Our Friends From Frolix 8

by Philip K. Dick

  The truth, he thought. We are the truth; we create it: it is ours. Together we have drawn a new chart. As we grow, it grows with us; we change. Where will we be next year? he asked himself. No way to know… except for the precogs among the Unusuals, and they saw many futures at one time, like – he had heard – rows of boxes.

  His secretary’s voice came from the intercom. ‘Mr. Weiss, a Mr. Nicholas Appleton and his son are here to see you.’

  ‘Send them in,’ Weiss said, and leaned back in his large, imitation-naugahide chair, preparing to greet them. On his desk the test-form lay; he fiddled with it reflectively, seeing it, from the corner of his eye, assume various shapes. He squeezed his eyes almost shut for an instant… and made the form, in his mind, exactly what he wanted it to be.

  TWO

  Kleo Appleton, in their tiny apartment, glanced swiftly at her watch and trembled. So late, she thought. And so little, little use. Maybe they’ll never come back; maybe they’ll say the wrong thing and be whisked off to one of those internment camps you hear of.

  ‘He’s a fool,’ she said to the television set. And, from the speaker of the set, a chorus of clapping sounded as the irreal ‘audience’ applauded.

  ‘Mrs. Kleo Appleton,’ the ‘announcer’ said, ‘of North Platte, Idaho, says her husband is a fool. What do you think about that, Ed Garley?’ A fat round face appeared on the screen as television personality Ed Garley pondered a witty reply. ‘Would you say it’s perfectly absurd for a grown man to imagine for an instant that—’

  She shut off the set with a wave of her hand.

  From the stove, in the far wall of the living room, the smell of ersatz apple pie drifted. She had spent half her week’s wage coupons on it, along with three yellow ration stamps. And they’re not here for it, she said to herself. But I guess that isn’t so important. In comparison to everything else. This was, perhaps, the most important day in her son’s life.

  She needed someone to talk to. While she waited. The TV set, this time, would not do.

  Leaving the apartment, she crossed the hall, knocked at Mrs. Arlen’s door.

  It opened. Frowsy-haired, middle-aged Mrs. Rose Arlen peered out, turtle-like. ‘Oh, Mrs. Appleton.’

  Kleo Appleton said, ‘Do you still have Mr. Cleaner? I need him. I want to get everything right so it’ll look nice when Nick and Bobby get back. You see, Bobby is taking the test, today. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘They’re rigged,’ Mrs. Arlen said.

  ‘The people who say that,’ Kleo said, ‘are people who’ve failed the test, or someone related to them has. There are countless people who pass every day, most of them children like Bobby.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  Frostily, Kleo said, ‘Do you have Mr. Cleaner? I’m entitled to three hours of use a week and I haven’t had him this week at all.’

  With reluctance, Mrs. Arlen puttered off, was gone for a few moments, and then returned pushing pompous, lofty Mr. Cleaner, the internal maintenance man of the building. ‘Good day, Mrs. Appleton,’ Mr. Cleaner whined tinnily, seeing her. ‘Well plug me in but it’s nice to see you again. Good morning, Mrs. Appleton. Well plug me in but it’s—’

  She pulled him across the hall and into her own apartment.

  To Mrs. Arlen, Kleo said, ‘Why are you so hostile to me? What did I ever do to you?’

  ‘I’m not hostile,’ Rose Arlen said. ‘I’m just trying to wake you up to the truth. If the test was on the level, our daughter Carol would have passed. She can hear thoughts, at least a little; she’s a genuine Unusual, as much as anyone in Civil Service classifications. A lot of rated Unusuals, they lose their ability because—’

  ‘I’m sorry; I have to clean.’ Kleo firmly shut the door, turned to look for an outlet in which to plug in Mr. Cleaner—

  She halted. And stood unmoving.

  A man, small and grubby-looking, with beaked nose and thin, agile features, wearing a seedy cloth coat and unpressed trousers, confronted her. He had entered the apartment while she had been talking to Mrs. Arlen.

  ‘Who are you?’ Kleo asked, and felt her heart labor with fear. She sensed about the man a furtive atmosphere; he seemed ready to dodge out of sight… his eyes, narrow and dark, peeped nervously here and there, as if, she thought, he’s making sure he knows all the ways out of the apartment.

  The man said huskily, ‘I’m Darby Shire.’ He stared at her fixedly, and on his face the hunted expression grew. ‘I’m an old friend,’ he said, ‘of your husband’s. When will he be home, and can I stay here until he comes?’

  ‘They’ll be home any minute now,’ she said. She still did not move; she kept as far away from Darby Shire – if that was really his name – as possible. ‘I have to clean the apartment before they get back,’ she said. But she did not plug Mr. Cleaner in. She kept her gaze, her scrutiny of Darby Shire, unaltered. What’s he so afraid of? she wondered. Are they after him, the Public Security Service? And if so, what has he done?

  ‘I’d like a cup of coffee,’ Shire said. He ducked his head, as if avoiding the pleading quality in his own voice. As if he did not approve of himself asking for anything from her, but needing it, having to have it, any way.

  ‘May I see your identab?’ Kleo said.

  ‘Be my guest.’ Shire rummaged in the bulging pockets of his coat, brought out a handful of plastic cards; he tossed them onto the chair beside Kleo Appleton. ‘Take as many as you want.’

  ‘Three identabs?’ she said, incredulously. ‘But you can’t own more than one. It’s against the law.’

  Shire said, ‘Where is Nick?’

  ‘With Bobby. At the Federal Bureau of Personnel Standards.’

  ‘Oh, you have a son.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘You can see how long it’s been since I last had anything to do with Nick. Is the boy New? Unusual?’

  ‘New,’ Kleo said. She made her way across the living room to the v-fone. Lifting the receiver she began to dial.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ Shire asked.

  ‘The Bureau. To see if Nick and Bobby have left already.’

  Striding towards the v-fone, Shire said, ‘They won’t remember; they won’t know who you’re talking about. Don’t you understand how they are?’ He reached, cut off the v-fone’s circuit. ‘Read my book.’ Groping among his various pockets, he came up with a paperback book, bent, with wrinkled pages and stains, its cover torn; he held it out to her.

  ‘God, I don’t want it,’ Kleo said with revulsion.

  ‘Take it. Read and understand what we must do to rid ourselves of the New and Unusual tyranny that blights our lives, that makes a mockery of everything man tries to do.’ He fumbled with the greasy, torn book, searching for a particular page. ‘Can I have a cup of coffee now?’ he asked plaintively. ‘I can’t seem to find the reference I want; it’s going to take some time.’

  She pondered a moment, then strode off into the kitchen cubicle, to heat water for the instant, ersatz coffee.

  ‘You can stay five minutes,’ Kleo said to Shire. ‘And if Nick isn’t back by then you’ll have to leave.’

  ‘Are you afraid of getting caught here with me?’ Shire asked.

  ‘I – just find myself getting tense,’ she said. Because I know what you are, she thought. And I’ve seen bent, mutilated books like that before, dreary books carried here and there in dirty pockets, pawed over in stealth and in secret. ‘You’re a member of RID,’ she said aloud.

  Shire grinned crookedly. ‘RID is too passive. They want to work through the ballot box.’ He had found the reference he wanted, but now he looked too weary to show it to her; he merely stood there, holding onto his book. ‘I spent two years in a government prison,’ he said presently. ‘Give me some coffee and I’ll leave; I won’t wait for Nick. He probably can’t do anything for me anyhow.’

  ‘What did you think he could do? Nick doesn’t work for the government; he doesn’t have any—’

  ‘That’s not what I need. I’m out legally; I served my term. Could I stay he
re? I don’t have any money or any place to go. I thought of everyone I could remember who might help me and then I thought of Nick by a process of elimination.’ He accepted the cup of coffee, handing her the book in return. ‘Thanks,’ he said as he greedily sipped. ‘Do you know,’ he said, wiping his mouth, ‘that the entire structure of power on this planet is going to crumble away from rot? Internal rot… we’ll be able, some day, to push it over with a stick. A few key men – Old Men – here and there both inside and outside the Civil Service apparatus and—’ He made a violent, sweeping gesture. ‘It’s all in my book. Keep it and read it; read how the New Men and the Unusuals manipulate us via their control of all the media and of—’

  ‘You’re insane,’ Kleo said.

  ‘Not any longer.’ Shire shook his head, his rat-like features twisting with intensity, a swift and emotional repudiation of her words. ‘When they arrested me three years ago I was clinically and legally insane – paranoia, they said – but before they would release me I had to take more psych tests, and now I’m able to prove my sanity.’ He fumbled about in his many pockets once more. ‘I even have the official documentation with me, I carry it around.’

  Kleo said, ‘They should check on you again.’ God, she thought. Is Nick never going to get home?

  ‘The government,’ Shire said, ‘is planning a programme of sterilization of all Old Men males. Did you know that?’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ She had heard many such wild rumours, but none of them ever turned out to be true… or anyhow most of them. ‘You say that,’ she said, ‘to justify force and violence, your own illegal activities.’

  ‘We have a Xerox copy of the bill; it’s already been signed by seventeen Councilmen out of—’

  The television set clicked itself on and said, ‘A news bulletin. Advance units of the Third Army report that the Gray Dinosaur, the ship in which Citizen Thors Provoni left the Sol System, has been located circling Proxima with no signs of life. At present, tugs of the Third Army are engaged in grappling that apparently abandoned spaceship, and it is believed that Provoni’s body will be discovered within the next hour. Stay near your set for further bulletins.’ The television clicked itself off, its message delivered.

  A strange, almost convulsive shudder swept through Darby Shire; he grimaced, clutched with his right arm… he bit savagely into empty air, then, his eyes gleaming, he turned back to face Kleo. ‘They will never get him,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘And I’ll tell you why. Thors Provoni is an Old Man, the best of us, and superior to any New Men or Unusuals. He will return to this system with help. As he promised. Somewhere out there help exists for us, and he will find it, even if it takes eighty years. He’s not looking for a world we can colonize; he’s looking for them.’ He eyed Kleo searchingly. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? Nobody does – our rulers have control of all information, even about Provoni. But that’s what it’s all about; Provoni will make us no longer alone and no longer in the control of mutational opportunists exploiting their so-called “abilities” as a pretext for grabbing power here on Terra and holding it forever.’ He wheezed noisily, his face writhing with intensity; his eyes had glazed over with his own fanaticism.

  ‘I see,’ she said. Repelled, she turned away.

  ‘Do you believe?’ Shire demanded.

  Kleo said, ‘I believe you’re a devout supporter of Provoni; yes, I believe that.’ And I believe, she thought, that you are once again clinically and legally insane, as you were a couple of years ago.

  ‘Hi.’ Nick, with Bobby lagging after him, entered the apartment. He perceived Darby Shire. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Did Bobby pass?’ Kleo asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Nick said. ‘They’ll notify us by mail within the next week. If we had failed they would have told us right away.’

  Bobby said remotely, ‘I failed.’

  ‘Do you remember me?’ Darby Shire asked Nick. ‘After so much time has passed?’ The two men surveyed each other. ‘I recognize you,’ Darby said in a hopeful tone of voice, as if inviting Nick to recognize him, too. ‘Fifteen years ago. In Los Angeles. The county hall of records; we were both clerical assistants to Horse Faced Brunnell.’

  ‘Darby Shire,’ Nick said. He held out his hand; they shook.

  This man, Nicholas Appleton thought, is deteriorated. What a dreadful change – but fifteen years is a long time.

  ‘You look exactly the same,’ Darby Shire said. He held his tattered book towards Nick. ‘I’m recruiting. For example, I tried just now to recruit your wife.’

  Seeing the book, Bobby said, ‘He’s Under Man.’ The boy’s voice held excitement. ‘Can I see it?’ he asked, reaching for the book.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Nick said to Darby Shire.

  ‘You don’t think you could–’ Shire began, but he cut him off savagely.

  ‘I know what you are.’ Nick grabbed Darby Shire by the shoulder of his ragged coat; he propelled him forcibly towards the door. ‘I know you’re hiding from the Public Security people. Get out.’

  Kleo said, ‘He needs a place to stay. He wanted to stay here with us for a while.’

  ‘No,’ Nick said. ‘Never.’

  ‘Are you afraid?’ Darby Shire asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. Anyone caught circulating Under Man propaganda – and anyone associated with him in any way – was automatically deprived of his right to take future Civil Service tests. If the PSS caught Darby Shire here, Bobby’s life would be destroyed. And, in addition, they all might be fined. And sent to one of the relocation camps for an indefinite period. Subject to no real judicial review.

  Darby Shire said quietly, ‘Don’t be afraid. Have hope.’ He drew himself up – how short he is, Nick thought. And ugly. ‘Remember Thors Provoni’s promise,’ Darby Shire said. ‘And remember this, too: your boy isn’t going to get a Civil Service rating anyhow. So you have nothing to lose.’

  ‘We have our freedom to lose,’ Nick said. But he hesitated. He did not quite push Darby Shire out of the apartment and into the public hallway. Suppose Provoni does come back, he said to himself, as he had pondered many times before. I don’t believe it; Provoni is being captured right now. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with you. Ruin your own life; keep it to yourself. And – go away.’ He propelled the smaller man out into the hall, now; several doors had popped open and the various inhabitants, some of whom he knew, some of whom he did not, gawked with interest at what was happening.

  Darby Shire eyed him, then, calmly, reached into an inner pocket of his shabby coat. He seemed taller, now, and more in command of himself… and the situation. ‘I’m glad, Citizen Appleton,’ he said as he brought forth a slim, flat, black case and snapped it open, ‘that you have taken the attitude you have. I am making spot checks in this building, random selections, so to speak.’ He showed Nick his official identab: it glowed dully, enhanced by artificial fire. ‘PSS occifer Darby Shire.’

  Inside him, Nick felt coldness at work, numbing him. Making him silent. He could think of nothing to say.

  ‘Oh, god,’ Kleo said in dismay; she came up beside him, and so, after a pause, did Bobby. ‘But we said the right thing, didn’t we?’ she asked Darby Shire.

  ‘Exactly right,’ Shire said. ‘Your responses were uniformly adequate. Good day.’ He returned his flat-pak of identification back to his inner coat pocket, smiled momentarily, and, still smiling, flowed through the ring of gawking people. In a moment he had gone. Only the ring of nervous bystanders remained. And – Nick and his wife and son.

  Nick shut the hall door, turned to face Kleo. ‘You can never rest up,’ he said thickly. How close it had been. In another moment… I might have told him to stay, he realized. For old time’s sake. After all, I did know him. Once.

  I suppose, he thought, that’s why they picked him to make a spot loyalty check on me and my family. Good lord, he thought. It left him terrified and shaking; with unsteady steps he made his way towards the bat
hroom, to the medicine cabinet in which he kept his supply of pills.

  ‘A little fluphenazine hydrochloride,’ he murmured, reaching for the reassuring bottle.

  ‘That’s three of those you’ve taken today,’ Kleo said, wife-wise. ‘Too many. Stop.’

  Nick said, ‘I’ll be okay.’ Filling the bathroom water glass, he rapidly, mutely took the round tablet.

  And, inside him, felt dull anger. He experienced a transitory flash of rage, at the system, at the New Men and the Unusuals, at the Civil Service – and then the fluphenazine hydrochloride hit him. The anger ebbed away.

  But not completely.

  ‘Do you think our apartment is bugged?’ he asked Kleo.

  ‘“Bugged”?’ She shrugged. ‘Evidently not. Or we’d have been called in a long time ago because of the awful things Bobby says.’

  Nick said, ‘I don’t think I can take much more.’

  ‘Of what?’ Kleo said.

  He did not say. But he knew, down inside himself, who and what he meant. And his son knew, too. They now stood together – but how long, he wondered, will I feel this way? I will wait and see if Bobby passed his Civil Service test, he said to himself. And then I’ll decide what to do. God forbid, he thought. What am I thinking? What’s happening to me?

  ‘The book’s still here,’ Bobby said; bending, he picked up the torn, creased paperback which Darby Shire had left behind. ‘Can I read it?’ he asked his father. Thumbing through it he said, ‘It looks like it’s real. The police must have gotten it off an Under Man they caught.’

  ‘Read it,’ Nick said savagely.

  THREE

  Two days later, a letter from the government made its appearance in the Appletons’ mail box. Nick opened it at once, his heart vibrating with expectation. It was the test results, all right; he scanned through the several pages – a Xerox copy of Bobby’s paper was included – and came at last to the determination.

  ‘He failed,’ Nick said.

  ‘I knew I would,’ Bobby said. ‘That’s why I never wanted to take it in the first place.’