Collected Stories 2 - Second Variety and Other Classic Stories

by Philip K. Dick

  "You see," Eric said, "the Ganymedeans didn't want to sell it. But it whipped up a thunderstorm and they sort of had to. That's partly why it was so cheap."

  "Your husband made a good purchase," the god said. Its single eye roved around curiously. "This is your dwelling? You eat and sleep here?"

  That's right," Eric said. "Pat and I both -"

  The front door chimed. "Thomas Matson stands on the threshold," the door stated. "He wishes admission."

  "Golly," Eric said. "Good old Tom. I'll go let him in."

  Pat indicated the god. "Hadn't you better -"

  "Oh, no. I want Tom to see it." Eric stepped to the door and opened it.

  "Hello," Tom said, striding in. "Hi, Pat. Nice day." He and Eric shook hands. "The Lab has been wondering when you'd get back. Old Bradshaw is leaping up and down to hear your report." Matson's beanpole body bent forward in sudden interest. "Say, what's in the box?"

  "That's my god," Eric said modestly.

  "Really? But God is an unscientific concept."

  "This is a different god. I didn't invent it. I bought it. On Ganymede. It's a Ganymedean Weather Deity."

  "Say something," Pat said to the god. "So he'll believe your owner."

  "Let's debate my existence," the god said sneeringly. "You take the negative. Agreed?"

  Matson grinned. "What is this, Eric? A little robot? Sort of hideous looking."

  "Honest. It's a god. On the way it did a couple of miracles for me. Not big miracles, of course, but enough to convince me."

  "Hearsay," Matson said. But he was interested. "Pass a miracle, god. I'm all ears."

  "I am not a vulgar showpiece," the god growled.

  "Don't get it angry," Eric cautioned. "There's no limit to its powers, once aroused."

  "How does a god come into being?" Tom asked. "Does a god create itself? If it's dependent on something prior then there must be a more ultimate order of being which -"

  "Gods," the tiny figure stated, "are inhabitants of a higher level, a greater plane of reality. A more advanced dimension. There are a number of planes of existence. Dimensional continuums, arranged in a hierarchy. Mine is one above yours."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Occasionally beings pass from one dimensional continuum to another. When they pass from a superior continuum to an inferior - as I have done - they are worshipped as gods."

  Tom was disappointed. "You're not a god at all. You're just a life-form of a slightly different dimensional order that's changed phase and entered our vector."

  The little figure glowered. "You make it sound simple. Actually, such a transformation requires great cunning and is seldom done. I came here because a member of my race, a certain malodorous Nar Dolk, committed a heinous crime and escaped into this continuum. Our law obliged me to follow in hot pursuit. In the process this flotsam, this spawn of dampness, escaped and assumed some disguise or other. I continually search, but he has not yet been apprehended." The small god broke off suddenly. "Your curiosity is idle. It annoys me."

  Tom turned his back on the god. "Pretty weak stuff. We do more down at the Terran Metals Lab than this character ever -"

  The air crackled, ozone flashing. Tom Matson shrieked. Invisible hands lifted him bodily and propelled him to the door. The door swung open and Matson sailed down the walk, tumbling in a heap among the rose bushes, arms and legs flailing wildly.

  "Help!" Matson yelled, struggling to get up.

  "Oh, dear," Pat gasped.

  "Golly." Eric shot a glance at the tiny figure. "You did that?"

  "Help him," Pat urged, white-faced. "I think he's hurt. He looks funny."

  Eric hurried outside and helped Matson to his feet. "You okay? It's your own fault. I told you if you kept annoying it something might happen."

  Matson's face was ablaze with rage. "No little pipsqueak god is going to treat me like this!" He pushed Eric aside, heading back for the house. "I'll take it down to the Lab and pop it in a bottle of formaldehyde. I'll dissect it and skin it and hang it up on the wall. I'll have the first specimen of a god known to -"

  A ball of light glowed around Matson. The ball enveloped him, settling in place around his lean body so that he looked like a filament in an incandescent light.

  "What the hell!" Matson muttered. Suddenly he jerked. His body faded. He began to shrink. With a faint whoosh he diminished rapidly. Smaller and smaller he dwindled. His body shuddered, altering strangely.

  The light winked out. Sitting stupidly on the walk was a small green toad.

  "See?" Eric said wildly. "I told you to keep quiet! Now look what it's done!"

  The toad hopped feebly toward the house. At the porch it sagged into immobility, defeated by the steps. It uttered a pathetic, hopeless chug.

  Pat's voice rose in a wail of anguish. "Oh, Eric! Look what it's done! Poor Tom!"

  "His own fault," Eric said. "He deserves it." But he was beginning to get nervous. "Look here," he said to the god. "That's not a very nice thing to do to a grown man. What'll his wife and kids think?"

  "What'll Mr Bradshaw think?" Pat cried. "He can't go to work like that!"

  "True," Eric admitted. He appealed to the god. "I think he's learned his lesson. How about turning him back? Okay?"

  "You just better undo him!" Pat shrieked, clenching her small fists. "If you don't undo him you'll have Terran Metals after you. Even a god can't stand up to Horace Bradshaw."

  "Better change him back," Eric said.

  "It'll do him good," the god said. "I'll leave him that way for a couple of centuries -"

  "Centuries!" Pat exploded. "Why, you little blob of slime!" She advanced ominously toward the box, shaking with wrath. "See here! You turn him back or I'll take you out of your box and drop you into the garbage disposal unit!"

  "Make her be still," the god said to Eric.

  "Calm down, Pat," Eric implored.

  "I will not calm down! Who does it think it is? A present! How dare you bring this moldy bit of refuse into our house? Is this your idea of a -"

  Her voice ceased abruptly.

  Eric turned apprehensively. Pat stood rigid, her mouth open, a word still on her lips. She did not move. She was white all over. A solid gray-white that made cold chills leap up Eric's spine. "Good Lord," he said.

  "I turned her to stone," the god explained. "She made too much noise." It yawned. "Now, I think I'll retire. I'm a little tired, after my trip."

  "I can't believe it," Eric Blake said. He shook his head numbly. "My best friend a toad. My wife turned to stone."

  "It's true," the god said. "We deal out justice according to how people act. They both got what they deserved."

  "Can - can she hear me?"

  "I suppose."

  Eric went over to the statue. "Pat," he begged imploringly. "Please don't be mad. It isn't my fault." He gripped her ice-cold shoulders. "Don't blame me! I didn't do it." The granite was hard and smooth under his fingers. Pat stared blankly ahead.

  "Terran Metals indeed," the god grumbled sourly. Its single eye studied Eric intently. "Who is this Horace Bradshaw? Some local deity, perhaps?"

  "Horace Bradshaw owns Terran Metals," Eric said gloomily. He sat down and shakily lit a cigarette. "He's about the biggest man on Terra. Terran Metals owns half the planets in the system."

  "Kingdoms of this world do not interest me," the god said noncommittally, subsiding and shutting its eye. "I will retire now. I wish to contemplate certain matters. You may wake me later, if you wish. We can converse on theological subjects, as we did on the ship coming here."

  "Theological subjects," Eric said bitterly. "My wife a stone block and it wants to talk about religion."

  But the god was already withdrawn, retired into itself.

  "A lot you care," Eric muttered. Anger flickered in him. "This is the thanks I get for taking you off Ganymede. Ruin my household and my social life. Fine god you are!"

  No response.

  Eric concentrated desperately. Maybe when the go
d awoke it would be in a better mood. Maybe he could persuade it to turn Matson and Pat back to their usual forms. Faint hope stirred. He could appeal to the god's better side. After it had rested and slept for a few hours...

  If nobody came looking for Matson.

  The toad sat disconsolately on the walk, drooping with misery. Eric leaned toward it. "Hey, Matson!"

  The toad looked slowly up.

  "Don't worry, old man. I'll get it to turn you back. It's a cinch." The toad didn't stir. "A lead-pipe cinch," Eric repeated nervously.

  The toad drooped a little more. Eric looked at his watch. It was late afternoon, almost four. Tom's shift at Terran began in half an hour. Sweat came out on his forehead. If the god went on sleeping and didn't wake up in half an hour -

  A buzz. The vidphone.

  Eric's heart sank. He hurried over and clicked the screen on, steeling himself. Horace Bradshaw's sharp, dignified features faded into focus. His keen glance bored into Eric, penetrating his depths.

  "Blake," he grunted. "Back from Ganymede, I see."

  "Yes, sir." Eric's mind raced frantically. He moved in front of the screen, cutting off Bradshaw's view of the room. "I'm just starting to unpack."

  "Forget that and get over here! We're waiting to hear your report."

  "Right now? Gosh, Mr Bradshaw. Give me a chance to get my things away." He fought desperately for time. "I'll be over tomorrow morning bright and early."

  "Is Matson there with you?"

  Eric swallowed. "Yes, sir. But -"

  "Put him on. I want to talk to him."

  "He - he can't talk to you right now, sir."

  "What? Why not?"

  "He's in no shape to - that is, he -"

  Bradshaw snarled impatiently. "Then bring him along with you. And he better be sober when he gets here. I'll see you at my office in ten minutes." He broke the circuit. The screen faded abruptly.

  Eric sank wearily down in a chair. His mind reeled. Ten minutes! He shook his head, stunned.

  The toad hopped a little, stirring on the walk. It emitted a faint, despondent sound.

  Eric got heavily to his feet. "I guess we have to face the music," he murmured. He bent down and picked up the toad, putting it gingerly in his coat pocket. "I guess you heard. That was Bradshaw. We're going down to the lab."

  The toad stirred uneasily.

  "I wonder what Bradshaw is going to say when he sees you." Eric kissed his wife's cold granite cheek. "Good-bye, honey."

  He moved numbly down the walk to the street. A moment later he hailed a robot cab and entered it. "I have a feeling this is going to be hard to explain." The cab zipped off down the street. "Hard as hell to explain."

  Horace Bradshaw stared in dumbfounded amazement. He removed his steel-rimmed glasses and wiped them slowly. He fitted them back on his hard, hawklike face and peered down. The toad rested silently in the center of the immense mahogany desk.

  Bradshaw pointed shakily at the toad. "This - this is Thomas Matson?"

  "Yes, sir," Eric said.

  Bradshaw blinked in wonder. "Matson! What in the world has happened to you?"

  "He's a toad," Eric explained.

  "So I see. Incredible." Bradshaw pressed a stud on his desk. "Send in Jennings from the Biology Lab," he ordered. "A toad." He poked the toad with his pencil. "Is that really you, Matson?"

  The toad chugged.

  "Good Lord." Bradshaw sat back, wiping his forehead. His grim expression faded into sympathetic concern. He shook his head sadly. "I can't believe it. Some kind of bacterial blight, I suppose. Matson was always experimenting on himself. He took his work seriously. A brave man. A good worker. He did much for Terran Metals. Too bad he had to end this way. We'll extend full pension to him, of course."

  Jennings entered the office. "You wanted me, sir?"

  "Come in." Bradshaw beckoned him impatiently in. "We have a problem for your department. You know Eric Blake here."

  "Hi, Blake."

  "And Thomas Matson." Bradshaw indicated the toad. "From the Nonferrous Lab."

  "I know Matson," Jennings said slowly. "That is, I know a Matson from Nonferrous. But I don't recall - that is, he was taller than this. Almost six feet."

  "This is him," Eric said gloomily. "He's a toad now."

  "What happened?" Jennings's scientific curiosity was aroused. "What's the lowdown?"

  "It's a long story," Eric said evasively.

  "Can't you tell it?" Jennings scrutinized the toad professionally. "Looks like a regular type of toad. You're sure this is Tom Matson? Come clean, Blake. You must know more than you're telling!"

  Bradshaw studied Eric intently. "Yes, what did happen, Blake? You have a strange, shifty look. Are you responsible for this?" Bradshaw half rose from his chair, his grim face bleak. "See here. If it's your fault one of my best men has been incapacitated for further work -"

  "Take it easy," Eric protested, his mind racing frantically. He patted the toad nervously. "Matson is perfectly safe - as long as nobody steps on him. We can rig up some sort of protective shield and an automatic communication system that'll enable him to spell out words. He can continue his work. With a few adjustments here and there everything should speed along perfectly."

  "Answer me!" Bradshaw roared. "Are you responsible for this? Is this your doing?"

  Eric squirmed helplessly. "In a way, I suppose. Not exactly. Not directly." His voice wavered. "But I guess you'd say if it hadn't been for me..."

  Bradshaw's face set in a rigid mask of rage. "Blake, you're fired." He yanked a heap of forms from his desk dispenser. "Get out of here and never come back. And get your hand off that toad. It belongs to Terran Metals." He shoved a paper across the desk. "Here's your paycheck. And don't bother looking for work elsewhere. I'm listing you on the inter-system blacklist. Good day."

  "But, Mr Bradshaw -"

  "Don't plead." Bradshaw waved his hand. "Just go. Jennings, get your biology staff busy at once. This problem must be licked. I want you to rearrange this toad back to its original shape. Matson is a vital part of Terran Metals. There's work to be done, work only Matson can do. We can't have this sort of thing holding up our research."

  "Mr Bradshaw," Eric begged desperately. "Please listen. I want to see Tom back as he was. But there's only one way we can get him back his original shape. We -"

  Bradshaw's eyes were cold with hostility. "You still here, Blake? Must I call my guards and have you dismembered? I'm giving you one minute to be off Company land. Understand?"

  Eric nodded miserably. "I understand." He turned and shuffled unhappily toward the door. "So long, Jennings. So long, Tom. I'll be home if you want me, Mr Bradshaw."

  "Sorcerer," Bradshaw snapped. "Good riddance."

  "What would you do," Eric asked the robot cabdriver, "if your wife had turned to stone, your best friend were a toad, and you had lost your job?"

  "Robots have no wives," the driver said. "They are nonsexual. Robots have no friends, either. They are incapable of emotional relationships."

  "Can robots be fired?"

  "Sometimes." The robot drew his cab up before Eric's modest six-room bungalow. "But consider. Robots are frequently melted down and new robots made from the remains. Recall Ibsen's Peer Gynt, the section concerning the Button Molder. The lines clearly anticipate in symbolic form the trauma of robots to come."

  "Yeah." The door opened and Eric got out. "I guess we all have our problems."

  "Robots have worse problems than anybody." The door shut and the cab zipped off, back down the hill.

  Worse? Hardly. Eric entered his home slowly, the front door automatically opening for him.

  "Welcome, Mr Blake," the door greeted him.

  "I suppose Pat's still here."

  "Mrs Blake is here, but she is in a cataleptic state, or some similar condition."

  "She's been turned to stone." Eric kissed the cold lips of the statue gloomily. "Hi, honey."

  He got some meat from the refrigerator and crumbled it into the bel
ly-cup of the god. Presently digestive fluid rose and covered the food. In a short time the single eye of the god opened, blinked a few times, and focused on Eric.

  "Have a good sleep?" Eric inquired icily.

  "I wasn't asleep. My mind was turned toward matters of cosmic import. I detect a hostile quality in your voice. Has something unfavorable occurred?"

  "Nothing. Nothing at all. I just lost my job, on top of everything else."

  "Lost your job? Interesting. What else do you refer to?"

  Eric exploded in rage. "You've messed up my whole life, damn you!" He jabbed at the silent, unmoving figure of his wife. "Look! My wife! Turned to granite. And my best friend, a toad!"

  Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo yawned. "So?"

  "Why? What did I ever do to you? Why do you treat me this way? Look at all I've done for you. I only brought you here to Terra. Fed you. Fixed you up a box with straw and water and newspapers. That's all."

  "True. You did bring me to Terra." Again an odd gleam flickered across the god's dark face. "All right. I'll restore your wife."

  "You will?" Pathetic joy surged through Eric. Tears came to his eyes. He was too relieved to ask any questions. "Gosh, I sure would appreciate it!"

  The god concentrated. "Stand out of the way. It's easier to distort the molecular arrangement of a body than to restore the original configuration. I hope I can get it exactly as it was." It made a faint motion.

  Around Pat's silent figure the air stirred. The pale granite shuddered. Slowly, color seeped back into her features. She gasped sharply, her dark eyes flashing with fear. Color filled her arms, shoulders, breasts, spreading through her trim body. She cried out, tottering unsteadily. "Eric!"

  Eric caught her, hugging her tight. "Gosh, honey. I'm sure glad you're all right." He crushed her against him, feeling her heart thump with terror. He kissed her soft lips again and again. "Welcome back."

  Pat pulled abruptly away. "That little snake. That miserable particle of waste. Wait until I get my hands on it." She advanced toward the god, eyes blazing. "Listen, you. What's the idea? How dare you!"

  "See?" the god said. "They never change."

  Eric pulled his wife back. "You better shut up or you'll be granite again. Understand?"

  Pat caught the urgent rasp in his voice. She subsided reluctantly. "All right, Eric, I give up."