The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 3: Second Variety

by Philip K. Dick

  “I don’t understand.”

  Maybe there weren’t any claws around. A lot of areas were free. They collected mostly around bunkers, where there were people. The claws had been designed to sense warmth, warmth of living things.

  “You’re lucky.” Hendricks straightened up. “Well? Which way are you going? Back—back there?”

  “Can I come with you?”

  “With me?” Hendricks folded his arms. “I’m going a long way. Miles. I have to hurry.” He looked at his watch. “I have to get there by nightfall.”

  “I want to come.”

  Hendricks fumbled in his pack. “It isn’t worth it. Here.” He tossed down the food cans he had with him. “You take these and go back. Okay?”

  The boy said nothing.

  “I’ll be coming back this way. In a day or so. If you’re around here when I come back you can come along with me. All right?”

  “I want to go with you now.”

  “It’s a long walk.”

  “I can walk.”

  Hendricks shifted uneasily. It made too good a target, two people walking along. And the boy would slow him down. But he might not come back this way. And if the boy were really all alone—

  “Okay. Come along.”

  ****

  The boy fell in beside him. Hendricks strode along. The boy walked silently, clutching his teddy bear.

  “What’s your name?” Hendricks said, after a time.

  “David Edward Derring.”

  “David? What—what happened to your mother and father?”

  “They died.”

  “How?”

  “In the blast.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Six years.”

  Hendricks slowed down. “You’ve been alone six years?”

  “No. There were other people for awhile. They went away.”

  “And you’ve been alone since?”

  “Yes.”

  Hendricks glanced down. The boy was strange, saying very little. Withdrawn. But that was the way they were, the children who had survived. Quiet. Stoic. A strange kind of fatalism gripped them. Nothing came as a surprise. They accepted anything that came along. There was no longer any normal, any natural course of things, moral or physical, for them to expect. Custom, habit, all the determining forces of learning were gone; only brute experience remained.

  “Am I walking too fast?” Hendricks said.

  “No.”

  “How did you happen to see me?”

  “I was waiting.”

  “Waiting?” Hendricks was puzzled. “What were you waiting for?”

  “To catch things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Things to eat.”

  “Oh.” Hendricks set his lips grimly. A thirteen year old boy, living on rats and gophers and half-rotten canned food. Down in a hole under the ruins of a town. With radiation pools and claws, and Russian dive-mines up above, coasting around in the sky.

  “Where are we going?” David asked.

  “To the Russian lines.”

  “Russian?”

  “The enemy. The people who started the war. They dropped the first radiation bombs. They began all this.”

  The boy nodded. His face showed no expression.

  “I’m an American,” Hendricks said.

  There was no comment. On they went, the two of them, Hendricks walking a little ahead, David trailing behind him, hugging his dirty teddy bear against his chest.

  ****

  About four in the afternoon they stopped to eat. Hendricks built a fire in a hollow between some slabs of concrete. He cleared the weeds away and heaped up bits of wood. The Russians’ lines were not very far ahead. Around him was what had once been a long valley, acres of fruit trees and grapes. Nothing remained now but a few bleak stumps and the mountains that stretched across the horizon at the far end. And the clouds of rolling ash that blew and drifted with the wind, settling over the weeds and remains of buildings, walls here and there, once in awhile what had been a road.

  Hendricks made coffee and heated up some boiled mutton and bread. “Here.” He handed bread and mutton to David. David squatted by the edge of the fire, his knees knobby and white. He examined the food and then passed it back, shaking his head.

  “No.”

  “No? Don’t you want any?”

  “No.”

  Hendricks shrugged. Maybe the boy was a mutant, used to special food. It didn’t matter. When he was hungry he would find something to eat. The boy was strange. But there were many strange changes coming over the world. Life was not the same, anymore. It would never be the same again. The human race was going to have to realize that.

  “Suit yourself,” Hendricks said. He ate the bread and mutton by himself, washing it down with coffee. He ate slowly, finding the food hard to digest. When he was done he got to his feet and stamped the fire out.

  David rose slowly, watching him with his young-old eyes.

  “We’re going,” Hendricks said.

  “All right.”

  Hendricks walked along, his gun in his arms. They were close; he was tense, ready for anything. The Russians should be expecting a runner, an answer to their own runner, but they were tricky. There was always the possibility of a slipup. He scanned the landscape around him. Nothing but slag and ash, a few hills, charred trees. Concrete walls. But someplace ahead was the first bunker of the Russian lines, the forward command. Underground, buried deep, with only a periscope showing, a few gun muzzles. Maybe an antenna.

  “Will we be there soon?” David asked.

  “Yes. Getting tired?”

  “No.”

  “Why, then?”

  David did not answer. He plodded carefully along behind, picking his way over the ash. His legs and shoes were gray with dust. His pinched face was streaked, lines of gray ash in rivulets down the pale white of his skin. There was no color to his face. Typical of the new children, growing up in cellars and sewers and underground shelters.

  ****

  Hendricks slowed down. He lifted his fieldglasses and studied the ground ahead of him. Were they there, someplace, waiting for him? Watching him, the way his men had watched the Russian runner? A chill went up his back. Maybe they were getting their guns ready, preparing to fire, the way his men had prepared, made ready to kill.

  Hendricks stopped, wiping perspiration from his face. “Damn.” It made him uneasy. But he should be expected. The situation was different.

  He strode over the ash, holding his gun tightly with both hands. Behind him came David. Hendricks peered around, tight-lipped. Any second it might happen. A burst of white light, a blast, carefully aimed from inside a deep concrete bunker.

  He raised his arm and waved it around in a circle.

  Nothing moved. To, the right a long ridge ran, topped with dead tree trunks. A few wild vines had grown, up around, the trees, remains of arbors. And the eternal dark weeds. Hendricks studied the ridge. Was anything up there? Perfect place for a lookout. He approached the ridge warily, David coming silently behind. If it were his command he’d have a sentry up there, watching for troops trying to infiltrate into the command area. Of course, if it were his command there would be the claws around the area for full protection.

  He stopped, feet apart, hands on his hips.

  “Are we there?” David said.

  “Almost.”

  “Why have we stopped?”

  “I don’t want to take any chances.” Hendricks advanced slowly. Now the ridge lay directly beside him, along his right. Overlooking him. His uneasy feeling increased. If an Ivan were up there he wouldn’t have a chance. He waved his arm again. They should be expecting someone in the UN uniform, in response to the note capsule. Unless the whole thing was a trap.

  “Keep up with me.” He turned toward David. “Don’t drop behind.”

  “With you?”

  “Up beside me! We’re close. We can’t take any chances. Come on.”

  “I’ll be
all right.” David remained behind him, in the rear, a few paces away, still clutching his teddy bear.

  “Have it your way.” Hendricks raised his glasses again, suddenly tense. For a moment—had something moved? He scanned the ridge carefully. Everything was silent. Dead. No life up there, only tree trunks and ash. Maybe a few rats. The big black rats that had survived the claws. Mutants—built their own shelters out of saliva and ash. Some kind of plaster. Adaptation. He started forward again.

  ****

  A tall figure came out on the ridge above him, cloak flapping. Gray-green. A Russian. Behind him a second soldier appeared, another Russian. Both lifted their guns, aiming.

  Hendricks froze. He opened his mouth. The soldiers were kneeling, sighting down the side of the slope. A third figure had joined them on the ridge top, a smaller figure in gray-green. A woman. She stood behind the other two.

  Hendricks found his voice. “Stop!” He waved up at them frantically. “I’m—”

  The two Russians fired. Behind Hendricks there was a faint pop. Waves of heat lapped against him, throwing him to the ground. Ash tore at his face, grinding into his eyes and nose. Choking, he pulled himself to his knees. It was all a trap. He was finished. He had come to be killed, like a steer. The soldiers and the woman were coming down the side of the ridge toward him, sliding down through the soft ash. Hendricks was numb. His head throbbed. Awkwardly, he got his rifle up and took aim. It weighed a thousand tons; he could hardly hold it. His nose and cheeks stung. The air was full of the blast smell, a bitter acrid stench.

  “Don’t fire,” the first Russian said, in heavily accented English.

  The three of them came up to him, surrounding him. “Put down your rifle, Yank,” the other said.

  Hendricks was dazed. Everything had happened so fast. He had been caught. And they had blasted the boy. He turned his head. David was gone. What remained of him was strewn across the ground.

  The three Russians studied him curiously. Hendricks sat, wiping blood from his nose, picking out bits of ash. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Why did you do it?” he murmured thickly. “The boy.”

  “Why?” One of the soldiers helped him roughly to his feet. He turned Hendricks around. “Look.”

  Hendricks closed his eyes.

  “Look!” The two Russians pulled him forward. “See. Hurry up. There isn’t much time to spare, Yank!”

  Hendricks looked. And gasped.

  “See now? Now do you understand?”

  ****

  From the remains of David a metal wheel rolled. Relays, glinting metal. Parts, wiring. One of the Russians kicked at the heap of remains. Parts popped out, rolling away, wheels and springs and rods. A plastic section fell in, half charred. Hendricks bent shakily down. The front of the head had come off. He could make out the intricate brain, wires and relays, tiny tubes and switches, thousands of minute studs—

  “A robot,” the soldier holding his arm said. “We watched it tagging you.”

  “Tagging me?”

  “That’s their way. They tag along with you. Into the bunker. That’s how they get in.”

  Hendricks blinked, dazed. “But—”

  “Come on.” They led him toward the ridge. “We can’t stay here. It isn’t safe. There must be hundreds of them all around here.”

  The three of them pulled him up the side of the ridge, sliding and slipping on the ash. The woman reached the top and stood waiting for them.

  “The forward command,” Hendricks muttered. “I came to negotiate with the Soviet—”

  “There is no more forward command. They got in. We’ll explain.” They reached the top of the ridge. “We’re all that’s left. The three of us. The rest were down in the bunker.”

  “This way. Down this way.” The woman unscrewed a lid, a gray manhole cover set in the ground. “Get in.”

  Hendricks lowered himself. The two soldiers and the woman came behind him, following him down the ladder. The woman closed the lid after them, bolting it tightly into place.

  “Good thing we saw you,” one of the two soldiers grunted. “It had tagged you about as far as it was going to.”

  ****

  “Give me one of your cigarettes,” the woman said. “I haven’t had an American cigarette for weeks.”

  Hendricks pushed the pack to her. She took a cigarette and passed the pack to the two soldiers. In the corner of the small room the lamp gleamed fitfully. The room was low-ceilinged, cramped. The four of them sat around a small wood table. A few dirty dishes were stacked to one side. Behind a ragged curtain a second room was partly visible. Hendricks saw the corner of a cot, some blankets, clothes hung on a hook.

  “We were here,” the soldier beside him said. He took, off his helmet, pushing his blond hair back. “I’m Corporal Rudi Maxer. Polish. Impressed in the Soviet Army two years ago.” He held out his hand.

  Hendricks hesitated and then shook. “Major Joseph Hendricks.”

  “Klaus Epstein.” The other soldier shook with him, a small dark man with thinning hair. Epstein plucked nervously at his ear. “Austrian. Impressed God knows when. I don’t remember. The three of us were here, Rudi and I, with Tasso.” He indicated the woman. “That’s how we escaped. All the rest were down in the bunker.”

  “And—and they got in?”

  Epstein lit a cigarette. “First just one of them. The kind that tagged you. Then it let others in.”

  Hendricks became alert. “The kind? Are there more than one kind?”

  “The little boy. David. David holding his teddy bear. That’s Variety Three. The most effective.”

  “What are the other types?”

  Epstein reached into his coat. “Here.” He tossed a packet of photographs onto the table, tied with a string. “Look for yourself.”

  Hendricks untied the string.

  “You see,” Rudi Maxer said, “that was why we wanted to talk terms. The Russians, I mean. We found out about a week ago. Found out that your claws were beginning to make up new designs on their own. New types of their own. Better types. Down in your underground factories behind our lines. You let them stamp themselves, repair themselves. Made them more and more intricate. It’s your fault this happened.”

  ****

  Hendricks examined the photos. They had been snapped hurriedly; they were blurred and indistinct. The first few showed—David. David walking along a road, by himself. David and another David. Three Davids. All exactly alike. Each with a ragged teddy bear.

  All pathetic.

  “Look at the others,” Tasso said.

  The next pictures, taken at a great distance, showed a towering wounded soldier sitting by the side of a path, his arm in a sling, the stump of one leg extended, a crude crutch on his lap. Then two wounded soldiers, both the same, standing side by side.

  “That’s Variety One. The Wounded Soldier.” Klaus reached out and took the pictures. “You see, the claws were designed to get to human beings. To find them. Each kind was better than the last. They got farther, closer, past most of our defenses, into our lines. But as long as they were merely machines, metal spheres with claws and horns, feelers, they could be picked off like any other object. They could be detected as lethal robots as soon as they were seen. Once we caught sight of them—”

  “Variety One subverted our whole north wing,” Rudi said. “It was a long time before anyone caught on. Then it was too late. They came in, wounded soldiers, knocking and begging to be let in. So we let them in. And as soon as they were in they took over. We were watching out for machines….”

  “At that time it was thought there was only the one type,” Klaus Epstein said. “No one suspected there were other types. The pictures were flashed to us. When the runner was sent to you, we knew of just one type. Variety One. The big Wounded Soldier. We thought that was all.”

  “Your line fell to—”

  “To Variety Three. David and his bear. That worked even better.” Klaus smiled bitterly. “Soldiers are suckers for children
. We brought them in and tried to feed them. We found out the hard way what they were after. At least, those who were in the bunker.”

  “The three of us were lucky,” Rudi said. “Klaus and I were—were visiting Tasso when it happened. This is her place.” He waved a big hand around. “This little cellar. We finished and climbed the ladder to start back. From the ridge we saw. There they were, all around the bunker. Fighting was still going on. David and his bear. Hundreds of them. Klaus took the pictures.”

  Klaus tied up the photographs again.

  ****

  “And it’s going on all along your line?” Hendricks said.

  “Yes.”

  “How about our lines?” Without thinking, he touched the tab on his arm. “Can they—”

  “They’re not bothered by your radiation tabs. It makes no difference to them, Russian, American, Pole, German. It’s all the same. They’re doing what they were designed to do. Carrying out the original idea. They track down life, wherever they find it.”

  “They go by warmth,” Klaus said. “That was the way you constructed them from the very start. Of course, those you designed were kept back by the radiation tabs you wear. Now they’ve got around that. These new varieties are lead-lined.”

  “What’s the other variety?” Hendricks asked. “The David type, the Wounded Soldier—what’s the other?”

  “We don’t know.” Klaus pointed up at the wall. On the wall were two metal plates, ragged at the edges. Hendricks got up and studied them. They were bent and dented.

  “The one on the left came off a Wounded Soldier,” Rudi said. “We got one of them. It was going along toward our old bunker. We got it from the ridge, the same way we got the David tagging you.”

  The plate was stamped: I-V. Hendricks touched the other plate. “And this came from the David type?”

  “Yes.” The plate was stamped: III-V.

  Klaus took a look at them, leaning over Hendricks’ broad shoulder. “You can see what we’re up against. There’s another type. Maybe it was abandoned. Maybe it didn’t work. But there must be a Second Variety. There’s One and Three.”

  “You were lucky,” Rudi said. “The David tagged you all the way here and never touched you. Probably thought you’d get it into a bunker, somewhere.”