A heavyset elderly man, bald, halted him by the simple means of holding his drink glass against Chien's chest. “That frably little one who asked you for a match,” the elderly man said, and sniggered. “The quig with the Christmas-tree breasts—that was a boy, in drag.” He giggled. “You have to be cautious around here.”
“Where, if anywhere,” Chien said, “do I find authentic women? In white ties and tails?”
“Darn near,” the elderly man said, and departed with a throng of hyperactive guests, leaving Chien alone with his martini.
A handsome, tall woman, well dressed, standing near Chien, suddenly put her hand on his arm; he felt her fingers tense and she said, “Here he comes. His Greatness. This is the first time for me; I'm a little scared. Does my hair look all right?”
“Fine,” Chien said reflexively, and followed her gaze, seeking a glimpse— his first—of the Absolute Benefactor.
What crossed the room toward the table in the center was not a man.
And it was not, Chien realized, a mechanical construct either; it was not what he had seen on TV. That evidently was simply a device for speech-making, as Mussolini had once used an artificial arm to salute long and tedious processions.
God, he thought, and felt ill. Was this what Tanya Lee had called the “aquatic horror” shape? It had no shape. Nor pseudopodia, either flesh or metal. It was, in a sense, not there at all; when he managed to look directly at it, the shape vanished; he saw through it, saw the people on the far side— but not it. Yet if he turned his head, caught it out of a sidelong glance, he could determine its boundaries.
It was terrible; it blasted him with its awareness. As it moved it drained the life from each person in turn; it ate the people who had assembled, passed on, ate again, ate more with an endless appetite. It hated; he felt its hate. It loathed; he felt its loathing for everyone present—in fact he shared its loathing. All at once he and everyone else in the big villa were each a twisted slug, and over the fallen slug carcasses the creature savored, lingered, but all the time coming directly toward him—or was that an illusion? If this is a hallucination, Chien thought, it is the worst I have ever had; if it is not, then it is evil reality; it's an evil thing that kills and injures. He saw the trail of stepped-on, mashed men and women remnants behind it; he saw them trying to reassemble, to operate their crippled bodies; he heard them attempting speech.
I know who you are, Tung Chien thought to himself. You, the supreme head of the worldwide Party structure. You, who destroy whatever living object you touch; I see that Arabic poem, the searching for the flowers of life to eat them—I see you astride the plain which to you is Earth, plain without hills, without valleys. You go anywhere, appear anytime, devour anything; you engineer life and then guzzle it, and you enjoy that.
He thought, You are God.
“Mr. Chien,” the voice said, but it came from inside his head, not from the mouthless spirit that fashioned itself directly before him. “It is good to meet you again. You know nothing. Go away. I have no interest in you. Why should I care about slime? Slime; I am mired in it, I must excrete it, and I choose to. I could break you; I can break even myself. Sharp stones are under me; I spread sharp pointed things upon the mire. I make the hiding places, the deep places, boil like a pot; to me the sea is like a lot of ointment. The flakes of my flesh are joined to everything. You are me. I am you. It makes no difference, just as it makes no difference whether the creature with ignited breasts is a girl or boy; you could learn to enjoy either.” It laughed.
He could not believe it was speaking to him; he could not imagine—it was too terrible—that it had picked him out.
“I have picked everybody out,” it said. “No one is too small, each falls and dies and I am there to watch. I don't need to do anything but watch; it is automatic; it was arranged that way.” And then it ceased talking to him; it disjoined itself. But he still saw it; he felt its manifold presence. It was a globe which hung in the room, with fifty thousand eyes, a million eyes— billions: an eye for each living thing as it waited for each thing to fall, and then stepped on the living thing as it lay in a broken state. Because of this it had created the things, and he knew; he understood. What had seemed in the Arabic poem to be death was not death but God; or rather God was death, it was one force, one hunter, one cannibal thing, and it missed again and again but, having all eternity, it could afford to miss. Both poems, he realized; the Dryden one too. The crumbling; that is our world and you are doing it. Warping it to come out that way; bending us.
But at least, he thought, I still have my dignity. With dignity he set down his drink glass, turned, walked toward the doors of the room. He passed through the doors. He walked down a long carpeted hall. A villa servant dressed in purple opened a door for him; he found himself standing out in the night darkness, on a veranda, alone.
Not alone.
It had followed after him. Or it had already been here before him; yes, it had been expecting. It was not really through with him.
“Here I go,” he said, and made a dive for the railing; it was six stories down, and there below gleamed the river and death, not what the Arabic poem had seen.
As he tumbled over, it put an extension of itself on his shoulder.
“Why?” he said. But, in fact, he paused. Wondering. Not understanding, not at all.
“Don't fall on my account,” it said. He could not see it because it had moved behind him. But the piece of it on his shoulder—it had begun to look like a human hand.
And then it laughed.
“What's funny?” he demanded, as he teetered on the railing, held back by its pseudo-hand.
“You're doing my task for me,” it said. “You aren't waiting; don't have time to wait? I'll select you out from among the others; you don't need to speed the process up.”
“What if I do?” he said. “Out of revulsion for you?”
It laughed. And didn't answer.
“You won't even say,” he said.
Again no answer. He started to slide back, onto the veranda. And at once the pressure of its pseudo-hand lifted.
“You founded the Party?” he asked.
“I founded everything. I founded the anti-Party and the Party that isn't a Party, and those who are for it and those who are against, those that you call Yankee Imperialists, those in the camp of reaction, and so on endlessly. I founded it all. As if they were blades of grass.”
“And you're here to enjoy it?” he said.
“What I want,” it said, “is for you to see me, as I am, as you have seen me, and then trust me.”
“What?” he said, quavering. “Trust you to what?”
It said, “Do you believe in me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I can see you.”
“Then go back to your job at the Ministry. Tell Tanya Lee that you saw an overworked, overweight, elderly man who drinks too much and likes to pinch girls' rear ends.”
“Oh, Christ,” he said.
“As you live on, unable to stop, I will torment you,” it said. “I will deprive you, item by item, of everything you possess or want. And then when you are crushed to death I will unfold a mystery.”
“What's the mystery?”
“The dead shall live, the living die. I kill what lives; I save what has died. And I will tell you this: there are things worse than I. But you won't meet them because by then I will have killed you. Now walk back into the dining room and prepare for dinner. Don't question what I'm doing; I did it long before there was a Tung Chien and I will do it long after.”
He hit it as hard as he could.
And experienced violent pain in his head.
And darkness, with the sense of falling.
After that, darkness again. He thought, I will get you. I will see that you die too. That you suffer; you're going to suffer, just like us, exactly in every way we do. I'll nail you; I swear to God I'll nail you up somewhere. And it will hurt. As much as I hurt now.
He shut his eyes.
> Roughly, he was shaken. And heard Mr. Kimo Okubara's voice. “Get to your feet, common drunk. Come on!”
Without opening his eyes he said, “Get me a cab.”
“Cab already waiting. You go home. Disgrace. Make a violent scene out of yourself.”
Getting shakily to his feet, he opened his eyes and examined himself. Our leader whom we follow, he thought, is the One True God. And the enemy whom we fight and have fought is God too. They are right; he is everywhere. But I didn't understand what that meant. Staring at the protocol officer, he thought, You are God too. So there is no getting away, probably not even by jumping. As I started, instinctively, to do. He shuddered.
“Mix drinks with drugs,” Okubara said witheringly. “Ruin career. I see it happen many times. Get lost.”
Unsteadily, he walked toward the great central door of the Yangtze River villa; two servants, dressed like medieval knights, with crested plumes, ceremoniously opened the door for him and one of them said, “Good night, sir.”
“Up yours,” Chien said, and passed out into the night.
At a quarter to three in the morning, as he sat sleepless in the living room of his conapt, smoking one Cuesta Rey Astoria after another, a knock sounded at the door.
When he opened it he found himself facing Tanya Lee in her trench-coat, her face pinched with cold. Her eyes blazed, questioningly.
“Don't look at me like that,” he said roughly. His cigar had gone out; he relit it. “I've been looked at enough,” he said.
“You saw it,” she said.
He nodded.
She seated herself on the arm of the couch and after a time she said, “Want to tell me about it?”
“Go as far from here as possible,” he said. “Go a long way.” And then he remembered: no way was long enough. He remembered reading that too. “Forget it,” he said; rising to his feet, he walked clumsily into the kitchen to start up the coffee.
Following after him, Tanya said, “Was—it that bad?”
“We can't win,” he said. “You can't win; I don't mean me. I'm not in this; I just wanted to do my job at the Ministry and forget it. Forget the whole damned thing.”
“Is it nonterrestrial?”
“Yes.” He nodded.
“Is it hostile to us?”
“Yes,” he said. “No. Both. Mostly hostile.”
“Then we have to—”
“Go home,” he said, “and go to bed.” He looked her over carefully; he had sat a long time and he had done a great deal of thinking. About a lot of things. “Are you married?” he said.
“No. Not now. I used to be.”
He said, “Stay with me tonight. The rest of tonight, anyhow. Until the sun comes up.” He added, “The night part is awful.”
“I'll stay,” Tanya said, unbuckling the belt of her raincoat,“but I have to have some answers.”
“What did Dryden mean,” Chien said, “about music untuning the sky? I don't get that. What does music do to the sky?”
“All the celestial order of the universe ends,” she said as she hung her raincoat up in the closet of the bedroom; under it she wore an orange striped sweater and stretchpants.
He said, “And that's bad?”
Pausing, she reflected. “I don't know. I guess so.”
“It's a lot of power,” he said, “to assign to music.”
“Well, you know that old Pythagorean business about the ‘music of the spheres.'” Matter-of-factly she seated herself on the bed and removed her slipper-like shoes.
“Do you believe in that?” he said. “Or do you believe in God?”
“‘God'!” She laughed. “That went out with the donkey steam engine. What are you talking about? God, or god?” She came over close beside him, peering into his face.
“Don't look at me so closely,” he said sharply, drawing back. “I don't ever want to be looked at again.” He moved away, irritably.
“I think,” Tanya said, “that if there is a God He has very little interest in human affairs. That's my theory, anyhow. I mean, He doesn't seem to care if evil triumphs or people or animals get hurt and die. I frankly don't see Him anywhere around. And the Party has always denied any form of—”
“Did you ever see Him?” he asked. “When you were a child?”
“Oh, sure, as a child. But I also believed—”
“Did it ever occur to you,” Chien said, “that good and evil are names for the same thing? That God could be both good and evil at the same time?”
“I'll fix you a drink,” Tanya said, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
Chien said, “The Crusher. The Clanker. The Gulper and the Bird and the Climbing Tube—plus other names, forms, I don't know. I had a hallucination. At the stag dinner. A big one. A terrible one.”
“But the stelazine—”
“It brought on a worse one,” he said.
“Is there any way,” Tanya said somberly, “that we can fight this thing you saw? This apparition you call a hallucination but which very obviously was not?”
He said, “Believe in it.”
“What will that do?”
“Nothing,” he said wearily. “Nothing at all. I'm tired; I don't want a drink—let's just go to bed.”
“Okay.” She padded back into the bedroom, began pulling her striped sweater over her head. “We'll discuss it more thoroughly later.”
“A hallucination,” Chien said, “is merciful. I wish I had it; I want mine back. I want to be before your peddler got me with that phenothiazine.”
“Just come to bed. It'll be toasty. All warm and nice.”
He removed his tie, his shirt—and saw, on his right shoulder, the mark, the stigma, which it had left when it stopped him from jumping. Livid marks which looked as if they would never go away. He put his pajama top on then; it hid the marks.
“Anyhow,” Tanya said as he got into the bed beside her, “your career is immeasurably advanced. Aren't you glad about that?”
“Sure,” he said, nodding sightlessly in the darkness. “Very glad.”
“Come over against me,” Tanya said, putting her arms around him. “And forget everything else. At least for now.”
He tugged her against him then, doing what she asked and what he wanted to do. She was neat; she was swiftly active; she was successful and she did her part. They did not bother to speak until at last she said, “Oh!” And then she relaxed.
“I wish,” he said, “that we could go on forever.”
“We did,” Tanya said. “It's outside of time; it's boundless, like an ocean. It's the way we were in Cambrian times, before we migrated up onto the land; it's the ancient primary waters. This is the only time we get to go back, when this is done. That's why it means so much. And in those days we weren't separate; it was like a big jelly, like those blobs that float up on the beach.”
“Float up,” he said, “and are left there to die.”
“Could you get me a towel?” Tanya asked. “Or a washcloth? I need it.”
He padded into the bathroom for a towel. There—he was naked now— he once more saw his shoulder, saw where it had seized hold of him and held on, dragging him back, possibly to toy with him a little more.
The marks, unaccountably, were bleeding.
He sponged the blood away. More oozed forth at once and, seeing that, he wondered how much time he had left. Probably only hours.
Returning to bed, he said, “Could you continue?”
“Sure. If you have any energy left; it's up to you.” She lay gazing up at him unwinkingly, barely visible in the dim nocturnal light.
“I have,” he said. And hugged her to him.
THE ELECTRIC ANT
At four-fifteen in the afternoon, T.S.T., Garson Poole woke up in his hospital bed, knew that he lay in a hospital bed in a three-bed ward, and realized in addition two things: that he no longer had a right hand and that he felt no pain.
They had given me a strong analgesic, he said to himself as he stared at the far wall with i
ts window showing downtown New York. Webs in which vehicles and peds darted and wheeled glimmered in the late afternoon sun, and the brilliance of the aging light pleased him. It's not yet out, he thought. And neither am I.
A fone lay on the table beside his bed; he hesitated, then picked it up and dialed for an outside line. A moment later he was faced by Louis Danceman, in charge of Tri-Plan's activities while he, Garson Poole, was elsewhere.
“Thank God you're alive,” Danceman said, seeing him; his big, fleshy face with its moon's surface of pock marks flattened with relief. “I've been calling all—”
“I just don't have a right hand,” Poole said.
“But you'll be okay. I mean, they can graft another one on.”
“How long have I been here?” Poole said. He wondered where the nurses and doctors had gone to; why weren't they clucking and fussing about him making a call?
“Four days,” Danceman said. “Everything here at the plant is going splunkishly. In fact we've splunked orders from three separate police systems, all here on Terra. Two in Ohio, one in Wyoming. Good solid orders, with one third in advance and the usual three-year lease-option.”
“Come get me out of here,” Poole said.
“I can't get you out until the new hand—” “I'll have it done later.” He wanted desperately to get back to familiar surroundings; memory of the mercantile squib looming grotesquely on the pilot screen careened at the back of his mind; if he shut his eyes he felt himself back in his damaged craft as it plunged from one vehicle to another, piling up enormous damage as it went. The kinetic sensations … he winced, recalling them. I guess I'm lucky, he said to himself.
“Is Sarah Benton there with you?” Danceman asked.
Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick Page 44