Ed greeted the guards apprehensively. "Morning."
Curtly, one of the guards took his pass, examined it, punched it, and filed it away in a steel-bound notebook. "Each of you prepare your thumb for prints," he instructed. A black, oozing pad was passed up. "Including the baby."
Ed was astounded. "Why? What the hell's going on?"
The twins were too terrified to move. Numbly, they allowed the guards to take their prints. Ed protested weakly, as the pad was pushed against his thumb. His wrist was grabbed and yanked forward. As the guards walked around the truck to get at Barbara, the squad leader placed his boot on the running board and addressed Ed briefly.
"Five of you. Family?"
Ed nodded mutely. "Yeah, my family."
"Complete. Any more?"
"No. Just us five."
The guard's dark eyes bored down at him. "When are you coming back?"
"Tonight." Ed indicated the metal notebook in which his pass had been filed. "It says before six."
"If you go through that gate," the guard said, "you won't be coming back. That gate only goes one way."
"Since when?" Barbara whispered, face ashen.
"Since last night. It's your choice. Go ahead out there, get your business done, consult your soothsayer. But don't come back." The guard pointed to the side road. "If you want to turn around, that road takes you to the descent ramps. Follow the truck ahead—it's turning back."
Ed licked his dry lips. "I can't. My kid—she's got bone cancer. The old woman started her healing, but she isn't well, not yet. The old woman says today she can finish."
The guard examined a dog-eared directory "Ward 9, sixth level. Go down there and they'll fix up your kid. The docs have all the equipment." He closed the book and stepped back from the car, a heavy-set man, red-faced, with bristled, beefy skin. "Let's get started, buddy. One way or the other. It's your choice."
Automatically, Ed moved the car forward. "They must have decided," he muttered, dazed. "Too many people going out. They want to scare us … they know we can't live out there. We'd die out there!"
Barbara quietly clutched the baby. "We'll die here eventually."
"But it's nothing but ruins out there!"
"Aren't they out there?"
Ed choked helplessly. "We can't come back—suppose it's a mistake?"
The truck ahead wavered toward the side road. An uncertain hand signal was made; suddenly the driver yanked his hand in and wobbled the truck back toward the exit gate. A moment of confusion took place. The truck slowed almost to a stop; Ed slammed on his brakes, cursed, and shifted into low. Then the truck ahead gained speed. It rumbled through the gate and out onto the barren ground. Without thinking, Ed followed it. Cold, ash-heavy air swept into the cabin as he gained speed and pulled up beside the truck. Even with it he leaned out and shouted, "Where you going? They won't let you back!"
The driver, a skinny little man, bald and bony, shouted angrily back, "Goddamn it, I'm not coming back! The hell with them—I got all my food and bedding in here—I got every damn thing I own. Let them try to get me back!" He gunned up his truck and pulled ahead of Ed.
"Well," Barbara said quietly, "it's done. We're outside."
"Yeah," Ed agreed shakily. "We are. A yard, a thousand miles—it's all the same." In panic, he turned wildly to his wife. "What if they don't take us? I mean, what if we get there and they don't want us. All they got is that old broken-down wartime shelter. There isn't room for anybody—and look behind us."
A line of hesitant, lumbering trucks and cars was picking its way uncertainly from the gate, streaming rustily out onto the parched plain. A few pulled out and swung back; one pulled over to the side of the road and halted while its passengers argued with bitter desperation.
"They'll take us," Barbara said. "They want to help us—they always wanted to."
"But suppose they can't!"
"I think they can. There's a lot of power there, if we ask for it. They couldn't come to us, but we can go to them. We've been held back too long, separated from them too many years. If the government won't let them in, then we'll have to go outside."
"Can we live outside?" Ed asked hoarsely.
"Yes."
Behind them a horn honked excitedly. Ed gained speed. "It's a regular exodus. Look at them pouring out. Who'll be left?"
"There'll be plenty left," Barbara answered. "All the big shots will stay behind." She laughed breathlessly. "Maybe they'll be able to get the war going again. It'll give them something to do, while we're away."
NOTES
All notes in italics are by Philip K. Dick. The year when the note was written appears in parentheses following the note. Most of these notes were written as story notes for the collections THE BEST OF PHILIP K. DICK (published 1977) and THE GOLDEN MAN (published 1980). A few were written at the request of editors publishing or reprinting a PKD story in a book or magazine.
When there is a date following the name of a story, it is the date the manuscript of that story was first received by Dick's agent, per the records of the Scott Meredith Literary Agency. Absence of a date means no record is available. The name of a magazine followed by a month and year indicates the first published appearance of a story. An alternate name following a story indicates Dick's original name for the story, as shown in the agency records.
These five volumes include all of Philip K. Dick's short fiction, with the exception of short novels later published as or included in novels, childhood writings, and unpublished writings for which manuscripts have not been found. The stories are arranged as closely as possible in chronological order of composition; research for this chronology was done by Gregg Rickman and Paul Williams.
FAIR GAME 4/21/53. If, Sept 1959.
THE HANGING STRANGER 5/4/53. Science Fiction Adventures, Dec 1953.
THE EYES HAVE IT 5/13/53. Science Fiction Stories, No 1, 1953.
THE GOLDEN MAN ("The God Who Runs") 6/24/53. If April 1954.
In the early Fifties much American science fiction dealt with human mutants and their glorious super-powers and super-faculties by which they would presently lead mankind to a higher state of existence, a sort of Promised Land. John W. Campbell, Jr., editor of Analog, demanded that the stories he bought deal with such wonderful mutants, and he also insisted that the mutants always be shown as (1) good; and (2) firmly in charge. When I wrote The Golden Man I intended to show that (I) the mutant might not be good, at least good for the rest of mankind, for us ordinaries; and (2) not in charge but sniping at us as a bandit would, a feral mutant who potentially would do us more harm than good. This was specifically the view of psionic mutants that Campbell loathed, and the theme in fiction that he refused to publish … so my story appeared in If.
We sf writers of the Fifties liked If became it had high quality paper and illustrations; it was a classy magazine. And, more important, it would take a chance with unknown authors. A fairly large number of my early stories appeared in If; for me it was a major market. The editor of If at the beginning was Paul W Fairman. He would lake a badly-written story by you and rework it until it was okay—which I appreciated. Later James L. Quinn the publisher became himself the editor, and then Frederik Pohl. I sold to all three of them.
In the issue of If that followed the publishing of The Golden Man appeared a two-page editorial consisting of a letter by a lady school teacher complaining about The Golden Man. Her complaints consisted of John W. Campbell, Jr.'s complaint: she upbraided me for presenting mutants in a negative light and she offered the notion that certainly we could expect mutants to be (I) good; and (2) firmly in charge. So I was back to square one.
My theory as to why people took this view is: I think these people secretly imagined they were themselves early manifestations of these kindly, wise, super-intelligent Über-menschen who would guide the stupid—i.e. the rest of us—to the Promised Land. A power phantasy was involved here, in my opinion. The idea of the psionic superman taking over was a role that appeared origin
ally in Stapleton's ODD JOHN and A. E. van Vogt's SLAN. "We are persecuted now," the message ran, "and despised and rejected. But later on, boy oh boy, will we show them!"
As far as I was concerned, for psionic mutants to rule us would be to put the fox in charge of the hen house. I was reacting to what I considered a dangerous hunger for power on the part of neurotic people, a hunger which I felt John W. Campbell, Jr. was pandering to—and deliberately so. If, on the other hand, was not committed to selling any one particular idea; it was a magazine devoted to genuinely new ideas, willing to take any side of an issue. Its several editors should he commended, inasmuch as they understood the real task of science fiction: to look in all directions without restraint. (1979)
Here I am also saying that mutants are dangerous to us ordinaries, a view which John W. Campbell, Jr. deplored. We were supposed to view them as our leaders. But I always felt uneasy as to how they would view us. I mean, maybe they wouldn't want to lead us. Maybe from their superevolved lofty level me wouldn't seem worth leading. Anyhow, even if they agreed to lead us, I felt uneasy as to where me would wind up going. It might have something to do with buildings marked SHOWERS but which really weren't. (1978)
THE TURNING WHEEL 7/8/53. Science Fiction Stories, No 2, 1954.
THE LAST OF THE MASTERS ("Protection Agency") 7/15/53. Orbit Science Fiction, Nov-Dec 1954.
Now I show trust of robot as leader, a robot who is the suffering servant, which is to say a form of Christ. Leader as servant of man: leader who should be dispensed with—perhaps. An ambiguity hangs over the morality of this story. Should we have a leader or should we think for ourselves? Obviously the latter, in principle. But—sometimes there lies a gulf between what is theoretically right and that which is practical. It's interesting that I would trust a robot and not an android. Perhaps it's because a robot does not try to deceive you as to what it is. (1978)
THE FATHER-THING 7/21/53, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Dec 1954.
I always had the impression, when I was very small, that my father was two people, one good, one bad. The good father goes away and the bad father replaces him. I guess many kids have this feeling. What if it were so? This story is another instance of a normal feeling, which is in fact incorrect, somehow becoming correct.,. with the added misery that one cannot communicate it to others. Fortunately, there are other kids to tell it to. Kids understand: they are wiser than adults—hmmm, I almost said, "Wiser than humans." (1976)
STRANGE EDEN ("Immolation") 8/4/53. Imagination, Dec 1954.
TONY AND THE BEETLES 8/31/53. Orbit Science Fiction, No 2, 1953.
NULL-0 ("Loony Lemuel") 8/31/53. If, Dec 1958.
TO SERVE THE MASTER ("Be As Gods!") 10/21/53. Imagination, Feb 1956.
EXHIBIT PIECE 10/21/53. If Aug 1954.
THE CRAWLERS ("Foundling Home") 10/29/53. Imagination, July 1954.
SALES PITCH 11/19/53. Future, June 1954.
When this story first appeared, the fans detested it. I read it over, perplexed by their hostility, and could see why: it is a superdowner story, and relentlessly so. Could I rewrite it I would have it end differently, I would have the man and the robot, i.e. the fasrad, form a partnership at the end and become friends. The logic of paranoia of this story should be deconstructed into its opposite; Y, the human-against-robot theme, should have been resolved into null-Y, human-and-robot-against-the-universe. I really deplore the ending. So when you read the story, try to imagine it as it ought to have been written. The fasrad says, "Sir, I am here to help you. The hell with my sales pitch. Let's be together forever. " Yes, but then I would have been criticized for a false upbeat ending, I guess. Still, this ending is not good. The fans were right. (1978)
SHELL GAME 12/22/53. Galaxy, Sept 1954.
UPON THE DULL EARTH 12/30/53. Beyond Fantasy Fiction, Nov 1954.
FOSTER, YOU'RE DEAD 12/31/53. Star Science Fiction Stories No 3, edited by Frederik Pohl, New York, 1955.
One day I saw a newspaper headline reporting that the President suggested that if Americans had to buy their bomb shelters, rather than being provided with them by the government, they'd take better care of them, an idea which made me furious. Logically, each of us should own a submarine, a jet fighter, and so forth. Here I just wanted to show how cruel the authorities can be when it comes to human life, how they can think in terms of dollars, not people. (1976)
PAY FOR THE PRINTER ("Printer's Pay") 1/28/54. Satellite Science Fiction, Oct 1956.
WAR VETERAN 2/17/54. If March 1955.
THE CHROMIUM FENCE 4/9/54. Imagination, July 1955.
MISADJUSTMENT 5/14/54. Science Fiction Quarterly, Feb 1957.
A WORLD OF TALENT ("Two Steps Right") 6/4/54. Galaxy, Oct 1954.
PSI-MAN HEAL MY CHILD! ("Outside Consultant") 6/8/54. Imaginative Tales, Nov 1955. [Also published in a story collection as "Psi-Man."]
Volume Four
THE COLLECTED STORIES OF PHILIP K. DICK
THE DAYS OF PERKY PAT
Introduction by James Tiptree, Jr.
U/M
UNDERWOOD/MILLER
Los Angeles, California
Columbia, Pennsylvania
1987
VOLUME FOUR
THE COLLECTED STORIES OF PHILIP K. DICK
THE DAYS OF PERKY PAT
Slipcased Edition: ISBN O-88733-052-5 (set)
Trade Edition: ISBN O-88733-053-3 (set)
Copyright © 1987 by The Estate of Philip K. Dick
Introduction © 1987 by James Tiptree, Jr.
Entire contents Copyright © 1987 by The Estate of Philip K. Dick. Individual stories were copyrighted in their year of first publication (see "Notes" at the back of each volume for more information) and copyrights have been renewed by Philip K. Dick and The Estate of Philip K. Dick as applicable. Previously unpublished stories arc Copyright © 1987 by The Estate of Philip K. Dick. All rights reserved.
The excerpt by Philip K. Dick which appears in the beginning of this volume is from a collection of interviews with the author conducted by Paul Williams and published in ONLY APPARENTLY REAL, Arbor House, 1986. Used with permission.
For information about the Philip K. Dick Society. write to PKDS, Box 611, Glen Ellen, CA 95442 USA.
An Underwood-Miller book by arrangement with the author's agent and estate. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without explicit permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages. For information address the publisher, Underwood-Miller, 515 Chestnut Street, Columbia, PA 17512.
Printed in the United States of America
Typesetting by Metro Typography, Santa Cruz, California
Book Design: Underwood-Miller.
All Rights Reserved
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number
87- 50l58
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
AUTOFAC
SERVICE CALL
CAPTIVE MARKET
THE MOLD OF YANCY
THE MINORITY REPORT
RECALL MECHANISM
THE UNRECONSTRUCTED M
EXPLORERS WE
WAR GAME
IF THERE WERE NO BENNY CEMOLI
NOVELTY ACT
WATERSPIDER
WHAT THE DEAD MEN SAY
ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET
THE DAYS OF PERKY PAT
STAND-BY
WHAT'LL WE DO WITH RAGLAND PARK?
OH, TO BE A BLOBEL!
NOTES
INTRODUCTION
By James Tiptree, Jr.
HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU'RE READING PHILIP K. DICK?
I think, first and pervasively, it was the strangeness. Strange, Dick was and is. I think it was that which kept me combing the SF catalogs for more by him, waiting for each new book to come out. One hears it said, "X just doesn't think like other people." About Dick, it was true. In the stories, you can't tell what's going to happen next.
And yet his characters are seemingly designed to be ordinary people—except for the occasional screaming psychotic female who is one of Dick's specialties, and is always treated with love. They are ordinary people caught up in wildly bizarre situations, running a police force with the help of the mumblings of precognitive idiots, facing a self-replicating factory that has taken over the earth. Indeed, one of the factors in the strangeness is the care Dick takes to set his characters in the world of reality, an aspect most other writers ignore.
In how many other science fiction stories do you know what the hero does for a living when he isn't caught up in the particular plot? Oh, he may be a member of a space crew, or, vaguely, a scientist. Or Young Werther. In Dick, you are introduced to the hero's business concerns on page one. That's not literally true of the short stories in this volume (I went back and checked), but the impression of the pervasiveness of "grubby" business concerns is everywhere, especially in the novels. The hero is in the antique business, say; as each new marvel turns up, he ruminates as to whether it is saleable. When the dead talk, they offer business advice. Dick never sheds his concern that we know how his characters earn their bread and butter. It is a part of the peculiar "grittiness" of Dick's style.
Another part of the grittiness is the jerkiness of the dialog. I can never decide whether Dick's dialog is purely unreal, or more real than most. His people do not interact as much as they deliver monologs to carry on the plot, or increase the reader's awareness of a situation.
And the situations are purely Dick. His "plots" are like nothing else in SF. If Dick writes a time-travel story, say, it will have a twist on it that makes it sui generis. Quite typically, the central gee-whiz marvel will not be centered, but will come at you obliquely, in the course, for instance, of a political election.
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 151