A Handful of Darkness

by Philip K. Dick

“Go ahead,” Tirmus said. “But it’s a waste of effort. He’s harmless—cut off. Why take all the time and—”

  “Harmless?” Lala stared at him. “Don’t you understand? He knows!”

  Tirmus walked away from the mound. “I’m against unnecessary violence. We should save our strength. Some day we’ll need it.”

  The vote was taken. As expected, the army was in favour of moving against the giant. Tirmus sighed and began stroking out the plans on the ground.

  “This is the location that he takes. He can be expected to appear there at period-end. Now, as I see the situation—”

  He went on, laying out the plans in the soft soil.

  One of the gods leaned towards another, antennae touching. “This giant. He doesn’t stand a chance. In a way, I feel sorry for him. How’d he happen to butt in?”

  “Accident.” The other grinned. “You know, the way they do, barging around.”

  “It’s too bad for him, though.”

  It was nightfall. The street was dark and deserted. Along the pavement the man came, a newspaper under his arm. He walked quickly, glancing around him. He skirted the big tree growing by the kerb and leaped agilely into the street. He crossed the street and gained the opposite side. As he turned the corner he entered the web, sewn from bush to telephone pole. Automatically he fought it, brushing it off him. As the strands broke a thin humming came to him, metallic and wiry.

  “… wait!”

  He paused.

  “… careful… inside… wait…”

  His jaw set. The last strands broke in his hands and he walked on. Behind him the spider moved in the fragment of his web, watching. The man looked back.

  “Nuts to you,” he said. “I’m not taking any chances, standing here all tied up.”

  He went on, along the pavement, to his path. He skipped up the path, avoiding the darkening bushes. On the porch he found his key, fitting it into the lock.

  He paused. Inside? Better than outside, especially at night. Night a bad time. Too much movement under the bushes. Not good. He opened the door and stepped inside. The rug lay ahead of him, a pool of blackness. Across on the other side he made out the form of the lamp.

  Four steps to the lamp. His foot came up. He stopped.

  What did the spider say? What? He waited, listening. Silence.

  He took his cigarette lighter and flicked it on.

  The carpet of ants swelled towards him, rising up in a flood. He leaped aside, out on to the porch. The ants came rushing, hurrying, scratching across the floor in the half-light.

  The man jumped down to the ground and around the side of the house. When the first ants came flowing over the porch he was already spinning the faucet handle rapidly, gathering up the hose.

  The burst of water lifted the ants up and scattered them, flinging them away. The man adjusted the nozzle, squinting through the mist. He advanced, turning the hard stream from side to side.

  “God damn you,” he said, his teeth locked. “Waiting inside—”

  He was frightened. Inside—never before! In the night cold sweat came out on his face. Inside. They had never got inside before. Maybe a moth or two, and flies, of course. But they were harmless, fluttery, noisy—

  A carpet of ants!

  Savagely, he sprayed them until they broke rank and fled into the lawn, into the bushes, under the house.

  He sat down on the walk, holding the hose, trembling from head to foot.

  They really meant it. Not an anger raid, annoyed, spasmodic; but planned, an attack, worked out. They had waited for him. One more step—

  Thank God for the spider.

  Presently he shut the hose off and stood up. No sound; silence everywhere. The bushes rustled suddenly. Beetle? Something black scurried—he put his foot on it. A messenger, probably. Fast runner. He went gingerly inside the dark house, feeling his way by the cigarette lighter.

  Later, he sat at his desk, the spray gun beside him, heavy-duty steel and copper. He touched its damp surface with his fingers.

  Seven o’clock. Behind him the radio played softly. He reached over and moved the desk lamp so that it shone on the floor beside the desk.

  He lit a cigarette and took some writing paper and his fountain pen. He paused, thinking.

  So they really wanted him, badly enough to plan it out. Bleak despair descended over him like a torrent. What could he do? Whom could he go to? Or tell? He clenched his fists, sitting bolt upright in the chair.

  The spider slid down beside him on the desk top. “Sorry. Hope you aren’t frightened, as in the poem.”

  The man stared. “Are you the same one? The one at the corner? The one who warned me?”

  “No. That’s somebody else. A Spinner. I’m strictly a Cruncher. Look at my jaws.” He opened and shut his mouth. “I bite them up.”

  The man smiled. “Good for you.”

  “Sure. Do you know how many there are of us in—say—an acre of land? Guess.”

  “A thousand.”

  “No. Two and a half million. Of all kinds. Crunchers, like me, or Spinners, or Stingers.”

  “Stingers?”

  “The best. Let’s see.” The spider thought. “For instance, the black widow, as you call her. Very valuable.” He paused. “Just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We have our problems. The gods—”

  “Gods!”

  “Ants, as you call them. The leaders. They’re beyond us. Very unfortunate. They have an awful taste—makes one sick. We have to leave them for the birds.”

  The man stood up. “Birds? Are they—”

  “Well, we have an arrangement. This has been going on for ages. I’ll give you the story. We have some time left.”

  The man’s heart contracted. “Time left? What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. A little trouble later on, I understand. Let me give you the background. I don’t think you know it.”

  “Go ahead. I’m listening.” He stood up and began to walk back and forth.

  “They were running the earth pretty well, about a billion years ago. You see, men came from some other planet. Which one? I don’t know. They landed and found the earth quite well cultivated by them. There was a war.”

  “So we’re the invaders,” the man murmured.

  “Sure. The war reduced both sides to barbarism, them and yourselves. You forgot how to attack, and they degenerated into closed social factions, ants, termites—”

  “I see.”

  “The last group of you that knew the full story started us going. We were bred—” the spider chuckled in its own fashion, “bred someplace for this worthwhile purpose. We keep them down very well. You know what they call us? The Eaters. Unpleasant, isn’t it?”

  Two more spiders came drifting down on their web-strands, alighting on the desk. The three spiders went into a huddle.

  “More serious than I thought,” the Cruncher said easily. “Didn’t know the whole dope. The Stinger here—”

  The black widow came to the edge of the desk. “Giant,” she piped, metallically. “I’d like to talk with you.”

  “Go ahead,” the man said.

  “There’s going to be some trouble here. They’re moving, coming here, a lot of them. We thought we’d stay with you awhile. Get in on it.”

  “I see.” The man nodded. He licked his lips, running his fingers shakily through his hair. “Do you think—that is, what are the chances—”

  “Chances?” The Stinger undulated thoughtfully. “Well, we’ve been in this work a long time. Almost a million years. I think that we have the edge over them, in spite of drawbacks.

  Our arrangements with the birds, and of course, with the toads—”

  “I think we can save you,” the Cruncher put in cheerfully. “As a matter of fact, we look forward to events like this.”

  From under the floor boards came a distant scratching sound, the noise of a multitude of tiny claws and wings, vibrating faintly, remotely. The man heard. His body
sagged all over.

  “You’re really certain? You think you can do it?” He wiped the perspiration from his lips and picked up the spray gun, still listening.

  The sound was growing, swelling beneath them, under the floor, under their feet. Outside the house bushes rustled and a few moths flew up against the window. Louder and louder the sound grew, beyond and below, everywhere, a rising hum of anger and determination. The man looked from side to side.

  “You’re sure you can do it?” he murmured. “You really can save me?”

  “Oh,” the Stinger said, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean that. I meant the species, the race… not you as an individual.”

  The man gaped at him and the three Eaters shifted uneasily. More moths burst against the window. Under them the floor stirred and heaved.

  “I see,” the man said. “I’m sorry I misunderstood you.”

  PLANET FOR TRANSIENTS

  The late afternoon sun shone down blinding and hot, a great shimmering orb in the sky. Trent halted a moment to get his breath. Inside his lead-lined helmet his face dripped with sweat, drop after drop of sticky moisture that steamed his viewplate and clogged his throat.

  He slid his emergency pack over to the other side and hitched up his gun-belt. From his oxygen tank he pulled a couple of exhausted tubes and tossed them away in the brush. The tubes rolled and disappeared, lost in the endless heaps of red-green leaves and vines.

  Trent checked his counter, found the reading low enough, slid back his helmet for a precious moment. Fresh air rushed into his nose and mouth. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. The air smelled good—thick and moist and rich with the odour of growing plants. He exhaled and took another breath.

  To his right a towering column of orange shrubbery rose, wrapped around a sagging concrete pillar. Spread out over the rolling countryside was a vast expanse of grass and trees. In the distance a mass of growth looked like a wall, a jungle of creepers and insects and flowers and underbrush that would have to be blasted as he advanced slowly.

  Two immense butterflies danced past him. Great fragile shapes, multi-coloured, racing erratically around him and then away. Life everywhere—bugs and plants and the rustling small animals in the shrubbery, a buzzing jungle of life in every direction. Trent sighed and snapped his helmet back in place. Two breathfuls was all he dared.

  He increased the flow of his oxygen tank and then raised his transmitter to his lips. He clicked it briefly on. “Trent. Checking with the Mine Monitor. Hear me?”

  A moment of static and silence. Then, a faint, ghostly voice. “Come in, Trent. Where the hell are you?”

  “Still going North. Ruins ahead. I may have to bypass. Looks thick.”

  “Ruins?”

  “New York, probably. I’ll check with the map.”

  The voice was eager. “Anything yet?”

  “Nothing. Not so far, at least. I’ll circle and report in about an hour.” Trent examined his wrist watch. “It’s half-past three. I’ll raise you before evening.”

  The voice hesitated. “Good luck. I hope you find something. How’s your oxygen holding out?”

  “All right.”

  “Food?”

  “Plenty left. I may find some edible plants.”

  “Don’t take any chances!”

  “I won’t.” Trent clicked off the transmitter and returned it to his belt. “I won’t,” he repeated. He gathered up his blast gun and hoisted his pack and started forward, his heavy lead-lined boots sinking deep into the lush foliage and compost underfoot.

  It was just past four o’clock when he saw them. They stepped out of the jungle around him. Two of them, young males—tall and thin and horny blue-grey like ashes. One raised his hand in greeting. Six or seven fingers—extra joints. “Afternoon,” he piped.

  Trent stopped instantly. His heart thudded. “Good afternoon.”

  The two youths came slowly around him. One had an axe—a foliage axe. The other carried only his pants and the remains of a canvas shirt. They were nearly eight feet tall. No flesh—bones and hard angles and large, curious eyes, heavily lidded. There were internal changes, radically different metabolism and cell structure, ability to utilize hot salts, altered digestive system. They were both looking at Trent with interest—growing interest.

  “Say,” one said. “You’re a human being.”

  “That’s right,” Trent said.

  “My name’s Jackson.” The youth extended his thin blue horny hand and Trent shook it awkwardly. The hand was fragile under his lead-lined glove. Its owned added, “My friend here is Earl Potter.”

  Trent shook hands with Potter. “Greetings,” Potter said. His rough lips twitched. “Can we have a look at your rig?”

  “My rig?” Trent countered.

  “Your gun and equipment. What’s that on your belt? And that tank?”

  “Transmitter—oxygen.” Trent showed them the transmitter. “Battery operated. Hundred-mile range.”

  “You’re from a camp?” Jackson asked quickly.

  “Yes. Down in Pennsylvania.”

  “How many?”

  Trent shrugged. “Couple of dozen.”

  The blue-skinned giants were fascinated. “How have you survived? Penn was hard hit, wasn’t it? The pools must be deep around there.”

  “Mines,” Trent explained. “Our ancestors moved down deep in the coal mines when the War began. So the records have it. We’re fairly well set up. Grow our own food in tanks. A few machines, pumps and compressors and electrical generators. Some hand lathes. Looms.”

  He didn’t mention that generators now had to be cranked by hand, that only about half of the tanks were still operative. After three hundred years metal and plastic weren’t much good—in spite of endless patching and repairing. Everything was wearing out, breaking down.

  “Say,” Potter said. “This sure makes a fool of Dave Hunter.”

  “Dave Hunter?”

  “Dave says there aren’t any true humans left,” Jackson explained. He poked at Trent’s helmet curiously. “Why don’t you come back with us? We’ve got a settlement near here—only an hour or so away on the tractor—our hunting tractor. Earl and I were out hunting flap-rabbits.

  “Flap-rabbits? ”

  “Flying rabbits. Good meat but hard to bring down—weigh about thirty pounds.”

  “What do you use? Not the axe surely.”

  Potter and Jackson laughed. “Look at this here.” Potter slid a long brass rod from his trousers. It fitted down inside his pants along his pipe-stem leg.

  Trent examined the rod. It was tooled by hand. Soft brass, carefully bored and straightened. One end was shaped into a nozzle. He peered down it. A tiny metal pin was lodged in a cake of transparent material. “How does it work?” he asked.

  “Launched by hand—like a blow gun. But once the b-dart is in the air it follows its target for ever. The initial thrust has to be provided.” Potter laughed. “I supply that. A big puff of air.”

  “Interesting.” Trent returned the rod. With elaborated casualness, studying the two blue-grey faces, he asked, “I’m the first human you’ve seen?”

  “That’s right,” Jackson said. “The Old Man will be pleased to welcome you.” There was eagerness in his reedy voice. “What do you say? We’ll take care of you. Feed you, bring you cold plants and animals. For a week, maybe?”

  “Sorry,” Trent said. “Other business. If I come through here on the way back…”

  The horny faces fell with disappointment. “Not for a little while? Overnight? We’ll pump you plenty of cold food. We have a fine cooler the Old Man fixed up.”

  Trent tapped his tank. “Short on oxygen. You don’t have a compressor ?”

  “No. We don’t have any use. But maybe the old Man could—”

  “Sorry.” Trent moved off. “Have to keep going. You’re sure there are no humans in this region?”

  “We thought there weren’t any left anywhere. A rumour once in awhile. But you’re the first we’ve
seen.” Potter pointed west. “There’s a tribe of rollers off that way.” He pointed vaguely south. “A couple of tribes of bugs.”

  “And some runners.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “I came that way.”

  “And north there’s some of the underground ones—the blind digging kind.” Potter made a face. “I can’t see them and their bores and scoops. But what the hell.” He grinned. “Everybody has his own way.”

  “And to the east,” Jackson added, “where the ocean begins, there’s a lot of the porpoise kind—the undersea type. They swim around—use those big underwater air-domes and tanks—come up sometimes at night. A lot of types come out at night. We’re still daylight-oriented.” He rubbed his horny blue-grey skin. “This cuts radiation fine.”

  “I know,” Trent said. “So long.”

  “Good luck.” They watched him go, heavy-lidded eyes still big with astonishment, as the human being pushed slowly off through the lush green jungle, his metal and plastic suit glinting faintly in the afternoon sun.

  Earth was alive, thriving with activity. Plants and animals and insects in boundless confusion. Night forms, day forms, land and water types, incredible kinds and numbers that had never been catalogued, probably never would be.

  By the end of the War every surface inch was radioactive. A whole planet sprayed and bombarded by hard radiation. All life subjected to beta and gamma rays. Most life died—but not all.

  Hard radiation brought mutation—at all levels,insects, plant and animal. The normal mutation and selection process was accelerated millions of years in seconds.

  These altered progeny littered the Earth. A crawling teeming glowing horde of radiation-saturated beings. In this world, only those forms which could use hot soil and breathe particle-laden air survived. Insects and animals and men who could live in a world with a surface so alive that it glowed at night.

  Trent considered this moodily, as he made his way through the steaming jungle, expertly burning creepers and vines with his blaster. Most of the oceans had been vaporized. Water descended still, drenching the land with torrents of hot moisture.

  This jungle was wet—wet and hot and full of life. Around him creatures scuttled and rustled. He held his blaster tight and pushed on.