Crow glanced up impatiently. "What?"
"Your form of government. How will your society be ruled, now that you've maneuvered us off Earth? What sort of government will take the place of our Supreme Council and Congress?"
Crow didn't answer. He had already returned to his work. There was a strange granite cast to his face, a peculiar hardness L-87t had never seen.
"Who'll run things?" L-87t asked. "Who'll be the Government now that we're gone? You said yourself humans show no ability to manage a complex modern society. Can you find a human capable of keeping the wheels turning? Is there a human being capable of leading mankind?"
Crow smiled thinly. And continued working.
PLANET FOR TRANSIENTS
THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN shone down blinding and hot, a great shimmering orb in the sky. Trent halted a moment to get his breath. Inside his lead-lined helmet his face dripped with sweat, drop after drop of sticky moisture that steamed his viewplate and clogged his throat.
He slid his emergency pack over to the other side and hitched up his gun-belt. From his oxygen tank he pulled a couple of exhausted tubes and tossed them away in the brush. The tubes rolled and disappeared, lost in the endless heaps of red-green leaves and vines.
Trent checked his counter, found the reading low enough, slid back his helmet for a precious moment.
Fresh air rushed into his nose and mouth. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs. The air smelled good—thick and moist and rich with the odor of growing plants. He exhaled and took another breath.
To his right a towering column of orange shrubbery rose, wrapped around a sagging concrete pillar. Spread out over the rolling countryside was a vast expanse of grass and trees. In the distance a mass of growth looked like a wall, a jungle of creepers and insects and flowers and underbrush that would have to be blasted as he advanced slowly.
Two immense butterflies danced past him. Great fragile shapes, multicolored, racing erratically around him and then away. Life everywhere—bugs and plants and rustling small animals in the shrubbery, a buzzing jungle of life in every direction. Trent sighed and snapped his helmet back in place. Two breathfuls was all he dared.
He increased the flow of his oxygen tank and then raised his transmitter to his lips. He clicked it briefly on. "Trent. Checking with the Mine Monitor. Hear me?"
A moment of static and silence. Then, a faint, ghostly voice. "Come in, Trent. Where the hell are you?"
"Still going North. Ruins ahead. I may have to bypass. Looks thick."
"Ruins?"
"New York, probably. I'll check with the map."
The voice was eager. "Anything yet?"
"Nothing. Not so far, at least. I'll circle and report in about an hour." Trent examined his wristwatch. "It's half-past three. I'll raise you before evening."
The voice hesitated. "Good luck. I hope you find something. How's your oxygen holding out?"
"All right."
"Food?"
"Plenty left. I may find some edible plants."
"Don't take any chances!"
"I won't." Trent clicked off the transmitter and returned it to his belt. "I won't," he repeated. He gathered up his blast gun and hoisted his pack and started forward, his heavy lead-lined boots sinking deep into the lush foliage and compost underfoot.
It was just past four o'clock when he saw them. They stepped out of the jungle around him. Two of them, young males—tall and thin and horny blue-gray like ashes. One raised his hand in greeting. Six or seven fingers—extra joints. "Afternoon," he piped.
Trent stopped instantly. His heart thudded. "Good afternoon."
The two youths came slowly around him. One had an ax—a foliage ax. The other carried only his pants and the remains of a canvas shirt. They were nearly eight feet tall. No flesh—bones and hard angles and large, curious eyes, heavily lidded. There were internal changes, radically different metabolism and cell structure, ability to utilize hot salts, altered digestive system. They were both looking at Trent with interest—growing interest.
"Say," said one. "You're a human being."
"That's right," Trent said.
"My name's Jackson." The youth extended his thin blue horny hand and Trent shook it awkwardly. The hand was fragile under his lead-lined glove. Its owner added, "My friend here is Earl Potter."
Trent shook hands with Potter. "Greetings," Potter said. His rough lips twitched. "Can we have a look at your rig?"
"My rig?" Trent countered.
"Your gun and equipment. What's that on your belt? And that tank?"
"Transmitter—oxygen." Trent showed them the transmitter. "Battery operated. Hundred-mile range."
"You're from a camp?" Jackson asked quickly.
"Yes. Down in Pennsylvania."
"How many?"
Trent shrugged. "Couple of dozen."
The blue-skinned giants were fascinated. "How have you survived? Penn was hard hit, wasn't it? The pools must be deep around there."
"Mines," Trent explained. "Our ancestors moved down deep in the coal mines when the War began. So the records have it. We're fairly well set up. Grow our own food in tanks. A few machines, pumps and compressors and electrical generators. Some hand lathes. Looms."
He didn't mention that generators now had to be cranked by hand, that only about half of the tanks were still operative. After three hundred years metal and plastic weren't much good—in spite of endless patching and repairing. Everything was wearing out, breaking down.
"Say," Potter said. "This sure makes a fool of Dave Hunter."
"Dave Hunter?"
"Dave says there aren't any true humans left," Jackson explained. He poked at Trent's helmet curiously. "Why don't you come back with us? We've got a settlement near here—only an hour or so away on the tractor—our hunting tractor. Earl and I were out hunting flap-rabbits."
"Flap-rabbits?"
"Flying rabbits. Good meat but hard to bring down—weigh about thirty pounds."
"What do you use? Not the ax surely."
Potter and Jackson laughed. "Look at this here." Potter slid a long brass rod from his trousers. It fitted down inside his pants along his pipe-stem leg.
Trent examined the rod. It was tooled by hand. Soft brass, carefully bored and straightened. One end was shaped into a nozzle. He peered down it. A tiny metal pin was lodged in a cake of transparent metal. "How does it work?" he asked.
"Launched by hand—like a blow gun. But once the b-dart is in the air it follows its target forever. The initial thrust has to be provided." Potter laughed. "I supply that. A big puff of air."
"Interesting." Trent returned the rod. With elaborate casualness, studying the two blue-gray faces, he asked, "I'm the first human you've seen?"
"That's right," Jackson said. "The Old Man will be pleased to welcome you." There was eagerness in his reedy voice. "What do you say? We'll take care of you. Feed you, bring you cold plants and animals. For a week, maybe?"
"Sorry," Trent said. "Other business. If I come through here on the way back…"
The horny faces fell with disappointment. "Not for a little while? Overnight? We'll pump you plenty of cold food. We have a fine cooler the Old Man fixed up."
Trent tapped his tank. "Short on oxygen. You don't have a compressor?"
"No. We don't have any use. But maybe the Old Man could—"
"Sorry." Trent moved off. "Have to keep going. You're sure there are no humans in this region?"
"We thought there weren't any left anywhere. A rumor once in a while. But you're the first we've seen." Potter pointed west. "There's a tribe of rollers off that way." He pointed vaguely south. "A couple of tribes of bugs."
"And some runners."
"You've seen them?"
"I came that way."
"And north there's some of the underground ones—the blind digging kind." Potter made a face. "I can't see them and their bores and scoops. But what the hell." He grinned. "Everybody has his own way."
"And to the east," Jackson
added, "where the ocean begins, there's a lot of the porpoise kind—the undersea type. They swim around—use those big underwater air-domes and tanks—come up sometimes at night. A lot of types come out at night. We're still daylight-oriented." He rubbed his horny blue-gray skin. "This cuts radiation fine."
"I know," Trent said. "So long."
"Good luck." They watched him go, heavy-lidded eyes still big with astonishment, as the human being pushed slowly off through the lush green jungle, his metal and plastic suit glinting faintly in the afternoon sun.
Earth was alive, thriving with activity. Plants and animals and insects in boundless confusion. Night forms, day forms, land and water types, incredible kinds and numbers that had never been catalogued, probably never would be.
By the end of the War every surface inch was radioactive. A whole planet sprayed and bombarded by hard radiation. All life subjected to beta and gamma rays. Most life died—but not all. Hard radiation brought mutation—at all levels, insects, plant and animal. The normal mutation and selection process was accelerated millions of years in seconds.
These altered progeny littered the Earth. A crawling teeming glowing horde of radiation-saturated beings. In this world, only those forms which could use hot soil and breathe particle-laden air survived. Insects and animals and men who could live in a world with a surface so alive that it glowed at night.
Trent considered this moodily, as he made his way through the steaming jungle, expertly burning creepers and vines with his blaster. Most of the oceans had been vaporized. Water descended still, drenching the land with torrents of hot moisture. This jungle was wet—wet and hot and full of life. Around him creatures scuttled and rustled. He held his blaster tight and pushed on.
The sun was setting. It was getting to be night. A range of ragged hills jutted ahead in the violet gloom. The sunset was going to be beautiful—compounded of particles in suspension, particles that still drifted from the initial blast, centuries ago.
He stopped for a moment to watch. He had come a long way. He was tired—and discouraged.
The horny blue-skinned giants were a typical mutant tribe. Toads, they were called. Because of their skin—like desert horned-toads. With their radical internal organs, geared to hot plants and air, they lived easily in a world where he survived only in a lead-lined suit, polarized viewplate, oxygen tank, special cold food pellets grown underground in the Mine.
The Mine—time to call again. Trent lifted his transmitter. "Trent checking again," he muttered. He licked his dry lips. He was hungry and thirsty. Maybe he could find some relatively cool spot, free of radiation. Take off his suit for a quarter of an hour and wash himself. Get the sweat and grime off.
Two weeks he had been walking, cooped up in a hot sticky lead-lined suit, like a diver's suit. While all around him countless life-forms scrambled and leaped, unbothered by the lethal pools of radiation.
"Mine," the faint tinny voice answered.
"I'm about washed up for today. I'm stopping to rest and eat. No more until tomorrow."
"No luck?" Heavy disappointment.
"None."
Silence. Then, "Well, maybe tomorrow."
"Maybe. Met a tribe of toads. Nice young bucks, eight feet high." Trent's voice was bitter. "Wandering around with nothing on but shirts and pants. Bare feet."
The Mine Monitor was uninterested. "I know. The lucky stiffs. Well, get some sleep and raise me tomorrow am. A report came in from Lawrence."
"Where is he?"
"Due west. Near Ohio. Making good progress."
"Any results?"
"Tribes of rollers, bugs and the digging kind that come up at night—the blind white things."
"Worms."
"Yes, worms. Nothing else. When will you report again?"
"Tomorrow," Trent said. He cut the switch and dropped his transmitter to his belt.
Tomorrow. He peered into the gathering gloom at the distant range of hills. Five years. And always—tomorrow. He was the last of a great procession of men to be sent out. Lugging precious oxygen tanks and food pellets and a blast pistol. Exhausting their last stores in a useless sortie into the jungles.
Tomorrow? Some tomorrow, not far off, there wouldn't be any more oxygen tanks and food pellets. The compressors and pumps would have stopped completely. Broken down for good. The Mine would be dead and silent. Unless they made contact pretty damn soon.
He squatted down and began to pass his counter over the surface, looking for a cool spot to undress. He passed out.
"Look at him," a faint faraway voice said.
Consciousness returned with a rush. Trent pulled himself violently awake, groping for his blaster. It was morning. Gray sunlight filtered down through the trees. Around him shapes moved.
The blaster … gone!
Trent sat up, fully awake. The shapes were vaguely human—but not very. Bugs.
"Where's my gun?" Trent demanded.
"Take it easy." A bug advanced, the others behind. It was chilly. Trent shivered. He got awkwardly to his feet as the bugs formed a circle around him. "We'll give it back."
"Let's have it now." He was stiff and cold. He snapped his helmet in place and tightened his belt. He was shivering, shaking all over. The leaves and vines dripped wet slimy drops. The ground was soft underfoot.
The bugs conferred. There were ten or twelve of them. Strange creatures, more like insects than men. They were shelled—thick shiny chitin. Multi-lensed eyes. Nervous, vibrating antennae by which they detected radiation.
Their protection wasn't perfect. A strong dose and they were finished. They survived by detection and avoidance and partial immunity. Their food was taken indirectly, first digested by smaller warm-blooded animals and then taken as fecal matter, minus radioactive particles.
"You're a human," a bug said. Its voice was shrill and metallic. The bugs were asexual—these, at least. Two other types existed, male drones and a Mother. These were neuter warriors, armed with pistols and foliage axes.
"That's right," Trent said.
"What are you doing here? Are there more of you?"
"Quite a few."
The bugs conferred again, antennae waving wildly. Trent waited. The jungle was stirring into life. He watched a gelatin-like mass flow up the side of a tree and into the branches, a half-digested mammal visible within. Some drab day moths fluttered past. The leaves stirred as underground creatures burrowed silently away from the light.
"Come along with us," a bug said. It motioned Trent forward. "Let's get going."
Trent fell in reluctantly. They marched along a narrow path, cut by axes some time recently. The thick feelers and probes of the jungle were already coming back. "Where are we going?" Trent demanded.
"To the Hill."
"Why?"
"Never mind."
Watching the shiny bugs stride along, Trent had trouble believing they had once been human beings. Their ancestors, at least. In spite of their incredible altered physiology the bugs were mentally about the same as he. Their tribal arrangement approximated the human organic states, communism and fascism.
"May I ask you something?" Trent said.
"What?"
"I'm the first human you've seen? There aren't any more around here?"
"No more."
"Are there reports of human settlements anywhere?"
"Why?"
"Just curious," Trent said tightly.
"You're the only one." The bug was pleased. "We'll get a bonus for this—for capturing you. There's a standing reward. Nobody's ever claimed it before."
A human was wanted here too. A human brought with him valuable gnosis, odds and ends of tradition the mutants needed to incorporate into their shaky social structures. Mutant cultures were still unsteady. They needed contact with the past. A human being was a shaman, a Wise Man to teach and instruct. To teach the mutants how life had been, how their ancestors had lived and acted and looked.
A valuable possession for any tribe—especially if no othe
r humans existed in the region.
Trent cursed savagely. None? No others? There had to be other humans—some place. If not north, then east. Europe, Asia, Australia. Some place, somewhere on the globe. Humans with tools and machines and equipment. The Mine couldn't be the only settlement, the last fragment of true man. Prized curiosities—doomed when their compressors burned out and their food tanks dried up.
If he didn't have any luck pretty soon…
The bugs halted, listening. Their antennae twitched suspiciously.
"What is it?" Trent asked.
"Nothing." They started on. "For a moment—"
A flash. The bugs ahead on the trail winked out of existence. A dull roar of light rolled over them.
Trent sprawled. He struggled, caught in the vines and sappy weeds. Around him bugs twisted and fought wildly. Tangling with small furry creatures that fired rapidly and efficiently with hand weapons and, when they got close, kicked and gouged with immense hind legs.
Runners.
The bugs were losing. They retreated back down the trail, scattering into the jungle. The runners hopped after them, springing on their powerful hind legs like kangaroos. The last bug departed. The noise died down.
"Okay," a runner ordered. He gasped for breath, straightening up. "Where's the human?"
Trent got slowly to his feet. "Here."
The runners helped him up. They were small, not over four feet high. Fat and round, covered with thick pelts. Little good-natured faces peered up at him with concern. Beady eyes, quivering noses and great kangaroo legs.
"You all right?" one asked. He offered Trent his water canteen.
"I'm all right." Trent pushed the canteen away. "They got my blaster."
The runners searched around. The blaster was nowhere to be seen.
"Let it go." Trent shook his head dully, trying to collect himself. "What happened? The light."
"A grenade." The runners puffed with pride. "We stretched a wire across the trail, attached to the pin."
The Collected Stories of Philip K Dick Page 94