Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992)
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examination papers; a yes-no-maybe structure could be
employed, in conjunction with a pre-analysis of the
pattern of ideological correctness— and incorrectness.
The matter could be made routine. Probably.
Faith o f Our Fathers
67
Darius Pethel said, “I have with me certain material
which I would like you to scrutinize, Mr. Chien.” He
unzipped an unsightly, old-fashioned, plastic briefcase.
“Two examination essays,” he said as he passed the
documents to Chien. “This will tell us if you’re qualified.” He then glanced at Tso-pin; their gazes met.
“I understand,” Pethel said, “that if you are successful in this venture you will be made vice-councilor of the Ministry, and His Greatness the Absolute Benefactor of the People will personally confer Kisterigian’s medal on you.” Both he and Tso-pin smiled in wary
unison.
“The Kisterigian medal,” Chien echoed; he accepted
the examination papers, glanced over them in a show of
leisurely indifference. But within him his heart vibrated
in ill-concealed tension. “Why these two? By that I
mean, what am I looking for, sir?”
“One of them,” Pethel said, “is the work of a dedicated progressive, a loyal Party member of thoroughly researched conviction. The other is by a young stilyagi
whom we suspect of holding petit bourgeois imperialist
degenerate crypto-ideas. It is up to you, sir, to determine
which is which.”
Thanks a lot, Chien thought. But, nodding, he read the
title of the top paper.
DOCTRINES OF THE ABSOLUTE BENEFACTOR ANTICIPATED
IN THE POETRY OF BAHA AD-DIN ZUHAYR, OF THIR
TEENTH-CENTURY ARABIA.
Glancing down the initial pages of the essay, Chien
saw a quatrain familiar to him; it was called “Death”
and he had known it most of his adult, educated life.
Once he will miss, twice he will miss-,
He only chooses one of many hours;
For him nor deep nor hill there is,
But all’s one level plain he hunts for flowers.
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Philip K. Dick
“ Powerful,” Chien said. “This poem.”
“He makes use of the poem,” Pethel said, observing
Chien’s lips moving as he reread the quatrain, “to
indicate the age-old wisdom, displayed by the Absolute
Benefactor in our current lives, that no individual is safe;
everyone is mortal, and only the supra-personal, historically essential cause survives. As it should be. Would you agree with him? With this student, I mean? Or— ” Pethel
paused. “Is he in fact perhaps satirizing the Absolute
Benefactor’s promulgations?”
Cagily, Chien said, “Give me a chance to inspect the
other paper.”
“You need no further information; decide.”
Haltingly, Chien said, “I— had never thought of this
poem that way.” He felt irritable. “Anyhow, it isn’t by
Baha ad-Din Zuhayr; it’s part of the Thousand and One
Nights anthology. It is, however, thirteenth century; I
admit that.” He quickly read over the text of the paper
accompanying the poem. It appeared to be a routine,
uninspired rehash of Party cliches, all of them familiar to
him from birth. The blind, imperialist monster who
mowed down and snuffed out (mixed metaphor) human
aspiration, the calculations of the still extant anti-Party
group in eastern United States . . . He felt dully bored,
and as uninspired as the student’s paper. We must
persevere, the paper declared. Wipe out the Pentagon
remnants in the Catskills, subdue Tennessee and most
especially the pocket of diehard reaction in the red hills
of Oklahoma. He sighed.
“ I think,” Tso-pin said, “we should allow Mr. Chien
the opportunity of observing this difficult material at his
leisure.” To Chien he said, “You have permission to take
them home to your condominium, this evening, and
adjudge them on your own time.” He bowed, half
mockingly, half solicitously. In any case, insult or not, he
had gotten Chien off the hook, and for that Chien was
grateful.
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69
“You are most kind,” he murmured, “to allow me to
perform this new and highly stimulating labor on my
own time. Mikoyan, were he alive today, would approve.” You bastard, he said to himself. Meaning both his superior and the Caucasian Pethel. Handing me a hot
potato like this, and on my own time. Obviously the CP
USA is in trouble; its indoctrination academies aren’t
managing to do their job with the notoriously mulish,
eccentric Yank youths. And you’ve passed that hot
potato on and on until it reaches me.
Thanks for nothing, he thought acidly.
That evening in his small but well-appointed condominium apartment he read over the other of the two examination papers, this one by a Marion Culper, and discovered that it, too, dealt with poetry. Obviously this
was speciously a poetry class, and he felt ill. It had always
run against his grain, the use of poetry— of any art— for
social purposes. Anyhow, comfortable in his special
spine-straightening, simulated-leather easy chair, he lit a
Cuesta Rey Number One English Market immense corona cigar and began to read.
The writer of the paper, Miss Culper, had selected as
her text a portion of a poem of John Dryden, the
seventeenth-century English poet, final lines from the
well-known “A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day.”
. . . So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.
Well, that’s a hell of a thing, Chien thought to himself
bitingly. Dryden, we’re supposed to believe, anticipated
the fall of capitalism? That’s what he meant by the
“crumbling pageant”? Christ. He leaned over to take
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Philip K. Dick
hold of his cigar and found that it had gone out. Groping
in his pockets for his Japanese-made lighter, he half rose
to his fe e t. . .
Tweeeeeee! the TV set at the far end of the living room
said.
Aha, Chien said. We’re about to be addressed by the
Leader. By the Absolute Benefactor of the People, up
there in Peking where he’s lived for ninety years now; or
is it one hundred? Or, as we sometimes like to think of
him, the Ass—
“May the ten thousand blossoms of abject self-
assumed poverty flower in your spiritual courtyard,” the
TV announcer said. With a groan, Chien rose to his feet,
bowed the mandatory bow of response; each TV set
came equipped with monitoring devices to narrate to the
Secpol, the Security Police, whether its owner was bowing and/or watching.
On the screen a clearly defined visage manifested
itself, the wide, unlined, healthy features of the one-
hundred-and-twenty-year-old leader of CP East, ruler of
many— far too many, Chien reflected. Blah to you, he
thought, and reseated hims
elf in his simulated-leather
easy chair, now facing the TV screen.
“My thoughts,” the Absolute Benefactor said in his
rich and slow tones, “are on you, my children. And
especially on Mr. Tung Chien of Hanoi, who faces a
difficult task ahead, a task to enrich the people of
Democratic East, plus the American West Coast. We
must think in unison about this noble, dedicated man
and the chore which he faces, and I have chosen to take
several moments of my time to honor him and encourage
him. Are you listening, Mr. Chien?”
“Yes, Your Greatness,” Chien said, and pondered to
himself the odds against the Party Leader singling him
out this particular evening. The odds caused him to feel
uncomradely cynicism; it was unconvincing. Probably
this transmission was being beamed to his apartment
building alone— or at least this city. It might also be a
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71
lip-synch job, done at Hanoi TV, Incorporated. In any
case he was required to listen and watch— and absorb.
He did so, from a lifetime of practice. Outwardly he
appeared to be rigidly attentive. Inwardly he was still
mulling over the two test papers, wondering which was
which; where did devout Party enthusiasm end and
sardonic lampoonery begin? Hard to say . . . which of
course explained why they had dumped the task in his
lap.
Again he groped in his pockets for his lighter— and
found the small gray envelope which the war-veteran
peddler had sold him. Gawd, he thought, remembering
what it had cost. Money down the drain and what did
this herbal remedy do? Nothing. He turned the packet
over and saw, on the back, small printed words. Well, he
thought, and began to unfold the packet with care. The
words had snared him— as of course they were meant to
do.
Failing as a Party member and human? Afraid of
becoming obsolete and discarded on the ash heap
of history by
He read rapidly through the text, ignoring its claims,
seeking to find out what he had purchased.
Meanwhile, the Absolute Benefactor droned on.
Snuff. The package contained snuff. Countless tiny
black grains, like gunpowder, which sent up an interesting aromatic to tickle his nose. The title of the particular blend was Princes Special, he discovered. And very
pleasing, he decided. At one time he had taken snuff—
smoked tobacco for a time having been illegal for reasons
of health— back during his student days at Peking U; it
had been the fad, especially the amatory mixes prepared
in Chungking, made from god knew what. Was this that?
Almost any aromatic could be added to snuff, from
essence of orange to pulverized babycrap . . . or so some
seemed, especially an English mixture called High Dry
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Philip K. Dick
Toast which had in itself more or less put an end to his
yearning for nasal, inhaled tobacco.
On the TV screen the Absolute Benefactor rumbled
monotonously on as Chien sniffed cautiously at the
powder, read the claims— it cured everything from
being late to work to falling in love with a woman of
dubious political background. Interesting. But typical of
claims—
His doorbell rang.
Rising, he walked to the door, opened it with full
knowledge of what he would find. There, sure enough,
stood Mou Kuei, the Building Warden, small and hardeyed and alert to his task; he had his armband and metal helmet on, showing that he meant business. “Mr. Chien,
comrade Party worker. I received a call from the television authority. You are failing to watch your screen and are instead fiddling with a packet of doubtful content.”
He produced a clipboard and ballpoint pen. “Two red
marks, and hithertonow you are summarily ordered to
repose yourself in a comfortable, stress-free posture
before your screen and give the Leader your unexcelled
attention. His words, this evening, are directed particularly to you, sir; to you.”
“I doubt that,” Chien heard himself say.
Blinking, Kuei said, “What do you mean?”
“The Leader rules eight billion comrades. He isn’t
going to single me out.” He felt wrathful; the punctuality
of the warden’s reprimand irked him.
Kuei said, “But I distinctly heard with my own ears.
You were mentioned.”
Going over to the TV set, Chien turned the volume up.
“ But now he’s talking about crop failures in People’s
India; that’s of no relevance to me.”
“Whatever the Leader expostulates is relevant.” Mou
Kuei scratched a mark on his clipboard sheet, bowed
formally, turned away. “My call to come up here to
confront you with your slackness originated at Central.
Obviously they regard your attention as important; I
Faith o f Our Fathers
73
must order you to set in motion your automatic transmission recording circuit and replay the earlier portions of the Leader’s speech.”
Chien farted. And shut the door.
Back to the TV set, he said to himself. Where our
leisure hours are spent. And there lay the two student
examination papers; he had that weighing him down,
too. And all on my own time, he thought savagely. The
hell with them. Up theirs. He strode to the TV set,
started to shut it off; at once a red warning light winked
on, informing him that he did not have permission to
shut off the set— could not in fact end its tirade and
image even if he unplugged it. Mandatory speeches, he
thought, will kill us all, bury us; if I could be free of the
noise of speeches, free of the din of the Party baying as it
hounds mankind . . .
There was no known ordinance, however, preventing
him from taking snuff while he watched the Leader. So,
opening the small gray packet, he shook out a mound of
the black granules onto the back of his left hand. He
then, professionally, raised his hand to his nostrils and
deeply inhaled, drawing the snuff well up into his sinus
cavities. Imagine the old superstition, he thought to
himself. That the sinus cavities are connected to the
brain, and hence an inhalation of snuff directly affects
the cerebral cortex. He smiled, seated himself once
more, fixed his gaze on the TV screen and the gesticulating individual known so utterly to them all.
The face dwindled away, disappeared. The sound
ceased. He faced an emptiness, a vacuum. The screen,
white and blank, confronted him and from the speaker a
faint hiss sounded.
The frigging snuff, he said to himself. And inhaled
greedily at the remainder of the powder on his hand,
drawing it up avidly into his nose, his sinuses, and, or so
it felt, into his brain; he plunged into the snuff, absorbing
it elatedly.
The screen remained blank and then, by degrees, an
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Philip K. Dick
image once more formed and established itself. It was
> not the Leader. Not the Absolute Benefactor of the
People, in point of fact not a human figure at all.
He faced a dead mechanical construct, made of solid
state circuits, of swiveling pseudopodia, lenses and a
squawk-box. And the box began, in a droning din, to
harangue him.
Staring fixedly, he thought, What is this? Reality?
Hallucination, he thought. The peddler came across
some of the psychedelic drugs used during the War of
Liberation— he’s selling the stuff and I’ve taken some,
taken a whole lot!
Making his way unsteadily to the vidphone he dialed
the Secpol station nearest his building. “I wish to report
a pusher of hallucinogenic drugs,” he said into the
receiver.
“Your name, sir, and conapt location?” Efficient, brisk
and impersonal bureaucrat of the police.
He gave them the information, then haltingly made it
back to his simulated-leather easy chair, once again to
witness the apparition on the TV screen. This is lethal,
he said to himself. It must be some preparation developed in Washington, D.C., or London— stronger and stranger than the LSD-25 which they dumped so effectively into our reservoirs. And I thought it was going to relieve me of the burden of the Leader’s speeches
. . this is far worse, this electronic sputtering, swiveling,
metal and plastic monstrosity yammering away—this is
terrifying.
To have to face this the remainder of my life—
It took ten minutes for the Secpol two-man team to
come rapping at his door. And by then, in a deteriorating
set of stages, the familiar image of the Leader had seeped
back into focus on the screen, had supplanted the
horrible artificial construct which waved its ’podia and
squalled on and on. He let the two cops in shakily, led
them to the table on which he had left the remains of the
snuff in its packet.
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75
“ Psychedelic toxin,” he said thickly. “Of short duration. Absorbed into the blood stream directly, through nasal capillaries. I’ll give you details as to where I got it,
from whom, all that.” He took a deep shaky breath; the
presence of the police was comforting.
Ballpoint pens ready, the two officers waited. And all
the time, in the background, the Leader rattled out his
endless speech. As he had done a thousand evenings