The Philip K. Dick Megapack

by Dick, Philip K.

  He was silent.

  “You might find older issues at the Gazette office,” the woman said, taking off her glasses. “Why don’t you try there? But if you’d tell me, maybe I could help you—”

  He went out.

  The Gazette office was down a side street; the sidewalk was broken and cracked. He went inside. A heater glowed in the corner of the small office. A heavy-set man stood up and came slowly over to the counter.

  “What did you want, mister?” he said.

  “Old papers. A month. Or more.”

  “To buy? You want to buy them?”

  “Yes.” He held out some of the money he had. The man stared.

  “Sure,” he said. “Sure. Wait a minute.” He went quickly out of the room. When he came back he was staggering under the weight of his armload, his face red. “Here are some,” he grunted. “Took what I could find. Covers the whole year. And if you want more—”

  Conger carried the papers outside. He sat down by the road and began to go through them.

  * * * *

  What he wanted was four months back, in December. It was a tiny item, so small that he almost missed it. His hands trembled as he scanned it, using the small dictionary for some of the archaic terms.

  MAN ARRESTED FOR

  UNLICENSED DEMONSTRATION

  An unidentified man who refused to give his name was picked up in Cooper Creek by special agents of the sheriff’s office, according to Sheriff Duff. It was said the man was recently noticed in this area and had been watched continually. It was—

  Cooper Creek. December, 1960. His heart pounded. That was all he needed to know. He stood up, shaking himself, stamping his feet on the cold ground. The sun had moved across the sky to the very edge of the hills. He smiled. Already he had discovered the exact time and place. Now he needed only to go back, perhaps to November, to Cooper Creek—

  He walked back through the main section of town, past the library, past the grocery store. It would not be hard; the hard part was over. He would go there; rent a room, prepare to wait until the man appeared.

  He turned the corner. A woman was coming out of a doorway, loaded down with packages. Conger stepped aside to let her pass. The woman glanced at him. Suddenly her face turned white. She stared, her mouth open.

  Conger hurried on. He looked back. What was wrong with her? The woman was still staring; she had dropped the packages to the ground. He increased his speed. He turned a second corner and went up a side street. When he looked back again the woman had come to the entrance of the street and was starting after him. A man joined her, and the two of them began to run toward him.

  He lost them and left the town, striding quickly, easily, up into the hills at the edge of town. When he reached the cage he stopped. What had happened? Was it something about his clothing? His dress?

  He pondered. Then, as the sun set, he stepped into the cage.

  Conger sat before the wheel. For a moment he waited, his hands resting lightly on the control. Then he turned the wheel, just a little, following the control readings carefully.

  The grayness settled down around him.

  But not for very long.

  * * * *

  The man looked him over critically. “You better come inside,” he said. “Out of the cold.”

  “Thanks.” Conger went gratefully through the open door, into the living-room. It was warm and close from the heat of the little kerosene heater in the corner. A woman, large and shapeless in her flowered dress, came from the kitchen. She and the man studied him critically.

  “It’s a good room,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Appleton. It’s got heat. You need that this time of year.”

  “Yes.” He nodded, looking around.

  “You want to eat with us?”

  “What?”

  “You want to eat with us?” The man’s brows knitted. “You’re not a foreigner, are you, mister?”

  “No.” He smiled. “I was born in this country. Quite far west, though.”

  “California?”

  “No.” He hesitated. “In Oregon.”

  “What’s it like up there?” Mrs. Appleton asked. “I hear there’s a lot of trees and green. It’s so barren here. I come from Chicago, myself.”

  “That’s the Middle West,” the man said to her. “You ain’t no foreigner.”

  “Oregon isn’t foreign, either,” Conger said. “It’s part of the United States.”

  The man nodded absently. He was staring at Conger’s clothing.

  “That’s a funny suit you got on, mister,” he said. “Where’d you get that?”

  Conger was lost. He shifted uneasily. “It’s a good suit,” he said. “Maybe I better go some other place, if you don’t want me here.”

  They both raised their hands protestingly. The woman smiled at him. “We just have to look out for those Reds. You know, the government is always warning us about them.”

  “The Reds?” He was puzzled.

  “The government says they’re all around. We’re supposed to report anything strange or unusual, anybody doesn’t act normal.”

  “Like me?”

  They looked embarrassed. “Well, you don’t look like a Red to me,” the man said. “But we have to be careful. The Tribune says—”

  Conger half listened. It was going to be easier than he had thought. Clearly, he would know as soon as the Founder appeared. These people, so suspicious of anything different, would be buzzing and gossiping and spreading the story. All he had to do was lie low and listen, down at the general store, perhaps. Or even here, in Mrs. Appleton’s boarding house.

  “Can I see the room?” he said.

  “Certainly.” Mrs. Appleton went to the stairs. “I’ll be glad to show it to you.”

  They went upstairs. It was colder upstairs, but not nearly as cold as outside. Nor as cold as nights on the Martian deserts. For that he was grateful.

  * * * *

  He was walking slowly around the store, looking at the cans of vegetables, the frozen packages of fish and meats shining and clean in the open refrigerator counters.

  Ed Davies came toward him. “Can I help you?” he said. The man was a little oddly dressed, and with a beard! Ed couldn’t help smiling.

  “Nothing,” the man said in a funny voice. “Just looking.”

  “Sure,” Ed said. He walked back behind the counter. Mrs. Hacket was wheeling her cart up.

  “Who’s he?” she whispered, her sharp face turned, her nose moving, as if it were sniffing. “I never seen him before.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Looks funny to me. Why does he wear a beard? No one else wears a beard. Must be something the matter with him.”

  “Maybe he likes to wear a beard. I had an uncle who—”

  “Wait.” Mrs. Hacket stiffened. “Didn’t that—what was his name? The Red—that old one. Didn’t he have a beard? Marx. He had a beard.”

  Ed laughed. “This ain’t Karl Marx. I saw a photograph of him once.”

  Mrs. Hacket was staring at him. “You did?”

  “Sure.” He flushed a little. “What’s the matter with that?”

  “I’d sure like to know more about him,” Mrs. Hacket said. “I think we ought to know more, for our own good.”

  * * * *

  “Hey, mister! Want a ride?”

  Conger turned quickly, dropping his hand to his belt. He relaxed. Two young kids in a car, a girl and a boy. He smiled at them. “A ride? Sure.”

  Conger got into the car and closed the door. Bill Willet pushed the gas and the car roared down the highway.

  “I appreciate a ride,” Conger said carefully. “I was taking a walk between towns, but it was farther than I thought.”

  “Where are
you from?” Lora Hunt asked. She was pretty, small and dark, in her yellow sweater and blue skirt.

  “From Cooper Creek.”

  “Cooper Creek?” Bill said. He frowned. “That’s funny. I don’t remember seeing you before.”

  “Why, do you come from there?”

  “I was born there. I know everybody there.”

  “I just moved in. From Oregon.”

  “From Oregon? I didn’t know Oregon people had accents.”

  “Do I have an accent?”

  “You use words funny.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t he, Lora?”

  “You slur them,” Lora said, smiling. “Talk some more. I’m interested in dialects.” She glanced at him, white-teethed. Conger felt his heart constrict.

  “I have a speech impediment.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry.”

  They looked at him curiously as the car purred along. Conger for his part was struggling to find some way of asking them questions without seeming curious. “I guess people from out of town don’t come here much,” he said. “Strangers.”

  “No.” Bill shook his head. “Not very much.”

  “I’ll bet I’m the first outsider for a long time.”

  “I guess so.”

  Conger hesitated. “A friend of mine—someone I know, might be coming through here. Where do you suppose I might—” He stopped. “Would there be anyone certain to see him? Someone I could ask, make sure I don’t miss him if he comes?”

  They were puzzled. “Just keep your eyes open. Cooper Creek isn’t very big.”

  “No. That’s right.”

  They drove in silence. Conger studied the outline of the girl. Probably she was the boy’s mistress. Perhaps she was his trial wife. Or had they developed trial marriage back so far? He could not remember. But surely such an attractive girl would be someone’s mistress by this time; she would be sixteen or so, by her looks. He might ask her sometime, if they ever met again.

  * * * *

  The next day Conger went walking along the one main street of Cooper Creek. He passed the general store, the two filling stations, and then the post office. At the corner was the soda fountain.

  He stopped. Lora was sitting inside, talking to the clerk. She was laughing, rocking back and forth.

  Conger pushed the door open. Warm air rushed around him. Lora was drinking hot chocolate, with whipped cream. She looked up in surprise as he slid into the seat beside her.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Am I intruding?”

  “No.” She shook her head. Her eyes were large and dark. “Not at all.”

  The clerk came over. “What do you want?”

  Conger looked at the chocolate. “Same as she has.”

  Lora was watching Conger, her arms folded, elbows on the counter. She smiled at him. “By the way. You don’t know my name. Lora Hunt.”

  She was holding out her hand. He took it awkwardly, not knowing what to do with it. “Conger is my name,” he murmured.

  “Conger? Is that your last or first name?”

  “Last or first?” He hesitated. “Last. Omar Conger.”

  “Omar?” She laughed. “That’s like the poet, Omar Khayyam.”

  “I don’t know of him. I know very little of poets. We restored very few works of art. Usually only the Church has been interested enough—” He broke off. She was staring. He flushed. “Where I come from,” he finished.

  “The Church? Which church do you mean?”

  “The Church.” He was confused. The chocolate came and he began to sip it gratefully. Lora was still watching him.

  “You’re an unusual person,” she said. “Bill didn’t like you, but he never likes anything different. He’s so—so prosaic. Don’t you think that when a person gets older he should become—broadened in his outlook?”

  Conger nodded.

  “He says foreign people ought to stay where they belong, not come here. But you’re not so foreign. He means orientals; you know.”

  Conger nodded.

  The screen door opened behind them. Bill came into the room. He stared at them. “Well,” he said.

  Conger turned. “Hello.”

  “Well.” Bill sat down. “Hello, Lora.” He was looking at Conger. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Conger tensed. He could feel the hostility of the boy. “Something wrong with that?”

  “No. Nothing wrong with it.”

  There was silence. Suddenly Bill turned to Lora. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  “Go?” She was astonished. “Why?”

  “Just go!” He grabbed her hand. “Come on! The car’s outside.”

  “Why, Bill Willet,” Lora said. “You’re jealous!”

  “Who is this guy?” Bill said. “Do you know anything about him? Look at him, his beard—”

  She flared. “So what? Just because he doesn’t drive a Packard and go to Cooper High!”

  Conger sized the boy up. He was big—big and strong. Probably he was part of some civil control organization.

  “Sorry,” Conger said. “I’ll go.”

  “What’s your business in town?” Bill asked. “What are you doing here? Why are you hanging around Lora?”

  Conger looked at the girl. He shrugged. “No reason. I’ll see you later.”

  He turned away. And froze. Bill had moved. Conger’s fingers went to his belt. Half pressure, he whispered to himself. No more. Half pressure.

  He squeezed. The room leaped around him. He himself was protected by the lining of his clothing, the plastic sheathing inside.

  “My God—” Lora put her hands up. Conger cursed. He hadn’t meant any of it for her. But it would wear off. There was only a half-amp to it. It would tingle.

  Tingle, and paralyze.

  He walked out the door without looking back. He was almost to the corner when Bill came slowly out, holding onto the wall like a drunken man. Conger went on.

  * * * *

  As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him. He stopped, holding his breath.

  “Who is it?” a man’s voice came. Conger waited, tense.

  “Who is it?” the man said again. He clicked something in his hand. A light flashed. Conger moved.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “Who is ‘me’?”

  “Conger is my name. I’m staying at the Appleton’s place. Who are you?”

  The man came slowly up to him. He was wearing a leather jacket. There was a gun at his waist.

  “I’m Sheriff Duff. I think you’re the person I want to talk to. You were in Bloom’s today, about three o’clock?”

  “Bloom’s?”

  “The fountain. Where the kids hang out.” Duff came up beside him, shining his light into Conger’s face. Conger blinked.

  “Turn that thing away,” he said.

  A pause. “All right.” The light flickered to the ground. “You were there. Some trouble broke out between you and the Willet boy. Is that right? You had a beef over his girl—”

  “We had a discussion,” Conger said carefully.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just curious. They say you did something.”

  “Did something? Did what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m wondering. They saw a flash, and something seemed to happen. They all blacked out. Couldn’t move.”

  “How are they now?”

  “All right.”

  There was silence.

  “Well?” Duff said. “What was it? A bomb?”

  “A bomb?” Conger laughed. “No. My cigarette lighter
caught fire. There was a leak, and the fluid ignited.”

  “Why did they all pass out?”

  “Fumes.”

  Silence. Conger shifted, waiting. His fingers moved slowly toward his belt. The Sheriff glanced down. He grunted.

  “If you say so,” he said. “Anyhow, there wasn’t any real harm done.” He stepped back from Conger. “And that Willet is a trouble-maker.”

  “Good night, then,” Conger said. He started past the Sheriff.

  “One more thing, Mr. Conger. Before you go. You don’t mind if I look at your identification, do you?”

  “No. Not at all.” Conger reached into his pocket. He held his wallet out. The Sheriff took it and shined his flashlight on it. Conger watched, breathing shallowly. They had worked hard on the wallet, studying historic documents, relics of the times, all the papers they felt would be relevant.

  Duff handed it back. “Okay. Sorry to bother you.” The light winked off.

  When Conger reached the house he found the Appletons sitting around the television set. They did not look up as he came in. He lingered at the door.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said. Mrs. Appleton turned slowly. “Can I ask you—what’s the date?”

  “The date?” She studied him. “The first of December.”

  “December first! Why, it was just November!”

  They were all looking at him. Suddenly he remembered. In the twentieth century they still used the old twelve-month system. November fed directly into December; there was no Quartember between.

  He gasped. Then it was tomorrow! The second of December! Tomorrow!

  “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks.”

  He went up the stairs. What a fool he was, forgetting. The Founder had been taken into captivity on the second of December, according to the newspaper records. Tomorrow, only twelve hours hence, the Founder would appear to speak to the people and then be dragged away.

  * * * *

  The day was warm and bright. Conger’s shoes crunched the melting crust of snow. On he went, through the trees heavy with white. He climbed a hill and strode down the other side, sliding as he went.