The Unteleported Man

by Philip K. Dick

  "You will wait," Freya said, "and wait. And no en­coded letter will come. And then you will really begin to think that our client, Mr. ben Applebaum, has tripped over something ominous and huge in the long darkness which is our collective life. And then what will you do? Go across yourself?"

  "Then I'm sending you," Matson said. "As the field rep there."

  "No," she said, instantly.

  "So Whale's Mouth frightens you. Despite all the glossy, expensive literature available free."

  "I know Rachmael is right. I knew it when he walked in the door; I knew it from your memo. I'm not going; that's that." She faced her employer-paramour calmly.

  "Then I'll draw at random from the field-personnel pool." He had not been serious; why should he offer his mistress as a pawn in this? But he had proved what he wished to prove: their joint fears were not merely in­tellectual. At this point in their thinking neither Freya nor he would risk the crossing via Telpor to Whale's Mouth, as thousands of guileless citizens of Terra, lugging their belongings and with innocent high hopes, did daily.

  I hate, he thought, to turn anyone into the goat. But —

  "Pete Burnside. Rep in Detroit. We'll tell him we wish to set up a Lies Incorporated branch at Whale's Mouth under a cover name. Hardware store. Or TV fixit shop. Get his folio; see what talents he has." We'll make one of our own people, Matson thought, the vic­tim — and it hurt, made him sick. And yet it should have been done months ago.

  But it had taken bankrupt Rachmael ben Applebaum to goose them into acting, he realized. A man pursued by those monster creditor balloons that bellow all your personal defects and secrets. A man willing to undergo a thirty-six year trip to prove that something is foul in the land of milk and protein on the far side of those Telpor gates through which, on receipt of five poscreds, any adult Terran can avail himself for the purpose of —

  God knew.

  God — and the German hierarchy dominating the UN plus THL; he had no illusions about that: they did not need to analyze the crowd-noise track of the time cap­sule ceremony at Whale's Mouth to know.

  As he had. And his job was investigation; he was, he realized with spurting, burgeoning horror, possibly the only individual on Terra really in a position to push through and obtain an authentic glimpse of this.

  Short of eighteen years of space flight... a time-period which would allow infinite millions, even a billion if the extrapolations were correct, to pass by way of Telpor constructs on that — to him — terrifying one­way trip to the colony world.

  If you are wise, Matson said to himself grimly, you never take one-way trips. Anywhere. Even to Boise, Idaho... even across the street. Be certain, when you start, that you can scramble back.

  3

  At one in the morning Rachmael ben Apple­baum was yanked from his sleep — this was usual, because the assorted creditor-mechanisms had been get­ting to him on a round-the-clock basis, now. However, this time it was no robot raptor-like creditor mechan­ism. This was a man. Dark, a Negro; small and shrewd-looking. Standing at Rachmael's door with i.d. papers extended.

  "From Listening Instructional Educational Ser­vices," the Negro said. He added, "I hold a Class-A inter-plan vehicle pilot-license."

  That woke Rachmael. "You're going to take the Om­phalos off Luna?"

  "If I can find her." The dark, small man smiled briefly. "May I come in? I'd like you to accompany me to your maintenance yard on Luna so there's no mis­take; I know your employees there are armed; other­wise — " He followed Rachmael into the conapt living room — the sole room, in fact: living conditions on Terra being what they were. "Otherwise Trails of Hoffman would be ferrying equipment to their domes on Mars with the Omphalos as of last month — right?"

  "Right," Rachmael said as he blearily dressed.

  "My name's Al Dosker. And I did you a small side-favor, Mr. ben Applebaum. I took out a creditor-construct waiting in the hall." He displayed, then, a side arm. "I suppose, if it got into litigation, it'd be called 'property destruct.' Anyhow, when you and I leave, no THL device is going to monitor our path." He added, half to himself, "That I could detect, anyhow." At his chest he patted a variety of bug chasers; minned elec­tronic instruments that recorded the presence of vid and aud receptors in the vicinity.

  Shortly the two men were on their way to the roof field, where Dosker had parked his — as Rachmael dis­covered — taxi-marked flapple. As they entered he no­ticed how ordinary it looked... but as it arced into the night sky he blinked at its velocity and accepted the fact that this was not the usual thrust which now impelled them; they had hit 3.5 Machs within micro-seconds.

  "You'll direct me," Dosker said. "Since even we at Lies Incorporated don't know where you've got the Omphalos; you did a good job of berthing her, or perhaps we're beginning to slip... or both."

  "Okay." At the 3-D Lunar map he took hold of the locating trailing-arm, linked the pivot in position, then swept out a route until the terminus of the arm touched the recessed locus where his technicians worked busily at the Omphalos — worked, while waiting for parts which would never come.

  "We're off course," Dosker said, abruptly. Speaking not to Rachmael but into his console mike. "Phooed."

  Phooed — atrade term, and Rachmael felt fear, because the word was a condensation of P.U. — picked up. Picked up by a field, and this one was moving Dosker's small flapple out of its trajectory; at once Dosker fired the huge Whetstone-Milton rockets, tried to reassert with their enormous strength homeo-course... but the field continued to tug, even against the millions of pounds of thrust of the twin engines, as both fired in unison, acting as retro-jets against the field exerting its presence unseen but, on a variety of console instruments, registering.

  Rachmael, after an interval of strained, wordless silence, said to Dosker, "Where's it taking us?"

  "From a Three to L course," Dosker said laconically.

  "Not to Luna, then." They would not, the two of them, reach the Omphalos' place of berth; that was now clear. But — where instead?

  "We're in T-orb," Dosker said. Orbit around Earth, despite the push of the two W-M engines; Dosker now, reluctantly, cut them. Fuel for them had no doubt dropped to a dangerously low level: if the field let go they would orbit anyhow, orbit without the possibility of being capable of creating a trajectory that would lead to an ultimate landing either on Luna or on Terra. "They've got us," Dosker said, then, half to Rachmael and half into the mike that projected from the ship's console. He recited a series of encoded instructions into the mike, listened, then cursed, said to Rachmael, "We're cut off aud and vid, all signal contact; I'm not getting through to Matson. So that's it."

  "That's what?" Rachmael demanded. "You mean we give up? We just orbit Terra forever and die when we run out of oxygen?" Was this the fight that Lies In­corporated put up when faced by Trails of Hoffman? He, alone, had held out better; now he was disgusted, astonished and completely perplexed, and he watched without comprehension as Dosker inspected his bank of bug chasers at his chest. At the moment the Lies In­corporated pilot seemed interested only in whether or not monitors were picking them up — as well as con­trolling, externally, the trajectory of their ship.

  Dosker said, "No monitors. Look, friend ben Apple­baum." He spoke swiftly. "They cut my transmission on aud by micro-relay to Matson's satellite, but of course — " His dark eyes glinted with amusement. "I have on me a dead man's throttle; if a continuous signal from me is interrupted it automatically sets off an alarm at Lies Incorporated, at its main offices in New York and also at Matson's satellite. So by now they know something's happened." He lowered his voice, speaking almost to himself alone. "We'll have to wait to find out if they can get to us before it doesn't matter."

  The ship, without power, in orbit, glided silently.

  And then, jarringly, something nosed it; Rachmael fell; sliding along the floor to the far wall he saw Dosker tumble, too, and knew that this had been the locking of another ship or similar device against them —
knew and then all at once realized that at least it hadn't detonated. At least it had not been a missile. Because if it had —

  "They could," Dosker said, as he got unsteadily to his feet, "have taken us out permanently." By that he, too, meant a detonating weapon. He turned toward the tri-stage entrance hatch, used for null-atmosphere pene­tration.

  The hatch, its circular seal-controls spun from im­pulses emanating outside, swung open.

  Three men, two of them riffraff with lasers, with the decayed eyes of those who had been bought, hamstrung, lost long ago, came first. And then a clear-faced elegant man who would never be bought because he was a great buyer in the market of men; he was a dealer, not pro­duce for sale.

  It was Theodoric Ferry, chairman of the board of Trails of Hoffman Limited. Ahead of him his two employees swung a vacuum-cleaner-like mechanism; it searched, buzzing and nosing, probing until its oper­ators were satisfied; they nodded to Theodoric, who then addressed Rachmael.

  "May I seat myself?"

  After a startled pause Rachmael said, "Sure."

  "Sorry, Mr. Ferry," Dosker said. "The only seat is taken." He sat at the control console in such a way that his small body had expanded at its base to fill both bucket seats; his face was hard and hating.

  Shrugging, the large, white-haired man said, "All right." He eyed Dosker. "You're Lies' top pilot, aren't you? Al Dosker... yes, I recognize you from the clips we've made of you. On your way to the Omphalos. But you don't need Applebaum here to tell you where she is; we can tell you." Theodoric Ferry dug into his cloak, brought out a small packet which he tossed to Al Dosker. "The locus of the dry-docks where Applebaum has got her."

  "Thanks, Mr. Ferry," Dosker said with sarcasm so great that his voice was almost forged into incompre­hensibility.

  Theodoric said, "Now look, Dosker; you sit quietly and mind your own business. While I talk to Apple­baum. I've never met him personally, but I knew his very-much-missed late father." He extended his hand.

  Dosker said, "If you shake with him, Rachmael, he'll deposit a virus contamination that'll produce liver toxicity within your system inside an hour."

  Glowering, Theodoric said to the Negro, "I asked you to stay in your place. A pun." He then removed the membrane-like, up-to-now invisible glove of plastic which covered his hand. So Dosker had been right, Rachmael realized as he watched Theodoric carefully deposit the glove in the ship's incinerating disposal-chute. "Anyhow," Theodoric said, almost plaintively, "we could have squirted feral airborne bacteria around by now."

  "And taken out yourselves," Dosker pointed out.

  Theodoric shrugged. Then, speaking carefully to Rachmael he said, "I respect what you're trying to do. Don't laugh."

  "I was not," Rachmael said, "laughing. Just sur­prised."

  "You want to keep functioning, after the economic collapse; you want to keep your legitimate creditors from attaching the few — actually sole — asset that Ap­plebaum Enterprise still possesses — good for you, Rach­mael. I'd have done the same. And you impressed Mat-son; that's why he's supplying you his only decent pilot."

  With a mild grin, Dosker reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarillos; at once the two decayed-eyed men ac­companying Theodoric caught his arm, expertly manip­ulated it — the harmless pack of cigarillos fell to the floor of the ship.

  One after another, the cigarillos were cut open by Theodoric's men, inspected... the fifth one turned out to be hard; it did not yield to the sharp-bladed pocket knife, and, a moment later, a more complex analytical device showed the cigarillo to be a homeostatic cephalo­tropic dart.

  "Whose Alpha-wave pattern?" Theodoric Ferry asked Dosker.

  "Yours," Dosker said tonelessly. He watched with­out affect as the two decayed-eyed but very expert employees of THL crushed the dart under heel, render­ing it useless.

  "Then you expected me," Ferry said, looking a little nonplussed.

  Dosker said, "Mr. Ferry, I always expect you."

  Returning once more to Rachmael, Theodoric Ferry said, "I admire you and I want to terminate this conflict between you and THL. We have an inventory of your assets. Here." He extended a sheet toward Rachmael; at that, Rachmael turned toward Dosker for advice.

  "Take it,"Dosker said.

  Accepting the sheet, Rachmael scanned it. The inven­tory was accurate; these did constitute the slight totality of the remaining assets of Applebaum Enterprise. And — glaringly, as Ferry had said, the only item of any au­thentic value was the Omphalos herself, the great liner plus the repair and maintenance facilities on Luna which now, hive-like, surrounded and checked her as she waited futilely... he returned the inventory to Ferry, who, seeing his expression, nodded.

  "We agree, then," Theodoric Ferry said. "Okay. Here's what I propose, Applebaum. You can keep the Omphalos. I'll instruct my legal staff to withdraw the writ to the UN courts demanding that the Omphalos be placed under a state of attachment."

  Dosker, startled, grunted; Rachmael stared at Ferry.

  "What," Rachmael said, then, "in return?"

  "This. That the Omphalos never leave the Sol system. You can very readily develop a profitable operation transporting passengers and cargo between the nine planets and to Luna. Despite the fact — "

  "Despite the fact," Rachmael said, "that the Om­phalos was built as an inter-stellar carrier, not inter-plan. It's like using — "

  "It's that," Ferry said, "or lose the Omphalos to us."

  "So Rachmael agrees" — Dosker spoke up — "not to take the Omphalos to Fomalhaut. The written agree­ment won't mention any one particular star system, but it's not Prox and not Alpha. Right, Ferry?"

  After a pause Theodoric Ferry said, "Take it or leave it."

  Rachmael said, "Why, Mr. Ferry? What's wrong at Whale's Mouth? This deal — it proves I'm right." That was obvious; he saw it, Dosker saw it — and Ferry must have known that in making it he was ratifying their in­timations. Limit the Omphalos to the nine planets of the Sol system? And yet — the corporation Applebaum Enterprise, as Ferry said, would continue; it would live on as a legal, economic entity. And Ferry would see that the UN turned a certain amount, an acceptable quan­tity, of commerce its way. Rachmael would wave good­bye to Lies Incorporated, to first this small dark superior space pilot, and then, by extension, to Freya Holm, to Matson Glazer-Holliday, cut in effect himself off from the sole power which had chosen to back him.

  "Go ahead," Dosker said. "Accept the idea. After all, the deep-sleep components won't arrive, but it won't matter, because you're not going into 'tween system space anyhow." He looked tired.

  Theodoric Ferry said, "Your father, Rachmael; Maury would have done anything to keep the Om­phalos. You know in two days we'll have her — and once we do, there's no chance you'll ever get her back. Think about it."

  "I — know right now," Rachmael said. Lord, if he and Dosker had managed to get the Omphalos out tonight, lost her in space where THL couldn't find her... and yet that was already over; it had ended when the field had overcome the enormous futile thrust of the twin engines of Dosker's Lies Incorporated ship: Trails of Hoffman had stepped in too soon. In time.

  All along, Theodoric Ferry had pre-thought them; it was not a moral issue: it was a pragmatic one.

  "I have legal forms drawn up," Ferry said. "If you'll come with me." He nodded toward the hatch. "The law requires three witnesses. On the part of THL, we have those witnesses." He smiled, because it was over and he knew it. Turning, he walked leisurely toward the hatch. The two decayed-eyed employees followed, both men relaxed... they passed into the open circularity of the hatch —

  And then convulsed throughout, from scalp to foot, internally destroyed; as Rachmael, shocked and terri­fied, watched, he saw their neurological, musculature systems give out; he saw them, both men penetrated en­tirely, so that each became, horrifying him, flopping, quivering, malfunctioning — more than malfunctioning: each unit of their bodies fought with all other portions, so that the two heaps on the floor became
warring sub-syndromes within themselves, as muscle strained against muscle, visceral apparatus against diaphrag­matic strength, auricular and ventricular fibrillation; both men, unable to breathe, deprived even of blood circulation, staring, fighting within their bodies which were no longer true bodies...

  Rachmael looked away.

  "Cholinesterase-destroying gas," Dosker said, be­hind him, and at that instant Rachmael became aware of the tube pressed to his own neck, a medical artifact which had injected into his blood stream its freight of atropine, the antidote to the vicious nerve gas of the no­torious FMC Corporation, the original contractors for this, the most destructive of all anti-personnel weapons of the previous war.

  "Thanks," Rachmael said to Dosker, as he saw, now, the hatch swing shut; the Trails of Hoffman satellite, with its now inert field, was being detached — within it persons who were not THL employees pried it loose from Dosker's flapple.

  The dead man's throttle signaling device — or rather null-signaling device — had done its job; Lies Incorpora­ted experts had arrived and at this moment were system­atically dismantling the THL equipment.

  Philosophically, Theodoric Ferry stood with his hands in the pockets of his cloak, saying nothing, not even noticing the spasms of his two employees on the floor near him, as if, by deteriorating in response to the gas, they had somehow proved unworthy.

  "It was nice," Rachmael managed to say to Dosker, as the hatch once more swung open, this time admitting several employees of Lies Incorporated, "that your co-workers administered the atropine to Ferry as well as to me." Generally, in this business, no one was spared.

  Dosker, studying Ferry, said, "He was given no atropine."

  Reaching, he withdrew the empty tube with its inject­ing needle from his own neck, then the counterpart item from Rachmael's. "How come, Ferry?" Dosker said.

  There was, from Ferry, no answer.

  "Impossible," Dosker said. "Every living organism is — " Suddenly he grabbed Ferry's arm; grunting, he swung brusquely the arm back, against its normal span — and yanked.