped handcuffs on him.

  Mary said nothing; she continued slowly eating.

  In Major Casal's office Bibleman waited, grasping the fact that he was being – as the technical term had it – "detained." He felt glum. He wondered what they would do. He wondered if he had been set up. He wondered what he would do if he were charged. He wondered why it was taking so long. And then he wondered what it was all about really and he wondered whether he would understand the grand issues if he continued with his courses in COSMOLOGY COSMOGONY PRE-SOCRATICS.

  Entering the office, Major Casals said briskly, "Sorry to keep you waiting."

  "Can these handcuffs be removed?" Bibleman said. They hurt his wrists; they had been clapped on to him as tightly as possible. His bone structure ached.

  "We couldn't find the schematics," Casals said, seating himself behind his desk.

  "What schematics?"

  "For the Panther Engine."

  "There aren't supposed to be any schematics for the Panther Engine. You told us that in orientation."

  "Did you program your terminal for that deliberately? Or did it just happen to come up?"

  "My terminal programmed itself to talk about water," Bibleman said. "The universe is composed of water."

  "It automatically notified security when you asked for a written transcript. All written transcripts are monitored."

  "Fuck you," Bibleman said.

  Major Casals said, "I tell you what. We're only interested in getting the schematics back; we're not interested in putting you in the slam. Return them and you won't be tried."

  "Return what?" Bibleman said, but he knew it was a waste of time. "Can I think it over?"

  "Yes."

  "Can I go? I feel like going to sleep. I'm tired. I feel like having these cuffs off."

  Removing the cuffs, Major Casals said, "We made an agreement, with all of you, an agreement between the College and the students, about classified material. You entered into that agreement."

  "Freely?" Bibleman said.

  "Well, no. But the agreement was known to you. When you discovered the schematics for the Panther Engine encoded in the College's memory and available to anyone who happened for any reason, any reason whatsoever, to ask for a practical application of pre-Socratic -"

  "I was as surprised as hell," Bibleman said. "I still am."

  "Loyalty is an ethical principle. I'll tell you what; I'll waive the punishment factor and put it on the basis of loyalty to the College. A responsible person obeys laws and agreements entered into. Return the schematics and you can continue your courses here at the College. In fact, we'll give you permission to select what subjects you want; they won't be assigned to you. I think you're good college material. Think it over and report back to me tomorrow morning, between eight and nine, here in my office. Don't talk to anyone; don't try to discuss it. You'll be watched. Don't try to leave the grounds. Okay?"

  "Okay," Bibleman said woodenly.

  He dreamed that night that he had died. In his dream vast spaces stretched out, and his father was coming toward him, very slowly, out of a dark glade and into the sunlight. His father seemed glad to see him, and Bibleman felt his father's love.

  When he awoke, the feeling of bei
ng loved by his father remained. As he put on his uniform, he thought about his father and how rarely, in actual life, he had gotten that love. It made him feel lonely, now, his father being dead and his mother as well. Killed in a nuclear-power accident, along with a whole lot of other people

  They say someone important to you waits for you on the other side, he thought. Maybe by the time I die Major Casals will be dead and he will be waiting for me, to greet me gladly. Major Casals and my father combined as one.

  What am I going to do? he asked himself. They have waived the punitive aspects; it's reduced to essentials, a matter of loyalty. Am I a loyal person? Do I qualify?

  The hell with it, he said to himself. He looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. My father would be proud of me, he thought. For what I am going to do.

  Going into the laundry room, he scoped out the situation. No robots in sight. He dug down in the pile of bed sheets, found the pages of schematics, took them out, looked them over, and headed for the tube that would take him to Major Casal's office.

  "You have them," Casals said as Bibleman entered. Bibleman handed the three sheets of paper over to him.

  "And you made no other copies?" Casals asked.

  "No."

  "You give me your word of honor?"

  "Yes," Bibleman said.

  "You are herewith expelled from the College," Major Casals said.

  "What?" Bibleman said.

  Casals pressed a button on his desk. "Come in."

  The door opened and Mary Lorne stood there.

  "I do not represent the College," Major Casals said to Bibleman. "You were set up."

  "I am the College," Mary said.

  Major Casals said, "Sit down, Bibleman. She will explain it to you before you leave."

  "I failed?" Bibleman said.

  "You failed me," Mary said. "The purpose of the test was to teach you to stand on your own feet, even if it meant challenging authority. The covert message of institutions is: 'Submit to that which you psychologically construe as an authority.' A good school trains the whole person; it isn't a matter of data and information; I was trying to make you morally and psychologically complete. But a person can't be commanded to disobey. You can't order someone to rebel. All I could do was give you a model, an example."

  Bibleman thought, When she talked back to Casals at the initial orientation. He felt numb.

  "The Panther Engine is worthless," Mary said, "as a technological artifact. This is a standard test we use on each student, no matter what study course he is assigned."

  "They all got a readout on the Panther Engine?" Bibleman said with disbelief. He stared at the girl.

  "They will, one by one. Yours came very quickly. First you are told that it is classified; you are told the penalty for releasing classified information; then you are leaked the information. It is hoped that you will make it public or at least try to make it public."

  Major Casals said, "You saw on the third page of the printout that the engine supplied an economical source of hydroelectric power. That was important. You knew that the public would benefit if the engine design was released."

  "And legal penalties were waived," Mary said. "So what you did was not done out of fear."

  "Loyalty," Bibleman said. "I did it out of loyalty."

  "To what?" Mary said.

  He was silent; he could not think.

  "To a holoscreen?" Major Casals said.

  "To you," Bibleman said.

  Major Casals said, "I am someone who insulted you and derided you. Someone who treated you like dirt. I told you that if I ordered you to piss purple, you -"

  "Okay," Bibleman said. "Enough."

  "Goodbye," Mary said.

  "What?" Bibleman said, startled.

  "You're leaving. You're going back to your life and job, what you had before we picked you."

  Bibleman said, "I'd like another chance."

  "But," Mary said, "you know how the test works now. So it can never be given to you again. You know what is really wanted from you by the College. I'm sorry."

  "I'm sorry, too," Major Casals said.

  Bibleman said nothing.

  Holding out her hand, Mary said, "Shake?"

  Blindly, Bibleman shook hands with her. Major Casals only stared at him blankly; he did not offer his hand. He seemed to be engrossed in some other topic, perhaps some other person. Another student was on his mind, perhaps. Bibleman could not tell.

  Three nights later, as he wandered aimlessly through the mixture of lights and darkness of the city, Bob Bibleman saw ahead of him a robot food vendor at its eternal post. A teenage boy was in the process of buying a taco and an apple turnover. Bob Bibleman lined up behind the boy and stood waiting, his hands in his pockets, no thoughts coming to him, only a dull feeling, a sense of emptiness. As if the inattention which he had seen on Casal's face had taken him over, he thought to himself. He felt like an object, an object among objects, like the robot vendor. Something which, as he well knew, did not look you directly in the eye.

  "What'll it be, sir?" the robot asked.

  Bibleman said, "Fries, a cheeseburger, and a strawberry shake. Are there any contests?"

  After a pause the robot said, "Not for you, Mr. Bibleman."

  "Okay," he said, and stood waiting.

  The food came, on its little throwaway plastic tray, in its little throwaway cartons.

  "I'm not paying," Bibleman said, and walked away.

  The robot called after him, "Eleven hundred dollars. Mr. Bibleman. You're breaking the law!"

  He turned, got out his wallet.

  "Thank you, Mr. Bibleman," the robot said. "I am very proud of you."

  Chains of Air, Web of Aether

  The planet on which he was living underwent each day two mornings. First CY30 appeared and then its minor twin put in a feeble appearance, as if God had not been able to make up His mind as to which sun He preferred and had finally settled on both. The domers liked to compare it to sequential settings of an old-fashioned multifilament incandescent bulb. CY30 gave the impression of getting up to about 150 watts and then came little CY30B, which added 50 more watts of light. The aggregate luminae made the methane crystals of the planet's surface sparkle pleasantly, assuming you were indoors.

  At the table of his dome, Leo McVane drank fake coffee and read the newspaper. He felt anxiety-free and warm because he had long ago illegally redesigned his dome's thermostat. He felt safe as well because he had added an extra metal brace to the dome's hatch. And he felt expectant because today the food man would be by, so there would be someone to talk to. It was a good day.

  All his communications gear fumbled along on autostasis, at the moment, monitoring whatever the hell they monitored. Originally, upon being stationed at CY30 II, McVane had thoroughly studied the function and purpose of the complexes of electronic marvels for which he was the caretaker – or rather, as his job coding put it, the "master homonoid overseer." Now he had allowed himself to forget most of the transactions which his charges engaged in. Communications equipment led a monotonous life until an emergency popped up, at which point he ceased suddenly to be the "master homonoid overseer" and became the living brain of his station.

  There had not been an emergency yet.

  The newspaper contained a funny item from the United States Federal Income Tax booklet for 1978, the year McVane had been born. These entries appeared in the index in this order:

  Who Should File

  Widows and Widowers, Qualifying

  Winnings – Prizes, Gambling, and Lotteries

  Withholding – Federal Tax

  And then the final entry in the index, which McVane found amusing and even interesting as a commentary on an archaic way of life:

  Zero Bracket Amount

  To himself, McVane grinned. That was how the United States Federal Income Tax booklet's 1978 index had ended, very appropriately, and that was how the United States, a few years later, had ended. It had fiscally fucked itself over and died of the
trauma.

  "Food ration comtrix," the audio transducer of his radio announced. "Start unbolting procedure."

  "Unbolting under way," McVane said, laying aside his newspaper.

  The speaker said, "Put helmet on."

  "Helmet on." McVane made no move to pick up his helmet; his atmosphere flow rate would compensate for the loss; he had redesigned it, too.

  The hatch unscrewed, and there stood the food man, headbubble and all. An alarm bell in the dome's ceiling shrilled that atmospheric pressure had sharply declined.

  "Put your helmet on!" the food man ordered angrily.

  The alarm bell ceased complaining; the pressure had restabilized. At that, the food man grimaced. He popped his helmet and then began to unload cartons from his comtrix.

  "We are a hardy race," McVane said, helping him.

  "You have amped up everything," the food man observed; like all the rovers who serviced domes, he was sturdily built and he moved rapidly. It was not a safe job operating a comtrix shuttle between mother ships and the domes of CY30II. He knew it, and McVane knew it. Anybody could sit in a dome; few people could function outside.

  "Stick around for a while," McVane said after he and the food man had unloaded and the food man was marking the invoice.

  "If you have coffee."

  They sat facing each other across the table, drinking coffee. Outside the dome the methane messed around, but here neither man felt it. The food man perspired; he apparently found McVane's temperature level too high.

  "You know the woman in the next dome?" the food man asked.

  "Somewhat," McVane said. "My rig transfers data to her input circuitry every three or four weeks. She stores it, boosts it, and transmits it. I suppose. Or for all I know -"

  "She's sick," the food man said.

  McVane said, "She looked all right the last time I talked to her. We used video. She did say something about having trouble reading her terminal's displays."

  "She's dying," the food man said, and sipped his coffee.

  In his mind, McVane tried to picture the woman. Small and dark, and what was her name? He punched a couple of keys on the board beside him, her name came up on its display, retrieved by the code they used. Rybus Rommey. "Dying of what?" he said.