After a time he said to the girl, “What you’re trying to get
out of me is a quid pro quo. You did something for
me— you got, or claim you got—the answer to this Party
inquiry. But you’ve already done your part. What’s to
keep me from tossing you out of here on your head? I
don’t have to do a goddam thing.” He heard his voice,
toneless, sounding the poverty of empathic emotionality
so usual in Party circles.
Miss Lee said, “There will be other tests, as you
continue to ascend. And we will monitor for you with
them too.” She was calm, at ease; obviously she had
forseen his reaction.
“How long do I have to think it over?” he said.
“I’m leaving now. We’re in no rush; you’re not about
to receive an invitation to the Leader’s Yellow River villa
in the next week or even month.” Going to the door,
opening it, she paused. “As you’re given covert rating
tests we’ll be in contact, supplying the answers— so
you’ll see one or more of us on those occasions. Probably
it won’t be me; it’ll be that disabled war veteran who’ll
sell you the correct response sheets as you leave the
Ministry building.” She smiled a brief, snuffed-out-
candle smile. “But one of these days, no doubt unexpectedly, you’ll get an ornate, official, very formal invitation to the villa, and when you go you’ll be heavily sedated
with stelazine . . . possibly our last dose of our dwin
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Philip K. Dick
dling supply. Good night.” The door shut after her; she
had gone.
My god, he thought. They can blackmail me. For what
I’ve done. And she didn’t even bother to mention it; in
view of what they’re involved with it was not worth
mentioning.
But blackmail for what? He had already told the
Secpol squad that he had been given a drug which had
proved to be a phenothiazine. Then they know, he
realized. They’ll watch me; they’re alert. Technically I
haven’t broken a law, but— they’ll be watching, all right.
However, they always watched anyhow. He relaxed
slightly, thinking that. He had, over the years, become
virtually accustomed to it, as had everyone.
I will see the Absolute Benefactor of the People as he
is, he said to himself. Which possibly no one else has
done. What will it be? Which of the subclasses of
non-hallucination? Classes which I do not even know
about . . . a view which may totally overthrow me. How
am I going to be able to get through the evening, to keep
my poise, if it’s like the shape I saw on the TV screen?
The Crusher, the Clanker, the Bird, the Climbing Tube,
the Gulper— or worse.
He wondered what some of the other views consisted
o f . . . and then gave up that line of speculation; it was
unprofitable. And too anxiety-inducing.
The next morning Mr. Tso-pin and Mr. Darius Pethel
met him in his office, both of them calm but expectant.
Wordlessly, he handed them one of the two “exam
papers.” The orthodox one, with its short and heartsmothering Arabian poem.
“This one,” Chien said tightly, “is the product of a
dedicated Party member or candidate for membership.
The other— ” He slapped the remaining sheets. “Reactionary garbage.” He felt anger. “In spite of a superficial— ”
“All right, Mr. Chien,” Pethel said, nodding. “We
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85
don’t have to explore each and every ramification; your
analysis is correct. You heard the mention regarding you
in the Leader’s speech last night on TV?”
“I certainly did,” Chien said.
“ So you have undoubtedly inferred,” Pethel said,
“that there is a good deal involved in what we are
attempting here. The Leader has his eye on you; that’s
clear. As a matter of fact, he has communicated to myself
regarding you.” He opened his bulging briefcase and
rummaged. “Lost the goddam thing. Anyhow— ” He
glanced at Tso-pin, who nodded slightly. “ His Greatness
would like to have you appear for dinner at the Yangtze
River Ranch next Thursday night. Mrs. Fletcher in
particular appreciates— ”
Chien said, “ ‘Mrs. Fletcher’? Who is ‘Mrs. Fletcher’?”
After a pause Tso-pin said dryly, “The Absolute
Benefactor’s wife. His name— which you of course had
never heard— is Thomas Fletcher.”
“He’s a Caucasian,” Pethel explained. “Originally
from the New Zealand Communist Party; he participated in the difficult takeover there. This news is not in the strict sense secret, but on the other hand it hasn’t
been noised about.” He hesitated, toying with his
watchchain. “Probably it would be better if you forgot
about that. Of course, as soon as you meet him, see him
face to face, you’ll realize that, realize that he’s a Cauc.
As I am. As many of us are.”
“Race,” Tso-pin pointed out, “has nothing to do with
loyalty to the Leader and the Party. As witness Mr.
Pethel, here.”
But His Greatness, Chien thought, jolted. He did not
appear, on the TV screen, to be occidental. “On TV— ”
he began.
“The image,” Tso-pin interrupted, “is subjected to a
variegated assortment o f skillful refinements. For ideological purposes. Most persons holding higher offices are aware of this.” He eyed Chien with hard criticism.
So everyone agrees, Chien thought. What we see every
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Philip K. Dick
night is not real. The question is, How unreal? Partially?
Or— completely?
“ I will be prepared,” he said tautly. And he thought,
There has been a slip-up. They weren’t prepared for
me— the people that Tanya Lee represents— to gain
entry so soon. Where’s the anti-hallucinogen? Can they
get it to me or not? Probably not on such short notice.
He felt, strangely, relief. He would be going into the
presence of His Greatness in a position to see him as a
human being, see him as he— and everybody else— saw
him on TV. It would be a most stimulating and cheerful
dinner party, with some of the most influential Party
members in Asia. I think we can do without the
phenothiazines, he said to himself. And his sense of
relief grew.
“Here it is, finally,” Pethel said suddenly, producing a
white envelope from his briefcase. “Your card of admission. You will be flown by Sino-rocket to the Leader’s villa Thursday morning; there the protocol officer will
brief you on your expected behavior. It will be formal
dress, white tie and tails, but the atmosphere will be
cordial. There are always a great number of toasts.” He
added, “I have attended two such stag get-togethers. Mr.
Tso-pin” —he smiled creakily— “has not been honored
in such a fashion. But as they say, all things come to him
who waits. Ben Franklin said that.”
Tso-pin said, “It has come for Mr. Chien rather
<
br /> prematurely, I would say.” He shrugged philosophically.
“But my opinion has never at any time been asked.”
“One thing,” Pethel said to Chien. “It is possible that
when you see His Greatness in person you will be in
some regards disappointed. Be alert that you do not let
this make itself apparent, if you should so feel. We have,
always, tended— been trained— to regard him as more
than a man. But at table he is” — he gestured— “a forked
radish. In certain respects like ourselves. He may for
instance indulge in moderately human oral-aggressive
Faith o f Our Fathers
87
and -passive activity; he possibly may tell an off-color
joke or drink too much . . . To be candid, no one ever
knows in advance how these things will work out, but
they do generally hold forth until late the following
morning. So it would be wise to accept the dosage of
amphetamines which the protocol officer will offer you.”
“Oh?” Chien said. This was news to him, and interesting.
“For stamina. And to balance the liquor. His Greatness has amazing staying power; he often is still on his feet and raring to go after everyone else has collapsed.”
“A remarkable man,” Tso-pin chimed in. “I think
his— indulgences only show that he is a fine fellow. And
fully in the round; he is like the ideal Renaissance man;
as, for example, Lorenzo de’ Medici.”
“That does come to mind,” Pethel said; he studied
Chien with such intensity that some of last night’s chill
returned. Am I being led into one trap after another?
Chien wondered. That girl— was she in fact an agent of
the Secpol probing me, trying to ferret out a disloyal,
anti-Party streak in me?
I think, he decided, I will make sure that the legless
peddler of herbal remedies does not snare me when I
leave work; I’ll take a totally different route back to my
conapt.
He was successful. That day he avoided the peddler and
the same the next, and so on until Thursday.
On Thursday morning the peddler scooted from beneath a parked truck and blocked his way, confronting him.
“My medication?” the peddler demanded. “It helped?
I know it did; the formula goes back to the Sung
Dynasty— I can tell it did. Right?”
Chien said, “Let me go.”
“Would you be kind enough to answer?” The tone was
not the expected, customary whining of a street peddler
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Philip K. Dick
operating in a marginal fashion, and that tone came
across to Chien; he heard loud and clear. . . as the
Imperialist puppet troops of long ago phrased it.
“ I know what you gave me,” Chien said. “And I don’t
want any more. If I change my mind I can pick it up at a
pharmacy. Thanks.” He started on, but the cart, with the
legless occupant, pursued him-.
“Miss Lee was talking to me,” the peddler said loudly.
“Hmm,” Chien said, and automatically increased his
pace; he spotted a hovercab and began signaling for it.
“It’s tonight you’re going to the stag dinner at the
Yangtze River villa,” the peddler said, panting for breath
in his effort to keep up. “Take the medication— now!”
He held out a flat packet, imploringly. “Please, Party
Member Chien; for your own sake, for all of us. So we
can tell what it is we’re up against. Good lord, it may be
non-terran; that’s our most basic fear. Don’t you understand, Chien? What’s your goddam career compared with that? If we can’t find out— ”
The cab bumped to a halt on the pavement; its door
slid open. Chien started to board it.
The packet sailed past him, landed on the entrance sill
of the cab, then slid into the gutter, damp from earlier
rain.
“Please,” the peddler said. “And it won’t cost you
anything; today it’s free. Just take it, use it before the stag
dinner. And don’t use the amphetamines; they’re a
thalamic stimulant, contra-indicated whenever an adrenal suppressant such as a phenothiazine is— ”
The door of the cab closed after Chien. He seated
himself.
“Where to, comrade?” the robot drive-mechanism
inquired.
He gave the ident tag number of his conapt.
“That half-wit of a peddler managed to infiltrate his
seedy wares into my clean interior,” the cab said.
“Notice; it reposes by your foot.”
He saw the packet— no more than an ordinary
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89
looking envelope. I guess, he thought, this is how drugs
come to you; all of a sudden they’re lying there. For a
moment he sat, and then he picked it up.
As before, there was a written enclosure above and
beyond the medication, but this time, he saw, it was
handwritten. A feminine script: from Miss Lee:
We were surprised at the suddenness. But thank
heaven we were ready. Where were you Tuesday
and Wednesday? Anyhow, here it is, and good luck.
I will approach you later in the week; I don’t want
you to try to find me.
He ignited the note, burned it up in the cab’s disposal
ashtray.
And kept the dark granules.
All this time, he thought. Hallucinogens in our water
supply. Year after year. Decades. And not in wartime but
in peacetime. And not to the enemy camp but here in our
own. The evil bastards, he said to himself. Maybe I ought
to take this; maybe I ought to find out what he or it is and
let Tanya’s group know.
I will, he decided. And— he was curious.
A bad emotion, he knew. Curiosity was, especially in
Party activities, often a terminal state careerwise.
A state which, at the moment, gripped him thoroughly. He wondered if it would last through the evening, if, when it came right down to it, he would actually take the
inhalant.
Time would tell. Tell that and everything else. We are
blooming flowers, he thought, on the plain, which he
picks. As the Arabic poem had put it. He tried to
remember the rest of the poem but could not.
That probably was just as well.
The villa protocol officer, a Japanese named Kimo
Okubara, tall and husky, obviously a quondam wrestler,
surveyed him with innate hostility, even after he pre
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Philip K. Dick
sented his engraved invitation and had successfully
managed to prove his identity.
“Surprise you bother to come,” Okubara muttered.
“Why not stay home and watch on TV? Nobody miss
you. We got along fine without up to right now.”
Chien said tightly, “ I’ve already watched on TV.” And
anyhow the stag dinners were rarely televised; they were
too bawdy.
Okubara’s crew double-checked him for weapons,
including the possibility of an anal suppository, and then
gave him his clothes back. They did not find the pheno-
thiazine, however. Because he had already taken it. The
effe
cts of such a drug, he knew, lasted approximately
four hours; that would be more than enough. And, as
Tanya had said, it was a major dose; he felt sluggish and
inept and dizzy, and his tongue moved in spasms of
pseudo Parkinsonism—an unpleasant side effect which
he had failed to anticipate.
A girl, nude from the waist up, with long coppery hair
down her shoulders and back, walked by. Interesting.
Coming the other way, a girl nude from the bottom up
made her appearance. Interesting, too. Both girls looked
vacant and bored, and totally self-possessed.
“You go in like that too,” Qkubara informed Chien.
Startled, Chien said, “I understood white tie and
tails.”
“Joke,” Okubara said. “At your expense. Only girls
wear nude; you even get so you enjoy, unless you
homosexual.”
Well, Chien thought, I guess I had better like it. He
wandered on with the other guests—they, like him, wore
white tie and tails or, if women, floor-length gowns—
and felt ill at ease, despite the tranquilizing effect of the
stelazine. Why am I here? he asked himself. The ambiguity of his situation did not escape him. He was here to advance his career in the Party apparatus, to obtain the
intimate and personal nod of approval from His
Greatness . . . and in addition he was here to decipher
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91
His Greatness as a fraud; he did not know what variety
of fraud, but there it was: fraud against the Party, against
all the peace-loving democratic people of Terra. Ironic,
he thought. And continued to mingle.
A girl with small, bright, illuminated breasts approached him for a match; he absentmindedly got out his lighter. “What makes your breasts glow?” he asked
her. “Radioactive injections?”
She shrugged, said nothing, passed on, leaving him
alone. Evidently he had responded in the incorrect way.
Maybe it’s a wartime mutation, he pondered.
“Drink, sir.” A servant graciously held out a tray; he
accepted a martini— which was the current fad among
the higher Party classes in People’s China— and sipped
the ice-cold dry flavor. Good English gin, he said to
himself. Or possibly the original Holland compound;
juniper or whatever they added. Not bad. He strolled on,
feeling better; in actuality he found the atmosphere here
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