Eye in the Sky

by Philip K. Dick

  “McFeyffe,” Hamilton said, “you’re going to have to forgive me.” “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to do something fruitless and futile. Because, even though I realize it’s useless, I’m going to kick the living Jesus out of you.”

  As he flung himself on McFeyffe, Hamilton saw the massive, iron-hard muscles tense. It was too uneven; he couldn’t even begin to dent the great visage. McFeyffe stepped back, caught himself, and grimly responded.

  Closing his eyes, Hamilton hugged McFeyffe tightly, refusing to let go. Bruised, missing teeth, dribbling blood from a cut over his eye, his clothing in tatters, he hung on like a dilapidated rat. A kind of religious frenzy overcame him; clutching McFeyffe in an ecstasy of loathing, he began systematically battering the noble head against the wall. Fingers tore and pried at him, but he could not be ripped loose.

  It was virtually over; his fitful little assault had dissipated itself uselessly. Laws lay stretched out with a cracked skull, not far from the crumpled, abandoned figure of Marsha Hamilton. She lay where he had discarded her. Hamilton himself, still on his feet, identified the gathering rifle butts; his time had come.

  “Come right in,” he invited them, panting. “It doesn’t make a bit of difference. Even if you batter us to splinters. Even if you grind us up and build barricades out of us. Even if you use us for mortar. This isn’t Marsha’s world, and that’s all I—”

  A rifle butt crashed down on him; closing his eyes, he huddled against the pain. One of the Party workmen kicked him in the groin; another methodically smashed in his ribs. Dimly, Hamilton felt the massive body of McFeyffe melt away from him. From the swirls of darkness, the shapes of workmen came and went; then he was down on all fours, grunting and creeping, trying to find McFeyffe through the haze of his own blood. And trying to get away from the attackers.

  Shouts. The hammering rifle butts against his skull. He shuddered, pawed at the confusion around him, made out the form of a sprawled, inert figure and dragged himself toward it.

  “Let go of him,” they were saying. He ignored them and went on pawing for McFeyffe. But the inert and damaged figure was not McFeyffe; it was Joan Reiss.

  After an interval he located McFeyffe. Weak, feeble, he searched among the litter for something to kill him with. As his hands closed over a chunk of concrete, a stunning kick sent him sprawling. The unmoving form of McFeyffe receded; he was alone, floundering in the debris and chaos, lost in the drifting particles of random ash that were settling everywhere.

  The litter around him was the strewn wreckage of the Bevatron. The cautiously advancing figures making their way forward were Red Cross workers and technicians.

  In the indiscriminate hail of rifle butts, McFeyffe had been knocked down. In the general murder he had not received special dispensation. Fine nuances had not been observed.

  To Hamilton’s right lay the inert body of his wife, clothes smoking and singed. One arm was bent under her; knees drawn up, she was a small, pathetic bundle on the charred concrete surface. And, not far off, lay McFeyffe. Reflexively, Hamilton crawled toward him. Halfway there, a medical team pushed him back and tried to get a stretcher under him. Numbed, bewildered, but still grimly motivated, Hamilton shoved the men off and pulled himself up to a sitting position.

  McFeyffe, knocked senseless by his own Party hatchet-men, wore an expression of outraged fury. His lumpy, battered face was contorted with anger and dismay. The expression had not faded as he returned painfully to consciousness. His breathing came hoarsely, unevenly. Muttering, he flopped and struggled, thick fingers closing over nothing. Half-buried in rubble, Miss Reiss was already beginning to stir. Rising unsteadily to her knees, she groped feebly for the shattered remains of her glasses. “Oh,” she said faintly, weak eyes blind, blinking, streaming tears of fright “What—” Defensively, she gathered her torn, charred coat and hugged it around her.

  A group of technicians had reached Mrs. Pritchet; rapidly, they scooped aside the rubbish spread across her heaving, smoking body. Struggling painfully to his feet, Hamilton crept over to his wife and began beating out the smouldering line of sparks traveling across her tattered, carbonized dress. Marsha shuddered and twitched reflexively.

  “Don’t move,” he warned her. “You may have broken something.”

  She lay obediently still, eyes shut, body rigid. In the distance, lost in the swirling clouds of fire-darkened cement ash, sounded the frightened wail of David Pritchet. All of them were stirring; all of them were returning to life. Bill Laws groped aimlessly as white-faced workmen collected around him. Yells, shouts, the blare of emergency alarms …

  The harsh din of the real world. Acrid fumes of burning, half-mined electronic equipment. The clumsy attempts at first aid by the nervous medical teams.

  “We’re back,” Hamilton told his wife. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Marsha said. “I hear you.”

  “Are you glad?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” Marsha said quietly. “Don’t shout, darling. I’m very glad.”

  * * * * *

  Colonel T. E. Edwards listened patiently, without comment, while Hamilton gave his statement. After the resume of Hamilton’s charges, the long, efficient conference room was quiet. The only sounds were the dull rhythm of cigars being smoked and stenographic notes being taken.

  “You’re accusing our security officer of being a member of the Communist Party,” Edwards said, after a period of frowning contemplation. Is that it?”

  “Not exactly,” Hamilton said. He was still a little shaky; slightly over a week had passed since the accident at the Bevatron. “I’m saying McFeyffe is a disciplined Communist who’s using his position to further the aims of the Communist Party. But whether that discipline is internal or external—”

  Turning briskly to McFeyffe, Edwards said, “What do you say to this, Charley?”

  Without looking up McFeyffe answered, “I’d say it’s a fairly obvious smear.”

  “You maintain Hamilton is merely trying to impugn your motives?”

  “That’s right” Mechanically, McFeyffe rattled the phrases off. “He’s seeking to cast doubt on the validity of my motives. Instead of defending his wife he’s attacking me.”

  Colonel Edwards turned back to Hamilton . “I’m afraid I’ll have to agree. It’s your wife, not Charley McFeyffe, who’s under fire. Try to keep your defense pertinent.”

  “As you realize,” Hamilton said, “I cannot now and could under no circumstances prove that Marsha isn’t a Communist. But I can show you why McFeyffe brought those charges against her. I can show you what he’s doing and what this whole business is really about. Look at the position he’s in; who would suspect him? He has free access to security files; he can bring charges against anybody he wants … an ideal position for a Party thug. He can pick off anybody the Party dislikes, anybody who stands in its way. Systematically, the Party weeds out its opponents.”

  “But this is all so indirect,” Edwards pointed out. “A hatful of logic—where’s the proof? Can you prove that Charley’s a Red? As you said yourself, he’s not a member of the Communist Party.”

  “I’m not a detective agency,” Hamilton said. “I’m not a police force. I have no way to gather information against him. I presume he has some kind of contact with the CP-USA or with Party front organizations … he must get his instructions somewhere. If the FBI will take him into surveillance—”

  “No proof, then,” Edwards broke in, chewing on his cigar. “Correct?”

  “No proof,” Hamilton admitted. “No proof of what goes on in Charley McFeyffe’s mind. Any more than he had proof of what goes on in my wife’s mind.”

  “But there was all that derogatory material against your wife. All those petitions she signed; all the pinko meetings she showed up at. You show me one petition Charley has signed. One front meeting he’s been at.”

  “No real Communist is going to expose himself,” Hamilton said, realizing, as he said it, how absurd it sounded
.

  “We can’t fire Charley on grounds like that. Even you must see how tenuous all this is. Fire him because he hasn’t gone to pinko meetings?” The trace of a smile appeared on Colonel Edwards’ face. “I’m sorry, Jack. You just haven’t got a case.”

  “I know,” Hamilton agreed.

  “You know?” Edwards was astonished. “You admit it?”

  “Of course I admit it. I never thought I had.” Without particular emotion, Hamilton explained, “I merely thought I’d bring it to your attention. For the record.”

  Sullen and pudgy, sunk down in his chair, McFeyffe said nothing. His stumpy fingers were knotted tensely together; concentrating on them, he didn’t look directly at Hamilton.

  “I’d like to help you,” Edwards said uneasily. “But hell, Jack. We’d have everybody in the country classed as a security risk, using your logic.”

  “You will anyhow. I just wanted the method extended to McFeyffe. It seems a shame that he’s exempt”

  “I think,” Edwards said stiffly, “that the integrity and patriotism of Charley McFeyffe is beyond reproach. You understand, don’t you, that this man fought in the Second World War in the Army Air Corps? That he’s a devout Catholic? That he’s a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars?”

  “And probably a Boy Scout,” Hamilton agreed. “And he probably decorates a tree every Christmas.”

  “Are you trying to say Catholics and Legionnaires are disloyal?” Edwards demanded.

  “No, I’m not. I’m trying to say that a man can be all those things and still be a dangerous subversive. And a woman can sign peace petitions and subscribe to In Fact, yet love the very dirt this country is made of.”

  “I think,” Edwards said coldly, “that we’re wasting our time. This is errant nonsense.”

  Pushing back his chair, Hamilton got to his feet “Thanks for hearing me out, Colonel.”

  “Not at all.” Awkwardly, Edwards said, “I wish I could do more by you, boy. But you see my situation.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Hamilton agreed. “In fact, in a sort of perverse way, I’m glad you won’t pay any attention to me. After all, McFeyffe is innocent until proven guilty.”

  The meeting had broken up. The Directors of California Maintenance began strolling out into the corridor, glad to return to their routines. The trim stenographer collected her stenotype machine, cigarettes and purse. McFeyffe, with a cautiously malevolent glance at Hamilton, pushed brusquely past him and disappeared.

  In the doorway, Colonel Edwards stopped Hamilton. “What are you going to do?” he inquired. “Going to take a run up the peninsula? Give Tillingford and EDA a try? He’ll take you on, you know. He and your Dad were good friends.”

  In this, the real world, Hamilton hadn’t yet approached Guy Tillingford. “He’ll take me on,” he said thoughtfully, “partly for that reason, and partly because I’m a top-notch electronics expert.”

  Embarrassed, Edwards began to bluster. “Sorry, boy. I didn’t mean to insult you; I meant merely—”

  “I understand what you meant” Hamilton shrugged, being careful of a cracked and tightly-taped rib. In his mouth, his two new front teeth felt loose and odd, as did the bald patch above his right ear, where two stitches had been taken in his scalp. The accident, the ordeal, had, in many ways, made an old man out of him. “I’m not trying out Tillingford,” he stated. “I’m striking out on my own.”

  Hesitating, Edwards asked, “You feel any resentment toward us, here?”

  “No. I’ve lost this job, but it doesn’t matter. In a way it’s a relief. I probably would have gone on here indefinitely if this hadn’t happened. Completely unbothered by the security system, hardly aware that it existed. But now my nose has been rubbed in it; I’ve been forced to face it. I’ve had to wake up, whether I like it or not.”

  “Now, Jack—”

  “I always had it pretty easy. My family had plenty of money and my father was well-known in his field. Normally, people like me aren’t touched by people like McFeyffe. But times are changing. The McFeyffes are out to get us; we’re beginning to meet head on. So it’s time we started noticing their existence.”

  “That’s all very well,” Edwards said. “Very noble and stirring. But you’re going to have to earn a living; you’re going to have to get a job and support your family. Without a security clearance you won’t be designing missiles here or anywhere else. Nobody with a Government contract will hire you.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing, too. I’m a little tired of building bombs.”

  “Monotony got you?”

  “I like to call it awakening conscience. Some of the things that have happened to me have changed my ways of thinking. Jarred me out of my rut, as they say.”

  “Oh, yes,” Edwards said vaguely. “The accident.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of aspects of reality I didn’t realize existed. I’ve come out of this with an altered perspective. Maybe it takes a thing like this to break down the walls of the groove. If so, it makes the whole experience worth it”

  Behind him in the corridor came the sound of sharp, staccato heel-taps. Marsha, breathless and glowing, hurried up and took hold of his arm. “We’re ready to go,” she told him eagerly.

  “And the important thing,” Hamilton said to Colonel T. E. Edwards, “has been settled. Marsha was telling the truth; that’s what I care about. I can always get another job, but wives are scarce.”

  “What do you think you’ll do?” Edwards persisted, as Hamilton and his wife started down the corridor.

  “I’ll drop you a card,” Hamilton said, over his shoulder. “On Company letterhead.”

  “Darling,” Marsha said excitedly, as they descended the front steps of the California Maintenance Building and started along the concrete walk, “the trucks are starting to show up already. They’re beginning to unload.”

  “Fine,” Hamilton said, gratified. That’ll make a good showing when we go to work on the old bat.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Marsha said anxiously, squeezing his arm. “I’m ashamed of you.”

  Grinning, Hamilton helped her into the car. “From now on I’m going to be perfectly honest with everybody, say exactly what I think, do exactly what I feel like. Life’s too short for anything else.”

  Exasperated, Marsha complained, “You and Bill—I’m beginning to wonder where this will wind up.”

  “We’ll be rich,” Hamilton told her gaily, as he drove out onto the highway. “Mark my words, sweetheart. You and Ninny will be lapping up dishes of cream and sleeping on silk pillows.”

  Half an hour later, the two of them stood on a rise of uncleared ground, critically studying the small corrugated-iron shed that Hamilton and Laws had leased. Equipment was heaped up in gigantic plywood cartons; a string of ponderous-moving trucks were backed up at the rear loading platform.

  “One of these days,” Hamilton said reflectively, “little shiny square boxes with knobs and dials will be coming off that platform. Trucks will be picking up stuff, not dropping it off.”

  Striding toward them, his lean body hunched against the brisk autumn wind, came Bill Laws, a bent, unlit cigarette stuck between his thin lips, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Well,” he began wryly, “it isn’t much, but it’s going to be a lot of fun. We may go down, but we’ll go down having one hell of a good tune.”

  “Jack just said we were going to be rich,” Marsha said, disappointed, lips drawn together in a mocking pout.

  “That comes later,” Laws explained. “That’s when we’re too old and broken-down to have any fun.”

  “Has Edith Pritchet showed up?” Hamilton inquired.

  “She’s hanging around somewhere.” Laws gestured vaguely. I saw her Cadillac parked up the road apiece.”

  “Does it run?”

  “Oh, yes,” Laws asserted. “It runs very well. We’re definitely not in that world, any more.”

  A small boy, not over eleven, came scampering excitedly up. “Whatcha gonna b
uild?” he demanded. “Rockets?”

  “No,” Hamilton answered. “Phonographs. So people can listen to music. It’s the coming thing.”

  “Gee,” the boy said, impressed. “Hey, last year I built a one-tube, battery-operated, headphone-type receiver.”

  “That’s a good start”

  “And now I’m building a TRF tuner.”

  “Fine,” Hamilton told him. “Maybe well give you a job. Assuming, of course, that we don’t have to print our own money.”

  Picking her way gingerly over the not-yet-landscaped ground, came Mrs. Edith Pritchet She was wrapped in a heavy fur coat, and an elaborate hat sat on her henna-rinsed curls. “Now, don’t bother Mr. Laws and Mr. Hamilton,” she instructed her son. “They’ve got a great deal to worry about”

  Sulkily, David Pritchet retired. “We were discussing electronics.”

  That’s a large amount of equipment you’ve purchased,” Mrs. Pritchet said doubtfully to the two men. “It certainly must have cost a lot of money.”

  “We’re going to need it,” Hamilton said. “We’re not assembling amplifiers from standard parts; we’re designing and building our own components, from condensers up to transformers. Bill has schemata on a new kind of frictionless cartridge. It should make quite a hit on the hi-fi market—guaranteed absolutely no record wear.”

  “You degenerates,” Marsha said, amused. “Catering to the whims of the leisure class.”

  “I think,” Hamilton said, “that music is here to stay. The question is: how do we handle it? Operating a hi-fi rig is getting to be an art in itself. These sets we’ll be turning out will take as much skill to run as to build.”

  “I can see it now,” Laws said, grinning. “Slender young men sitting on the floors of their North Beach apartments, rapturously tuning knobs and switches, as the incredibly authentic roar of freight engines, snow storms, trucks unloading scrap iron, and other recorded oddities thunder out”