Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick

by Philip K. Dick

  After allowing itself time to think the situation through, the ship decided to contact Victor Kemmings once more.

  “Mr. Kemmings,” the ship said.

  “I'm sorry,” Kemmings said. “I didn't mean to foul up those retrievals. You did a good job, but I—”

  “Just a moment,” the ship said. “I'm not equipped to do psychiatric reconstruction of you; I am a simple mechanism, that's all. What is it you want? Where do you want to be and what do you want to be doing?”

  “I want to arrive at our destination,” Kemmings said. “I want this trip to be over.”

  Ah, the ship thought. That is the solution.

  One by one the cryonic systems shut down. One by one the people returned to life, among them Victor Kemmings. What amazed him was the lack of a sense of the passage of time. He had entered the chamber, lain down, had felt the membrane cover him and the temperature begin to drop—

  And now he stood on the ship's external platform, the unloading platform, gazing down at a verdant planetary landscape. This, he realized, is LR4-–6, the colony world to which I have come in order to begin a new life.

  “Looks good,” a heavyset woman beside him said.

  “Yes,” he said, and felt the newness of the landscape rush up at him, its promise of a beginning. Something better than he had known the past two hundred years. I am a fresh person in a fresh world, he thought. And he felt glad.

  Colors raced at him, like those of a child's semianimate kit. Saint Elmo's fire, he realized. That's right; there is a great deal of ionization in this planet's atmosphere. A free light show, such as they had back in the twentieth century.

  “Mr. Kemmings,” a voice said. An elderly man had come up beside him, to speak to him. “Did you dream?”

  “During the suspension?” Kemmings said. “No, not that I can remember.”

  “I think I dreamed,” the elderly man said. “Would you take my arm on the descent ramp? I feel unsteady. The air seems thin. Do you find it thin?”

  “Don't be afraid,” Kemmings said to him. He took the elderly man's arm. “I'll help you down the ramp. Look; there's a guide coming this way. He'll arrange our processing for us; it's part of the package. We'll be taken to a resort hotel and given first-class accommodations. Read your brochure.” He smiled at the uneasy older man to reassure him.

  “You'd think our muscles would be nothing but flab after ten years in suspension,” the elderly man said.

  “It's just like freezing peas,” Kemmings said. Holding on to the timid older man, he descended the ramp to the ground. “You can store them forever if you get them cold enough.”

  “My name's Shelton,” the elderly man said.

  “What?” Kemmings said, halting. A strange feeling moved through him.

  “Don Shelton.” The elderly man extended his hand; reflexively, Kemmings accepted it and they shook. “What's the matter, Mr. Kemmings? Are you all right?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I'm fine. But hungry. I'd like to get something to eat. I'd like to get to our hotel, where I can take a shower and change my clothes.” He wondered where their baggage could be found. Probably it would take the ship an hour to unload it. The ship was not particularly intelligent.

  In an intimate, confidential tone, elderly Mr. Shelton said, “You know what I brought with me? A bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon. The finest bourbon on Earth. I'll bring it over to our hotel room and we'll share it.” He nudged Kemmings.

  “I don't drink,” Kemmings said. “Only wine.” He wondered if there were any good wines here on this distant colony world. Not distant now, he reflected. It is Earth that's distant. I should have done like Mr. Shelton and brought a few bottles with me.

  Shelton. What did the name remind him of? Something in his far past, in his early years. Something precious, along with good wine and a pretty, gentle young woman making crepes in an old-fashioned kitchen. Aching memories; memories that hurt.

  Presently he stood by the bed in his hotel room, his suitcase open; he had begun to hang up his clothes. In the corner of the room, a TV hologram showed a newscaster; he ignored it, but, liking the sound of a human voice, he kept it on.

  Did I have any dreams? he asked himself. During these past ten years?

  His hand hurt. Gazing down, he saw a red welt, as if he had been stung. A bee stung me, he realized. But when? How? While I lay in cryonic suspension? Impossible. Yet he could see the welt and he could feel the pain. I better get something to put on it, he realized. There's undoubtedly a robot doctor in the hotel; it's a first-rate hotel.

  When the robot doctor had arrived and was treating the bee sting, Kemmings said, “I got this as punishment for killing the bird.”

  “Really?” the robot doctor said.

  “Everything that ever meant anything to me has been taken away from me,” Kemmings said. “Martine, the poster—my little old house with the wine cellar. We had everything and now it's gone. Martine left me because of the bird.”

  “The bird you killed,” the robot doctor said.

  “God punished me. He took away all that was precious to me because of my sin. It wasn't Dorky's sin; it was my sin.”

  “But you were just a little boy,” the robot doctor said.

  “How did you know that?” Kemmings said. He pulled his hand away from the robot doctor's grasp. “Something's wrong. You shouldn't have known that.”

  “Your mother told me,” the robot doctor said.

  “My mother didn't know!”

  The robot doctor said, “She figured it out. There was no way the cat could have reached the bird without your help.”

  “So all the time that I was growing up she knew. But she never said anything.”

  “You can forget about it,” the robot doctor said.

  Kemmings said, “I don't think you exist. There is no possible way that you could know these things. I'm still in cryonic suspension and the ship is still feeding me my own buried memories. So I won't become psychotic from sensory deprivation.”

  “You could hardly have a memory of completing the trip.”

  “Wish fulfillment, then. It's the same thing. I'll prove it to you. Do you have a screwdriver?”

  “Why?”

  Kemmings said, “I'll remove the back of the TV set and you'll see; there's nothing inside it; no components, no parts, no chassis—nothing.”

  “I don't have a screwdriver.”

  “A small knife, then. I can see one in your surgical supply bag.” Bending, Kemmings lifted up a small scalpel. “This will do. If I show you, will you believe me?”

  “If there's nothing inside the TV cabinet—”

  Squatting down, Kemmings removed the screws holding the back panel of the TV set in place. The panel came loose and he set it down on the floor.

  There was nothing inside the TV cabinet. And yet the color hologram continued to fill a quarter of the hotel room, and the voice of the newscaster issued forth from his three-dimensional image.

  “Admit you're the ship,” Kemmings said to the robot doctor.

  “Oh dear,” the robot doctor said.

  Oh dear, the ship said to itself. And I've got almost ten years of this lying ahead of me. He is hopelessly contaminating his experiences with childhood guilt; he imagines that his wife left him because, when he was four years old, he helped a cat catch a bird. The only solution would be for Martine to return to him, but how am I going to arrange that? She may not still be alive. On the other hand, the ship reflected, maybe she is alive. Maybe she could be induced to do something to save her former husband's sanity. People by and large have very positive traits. And ten years from now it will take a lot to save—or rather restore—his sanity; it will take something drastic, something I myself cannot do alone.

  Meanwhile, there was nothing to be done but recycle the wish fulfillment arrival of the ship at its destination. I will run him through the arrival, the ship decided, then wipe his conscious memory clean and run him through it again. The only positive aspect of this,
it reflected, is that it will give me something to do, which may help preserve my sanity.

  Lying in cryonic suspension—faultry cryonic suspension—Victor Kemmings imagined, once again, that the ship was touching down and he was being brought back to consciousness.

  “Did you dream?” a heavyset woman asked him as the group of passengers gathered on the outer platform. “I have the impression that I dreamed. Early scenes from my life … over a century ago.”

  “None that I can remember,” Kemmings said. He was eager to reach his hotel; a shower and a change of clothes would do wonders for his morale. He felt slightly depressed and wondered why.

  “There's our guide,” an elderly lady said. “They're going to escort us to our accommodations.”

  “It's in the package,” Kemmings said. His depression remained. The others seemed so spirited, so full of life, but over him only a weariness lay, a weighing-down sensation, as if the gravity of this colony planet were too much for him. Maybe that's it, he said to himself. But, according to the brochure, the gravity here matched Earth's; that was one of the attractions.

  Puzzled, he made his way slowly down the ramp, step by step, holding on to the rail. I don't really deserve a new chance at life anyhow, he realized. I'm just going through the motions … I am not like these other people. There is something wrong with me; I cannot remember what it is, but nonetheless it is there. In me. A bitter sense of pain. Of lack of worth.

  An insect landed on the back of Kemmings's right hand, an old insect, weary with flight. He halted, watched it crawl across his knuckles. I could crush it, he thought. It's so obviously infirm; it won't live much longer anyhow.

  He crushed it—and felt great inner horror. What have I done? he asked himself. My first moment here and I have wiped out a little life. Is this my new beginning?

  Turning, he gazed back up at the ship. Maybe I ought to go back, he thought. Have them freeze me forever. I am a man of guilt, a man who destroys. Tears filled his eyes.

  And, within its sentient works, the interstellar ship moaned.

  During the ten long years remaining in the trip to the LR4 System, the ship had plenty of time to track down Martine Kemmings. It explained the situation to her. She had emigrated to a vast orbiting dome in the Sirius System, found her situation unsatisfactory, and was en route back to Earth. Roused from her own cryonic suspension, she listened intently and then agreed to be at the colony world LR4–6 when her ex-husband arrived—if it was at all possible.

  Fortunately, it was possible.

  “I don't think he'll recognize me,” Martine said to the ship. “I've allowed myself to age. I don't really approve of entirely halting the aging process.”

  He'll be lucky if he recognizes anything, the ship thought.

  At the intersystem spaceport on the colony world of LR4 −6, Martine stood waiting for the people aboard the ship to appear on the outer platform. She wondered if she would recognize her former husband. She was a little afraid, but she was glad that she had gotten to LR4 −6 in time. It had been close. Another week and his ship would have arrived before hers. Luck is on my side, she said to herself, and scrutinized the newly landed inter-stellar ship.

  People appeared on the platform. She saw him. Victor had changed very little.

  As he came down the ramp, holding on to the railing as if weary and hesitant, she came up to him, her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her coat; she felt shy and when she spoke she could hardly hear her own voice.

  “Hi, Victor,” she managed to say.

  He halted, gazed at her. “I know you,” he said.

  “It's Martine,” she said.

  Holding out his hand, he said, smiling, “You heard about the trouble on the ship?”

  “The ship contacted me.” She took his hand and held it. “What an ordeal.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Recirculating memories forever. Did I ever tell you about a bee that I was trying to extricate from a spider's web when I was four years old? The idiotic bee stung me.” He bent down and kissed her. “It's good to see you,” he said.

  “Did the ship—”

  “It said it would try to have you here. But it wasn't sure if you could make it.”

  As they walked toward the terminal building, Martine said, “I was lucky; I managed to get a transfer to a military vehicle, a high-velocity-drive ship that just shot along like a mad thing. A new propulsion system entirely.”

  Victor Kemmings said, “I have spent more time in my own unconscious mind than any other human in history. Worse than early-twentieth-century psychoanalysis. And the same material over and over again. Did you know I was scared of my mother?”

  “I was scared of your mother,” Martine said. They stood at the baggage depot, waiting for his luggage to appear. “This looks like a really nice little planet. Much better than where I was … I haven't been happy at all.”

  “So maybe there's a cosmic plan,” he said grinning. “You look great.”

  “I'm old.”

  “Medical science—”

  “It was my decision. I like older people.” She surveyed him. He has been hurt a lot by the cryonic malfunction, she said to herself. I can see it in his eyes. They look broken. Broken eyes. Torn down into pieces by fatigue and—defeat. As if his buried early memories swam up and destroyed him. But it's over, she thought. And I did get here in time.

  At the bar in the terminal building, they sat having a drink.

  “This old man got me to try Wild Turkey bourbon,” Victor said. “It's amazing bourbon. He says it's the best on Earth. He brought a bottle with him from …”His voice died into silence.

  “One of your fellow passengers,” Martine finished.

  “I guess so,” he said.

  “Well, you can stop thinking of the birds and the bees,” Martine said.

  “Sex?” he said, and laughed.

  “Being stung by a bee, helping a cat catch a bird. That's all past.”

  “That cat,” Victor said, “has been dead one hundred and eighty-two years. I figured it out while they were bringing us out of suspension. Probably just as well. Dorky. Dorky, the killer cat. Nothing like Fat Freddy's cat.”

  “I had to sell the poster,” Martine said. “Finally.”

  He frowned.

  “Remember?” she said. “You let me have it when we split up. Which I always thought was really good of you.”

  “How much did you get for it?”

  “A lot. I should pay you something like—” She calculated. “Taking inflation into account, I should pay you about two million dollars.”

  “Would you consider,” he said, “instead, in place of the money, my share of the sale of the poster, spending some time with me? Until I get used to this planet?”

  “Yes,” she said. And she meant it. Very much.

  They finished their drinks and then, with his luggage transported by robot spacecap, made their way to his hotel room.

  “This is a nice room,” Martine said, perched on the edge of the bed. “And it has a hologram TV. Turn it on.”

  “There's no use turning it on,” Victor Kemmings said. He stood by the open closet, hanging up his shirts.

  “Why not?”

  Kemmings said, “There's nothing on it.”

  Going over to the TV set, Martine turned it on. A hockey game materialized, projected out into the room, in full color, and the sound of the game assailed her ears.

  “It works fine,” she said.

  “I know,” he said. “I can prove it to you. If you have a nail file or something, I'll unscrew the back plate and show you.”

  “But I can—”

  “Look at this.” He paused in his work of hanging up his clothes.“Watch me put my hand through the wall.” He placed the palm of his right hand against the wall. “See?”

  His hand did not go through the wall because hands do not go through walls; his hand remained pressed against the wall, unmoving.

  “And the foundation,” he said, “is rotting
away.”

  “Come and sit down by me,” Martine said.

  “I've lived this often enough now,” he said.“I've lived this over and over again. I come out of suspension; I walk down the ramp; I get my luggage; sometimes I have a drink at the bar and sometimes I come directly to my room. Usually I turn on the TV and then—” He came over and held his hand toward her. “See where the bee stung me?”

  She saw no mark on his hand; she took his hand and held it.

  “There is no bee sting,” she said.

  “And when the robot doctor comes, I borrow a tool from him and take off the back plate of the TV set. To prove to him that it has no chassis, no components in it. And then the ship starts me over again.”

  “Victor,” she said. “Look at your hand.”

  “This is the first time you've been here, though,” he said.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  “Okay.” He seated himself on the bed, beside her, but not too close to her.

  “Won't you sit closer to me?” she said.

  “It makes me too sad,” he said. “Remembering you. I really loved you. I wish this was real.”

  Martine said, “I will sit with you until it is real for you.”

  “I'm going to try reliving the part with the cat,” he said, “and this time not pick up the cat and not let it get the bird. If I do that, maybe my life will change so that it turns into something happy. Something that is real. My real mistake was separating from you. Here; I'll put my hand through you.” He placed his hand against her arm. The pressure of his muscles was vigorous; she felt the weight, the physical presence of him, against her. “See?” he said. “It goes right through you.”

  “And all this,” she said, “because you killed a bird when you were a little boy.”

  “No,” he said.“All this because of a failure in the temperature-regulating assembly aboard the ship. I'm not down to the proper temperature. There's just enough warmth left in my brain cells to permit cerebral activity.” He stood up then, stretched, smiled at her. “Shall we go get some dinner?” he asked.

  She said, “I'm sorry. I'm not hungry.”