A Maze of Death

by Philip Kindred Dick

  But all this was a great deal to base on one slim datum: the fact that Russell did not possess a copy of Specktowsky’s Book.

  Maybe it’s in his goddam living quarters, he thought all at once. Christ, of course; it’s there.

  He departed from the assembly of nosers; ten minutes later he reached the common and found himself stepping up onto the porch. The porch where Susie Smart had died—opposite to the porch where Tony Dunkelwelt and old Bert had died.

  We must bury them! he realized.—And shrank from it.

  But first: I’ll look at Russell’s remaining stuff.

  The door was locked.

  With a prybar—taken from his rolypoly aggregate of worldly goods, his great black crowish conglomeration of junk and treasures—he forced open the door.

  There, in plain sight, on the rumpled bed, lay Russell’s wallet and papers. His transfer, his everything else, back to his birth certificate; Glen Belsnor pawed through them, conscious that here he had something. The chaos attendant on Susie’s death had confused them all; undoubtedly Russell had not meant to leave these here. Unless he was not accustomed to carrying them… and the ostriches at the aviary did not carry identification of any sort.

  At the door appeared Dr. Babble. In a voice shrill with panic he said, “I—can’t find Mrs. Rockingham.”

  “The briefing room? The cafeteria?” She may have gone off for a walk, he thought. But he knew better. Roberta Rockingham could scarcely walk; her cane was essential to her, due to a long-term circulatory ailment. “I’ll help look,” he grunted; he and Babble hurried from the porch and across the common, hiking aimlessly; Glen Belsnor stopped, realizing that they were simply running in fear. “We have to think,” he gasped. “Wait a minute.” Where the hell might she be? he asked himself. “That fine old woman,” he said in frenzy and in despair. “She never did any harm to anyone in her life. Goddam them, whoever they are.”

  Babble nodded glumly.

  She had been reading. Hearing a noise, she glanced up. And saw a man, unfamiliar to her, standing in the entrance-way of her small, neatly-arranged room.

  “Yes?” she said, politely lowering her microtape scanner. “Are you a new member of the settlement? I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

  “No, Mrs. Rockingham,” he said. His voice was kind and very pleasant, and he wore a leather uniform, complete with huge leather gloves. His face gave off a near radiance… or perhaps her glasses had steamed up, she wasn’t sure. His hair, cut short, did gleam a little, she was positive of that. What a nice expression he has, she declared to herself. So thoughtful, as if he has thought and done many wonderful things.

  “Would you like a little bourbon and water?” she asked. Toward afternoon she generally had one drink; it eased the perpetual ache in her legs. Today, however, they could enjoy the Old Crow bourbon a little earlier.

  “Thank you,” the man said. Tall, and very slender, he stood at the doorway, not coming fully in. It was as if he were in some way attached to the outside; he could not fully leave it and would soon go back to it entirely. I wonder, she thought, could he be a Manifestation, as the theological people of this enclave call it? She peered at him in an effort to distinguish him more clearly, but the dust on her glasses—or whatever it was—obscured him; she could not get a really clear view.

  “I wonder if you might get it,” she said, pointing. “There’a a drawer in that somewhat shabby little table by the bed. You’ll find the bottle of Old Crow in there, and three glasses. Oh dear; I don’t have any soda. Can you enjoy it with just bottled tapwater? And no ice?”

  “Yes,” he said, and walked lightly across her room. He had on tall boots, she observed. How very attractive.

  “What is your name?” she inquired.

  “Sergeant Ely Nichols.” He opened the table drawer, got out the bourbon and two of the glasses. “Your colony has been relieved. I was sent here to pick you up and fly you home. From the start they were aware of the malfunctioning of the satellite’s tape-transmission.”

  “Then it’s over?” she said, filled with joy.

  “All over,” he said. He filled the two glasses with bourbon and water, brought her hers, seated himself in a straightbacked chair facing her. He was smiling.

  11

  Glen Belsnor, searching futilely for Roberta Rockingham, saw a small number of people trudging toward the settlement. Those who had gone off: Frazer and Thugg, Maggie Walsh, the new man Russell, Mary and Seth Morley… they were all there. Or were they?

  His heart laboring, Belsnor said. “I don’t see Betty Jo Berm. Is she injured? You left her, you bastards?” He stared at them, feeling his jaw tremble with impotent anger. “Is that correct?”

  “She’s dead,” Seth Morley said.

  “How?” he said. Dr. Babble came up beside him; the two of them waited together as the four men and two women approached.

  Seth Morley said, “She drowned herself.” He looked around. “Where’s that kid, that Dunkeiwold?”

  “Dead,” Dr. Babble said.

  Maggie Walsh said, “And Bert Kosler?”

  Neither Babble nor Belsnor answered.

  “Then he’s dead, too,” Russell said.

  “That’s right.” Belsnor nodded. “There’re eight of us left. Roberta Rockingham—she’s gone. So possibly she’s dead, too. I think we’ll have to assume she is.”

  “Didn’t you stay together?” Russell said.

  “Did you?” Glen Belsnor answered.

  Again there was silence. Somewhere, far off, a warm wind blew dust and infirm lichens about; a swirl lifted above the main buildings of the settlement and then writhed off and gone. The air, as Glen Belsnor sucked it in noisily, smelled bad. As if, he thought, the skins of dead dogs are drying somewhere on a line.

  Death, he thought. That’s all I can think of now. And it’s easy to see why. Death for us has blotted everything else out; it has become, in less than twenty-four hours, the mainstay of our life.

  “You couldn’t bring her body back?” he said to them.

  “It drifted downstream,” Seth Morley said. “And it was on fire.” He came up beside Belsnor and said. “How did Bert Kosler die?”

  “Tony stabbed him.”

  “What about Tony?”

  Glen Belsnor said, “I shot him. Before he could kill me.”

  “What about Roberta Rockingham? Did you shoot her, too?”

  “No,” Belsnor said shortly.

  “I think,” Frazer said, “we’re going to have to pick a new leader.”

  Belsnor said woodenly. “I had to shoot him. He would have killed all the rest of us. Ask Babble, he’ll back me up.”

  “I can’t back you up,” Babble said. “I have nothing more to go on than they do. I have only your oral statement.”

  Seth Morley said. “What was Tony using as a weapon?”

  “A sword,” Belsnor said. “You can see that; it’s still there with him in his room.”

  “Where did you get the gun you shot him with?” Russell said.

  “I had it,” Belsnor said. He felt sick and weak. “I did what I could,” he said. “I did what I had to.”

  “So ‘they’ aren’t responsible for all the deaths,” Seth Morley said. “You are responsible for Tony Dunkelwold’s death and he’s responsible for Bert’s.”

  “Dunkelwelt,” Belsnor corrected, aimlessly.

  “And we don’t know if Mrs. Rockingham is dead; she may just have roamed off. Possibly out of fear.”

  “She couldn’t,” Belsnor said. “She was too ill.”

  “I think,” Seth Morley said, “that Frazer is right. We need a different leader.” To Babble he said, “Where’s his gun?”

  “He left it in Tony’s room,” Babble said.

  Belsnor slid away from them, in the direction of Tony Dunkelwelt’s living quarters.

  “Stop him,” Babble said.

  Ignatz Thugg, Wade Frazer, Seth Morley and Babble hurried past Belsnor; in a group they trotted up the steps a
nd onto the porch and then into Tony’s quarters. Russell stood aloof; he remained with Belsnor and Maggie Walsh.

  Coming out of Tony’s doorway, Seth Morley held the gun in his hand and said, “Russell, don’t you think we’re doing the right thing?”

  “Give him back his gun,” Russell said.

  Surprised, Seth Morley halted. But he did not bring the gun over to Belsnor. “Thanks,” Belsnor said to Russell. “I can use the support.” To Morley and the others he said, “Give me the gun, as Russell says. It isn’t loaded anyhow; I took the shells out.” He held out his hand and waited.

  Coming back down the steps from the porch, and still carrying the gun, Seth Morley said with grave reservations, “You killed someone.”

  “He had to,” Russell said.

  “I’m keeping the gun,” Seth Morley said.

  “My husband is going to be your leader,” Mary Morley said. “I think it’s a very good idea; I think you’ll find him excellent. At Tekel Upharsin he held a position of large authority.”

  “Why don’t you join them?” Belsnor said to Russell.

  “Because I know what happened. I know what you had to do. If I can manage to talk to them maybe I can—” He broke off. Belsnor turned toward the group of men to see what was happening.

  Ignatz Thugg held the gun. He had grabbed it away from Morley; now he held it pointed at Belsnor, a seedy, twisted grin on his face.

  “Give it back,” Seth Morley said to him; all of them were shouting at Thugg, but he stood unmoved, still pointing the gun at Belsnor.

  “I’m your leader, now,” Thugg said. “With or without a vote. You can vote me in if you want, but it doesn’t matter.” To the three men around him he said, “You go over there where they are. Don’t get too close to me. You understand?”

  “It’s not loaded,” Belsnor repeated.

  Seth Morley looked crushed, his face had a pale, dry cast to it, as if he knew—obviously he knew—that he had been responsible for Thugg getting possession of the gun.

  Maggie Walsh said, “I know what to do.” She reached into her pocket and brought out a copy of Specktowsky’s Book.

  In her mind she knew that she had found the way to get the gun away from Ignatz Thugg. Opening The Book at random she walked toward him, and as she walked she read aloud from The Book. “ ‘Hence it can be said,’” she intoned, “‘that God-in-history shows several phases: (one) The period of purity before the Form Destroyer was awakened into activity. (two) The period of the Curse, when the power of the Deity was weakest, the power of the Form Destroyer the greatest—this because God had not perceived the Form Destroyer and so was taken by surprise. (three) The birth of God-on-Earth, sign that the period of Absolute Curse and Estrangement from God had ended. (four) The period now—’” She had come almost up to him; he stood unmoving, still holding the gun. She continued to read the sacred text aloud. “‘The period now, in which God walks the world, redeeming the suffering now, redeeming all life later through the figure of himself as the Intercessor who—‘

  “Go back with them,” Thugg told her. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  “‘Who, it is sure, is still alive, but not in this circle. (five) The next and last period—‘“

  A terrific bang boomed at her eardrums; deafened, she moved a step back and then she felt great pain in her chest; she felt her lungs die from the great, painful shock of it. The scene around her became dull, the light faded and she saw only darkness. Seth Morley, she tried to say, but no sound came out. And yet she heard noise; she heard something huge and far off, chugging violently into the darkness.

  She was alone.

  Thud, thud, came the noise. Now she saw iridescent color, mixed into a light which traveled like a liquid; it formed buzzsaws and pinwheels and crept upward on each side of her. Directly before her the huge Thing throbbed menacingly; she heard its imperative, angry voice summoning her upward. The urgency of its activity frightened her; it demanded, rather than asked. It was telling her something; she knew what it meant by its enormous pounding. Wham, wham, wham, it went and, terrified, filled with physical pain, she called to it. “Libera me, Domine,” she said. “De morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda.”

  It throbbed on and on. And she glided helplessly toward it. Now, on the periphery of her vision, she saw a fantastic spectacle; she saw a great crossbow and on it the Intercessor. The string was pulled back; the Intercessor was placed on it like an arrow; and then, soundlessly, the Intercessor was shot upward, into the smallest of the concentric rings.

  “Agnus Dei,” she said, “qui tollis peccata mundi.” She had to look away from the throbbing vortex; she looked down and back … and saw, far below her, a vast frozen landscape of snow and boulders. A furious wind blew across it; as she watched, more snow piled up around the rocks. A new period of glaciation, she thought, and found that she had trouble thinking—let alone talking—in English “Lacrymosa dies illa,” she said, gasping with pain; her entire chest seemed to have become a block of suffering. “Qua resurget ex favilla, judicandus homo reus.” It seemed to make the pain less, this need to express herself in Latin—a language which she had never studied and knew nothing about. “Huic ergo parce, Deus!” she said. “Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem.” The throbbing continued on.

  A chasm opened before her feet. She began to fall; below her the frozen landscape of the hell-world grew closer. Again she cried out, “Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna!” But still she fell; she had almost reached the hell-world, and nothing meant to lift her up.

  Something with immense wings soared up, like a great, metallic dragonfly with spines jutting from its head. It passed her, and a warm wind billowed after it. “Salve me, fons pietatis,” she called to it; she recognized it and felt no surprise at seeing it. The Intercessor, fluttering up from the hellworld, back to the fire of the smaller, inner rings.

  Lights, in various colors, bloomed on all sides of her; she saw a red, smoky light burning close and, confused, turned toward it. But something made her pause. The wrong color, she thought to herself. I should be looking for a clear, white light, the proper womb in which to be reborn. She drifted upward, carried by the warm wind of the Intercessor… the smoky red light fell behind and in its place, to her right, she saw a powerful, unflickering, yellow light. As best she could she propelled herself toward that.

  The pain in her chest seemed to have lessened; in fact her entire body felt vague. Thank you, she thought, for easing the discomfort; I appreciate that. I have seen it, she said to herself; I have seen the Intercessor and through it I have a chance of surviving. Lead me, she thought. Take me to the proper color of light. To the right new birth.

  The clear, white light appeared. She yearned toward it, and something helped propel her. Are you angry at me? she thought, meaning the enormous presence that throbbed. She could still hear the throbbing, but it was no longer meant for her; it would throb on throughout eternity because it was beyond time, outside of time, never having been in time. And—there was no space present, either; everything appeared two-dimensional and squeezed together, like robust but crude figures drawn by a child or by some primitive man. Bright colorful figures, but absolutely flat… and touching.

  “Mors stupebit et natura,” she said aloud. “Cum resurget creatura, judicanti responsura.” Again the throbbing lessened. It has forgiven me, she said to herself. It is letting the Intercessor carry me to the right light.

  Toward the clear, white light she floated, still uttering from time to time pious Latin phrases. The pain in her chest had gone now entirely and she felt no weight; her body had ceased to consume both time and space.

  Wheee, she thought. This is marvelous.

  Throb, throb, went the Central Presence, but no longer for her; it throbbed for others, now.

  The Day of the Final Audit had come for her—had come and now had passed. She had been judged and the judgment was favorable. She experienced utter, absolute joy. And continued, like a moth among novas, to flutter upward towa
rd the proper light.

  “I didn’t mean to kill her,” Ignatz Thugg said huskily. He stood gazing down at the body of Maggie Walsh. “I didn’t know what she was going to do. I mean, she kept walking and walking; I thought she was after the gun.” He jerked an accusing shoulder toward Glen Belsnor. “And he said it was empty.”

  Russell said, “She was going for the gun; you’re right.”

  “Then I didn’t do wrong,” Thugg said.

  No one spoke for a time.

  “I’m not giving up the gun,” Thugg said presently.

  “That’s right, Thugg,” Babble said. “You keep hold of it. So we can see how many other innocent people you want to kill.”

  “I didn’t want to kill her.” Thugg pointed the gun at Dr. Babble. “I’ve never killed nobody before. Who wants the gun?” He looked around, wildly, at all of them. “I did exactly what Belsnor did, no more and no less. We’re the same, him and me. So I’m sure as hell not going to give him the gun.” Panting, his breath rasping in his windpipe, Thugg gripped the gun and stared huge-eyed around at all of them.

  Belsnor walked over to Seth Morley. “We’ve got to get it away from him.”

  “I know,” Seth Morley said. But he could think of no way to get it. If Thugg had killed simply because someone—and a woman at that—had approached him reading from The Book, then he would shoot any and all of them at the slightest pretext.

  Thugg now was blatantly and floridly psychotic. It was obvious. He had wanted to kill Maggie Walsh, and Seth Morley realized something now that he hadn’t understood before. Belsnor had killed but he had not wanted to. Thugg had killed for the pleasure of it.

  It made a difference. They were safe from Belsnor—unless they became homicidal themselves. In that case, Belsnor would of course shoot. But if they did nothing provocative…

  “Don’t,” his wife Mary said in his ear.

  “We have to get the gun back,” Seth Morley said. “And it’s my fault he has it; I let him get it away from me.” He held out his hand, held it in Ignatz Thugg’s direction. “Give it to me,” he said, and felt his body squinch up in fear; his body prepared itself for death.