Lies, Inc.

by Philip K. Dick

  “No,” Dosker said, and sat staring straight ahead, blindly.

  The UN officer said, “We tracked the Omphalos by her carrier-wave transmission, also. As we did your ship.”

  “Good bit,” Dosker said sardonically.

  “However, due to the distance involved, it will take several days to reach her.”

  Dosker said. “But you will, though.”

  “That is a certainty,” the UN officer said, with his heavy Swedish accent, nodding. He had no doubts. Nor did Dosker.

  The only issue was the time-factor. As the officer said, some few days; no more.

  He stared ahead, sat, waited, as the high-velocity UN pursuit ship hurried toward Terra, New New York and Horst Bertold.

  At the UN Headquarters in New New York he was given a thorough physical examination; the doctors and nurses attached one testing apparatus after another, checked their readings, located no grafted-in subdermal devices.

  “You survived your ordeal amazingly well,” the doctor in charge informed him, at last, as he was given his clothing and allowed once more to dress.

  “And now what?” Dosker asked.

  “The Secretary General is ready to see you,” the doctor said briefly, marking his chart; he nodded his head toward a door.

  Having dressed, Dosker walked step by step to the door, opened it.

  “Please hurry it up,” Horst Bertold said.

  Shutting the door after him Dosker said, “Why?”

  Seated at his large antique oak desk, the UN Secretary General glanced up; he was a heavy man, red-haired, with a pinched, elongated nose and almost colorless small lips. His features were small but his shoulders, his arms and his ribcage, bulged, as if from countless steam baths and from handball; his legs, his feet, showed the tonus of great childhood walking trips and miles of bike riding; this was an outdoor man, confined by his job to a desk, but longing for open spaces which did not now exist. A thoroughly healthy man, physically speaking, Dosker thought. Strange, he thought, and, in spite of himself, received a good impression.

  “We picked up your radio communication with the Omphalos, ” Bertold said, his English perfect—in fact overly perfect; it had a tape-like quality, and probably it had been so learned. The impression here was not so good. “Thereby as you know we located both ships. We also understand that you are now the ranking executive of Lies, Incorporated, Miss Holm and Mr. Glazer-Holliday having crossed via Telpor—under cover names, of course—to Whale’s Mouth.”

  Dosker shrugged, said nothing, imparted no free information; waited.

  “However—” Horst Bertold tapped his pen against the top document on his desk, frowned. “This is a transcript, verbatim, of the interchange between you and the fanatic, Rachmael ben Applebaum. You initiated the radio exchange; you raised the Omphalos.” Bertold glanced up and his blue, light eyes were sharp. “We have put our cryptographers on the sequence in code which you transmitted . . . the same which you previously received from the Vidphone Corp. Intrinsically it means nothing. But in the wreckage of your ship we located your decoding computer, the intact box with its fifty tapes. We therefore matched the transmission and recorded binary sequence to the proper tape. And it was as you informed ben Applebaum.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  “Of course not,” Bertold said swiftly. “Why should you deceive your own client? And at the risk—a risk which should not have been taken, as it so turned out—of revealing the location of your own vessel? Anyhow—” Bertold’s voice sank to an introspective murmur. “We still were not satisfied. We therefore checked over our monitoring—”

  “They’re being wiped out, over there,” Dosker said. “The two thousand field reps and Mat and Freya.” His voice was toneless; he told this because he knew they would get it by a ’wash anyhow— they could get anything that was there, any memory, any motives, plans, projects; after all, his own organization, far smaller than the UN, could do so—had done so, over many years, and to many persons, by means of psychiatrists and their techniques.

  Bertold said, “Trails of Hoffman Limited and Theodoric Ferry entirely control Newcolonizedland. The UN has no staff at Whale’s Mouth. All we know is what we have received, as a courtesy, in aud and vid form. The info signals through the Telpors, over these years of colonization; our original monitoring satellites have been inoperative ever since THL auspical jurisdiction began.”

  There was silence and then Dosker said incredulously, “Then this is as much news to you as it is to—”

  “We believed the fifteen years of aud and vid tapes; we saw no reason to check for ourselves. THL had volunteered to underwrite the colonization economically; they picked up the tab and we gave them the franchise because they owned the Telpor patent and equipment. Dr. von Einem’s patents are possessed exclusively by THL; he had the legal right to so arrange that. And this—” Bertold picked up the top document from his desk, showed it to Dosker; it was a typed transcript, in its entirety, of his own conversation by radio with Rachmael. “This,” Horst Bertold said, “is the result.”

  Dosker said, “Tell me what it means.” Because, he thought, I don’t know. I saw the original messages when they arrived; I understand the literal meaning of the words. But that’s all.

  The UN Secretary General said, “Out of the forty million colonists Ferry has conscripted an army and provided it with modern, sophisticated weapons. There is no ‘non-humanoid race,’ no non-Terran culture to encounter. Had there been our unmanned monitors would have detected them; by now we’ve touched every star system in our galaxy.” He stared at Dosker. “It’s us,” he said. “The UN. That’s what Theodoric Ferry is proposing to engage. When enough colonists have gone across. Then the up-to-then ‘one-way’ aspect of the teleportation equipment will suddenly reveal that the so-called Theorem One was false.”

  “Here?” Dosker said, then. “They’ll reenter through their own Telpor outlets?”

  “And take us on,” Bertold said. “But not now. At this point they’re not quite large enough.” To himself he said, “At least so we estimate; we studied samples of groups who had emigrated; he can’t have more than one million men actually under arms. But weapons—they may have u.s.h.: ultra sophisticated hardware; after all, they’ve got von Einem working for them.”

  Dosker said. “Where is von Einem? At Whale’s Mouth?”

  “We put a tail on him instantly.” Bertold’s fingers convulsed, crushed the document. “And proved already—ganz genug!—that we were correct. Von Einem has been all these years passing back and forth between Terra and Whale’s Mouth; he has always used— they have always—operated the Telpor instruments for two-way travel— so it’s verified, Dosker. Verified!” He stared at Dosker.

  SEVENTEEN

  When Rachmael ben Applebaum made out the dim, shadowy shapes of the UN pursuit ships as they approached to escort the Omphalos he knew that, whatever else was a cover, at least this much was true: the UN had traced him, had him and no doubt Dosker as well. So—he clicked on the microwave transmitter and raised, after an interval, the UN pursuit ships’ local commanding officer.

  “I’ll believe you,” Rachmael said, “when I hear Al Dosker say it.” And when I look him over, he said to himself, for signs of a cephalic ’wash. But—why would they say it if it wasn’t true? They had him; he and the Omphalos, detected, were now booty captured by the armed inter-system vessels of the great UN structure that spanned from planet to planet. Why make up a cover when there was no force to influence, no force able to provide any resistance?

  God above, he thought. If it’s true, then we can rely on Horst Bertold. We let our prejudices blind us . . . von Einem is German and Horst Bertold is German. But that does not any more prove they are working together, are secret collaborators, than, say, any two Ubangis or any two Jews. Adolf Hitler was not even a German . . . so our own thinking, he realized, has betrayed us. But— maybe now we can believe this. We can see. New Whole Germany has produced Dr. Sepp von Einem and Trai
ls of Hoffman Limited . . . but it may also have produced something else when it created Horst Bertold.

  We will see, Rachmael said to himself.

  —Will wait until we are in New New York at UN Headquarters; face Horst Bertold and see the evidence of the assertion given by relayed macroradio signal.

  The assertion that as of six a.m. New New York time this morning, UN troops had entered all retail outlets of Trails of Hoffman Limited, had seized the Telpor instruments—had, throughout Terra, arbitrarily and without warning of any kind, halted emigration to Whale’s Mouth.

  Twelve hours later Rachmael was led by a worried overworked female secretary into the UN Secretary General’s office.

  “The fanatic,” Horst Bertold said, surveying him. “The idealist who sparked the hankering in Matson Glazer-Holliday that caused him to attempt his coup d’etat at Whale’s Mouth.” He turned to an aide. “Bring in the Telpor Apparat.”

  Seconds later the familiar bipolar mechanism was noisily carted into the UN leader’s office, along with a thoroughly unnerved-looking technician; minus his goggles he looked frightened and—small.

  To the Telpor technician, Horst Bertold said, “Does this operate to permit teleportation two ways? Or only one? Zwei oder ein? Antworte.”

  “Just outward, mein Herr Sekretär General,” the technician quavered. “As Theorem One demonstrates, the recession of matter toward—”

  Horst Bertold said to his aide, “Bring in our ’wash psychiatrists. Have them start with their EEG machines.”

  At that, the Telpor technician said, in a voice that broke with dismayed intimidation, “Dass brauchen Sie nicht.”

  “He’s saying,” Bertold said to Rachmael, “that he will cooperate; we don’t need to employ our psychiatrists with him. So ask him.” He jerked his head fiercely toward the cowering THL employee, this man in his white smock who had assisted in the emigration of literally millions of innocent human beings. “Ask him whether the Telpors work both ways.”

  The technician said, virtually inaudibly, “Beide. Both ways.”

  “There never was any ‘Theorem One,’ ” Bertold snapped.

  “Sie haben Recht,” the technician agreed, nodding.

  “Bring in Dosker,” Bertold said to his overworked female secretary.

  When Dosker appeared he said to Rachmael at once, “Freya is still alive over there.” He indicated the Telpor instrument. “We’ve been in contact through this. But—” He hesitated.

  Horst Bertold said, “Matson Glazer-Holliday is dead. They murdered him immediately. But nearly half of Lies, Incorporated’s field personnel remain alive at various installations at Newcolonizedland, and we’re beginning to supply them on a strategic basis. With weapons of types which they instantly need. And presently we will, at tactical spots, try commando teams; we can do a lot, I think, with our commando teams.”

  “What can I do?” Rachmael said. He felt overwhelming impotence; it was going on—had been going on—without him. While he journeyed—pointlessly—through ’tween, utterly empty, space.

  This, the UN Secretary General seemed to read on his face. “You awakened Matson,” he pointed out. “Which caused Matson to attempt his aborted coup. And the relayed message from Freya Holm to Dosker and then to the Omphalos informed us of the reality hidden under Theodoric Ferry’s cover; a cover which we carry the moral stigma for accepting all these fifteen years. Everything based on the one fundamental hoax that teleportation could be achieved in only one direction . . .” He grimaced. “However, Trails of Hoffman Limited made an error as great as their cover when they did not impede your two thousand Lies, Incorporated veterans from crossing over.” To Dosker he said, “But even so, that would not have been enough. However, with our tactical support—”

  “It wasn’t enough even at the start,” Dosker said, “since they took out Matson right away.” Half to himself, half to Rachmael, he said, “We never had a chance. Probably Matson never knew; he probably didn’t even live that long. Anyhow, maybe you can retrieve Freya. Do you want to?”

  Instantly Rachmael said, “Yes.” To Horst Bertold he said, “Can I get equipment out of you? Defensive screens, if not offensive hardware? And I’ll go alone.” They would not, in the confusion, notice him, perhaps. Whale’s Mouth had become a battlefield, and too many participants were involved; one lone man was a cypher, a mote; he would enter inconspicuously and if he found her at all it would be that way, as an entity too trifling to be considered by the vast warring entities. Within the context of the power struggle which had already truncated Lies, Incorporated; one contender had been abolished at the start, and now only the two monoliths existed in the field to slug it out, THL on one hand, the UN as its wise old antagonist, its roots of victory deep in the last century. The UN, he reflected, had a head start, that of fifty years.

  But Trails of Hoffman Limited had the inventive genius of half-senile but still crafty old Dr. Sepp von Einem. And—the inventor of the Telpor instrument might not have ceased with that construct.

  He wondered if Horst Bertold had considered this.

  It didn’t matter, because if von Einem had produced something else of equal—or of merely significant—value, it would show up now.

  In the streets of Newcolonizedland, whatever Dr. Sepp von Einem and THL had over the years developed would be at this moment in full use. Because this was, for all participants, the Dies Irae, the Day of Wrath; now they were, like beasts in the field, being tried. And God help, Rachmael thought, the contender who was found wanting. Because out of this only one participant would live; there would be extended to the loser no partial, no half, life. Not in this arena.

  He himself—he had only one task, as he saw it. That of getting Freya Holm out of Whale’s Mouth and back safely to Terra.

  The eighteen-year journey, the odyssey aboard the Omphalos, learning Attic Greek so that he could read the Bacchae in the original—that childlike fantasy had withered at the press of the iron glove of the reality-situation, the struggle going on—not eighteen years from now—but at this instant, at the Whale’s Mouth terminals of six thousand Telpor stations.

  “ ‘Sein Herz voll Hass geladen,’ ” Horst Bertold said to Rachmael. “You speak Yiddish? You understand?”

  “I speak a little Yiddish,” Rachmael said, “but that’s German. ‘His heart heavy with hate.’ What’s that from?”

  “From the Civil War in Spain,” Bertold said. “From a song of the International Brigade. Germans, mostly, who had left the Third Reich to fight in Spain against Franco, in the 1930s. They were, I suppose, Communists. But—they were fighting Fascism, and very early; and they were Germans. So they were always ‘good’ Germans . . . what that man, Hans Beimler, hated was Nazism and Fascism, in all its stages and states and manifestations.” After a pause he said. “We fought the Nazis, too, we ‘good’ Germans; verges’ uns nie.” Forget us never, Bertold had said, quietly, calmly. Because we did not merely join the fight late, in the 1950s or ’60s, but from the start. The first human beings to fight to the death, to kill and be killed by the Nazis, were—

  Germans.

  “And Terra,” Bertold said to Rachmael, “ought not to forget that. As I hope they will not forget who at this moment is taking out Dr. Sepp von Einem and creatures allied with him. Theodoric Ferry, his boss . . . who, by the way, is an American.” He smiled at Rachmael. “But there are ‘good’ Americans. Despite the A-bomb dropped on those Japanese women and children and elderly.”

  Rachmael was silent, he could not answer this.

  “All right,” Bertold said, then. “We will put you together with a wep-x, a weapon expert. To see what gear you should have. And then good luck. I hope you bring back Miss Holm.” He smiled— fleetingly. And turned at once to other matters.

  A minor UN official plucked at Rachmael’s sleeve. “I’m to take charge of your problem,” he explained. “I will be handling it from now on. Tell me, Mr. ben Applebaum; precisely what contemporary—and I do not mean last month�
��s or last year’s—weapons of war you are accustomed to operating, if any? And how recently you have been exposed to the neurological and bacterial—”

  “I’ve had absolutely no military training,” Rachmael said. “Or antineuro or -bac modulation.”

  “We can still assist you,” the minor UN official said. “There is certain equipment requiring no prior experience. However—” He made a mark on the sheet attached to his clipboard. “This does make a difference; eighty percent of the hardware available would be useless to you.” He smiled encouragingly. “We must not let it get us down, Mr. ben Applebaum.”

  “I won’t,” Rachmael said grimly. “So I’ll be teleported to Whale’s Mouth after all.”

  “Yes, within a matter of an hour.”

  “The unteleported man,” Rachmael murmured. “Will be teleported.” Instead of enduring the eighteen years aboard the Omphalos. Ironic.

  “Are you capable morally,” the UN official inquired, “of employing a nerve gas, or would you prefer to—”

  “Anything,” Rachmael said, “that’ll bring back Freya. Anything except the phosphorus weapons, the jellied petroleum products; I won’t use any of those, and also the bone-marrow destroyers—leave those out. But lead slugs, the old-fashioned muzzle-expelled shells; I’ll accept them, as well as the laser-beam artifacts.” He wondered what variety of weapon had gotten Matson Glazer-Holliday, the most professional of men in this area.

  “We have something new,” the UN official said, consulting his clipboard, “and according to the Defense Department people very promising. It’s a time-warping construct that sets up a field which coagulates the—”

  “Just equip me,” Rachmael said. “And get me over there. To her.”

  “Right away,” the UN official promised, and led him rapidly down a side hall to a hi-speed descent ramp. To the UN Advance-weapons Archives.