"Ten minutes." Tommy slammed the door. He ran down the steps, out into the darkness.
A light showed, flickering under the bottom and through the keyhole of Mr. Billings's room.
Tommy hesitated a moment. Then he raised his hand and knocked. For a time there was silence. Then a stirring sound. The sound of heavy footsteps.
The door opened. Mr. Billings peered out into the hall.
"Hello," Tommy said.
"You're back!" Mr. Billings opened the door wide and Tommy walked quickly into the room. "Did you forget something?"
"No."
Billings closed the door. "Sit down. Would you like anything? An apple? Some milk?"
"No." Tommy wandered nervously around the room, touching things here and there, books and papers and bundles of clippings.
Billings watched the boy a moment. Then he returned to his desk, seating himself with a sigh. "I think I'll continue with my report. I hope to finish very soon." He tapped a pile of notes beside him. "The last of them. Then I can leave here and present the report along with my recommendations."
Billings bent over his immense typewriter, tapping steadily away. The relentless rumble of the ancient machine vibrated through the room. Tommy turned and stepped out of the room, onto the porch.
In the cold evening air the porch was pitch black. He halted, adjusting to the darkness. After a time he made out the sacks of fertilizer, the rickety chair. And in the center, the wood frame with its wire netting over it, heaps of dirt and grass piled around.
Tommy glanced back into the room. Billings was bent over the typewriter, absorbed in his work. He had taken off his dark blue coat and hung it over the chair. He was working in his vest, his sleeves rolled up.
Tommy squatted beside the frame. He slid the cigar box from under his jacket and laid it down, lid open. He grasped the netting and pried it back, loose from the row of nails.
From the frame a few faint apprehensive squeaks sounded. Nervous scuttlings among the dried grass.
Tommy reached down, feeling among the grass and plants. His fingers closed over something, a small thing that squirmed in fright, twisting in wild terror. He dropped it into the cigar box and sought another.
In a moment he had them all. Nine of them, all nine in the wood cigar box.
He closed the lid and slipped it back under his jacket. Quickly he left the porch, returning to the room.
Billings glanced up vaguely from his work, pen in one hand, papers in the other. "Did you want to talk to me?" he murmured, pushing up his glasses.
Tommy shook his head. "I have to go."
"Already? But you just came!"
"I have to go." Tommy opened the door to the hall. "Goodnight."
Billings rubbed his forehead wearily, his face lined with fatigue. "All right, boy. Perhaps I'll see you again before I leave." He resumed his work, tapping slowly away at the great typewriter, bent with fatigue.
Tommy shut the door behind him. He ran down the stairs, outside on the porch. Against his chest the cigar box shook and moved. Nine. All nine of them. He had them all. Now they were his. They belonged to him—and there weren't any more of them, anywhere in the world. His plan had worked perfectly.
He hurried down the street toward his own house, as fast as he could run.
He found an old cage out in the garage he had once kept white rats in. He cleaned it and carried it upstairs to his room. He spread papers on the floor of the cage and fixed a water dish and some sand.
When the cage was ready he emptied the contents of the cigar box into it.
The nine tiny figures huddled together in the center of the cage, a little bundle of pink. Tommy shut the door of the cage and fastened it tightly. He carried the cage to the dresser and then drew a chair up by it so he could watch.
The nine little people began to move around hesitantly, exploring the cage. Tommy's heart beat with rapid excitement as he watched them.
He had got them away from Mr. Billings. They were his, now. And Mr. Billings didn't know where he lived or even his name.
They were talking to each other. Moving their antennae rapidly, the way he had seen ants do. One of the little people came over to the side of the cage. He stood gripping the wire, peering out into the room. He was joined by another, a female. They were naked. Except for the hair on their heads they were pink and smooth.
He wondered what they ate. From the big refrigerator in the kitchen he took some cheese and some hamburger, adding crumbled up bits of bread and lettuce leaves and a little plate of milk.
They liked the milk and bread. But they left the meat alone. The lettuce leaves they used to begin the making of little huts.
Tommy was fascinated. He watched them all the next morning before school, then again at lunch time, and all afternoon until dinner.
"What you got up there?" his Dad demanded, at dinner.
"Nothing."
"You haven't got a snake, have you?" his Mom asked apprehensively. "If you have another snake up there, young man—"
"No." Tommy shook his head, bolting down his meal. "It's not a snake."
He finished eating and ran upstairs.
The little creatures had finished fixing their huts out of the lettuce leaves. Some were inside. Others were wandering around the cage, exploring it.
Tommy seated himself before the dresser and watched. They were smart. A lot smarter than the white rats he had owned. And cleaner. They used the sand he had put there for them. They were smart—and quite tame.
After awhile Tommy closed the door of the room. Holding his breath he unfastened the cage, opening one side wide. He reached in his hand and caught one of the little men. He drew him out of the cage and then opened his hand carefully.
The little man clung to his palm, peering over the edge and up at him, antennae waving wildly.
"Don't be afraid," Tommy said.
The little man got cautiously to his feet. He walked across Tommy's palm, to his wrist. Slowly he climbed Tommy's arm, glancing over the side. He reached Tommy's shoulder and stopped, gazing up into his face.
"You're sure small," Tommy said. He got another one from the cage and put the two of them on the bed. They walked around the bed for a long time. More had come to the open side of the cage and were staring cautiously out onto the dresser. One found Tommy's comb. He inspected it, tugging at the teeth. A second joined him. The two tiny creatures tugged at the comb, but without success.
"What do you want?" Tommy asked. After a while they gave up. They found a nickel lying on the dresser. One of them managed to turn it up on end. He rolled it. The nickel gained speed, rushing toward the edge of the dresser. The tiny men ran after it in consternation. The nickel fell over the side.
"Be careful," Tommy warned. He didn't want anything to happen to them. He had too many plans. It would be easy to rig up things for them to do—like fleas he had seen at the circus. Little carts to pull. Swings, slides. Things they could operate. He could train them, and then charge admission.
Maybe he could take them on tour. Maybe he'd even get a write-up in the newspaper. His mind raced. All kinds of things. Endless possibilities. But he had to start out easy—and be careful.
The next day he took one to school in his pocket, inside a fruit jar. He punched holes in the lid so it could breathe.
At recess he showed it to Dave and Joan Grant. They were fascinated.
"Where did you get it?" Dave demanded.
"That's my business."
"Want to sell it?"
"It's not it. It's him."
Jean blushed. "It doesn't have anything on. You better make it put clothes on right away."
"Can you make clothes for them? I have eight more. Four men and four women."
Joan was excited. "I can—if you'll give me one of them."
"The heck I will. They're mine."
"Where did they come from? Who made them?"
"None of your business."
Joan made little clothes for the four women.
Little skirts and blouses. Tommy lowered the clothing into the cage. The little people moved around the heap uncertainly, not knowing what to do.
"You better show them," Joan said.
"Show them? Nuts to you."
"I'll dress them." Joan took one of the tiny women from the cage and carefully dressed her in a blouse and skirt. She dropped the figure back in. "Now let's see what happens."
The others crowded around the dressed woman, plucking curiously at the clothing. Presently they began to divide up the remaining clothes, some taking blouses, some skirts.
Tommy laughed and laughed. "You better make pants for the men. So they'll all be dressed."
He took a couple of them out and let them run up and down his arms.
"Be careful," Joan warned. "You'll lose them. They'll get away."
"They're tame. They won't run away. I'll show you." Tommy put them down onto the floor. "We have a game. Watch."
"A game?"
"They hide and I find them."
The figures scampered off, looking for places to hide. In a moment none were in sight. Tommy got down on his hands and knees, reaching under the dresser, among the bedcovers. A shrill squeak. He had found one.
"See? They like it." He carried them back to the cage, one by one. The last one stayed hidden a long time. It had got into one of the dresser drawers, down in a bag of marbles, pulling the marbles over its head.
"They're clever," Joan said. "Wouldn't you give me even one of them?"
"No," Tommy said emphatically. "They're mine. I'm not letting them get away from me. I'm not giving any of them to anybody."
Tommy met Joan after school the next day. She had made little trousers and shirts for the men.
"Here." She gave them to him. They walked along the sidewalk. "I hope they fit."
"Thanks." Tommy took the clothes and put them in his pocket. They cut across the vacant lot. At the end of the lot Dave Grant and some kids were sitting around in a circle, playing marbles.
"Who's winning?" Tommy said, stopping.
"I am," Dave said, not looking up.
"Let me play." Tommy dropped down. "Come on." He held out his hand. "Give me your agate."
Dave shook his head. "Get away."
Tommy punched him on the arm. "Come on! Just one shot." He considered. "Tell you what—"
A shadow fell over them.
Tommy looked up. And blanched.
Edward Billings gazed down silently at the boy, leaning on his umbrella, its metal point lost in the soft ground. He said nothing. His aged face was lined and hard, his eyes like faded blue stones.
Tommy got slowly to his feet. Silence had fallen over the children. Some of them scrambled away, snatching up their marbles.
"What do you want?" Tommy demanded. His voice was dry and husky, almost inaudible.
Billings's cold eyes bored into him, two keen orbs, without warmth of any kind. "You took them. I want them back. Right away." His voice was hard, colorless. He held out his hand. "Where are they?"
"What are you talking about?" Tommy muttered. He backed away. "I don't know what you mean."
"The Project. You stole them from my room. I want them back."
"The heck I did. What do you mean?"
Billings turned toward Dave Grant. "He's the one you meant, isn't he?"
Dave nodded. "I saw them. He has them in his room. He won't let anybody near them."
"You came and stole them. Why?" Billings moved toward Tommy ominously. "Why did you take them? What do you want with them?"
"You're crazy," Tommy murmured, but his voice trembled. Dave Grant said nothing. He looked away sheepishly. "It's a lie," Tommy said.
Billings grabbed him. Cold, ancient hands gripped him, digging into his shoulders. "Give them back! I want them. I'm responsible for them."
"Let go." Tommy jerked loose. "I don't have them with me." He caught his breath. "I mean—"
"Then you do have them. At home. In your room. Bring them there. Go and get them. All nine."
Tommy put his hands in his pockets. Some of his courage was returning. "I don't know," he said. "What'll you give me?"
Billings's eyes flashed. "Give you?" He raised his arm threateningly. "Why, you little—"
Tommy jumped back. "You can't make me return them. You don't have any control over us." He grinned boldly. "You said so yourself. We're out of your power. I heard you say so."
Billings's face was like granite. "I'll take them. They're mine. They belong to me."
"If you try to take them I'll call the cops. And my Dad'll be there. My Dad and the cops."
Billings gripped his umbrella. He opened and shut his mouth, his face a dark, ugly red. Neither he nor Tommy spoke. The other kids gazed at the two of them wide-eyed, awed and subdued.
Suddenly a thought twisted across Billings's face. He looked down at the ground, the crude circle and the marbles. His cold eyes flickered. "Listen to this. I will—I will play against you for them."
"What?"
"The game. Marbles. If you win you can keep them. If I win I get them back at once. All of them."
Tommy considered, glancing from Mr. Billings down at the circle on the ground. "If I win you won't ever try to take them? You will let me keep them—for good?"
"Yes."
"All right." Tommy moved away. "It's a deal. If you win you can have them back. But if I win they belong to me. And you don't ever get them back."
"Bring them here at once."
"Sure. I'll go get them."—And my agate, too, he thought to himself. "I'll be right back."
"I'll wait here," Mr. Billings said, his huge hands gripping the umbrella.
Tommy ran down the porch steps, two at a time.
His mother came to the door. "You shouldn't be going out again so late. If you're not home in half an hour you don't get any dinner."
"Half an hour," Tommy cried, running down the dark sidewalk, his hands pressed against the bulge in his jacket. Against the wood cigar box that moved and squirmed. He ran and ran, gasping for breath.
Mr. Billings was still standing by the edge of the lot, waiting silently. The sun had set. Evening was coming. The children had gone home. As Tommy stepped onto the vacant lot a chill, hostile wind moved among the weeds and grass, flapping against his pants legs.
"Did you bring them?" Mr. Billings demanded.
"Sure." Tommy halted, his chest rising and falling. He reached slowly under his jacket and brought out the heavy wood cigar box. He slipped the rubber band off it, lifting the lid a crack. "In here."
Mr. Billings came close, breathing hoarsely. Tommy snapped the lid shut and restored the rubber band. "We have to play." He put the box down on the ground. "They're mine—unless you win them back."
Billings subsided. "All right. Let's begin, then."
Tommy searched his pockets. He brought out his agate, holding it carefully. In the fading light the big red-black marble gleamed, rings of sand and white. Like Jupiter. An immense, hard marble.
"Here we go," Tommy said. He knelt down, sketching a rough circle on the ground. He emptied out a sack of marbles into the ring. "You got any?"
"Any?"
"Marbles. What are you going to shoot with?"
"One of yours."
"Sure." Tommy took a marble from the ring and tossed it to him. "Want me to shoot first?"
Billings nodded.
"Fine." Tommy grinned. He took aim carefully, closing one eye. For a moment his body was rigid, set in an intense, hard arc. Then he shot. Marbles rattled and clinked, rolling out of the circle and into the grass and weeds beyond. He had done well. He gathered up his winnings, collecting them back in the cloth sack.
"Is it my turn?" Billings asked.
"No. My agate's still in the ring." Tommy squatted down again. "I get another shot."
He shot. This time he collected three marbles. Again his agate was within the circle.
"Another shot," Tommy said, grinning. He had almost half. He knelt and aimed, holding
his breath. Twenty-four marbles remained. If he could get four more he would have won. Four more—
He shot. Two marbles left the circle. And his agate. The agate rolled out, bouncing into the weeds.
Tommy collected the two marbles and the agate. He had nineteen in all. Twenty-two remained in the ring.
"Okay," he murmured reluctantly. "It's your shot this time. Go ahead."
Edward Billings knelt down stiffly, gasping and tottering. His face was gray. He turned his marble around in his hand uncertainly.
"Haven't you ever played before?" Tommy demanded. "You don't know how to hold it, do you?"
Billings shook his head. "No."
"You have to get it between your first finger and your thumb." Tommy watched the stiff old fingers with the marble. Billings dropped it once and picked it quickly up again. "Your thumb makes it go. Like this. Here, I'll show you."
Tommy took hold of the ancient fingers and bent them around the marble. Finally he had them in place. "Go ahead." Tommy straightened up. "Let's see how you do."
The old man took a long time. He gazed at the marbles in the ring, his hand shaking. Tommy could hear his breathing, the hoarse, deep panting, in the damp evening air.
The old man glanced at the cigar box resting in the shadows. Then back at the circle. His fingers moved—
There was a flash. A blinding flash. Tommy gave a cry, wiping at his eyes. Everything spun, lashing and tilting. He stumbled and fell, sinking into the wet weeds. His head throbbed. He sat on the ground, rubbing his eyes, shaking his head, trying to see.
At last the drifting sparks cleared. He looked around him, blinking.
The circle was empty. There were no marbles in the ring. Billings had got them all.
Tommy reached out. His fingers touched something hot. He jumped. It was a fragment of glass, a glowing red fragment of molten glass. All round him, in the damp weeds and grass, fragments of glass gleamed, cooling slowly into darkness. A thousand splinters of stars, glowing and fading around him.
Edward Billings stood up slowly, rubbing his hands together. "I'm glad that's over," he gasped. "I'm too old to bend down like that."
His eyes made out the cigar box, lying on the ground.
The Collected Stories of Philip K Dick Page 76