"What does all this mean?" Joan passed the paper back. "I can't make out all this legal wording."
"Well, it means women are going to be admitted into Sector Units in the—in the absence of male members of the family."
"Oh. I see."
Erickson got up quickly, relieved that his duty had been done. "I guess I'll have to run along now. I wanted to bring this over and show it to you. They're handing them out all along the line." He stuck the paper away in his coat again. He looked very tired.
"It doesn't leave very many people, does it?"
"How do you mean?"
"Men first. Then children. Now women. It seems to take in everybody, just about."
"Kind of does, I guess. Well, there must be a reason. We have to hold these fronts. The stuff must be kept coming in. We've got to have it."
"I suppose so." Joan rose slowly. "I'll see you later on, Bryan."
"Yes, I should be around later in the week. I'll see you then."
Bryan Erickson came back just as the nymphite-war was breaking out on Saturn. He grinned apologetically at Mrs. Clarke as she let him in.
"Sorry to bother you so early in the morning," Erickson said. "I'm in a big rush, running around all over the sector."
"What is it?" Joan closed the door after him. He was in his Organizer's uniform, pale green with silver bands across his shoulders. Joan was still in her dressing robe.
"Nice and warm in here," Erickson said, warming his hands against the wall. Outside, the day was bright and cold. It was November. Snow lay over everything, a cold blanket of white. A few stark trees jutted up, their branches barren and frozen. Far off along the highway the bright ribbon of surface cars had diminished to a trickle. There were few people going to the city, anymore. Most surface cars were in storage.
"I guess you know about the trouble on Saturn," Erickson murmured. "You've heard."
"I saw some shots, I think. Over the vidscreen."
"Quite a ruckus. Those Saturn natives are sure big. My golly, they must be fifty feet high."
Joan nodded absently, rubbing her eyes. "It's a shame we need anything from Saturn. Have you had breakfast, Bryan?"
"Oh, yes, thanks—I've eaten." Erickson turned his back to the wall. "Sure is good to get in out of the cold. You certainly keep your house nice and neat. I wish my wife kept our place this neat."
Joan crossed to the windows and let up the shades. "What do we use from Saturn?"
"It would have to be nymphite, of all things. Anything else we could give up. But not nymphite."
"What is nymphite used for?"
"All aptitude testing equipment. Without nymphite we wouldn't be able to tell who was fit for what occupation, including President of the World Council."
"I see."
"With nymphite testers we can determine what each person is good for and what kind of work he should be doing. Nymphite is the basic tool of modern society. With it we classify and grade ourselves. If anything should happen to the supply…"
"And it all comes from Saturn?"
"I'm afraid so. Now the natives are rioting, trying to take over the nymphite mines. It's going to be a tough struggle. They're big. The government is having to call up everyone it can get."
Suddenly Joan gasped. "Everyone?" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Even women?"
"I'm afraid so. Sorry, Joan. You know it isn't my idea. Nobody wanted to do it. But if we're going to save all these things we have—"
"But whom will that leave?"
Erickson did not answer. He was sitting down at the desk, making out a card. He passed it to her. Joan took it automatically. "Your unit card."
"But who will be left?" Joan asked again. "Can't you tell me? Will anyone be left?"
The rocketship from Orion landed with a great crashing roar. Exhaust valves poured out clouds of waste material, as the jet compressors cooled into silence.
There was no sound for a time. Then the hatch was unscrewed carefully and swung inward. Cautiously N'tgari-3 stepped out, waving an atmosphere-testing cone ahead of him.
"Results?" his companion queried, his thoughts crossing to N'tgari-3.
"Too thin to breathe. For us. But enough for some kinds of life." N'tgari-3 gazed around him, across the hills and plains, off in the distance. "Certainly is quiet."
"Not a sound. Or any sign of life." His companions emerged. "What's that over there?"
"Where?" N'tgari-3 asked.
"Over that way." Luci'n-6 pointed with his polar antenna. "See?"
"Looks like some kind of building units. Some sort of mass structure."
The two Orionians raised their launch to hatch-level and slid it out onto the ground. With N'tgari-3 at the wheel they set off across the plain toward the raised spot visible on the horizon. Plants grew on all sides, some tall and sturdy, some fragile and small with multi-colored blossoms.
"Plenty of immobile forms," Luci'n-6 observed.
They passed through a field of gray-orange plants, thousands of stalks growing uniformly, endless plants all exactly alike.
"They look as if they were artificially sowed," N'tgari-3 murmured.
"Slow the launch down. We're coming to some sort of structure."
N'tgari-3 slowed down the launch almost to a stop. The two Orionians leaned out the port, gazing in interest.
A lovely structure rose up, surrounded by plants of all kinds, tall plants, carpets of low plants, beds of plants with astonishing blossoms. The structure itself was neat and attractive, obviously the artifact of an advanced culture.
N'tgari-3 leaped out of the launch. "Maybe we're about to encounter the legendary Beings from Terra." He hurried across the carpet of plants, a long uniform ground-covering, up to the front porch of the structure.
Luci'n-6 followed him. They examined the door. "How does it open?" Luci'n-6 asked.
They burned a neat hole in the lock and the door slid back. Lights came on automatically. The house was warm, heated by the walls.
"How—how developed! How very advanced."
They wandered from room to room, gazing around them at the vidscreen, at the elaborate kitchen, at the furniture in the bedroom, at the drapes, the chairs, the bed.
"But where are the Terrans?" N'tgari-3 said at last.
"They'll be right back."
N'tgari-3 paced back and forth. "This gives me an odd feeling. I can't put my antenna on it. A sort of uncomfortable feeling." He hesitated. "It isn't possible they're not coming back, is it?"
"Why not?"
Luci'n-6 began to fiddle with the vidscreen. "Hardly likely. We'll wait for them. They'll be back."
N'tgari-3 peered out the window nervously. "I don't see them. But they must be around. They couldn't just walk off and leave all this behind. Where would they go? Why?"
"They'll be back," Luci'n-6 got some static on the vidscreen. "This isn't very impressive."
"I have a feeling they won't."
"If the Terrans don't return," Luci'n-6 said thoughtfully, fooling with the vidscreen controls, "it will be one of the greatest puzzles known to archaeology."
"I'll keep watching for them," N'tgari-3 said impassively.
MARTIANS COME IN CLOUDS
TED BARNES CAME IN all grim-faced and trembling. He threw his coat and newspaper over the chair. "Another cloud," he muttered. "A whole cloud of them! One was up on Johnson's roof. They were getting it down with a long pole of some kind."
Lena came and took his coat to the closet. "I'm certainly glad you hurried right on home."
"I get the shakes when I see one of them." Ted threw himself down on the couch, groping in his pockets for cigarettes. "Honest to God it really gets me."
He lit up, blowing smoke around him in a gray mist. His hands were beginning to quiet down. He wiped sweat from his upper lip and loosened his necktie. "What's for dinner?"
"Ham." Lena bent over to kiss him.
"How come? Some sort of occasion?"
"No." Lena moved back toward the kitchen door.
"It's that canned Dutch ham your mother gave us. I thought it was about time we opened it."
Ted watched her disappear into the kitchen, slim and attractive in her bright print apron. He sighed, relaxing and leaning back. The quiet living-room, Lena in the kitchen, the television set playing to itself in the corner, made him feel a little better.
He unlaced his shoes and kicked them off. The whole incident had taken only a few minutes but it had seemed much longer. An eternity—standing rooted to the sidewalk, staring up at Johnson's roof. The crowd of shouting men. The long pole. And…
…and it, draped over the peak of the roof, the shapeless gray bundle evading the end of that pole. Creeping this way and that, trying to keep from being dislodged.
Ted shuddered. His stomach turned over. He had stood fixed to the spot, gazing up, unable to look away. Finally some fellow running past had stepped on his foot, breaking the spell and freeing him. He had hurried on, getting away as fast as he could, relieved and shaken. Lord…!
The back door slammed. Jimmy wandered into the living-room, his hands in his pockets. "Hi, Dad." He stopped by the bathroom door, looking across at his father. "What's the matter? You're all funny looking."
"Jimmy, come over here." Ted stubbed out his cigarette. "I want to talk to you."
"I have to go wash for dinner."
"Come here and sit down. Dinner can wait."
Jimmy came over and slid up onto the couch. "What's the matter? What is it?"
Ted studied his son. Round little face, tousled hair hanging down in his eyes. Smudge of dirt on one cheek. Jimmy was eleven. Was this a good time to tell him? Ted set his jaw grimly. Now was as good a time as any—while it was strong in his mind.
"Jimmy, there was a Martian up on Johnson's roof. I saw it on the way home from the bus depot."
Jimmy's eyes grew round. "A buggie?"
"They were getting it with a pole. A cloud of them's around. They come in clouds every few years." His hands were beginning to shake again. He lit another cigarette. "Every two or three years. Not as often as they used to. They drift down from Mars in clouds, hundreds of them. All over the world—like leaves." He shuddered. "Like a lot of dry leaves blowing down."
"Gosh!" Jimmy said. He got off the couch onto his feet. "Is it still there?"
"No, they were getting it down. Listen," Ted leaned toward the boy. "Listen to me—I'm telling you this so you'll stay away from them. If you see one of them you turn around and run as fast as you can. You hear? Don't go near it—stay away. Don't…"
He hesitated. "Don't pay any attention to it. You just turn around and run. Get somebody, stop the first man you see and tell him, then come on home. Do you understand?"
Jimmy nodded.
"You know what they look like. They showed you pictures at school. You must have—"
Lena came to the kitchen door. "Dinner's ready. Jimmy, aren't you washed?"
"I stopped him," Ted said, getting up from the couch. "I wanted to have a talk with him."
"You mind what your father tells you," Lena said. "About the buggies—remember what he says or he'll give you the biggest whipping you ever heard of."
Jimmy ran to the bathroom. "I'll get washed." He disappeared, slamming the door behind him.
Ted caught Lena's gaze. "I hope they get them taken care of soon. I hate even to be outside."
"They should. I heard on television they're more organized than last time." Lena counted mentally. "This is the fifth time they've come. The fifth cloud. It seems to be tapering off. Not as often, any more. The first was in nineteen hundred and fifty-eight. The next in fifty-nine. I wonder where it'll end."
Jimmy hurried out of the bathroom. "Let's eat!"
"Okay," Ted said. "Let's eat."
It was a bright afternoon with the sun shining down everywhere. Jimmy Barnes rushed out of the school yard, through the gate and onto the sidewalk. His heart was hammering excitedly. He crossed over to Maple Street and then onto Cedar, running the whole way.
A couple of people were still poking around on Johnson's lawn—a policeman and a few curious men. There was a big ruined place in the center of the lawn, a sort of tear where the grass had been ripped back. The flowers all around the house had been trampled flat. But there was no sign whatsoever of the buggie.
While he was watching Mike Edwards came over and punched him on the arm. "What say, Barnes."
"Hi. Did you see it?"
"The buggie? No."
"My Dad saw it, coming home from work."
"Bull!"
"No, he really did. He said they were getting it down with a pole."
Ralf Drake rode up on his bike. "Where is it? Is it gone?"
"They already tore it up," Mike said. "Barnes says his old man saw it, coming home last night."
"He said they were poking it down with a pole. It was trying to hang onto the roof."
"They're all dried-up and withered," Mike said, "like something that's been hanging out in the garage."
"How do you know?" Ralf said.
"I saw one once."
"Yeah. I'll bet."
They walked along the sidewalk, Ralf wheeling his bike, discussing the matter loudly. They turned down Vermont Street and crossed the big vacant lot.
"The TV announcer said most of them are already rounded up," Ralf said. "There weren't very many this time."
Jimmy kicked a rock. "I'd sure like to see one before they get them all."
"I'd sure like to get one," Mike said.
Ralf sneered. "If you ever saw one you'd run so fast you wouldn't stop until the sun set."
"Oh, yeah?"
"You'd run like a fool."
"The heck I would. I'd knock the ol' buggie down with a rock."
"And carry him home in a tin can?"
Mike chased Ralf around, out into the street and up to the corner. The argument continued endlessly all the way across town and over to the other side of the railroad tracks. They walked past the ink works and the Western Lumber Company loading platforms. The sun sank low in the sky. It was getting to be evening. A cold wind came up, blowing through the palm trees at the end of the Hartly Construction Company lot.
"See you," Ralf said. He hopped on his bike, riding off. Mike and Jimmy walked back toward town together. At Cedar Street they separated.
"If you see a buggie give me a call," Mike said.
"Sure thing." Jimmy walked on up Cedar Street, his hands in his pockets. The sun had set. The evening air was chill. Darkness was descending.
He walked slowly, his eyes on the ground. The streetlights came on. A few cars moved along the street. Behind curtained windows he saw bright flashes of yellow, warm kitchens and living rooms. A television set brayed out, rumbling into the gloom. He passed along the brick wall of the Pomeroy Estate. The wall turned into an iron fence. Above the fence great silent evergreens rose dark and unmoving in the evening twilight.
For a moment Jimmy stopped, kneeling down to tie his shoe. A cold wind blew around him, making the evergreens sway slightly. Far off a train sounded, a dismal wail echoing through the gloom. He thought about dinner, Dad with his shoes off, reading the newspapers. His mother in the kitchen—the TV set murmuring to itself in the corner—the warm, bright living-room.
Jimmy stood up. Above him in the evergreens something moved. He glanced up, suddenly rigid. Among the dark branches something rested, swaying with the wind. He gaped, rooted to the spot.
A buggie. Waiting and watching, crouched silently up in the tree.
It was old. He knew that at once. There was a dryness about it, an odor of age and dust. An ancient gray shape, silent and unmoving, wrapped around the trunk and branches of the evergreen. A mass of cobwebs, dusty strands and webs of gray wrapped and trailing across the tree. A nebulous wispy presence that made the hackles of his neck rise.
The shape began to move but so slowly he might not have noticed. It was sliding around the trunk, feeling its way carefully, a little at a time. As if it were sightless. F
eeling its way inch by inch, an unseeing gray ball of cobwebs and dust.
Jimmy moved back from the fence. It was completely dark. The sky was black above him. A few stars glittered distantly, bits of remote fire. Far down the street a bus rumbled, turning a corner.
A buggie—clinging to the tree above him. Jimmy struggled, pulling himself away. His heart was thumping painfully, choking him. He could hardly breathe. His vision blurred, fading and receding. The buggie was only a little way from him, only a few yards above his head.
Help—he had to get help. Men with poles to push the buggie down—people—right away. He closed his eyes and pushed away from the fence. He seemed to be in a vast tide, a rushing ocean dragging at him, surging over his body, holding him where he was. He could not break away. He was caught. He strained, pushing against it. One step … another step … a third—
And then he heard it.
Or rather felt it. There was no sound. It was like drumming, a kind of murmuring like the sea, inside his head. The drumming lapped against his mind, beating gently around him. He halted. The murmuring was soft, rhythmic. But insistent—urgent. It began to separate, gaining form—form and substance. It flowed, breaking up into distinct sensations, images, scenes.
Scenes—of another world, its world. The buggie was talking to him, telling him about its world, spinning out scene after scene with anxious haste.
"Get away," Jimmy muttered thickly.
But the scenes still came, urgently, insistently, lapping at his mind.
Plains—a vast desert without limit or end. Dark red, cracked and scored with ravines. A far line of blunted hills, dust-covered, corroded. A great basin off to the right, an endless empty piepan with white-crusted salt riming it, a bitter ash where water had once lapped.
"Get away!" Jimmy muttered again, moving a step back.
The scenes grew. Dead sky, particles of sand, whipped along, carried endlessly. Sheets of sand, vast billowing clouds of sand and dust, blowing endlessly across the cracked surface of the planet. A few scrawny plants growing by rocks. In the shadows of the mountains great spiders with old webs, dust-covered, spun centuries ago. Dead spiders, lodged in cracks.
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 68