Complete Stories 3 - Second Variety and Other Stories

by Philip K. Dick

  "No entry."

  "Surely you're an owner --"

  "Nope. Sorry." Hull's voice was faintly ironic. "No world of my own, Max. Can't see it."

  "You're missing something." Max beamed dopily, rocking back on his heels. "Quite a time -- best Contest Party for weeks. And the real fun begins after the judging. All this is just preliminary."

  "I know." Hull moved Julia rapidly toward the descent tube. "We'll see you. So long, Bart. Give me a call when you're out of here."

  "Hold it!" Bart murmured suddenly, cocking his head. "The judging's over. The winner is going to be announced." He pushed toward the lounge, the others excitedly behind. "You coming, Hull? Julia?"

  Hull glanced at the girl. "All right." They followed reluctantly. "For a minute, maybe."

  A wall of sound struck them. The lounge was a seething chaos of milling men and women.

  "I won!" Lora Becker shouted in ecstasy. People pushed and shoved around her, toward the Contest table, grabbing up their entries. Their voices grew in volume, an ominous rumble of discordant sound. Robants calmly moved furniture and fixtures back out of the way, clearing the floor rapidly. An unleashed frenzy of mounting hysteria was beginning to fill the big room.

  "I knew it!" Julia's fingers tightened around Hull's arm. "Come on. Let's get out before they start."

  "Start?"

  "Listen to them!" Julia's eyes flickered with fear. "Come on, Nat! I've had enough. I can't stand any more of this."

  "I told you before you came."

  "You did, didn't you?" Julia smiled briefly, grabbing her coat from a robant. She fastened the coat rapidly around her breasts and shoulders. "I admit it. You told me. Now let's go, for God's sake." She turned, making her way through the surging mass of people toward the descent tube. "Let's get out of here. We'll have breakfast. You were right. These things aren't for us."

  Lora Becker, plump and middle-aged, was making her way up onto the stand beside the judges, her entry clasped in her arms. Hull paused a moment, watching the immense woman struggle up, her chemically corrected features gray and sagging in the unwinking overhead lights. The third day -- a lot of old-timers were beginning to show the effects, even through their artificial masks.

  Lora reached the stand. "Look!" she shouted, holding up her entry. The Worldcraft bubble glittered, catching the light. In spite of himself Hull had to admire the thing. If the actual world inside was as good as the exterior...

  Lora turned on the bubble. It glowed, winking into brilliance. The roomful of people became silent, gazing up at the winning entry, the world that had taken the prize over all other comers.

  Lora Becker's entry was masterful. Even Hull had to admit it. She increased the magnification, bringing the microscopic central planet into focus. A murmur of admiration swept the room.

  Lora Becker's entry was masterful. Even Hull had to admit it. She increased the magnification, bringing the microscopic central planet into focus. A murmur of admiration swept the room.

  "Wonderful," Bart Longstreet said softly, coming over beside Hull. "But the old hag has been at it sixty years. No wonder she won. She's entered every Contest I can remember."

  "It's nice," Julia admitted in a clipped voice.

  "You don't care for it?" Longstreet asked.

  "I don't care for any of this!"

  "She wants to go," Hull explained, moving toward the descent tube. "We'll see you later, Bart."

  Bart Longstreet nodded. "I know what you mean. In many ways I agree. You mind if I --"

  "Watch!" Lora Becker shouted, her face flushed. She increased the magnification to maximum focus, showing details of the minute city. "See them? See?"

  The inhabitants of the city came into sharp view. They hurried about their business, endless thousands of them. In cars and on foot. Across spidery spans between buildings, breathtakingly beautiful.

  Lora held the Worldcraft bubble up high, breathing rapidly. She gazed around the room, her eyes bright and inflamed, glittering unhealthily. The murmurings rose, sweeping up in excitement. Numerous Worldcraft bubbles came up, chest-high, gripped in eager, impassioned hands.

  Lora's mouth opened. Saliva dribbled down the creases of her sagging face. Her lips twitched. She raised her bubble up over her head, her doughy chest swelling convulsively. Suddenly her face jerked, features twisting wildly. Her thick body swayed grotesquely -- and from her hands the Worldcraft bubble flew, crashing to the stand in front of her.

  The bubble smashed, bursting into a thousand pieces. Metal and glass, plastic parts, gears, struts, tubes, the vital machinery of the bubble, splattered in all directions.

  Pandemonium broke loose. All around the room other owners were smashing their worlds, breaking them and crushing them, stamping on them, grinding the delicate control mechanisms underfoot. Men and women in a frenzy of abandon, released by Lora Becker's signal, quivering in an orgy of Dionysian lust. Crushing and breaking their carefully constructed worlds, one after another.

  "God," Julia gasped, struggling to get away, Longstreet and Hull beside her.

  Faces gleamed with sweat, eyes feverish and bright. Mouths gaped foolishly, muttering meaningless sounds. Clothes were torn, ripped off. A girl went down, sliding underfoot, her shrieks lost in the general din. Another followed, dragged down into the milling mass. Men and women struggled in a blur of abandon, cries and gasps. And on all sides the hideous sounds of smashing metal and glass, the unending noise of worlds being destroyed one after another.

  Julia dragged Hull from the lounge, her face white. She shuddered, closing her eyes. "I knew it was coming. Three days, building up to this. Smashed -- they're smashing them all. All the worlds."

  Bart Longstreet made his way out after Hull and Julia. "Lunatics." He lit a cigarette shakily. "What the hell gets into them? This has happened before. They start breaking, smashing their worlds up. It doesn't make sense."

  Hull reached the descent tube. "Come along with us, Bart. We'll have breakfast -- and I'll give you my theory, for what it's worth."

  "Just a second." Bart Longstreet scooped up his Worldcraft bubble from the arms of a robant. "My Contest entry. Don't want to lose it."

  He hurried after Julia and Hull.

  "More coffee?" Hull asked, looking around.

  "None for me," Julia murmured. She settled back in her chair, sighing. "I'm perfectly happy."

  "I'll take some." Bart pushed his cup toward the coffee dispenser. It filled the cup and returned it. "You've got a nice little place here, Hull."

  "Haven't you seen it before?"

  "Haven't you seen it before?"

  "Let's hear your theory," Julia murmured.

  "Go ahead," Bart said. "We're waiting."

  Hull was silent for a moment. He gazed moodily across the table, past the dishes, at the thing sitting on the window ledge. Bart's Contest entry, his Worldcraft bubble.

  " 'Own Your Own World'," Hull quoted ironically. "Quite a slogan."

  "Packman thought it up himself," Bart said. "When he was young. Almost a century ago."

  "That long?"

  "Packman takes treatments. A man in his position can afford them."

  "Of course." Hull got slowly to his feet. He crossed the room and returned with the bubble. "Mind?" he asked Bart.

  "Go ahead."

  Hull adjusted the controls mounted on the bubble's surface. The interior scene flickered into focus. A miniature planet, revolving slowly. A tiny blue-white sun. He increased the magnification, bringing the planet up in size.

  "Not bad," Hull admitted presently.

  "Primitive. Late Jurassic. I don't have the knack. I can't seem to get them into the mammal stage. This is my sixteenth try. I never can get any farther than this."

  The scene was a dense jungle, steaming with fetid rot. Great shapes stirred fitfully among the decaying ferns and marshes. Coiled, gleaming, reptilian bodies, smoking shapes rising up from the thick mud -

  "Turn it off," Julia murmured. "I've seen enough of them. We vie
wed hundreds for the Contest."

  "I didn't have a chance." Bart retrieved his bubble, snapping it off. "You have to do better than the Jurassic, to win. Competition is keen. Half the people there had their bubbles into the Eocene -- and at least ten into the Pliocene. Lora's entry wasn't much ahead. I counted several city-building civilizations. But hers was almost as advanced as we are."

  "Sixty years," Julia said.

  "She's been trying a long time. She's worked hard. One of those to whom it's not a game but a real passion. A way of life."

  "And then she smashes it," Hull said thoughtfully. "Smashes the bubble to bits. A world she's been working on for years. Guiding it through period after period. Higher and higher. Smashes it into a million pieces."

  "Why?" Julia asked. "Why, Nat? Why do they do it? They get so far, building it up -- and then they tear it all down again."

  Hull leaned back in his chair. "It began," he stated, "when we failed to find life on any of the other planets. When our exploring parties came back empty-handed. Eight dead orbs -- lifeless. Good for nothing. Not even lichen. Rock and sand. Endless deserts. One after the other, all the way out to Pluto."

  "It was a hard realization," Bart said. "Of course, that was before our time."

  "Not much before. Packman remembers it. A century ago. We waited a long time for rocket travel, flight to other planets. And then to find nothing..."

  "Like Columbus finding the world really was flat," Julia said. "With an edge and a void."

  "Worse. Columbus was looking for a short route to China. They could have continued the long way. But when we explored the system and found nothing we were in for trouble. People had counted on new worlds, new lands in the sky. Colonization. Contact with a variety of races. Trade. Minerals and cultural products to exchange. But most of all the thrill of landing on planets with amazing life-forms."

  "And instead of that..."

  "Nothing but dead rock and waste. Nothing that could support life -- our own or any other kind. A vast disappointment set in on all levels of society."

  "And then Packman brought out the Worldcraft bubble," Bart murmured. " 'Own Your Own World.' There was no place to go, outside of Terra. No other worlds to visit. You couldn't leave here and go to another world. So instead, you --"

  and go to another world. So instead, you --"

  "But look, Nat," Bart said. "The bubbles seemed like a good idea, at first. We couldn't leave Terra so we built our own worlds right here. Sub-atomic worlds, in controlled containers. We start life going on a sub-atomic world, feed it problems to make it evolve, try to raise it higher and higher. In theory there's nothing wrong with the idea. It's certainly a creative pastime. Not a merely passive viewing like television. In fact, world-building is the ultimate art form. It takes the place of all entertainments, all the passive sports as well as music and painting --"

  "But something went wrong."

  "Not at first," Bart objected. "At first it was creative. Everybody bought a Worldcraft bubble and built his own world. Evolved life farther and farther. Molded life. Controlled it. Competed with others to see who could achieve the most advanced world."

  "And it solved another problem," Julia added. "The problem of leisure. With robots to work for us and robants to serve us and take care of our needs --"

  "Yes, that was a problem," Hull admitted. "Too much leisure. Nothing to do. That, and the disappointment of finding our planet the only habitable planet in the system.

  "Packman's bubbles seemed to solve both problems. But something went wrong. A change came. I noticed it right away." Hull stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. The change began ten years ago -- and it's been growing worse."

  "But why?" Julie demanded. "Explain to me why everyone stopped building their worlds creatively and began to destroy."

  "Ever seen a child pull wings off a fly?"

  "Certainly. But --"

  "The same thing. Sadism? No, not exactly. More a sort of curiosity. Power. Why does a child break things? Power, again. We must never forget something. These world bubbles are substitutes. They take the place of something else, of finding genuine life on our own planets. And they're just too damn small to do that.

  "These worlds are like toy boats in a bath tub. Or model rocketships you see kids playing with. They're surrogates, not the actual thing. These people who operate them -- why do they want them? Because they can't explore real planets, big planets. They have a lot of energy dammed up inside them. Energy they can't express.

  "And bottled-up energy sours. It becomes aggressive. People work with their little worlds for a time, building them up. But finally they reach a point where their latent hostility, their sense of being deprived, their --"

  "It can be explained more easily," Bart said calmly. "Your theory is too elaborate."

  "How do you explain it?"

  "Man's innate destructive tendencies. His natural desire to kill and spread ruin."

  "There's no such thing," Hull said flatly. "Man isn't an ant. He has no fixed direction to his drives. He has no instinctive 'desire to destroy' any more than he had an instinctive desire to carve ivory letter-openers. He has energy --and the outlet it takes depends on the opportunities available. That's what's wrong. All of us have energy, the desire to move, act, do. But we're bottled up here, sealed off, on one planet. So we buy Worldcraft bubbles and make little worlds of our own. But microscopic worlds aren't enough. They're as satisfactory as a toy sailboat is to a man who wants to go sailing."

  Bart considered a long time, deep in thought. "You may be right," he admitted finally. "It sounds reasonable. But what's your suggestion? If the other eight planets are dead --"

  "Keep exploring. Beyond the system."

  "We're doing that."

  "Try to find outlets that aren't so artificial."

  Bart grinned. "You feel this way because you never caught the hang of it." He thumped his bubble fondly. "I don't find it artificial."

  fondly. "I don't find it artificial."

  Bart grunted. "It's turning sour, all right. Quite a scene, wasn't it?" He reflected, frowning. "But the bubbles are better than nothing. What do you suggest? Give up our bubbles? What should we do instead? Just sit around and talk?"

  "Nat loves to talk," Julia murmured.

  "Like all intellectuals." Bart tapped Hull's sleeve. "When you sit in your seat in the Directorate you're with the Intellectual and Professional class -- gray stripe."

  "And you?"

  "Blue stripe. Industrial. You know that."

  Hull nodded. "That's right. You're with Terran Spaceways. The ever-hopeful company."

  "So you want us to give up our bubbles and just sit around. Quite a solution to the problem."

  "You're going to have to give them up." Hull's face flushed. "What you do after that is your affair."

  "What do you mean?"

  Hull turned toward Longstreet, eyes blazing. "I've introduced a bill in the Directorate. A bill that will outlaw Worldcraft."

  Bart's mouth fell open. "You what?"

  "On what grounds?" Julia asked, waking up.

  "On moral grounds," Hull stated calmly. "And I think I can get it through."

  The Directorate hall buzzed with murmuring echoes, its vast reaches alive with moving shadows, men taking their places and preparing for the session's business.

  Eldon von Stern, Directorate Floor Leader, stood with Hull off to one side behind the platform. "Let's get this straight," von Stern said nervously, running his fingers through his iron-gray hair. "You intend to speak for this bill of yours? You want to defend it yourself?"

  Hull nodded. "That's right. Why not?"

  "The analytical machines can break the bill down and present an impartial report for the members. Spellbinding has gone out of style. If you present an emotional harangue you can be certain of losing. The members won't --"

  "I'll take the chance. It's too important to leave to the machines."

  Hull gazed out over the immense room that was s
lowly quieting. Representatives from all over the world were in their places. White-clad property owners. Blue-clad financial and industrial magnates. The red shirts of leaders from factory cooperatives and communal farms. The green-clad men and women representing the middle-class consumer group. His own gray-striped body, at the extreme right, the doctors, lawyers, scientists, educators, intellectuals and professionals of all kinds.

  "I'll take the chance," Hull repeated. "I want to see the bill passed. It's time the issues were made clear."

  Von Stern shrugged. "Suit yourself." He eyed Hull curiously. "What do you have against Worldcraft? It's too powerful a combine to buck. Packman himself is here, someplace. I'm surprised you --"

  The robot chair flashed a signal. Von Stern moved away from Hull, up onto the platform.

  "Are you sure you want to speak for the bill?" Julia said, standing beside Hull in the shadows. "Maybe he's right. Let the machines analyze the bill."

  Hull was gazing out across the sea of faces, trying to locate Packman. The owner of Worldcraft was sitting out there. Forrest Packman, in his immaculate white shirt, like an ancient, withered angel. Packman preferred to sit with the property group, considering Worldcraft real estate instead of industry. Property still had the edge on prestige.

  Von Stern touched Hull's arm. "All right. Take the chair and explain your proposal."

  Hull stepped out onto the platform and seated himself in the big marble chair. The endless rows of faces before him were carefully devoid of expression.

  of faces before him were carefully devoid of expression.

  "The theory and construction of the Worldcraft product, the sub-atomic universe system, is known to you. An infinite number of sub-atomic worlds exist, microscopic counterparts of our own spatial coordinate. Worldcraft developed, almost a century ago, a method of controlling to thirty decimals the forces and stresses involved on these micro-coordinate planes, and a fairly simplified machine which could be manipulated by an adult person.

  "These machines for controlling specific areas of sub-atomic coordinates have been manufactured and sold to the general public with the slogan: 'Own Your Own World.' The idea is that the owner of the machine becomes literally a world owner, since the machine controls forces that govern a sub-atomic universe that is directly analogous to our own.