Philip Kindred Dick 1928 – 1982
Philip Kindred Dick was an American novelist, short story writer, essayist and philosopher whose published work is almost entirely accepted as being in the science fiction genre. Dick explored sociological, political and metaphysical themes in novels dominated by monopolistic corporations, authoritarian governments, and altered states. In his later works Dick's thematic focus strongly reflected his personal interest in metaphysics and theology. He often drew upon his own life experiences in addressing the nature of drug abuse, paranoia, schizophrenia and transcendental experiences in novels such as A Scanner Darkly and VALIS.
He also wrote extensively on philosophy, theology, nature of reality, science and metaphysics later in his life that was published posthumously as The Exegesis, arguably his non-fiction magnum opus.
The novel The Man in the High Castle bridged the genres of alternate history and science fiction, earning Dick a Hugo Award for Best Novel in 1963. Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said, a novel about a celebrity who awakens in a parallel universe where he is unknown, won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best novel in 1975.
"I want to write about people I love, and put them into a fictional world spun out of my own mind, not the world we actually have, because the world we actually have does not meet my standards," Dick wrote of these stories. "In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real."
In addition to 44 published novels, Dick wrote approximately 121 short stories, most of which appeared in science fiction magazines during his lifetime.
Although Dick spent most of his career as a writer in near-poverty, eleven popular films based on his works have been produced, including Blade Runner, Total Recall, A Scanner Darkly, Minority Report, Paycheck, Next, Screamers, The Adjustment Bureau and Impostor.
In 2005, Time magazine named Ubik one of the hundred greatest English-language novels published since 1923.
In 2007, Dick became the first science fiction writer to be included in The Library of America series.
source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philip_K._Dick
THE SKULL
"What is this opportunity ?"
Conger asked. "Go on. I'm
interested."
The room was silent; all faces
were fixed on Conger, still in the
drab prison uniform. The Speaker
leaned forward slowly.
"Before you went to prison your
trading business was paying well, all
illegal, all very profitable. Now
you have nothing, except the prospect
of another six years in a cell."
Conger scowled.
"There is a certain situation, very
important to this Council, that requires
your peculiar abilities. Also,
it is a situation you might find interesting.
You were a hunter, were you
not ? You've done a great deal of
trapping, hiding in the bushes,
waiting at night for the game ? I
imagine hunting must be a source
of satisfaction to you, the chase, the
stalking "
Conger sighed. His lips twisted.
"All right," he said. "Leave that
out. Get to the point. Who do you
want me to kill ?"
The Speaker smiled. "All in
proper sequence," he said softly.
The car slid to a stop. It was night; there was no light anywhere along the street. Conger looked out. "Where are we ? What is this place ?"
The car slid to a stop. It was night; there was no light anywhere along the street. Conger looked out. "Where are we ? What is this place ?"
The hand of the guard pressed
into his arm. "Come. Through that
door."
Conger stepped down, onto the
damp sidewalk. The guard came
swiftly after him, and then the
Speaker.
Conger took a deep breath of the cold air. He studied the dim outline of the building rising up before them.
Conger took a deep breath of the cold air. He studied the dim outline of the building rising up before them.
"I know this place. I've seen it
before." He squinted, his eyes growing
accustomed to the dark. Suddenly
he became alert. "This is..."
"Yes. The First Church." The
Speaker walked toward the steps.
"We're expected."
"Expected ? Here ?"
"Yes." The Speaker mounted the
stairs. "You know we're not allowed
in their Churches, especially with
guns !" He stopped. Two armed soldiers
loomed up ahead, one on each
side.
"All right ?" The Speaker looked
up at them. They nodded. The door
of the Church was open. Conger
could see other soldiers inside,
standing about, young soldiers with
large eyes, gazing at the ikons and
holy images.
"I see," he said.
"It was necessary," the Speaker
said. "As you know, we have been
singularly unfortunate in the past
in our relations with the First
Church."
"This won't help."
"But it's worth it. You will see."
They passed through the hall and into the main chamber where the altar piece was, and the kneeling places.
The Speaker scarcely glanced at the altar as they passed by. He pushed open a small side door and beckoned Conger through.
They passed through the hall and into the main chamber where the altar piece was, and the kneeling places.
The Speaker scarcely glanced at the altar as they passed by. He pushed open a small side door and beckoned Conger through.
"In here. We have to hurry. The
faithful will be flocking in soon."
Conger entered, blinking. They
were in a small chamber, low-ceilinged,
with dark panels of old
wood. There was a smell of ashes
and smoldering spices in the room.
He sniffed. "What's that ? The
smell."
"Cups on the wall. I don't
know." The Speaker crossed impatiently
to the far side. "According
to our information, it is hidden here
by this "
Conger looked around the room.
He saw books and papers, holy
signs and images. A strange low
shiver went through him.
"Does my job involve anyone of
the Church ? If it does..."
The Speaker turned, astonished.
"Can it be that you believe in the
Founder ? Is it possible, a hunter, a
killer"
"No. Of course not. All their
business about resignation to death,
non-violence "
"What is it, then ?"
Conger shrugged. "I've been
taught not to mix with such as
these. They have strange abilities.
And you can't reason with them."
The Speaker studied Conger
thoughtfully. "You have the wrong
idea. It is no one here that we have
in mind. We've found that killing
them only tends to increase their
numbers."
"Then why come here ? Let's
leave."
"No. We came for something
important. Something you will need
to identify your man. Without it
you won't be able to find him."
A trace of a smile crossed the
Speaker's face. "We don't want you
to kill the wrong person. It's too
important."
"I don't make mistakes." Conger's
chest rose. "Listen, Speaker "
"This is an unusual situation,"
the Speaker said. "You see, the person
you are after, the person that
we are sending you to find is
known only by certain objects here.
They are the only traces, the only
means of identification. Without
them..."
"What are they ?"
He came toward the Speaker.
The Speaker moved to one side.
"Look," he said. He drew a sliding
wall away, showing a dark square
hole. "In there."
Conger squatted down, staring
in. He frowned. "A skull ! A skeleton !"
"The man you are after has been
dead for two centuries," the Speaker
said. "This is all that remains of
him. And this is all you have with
which to find him."
For a long time Conger said nothing.
He stared down at the bones,
dimly visible in the recess of the
wall. How could a man dead centuries
be killed? How could he be
stalked, brought down ?
Conger was a hunter, a man who
had lived as he pleased, where he
pleased. He had kept himself alive
by trading, bringing furs and pelts
in from the Provinces on his own
ship, riding at high speed, slipping
through the customs line around
Earth.
He had hunted in the great mountains of the moon. He had stalked through empty Martian cities. He had explored.
He had hunted in the great mountains of the moon. He had stalked through empty Martian cities. He had explored.
The Speaker said, "Soldier, take
these objects and have them carried
to the car. Don't lose any part
of them."
The soldier went into the cupboard,
reaching gingerly, squatting
on his heels.
"It is my hope," the Speaker continued
softly, to Conger, "that you
will demonstrate your loyalty to us,
now. There are always ways for
citizens to restore themselves, to
show their devotion to their society.
For you I think this would be a
very good chance. I seriously doubt
that a better one will come. And
for your efforts there will be quite
a restitution, of course."
The two men looked at each
other; Conger, thin, unkempt, the
Speaker immaculate in his uniform.
"I understand you," Conger said.
"I mean, I understand this part,
about the chance. But how can a
man who has been dead two centuries
be..."
"I'll explain later," the Speaker
said. "Right now we have to hurry !"
The soldier had gone out with the
bones, wrapped in a blanket held
carefully in his arms. The Speaker
walked to the door. "Come. They've
already discovered that we've
broken in here, and they'll be coming
at any moment."
They hurried down the damp
steps to the waiting car. A second
later the driver lifted the car up
into the air, above the house-tops.
The Speaker settled back in the seat.
The Speaker settled back in the seat.
"The First Church has an interesting
past," he said. "I suppose
you are familiar with it, but I'd
like to speak of a few points that
are of relevancy to us. It was in the twentieth century
that the Movement began, during
one of the periodic wars. The
Movement developed rapidly, feeding
on the general sense of futility,
the realization that each war was
breeding greater war, with no end
in sight. The Movement posed a
simple answer to the problem:
Without military preparations, weapons, there
could be no war.
And without machinery and complex
scientific technocracy there
could be no weapons. The Movement preached that
you couldn't stop war by planning
for it. They preached that man was
losing to his machinery and science,
that it was getting away from him,
pushing him into greater and
greater wars. Down with society,
they shouted. Down with factories
and science ! A few more wars and
there wouldn't be much left of the
world. The Founder was an obscure
person from a small town in the
American Middle West. We don't
even know his name. All we know
is that one day he appeared, preaching
a doctrine of non-violence, non-resistance;
no fighting, no paying
taxes for guns, no research except
for medicine. Live out your life
quietly, tending your garden, staying
out of public affairs; mind your
own business. Be obscure, unknown,
poor. Give away most of your possessions,
leave the city. At least that
was what developed from what he
told the people."
The car dropped down and
landed on a roof.
"The Founder preached this doctrine,
or the germ of it; there's no
telling how much the faithful have
added themselves. The local authorities
picked him up at once, of
course. Apparently they were convinced
that he meant it; he was
never released. He was put to
death, and his body buried secretly.
It seemed that the cult was finished."
The Speaker smiled. "Unfortunately,
some of his disciples reported
seeing him after the date of
his death. The rumor spread; he
had conquered death, he was divine.
It took hold, grew. And here
we are today, with a First Church,
obstructing all social progress, destroying
society, sowing the seeds
of anarchy"
"But the wars," Conger said.
"About them ?"
"The wars ? Well, there were no
more wars. It must be acknowledged
that the elimination of war
was the direct result of non-violence
practiced on a general scale.
But we can take a more objective
view of war today. What was so
terrible about it ? War had a profound
selective value, perfectly in
accord with the teachings of Darwin
and Mendel and others. Without
war the mass of useless, incompetent
mankind, without training
or intelligence, is permitted to grow
and expand unchecked. War acted
to reduce their numbers; like storms
and earthquakes and droughts, it
was nature's way of eliminating the
unfit. Without war the lower elements
of mankind have increased all out
of proportion. They threaten the
educated few, those with scientific
knowledge and training, the ones
equipped to direct society. They
have no regard for science or a
scientific society, based on reason.
And this Movement seeks to aid
and abet them. Only when scientists
are in full control can the..."
He looked at his watch and then kicked the car door open. "I'll tell you the rest as we walk."
He looked at his watch and then kicked the car door open. "I'll tell you the rest as we walk."
They crossed the dark roof.
"Doubtless you now know whom
those bones belonged to, who it is
that we are after. He has been dead
just two centuries, now, this ignorant
man from the Middle West, this
Founder. The tragedy is that the
authorities of the time acted too
slowly. They allowed him to speak,
to get his message across. He was
allowed to preach, to start his cult.
And once such a thing is under way,
there's no stopping it.
But what if he had died before
he preached ? What if none of his
doctrines had ever been spoken ? It
took only a moment for him to utter
them, that we know. They say he
spoke just once, just one time. Then
the authorities came, taking him
away. He offered no resistance; the
incident was small."
The Speaker turned to Conger.
"Small, but we're reaping the
consequences of it today."
They went inside the building.
Inside, the soldiers had already laid
out the skeleton on a table. The
soldiers stood around it, their young
faces intense.
Conger went over to the table,
pushing past them. He bent down,
staring at the bones. "So these are
his remains," he murmured. "The
Founder. The Church has hidden
them for two centuries."
"Quite so," the Speaker said.
"But now we have them. Come
along down the hall."
They went across the room to a
door. The Speaker pushed it open.
Technicians looked up. Conger saw
machinery, whirring and turning;
benches and retorts. In the center
of the room was a gleaming crystal
cage.
The Speaker handed a Slem-gun
to Conger. "The important thing to
remember is that the skull must be
saved and brought back for comparison
and proof. Aim low at the
chest."
Conger weighed the gun in his
hands. "It feels good," he said. "I
know this gun, that is, I've seen
them before, but I never used one."
The Speaker nodded. "You will
be instructed on the use of the gun
and the operation of the cage. You
will be given all data we have on
the time and location. The exact
spot was a place called Hudson's
field. About 1960 in a small community
outside Denver, Colorado.
And don't forget, the only means
of identification you will have will
be the skull. There are visible characteristics
of the front teeth, especially
the left incisor "
Conger listened absently. He was
watching two men in white carefully
wrapping the skull in a plastic
bag. They tied it and carried it into
the crystal cage. "And if I should
make a mistake ?"
"Pick the wrong man ? Then
find the right one. Don't come back
until you succeed in reaching this
Founder. And you can't wait for
him to start speaking; that's what
we must avoid ! You must act in
advance. Take chances; shoot as
soon as you think you've found him.
He'll be someone unusual, probably
a stranger in the area. Apparently
he wasn't known."
Conger listened dimly.
"Do you think you have it all
now ?" the Speaker asked.
"Yes. I think so." Conger entered
the crystal cage and sat down, placing
his hands on the wheel.
"Good luck," the Speaker said. We'll be awaiting the outcome.
There's some philosophical doubt
as to whether one can alter the
past. This should answer the question
once and for all."
Conger fingered the controls of
the cage.
"By the way," the Speaker said.
"Don't try to use this cage for purposes
not anticipated in your job.
We have a constant trace on it. If
we want it back, we can get it back.
Good luck."
Conger said nothing. The cage
was sealed. He raised his finger and
touched the wheel control. He
turned the wheel carefully. He was still staring at the plastic
bag when the room outside vanished.
For a long time there was nothing
at all. Nothing beyond the crystal
mesh of the cage. Thoughts rushed
through Conger's mind, helter-skelter.
How would he know the
man ? How could he be certain, in
advance ? What had he looked like ?
What was his name ? How had he
acted, before he spoke ? Would he
be an ordinary person, or some
strange outlandish crank ? Conger picked up the Slem-gun
and held it against his cheek. The
metal of the gun was cool and
smooth. He practiced moving the
sight. It was a beautiful gun, the
kind of gun he could fall in love
with. If he had owned such a gun
in the Martian desert, on the long
nights when he had lain, cramped
and numbed with cold, waiting for
things that moved through the
darkness...
He put the gun down and adjusted
the meter readings of the
cage. The spiraling mist was beginning
to condense and settle. All at
once forms wavered and fluttered
around him.
Colors, sounds, movements filtered
through the crystal wire. He
clamped the controls off and stood
up.
He was on a ridge overlooking a small town. It was high noon. The air was crisp and bright. A few automobiles moved along a road. Off in the distance were some level fields. Conger went to the door and stepped outside. He sniffed the air. Then he went back into the cage.
He was on a ridge overlooking a small town. It was high noon. The air was crisp and bright. A few automobiles moved along a road. Off in the distance were some level fields. Conger went to the door and stepped outside. He sniffed the air. Then he went back into the cage.
He stood before the mirror over
the shelf, examining his features.
He had trimmed his beard, they
had not got him to cut it off, and
his hair was neat. He was dressed in
the clothing of the middle-twentieth
century, the odd collar and
coat, the shoes of animal hide. In
his pocket was money of the times.
That was important. Nothing more
was needed.
Nothing, except his ability, his
special cunning. But he had never
used it in such a way before.
He walked down the road toward
the town. The first things he noticed were
the newspapers on the stands.
April 5, 1961. He was not too far
off. He looked around him. There
was a filling station, a garage, some
taverns, and a ten-cent store. Down
the street was a grocery store and
some public buildings.
A few minutes later he mounted
the stairs of the little public library
and passed through the doors into
the warm interior.
The librarian looked up, smiling.
"Good afternoon," she said.
He smiled, not speaking because
his words would not be correct; accented
and strange, probably. He
went over to a table and sat down
by a heap of magazines. For a moment
he glanced through them.
Then he was on his feet again. He
crossed the room to a wide rack
against the wall. His heart began
to beat heavily.
Newspapers, weeks on end. He
took a roll of them over to the table
and began to scan them quickly.
The print was odd, the letters
strange. Some of the words were
unfamiliar.
He set the papers aside and
searched farther. At last he found
what he wanted. He carried the
Cherrywood Gazette to the table
and opened it to the first page. He
found what he wanted:
PRISONER HANGS SELF
An unidentified man, held
by the county sheriff's office for
suspicion of criminal syndicalism,
was found dead this
morning, by...
He finished the item. It was
vague, uninforming. He needed
more. He carried the Gazette back
to the racks and then, after a moment's
hesitation, approached the
librarian.
"More ?" he asked. "More papers.
Old ones ?"
She frowned. "How old ? Which
papers ?"
"Months old. And before."
"Of the Gazette ? This is all we
have. What did you want ? What
are you looking for ? Maybe I can
help you."
He was silent.
"You might find older issues at
the Gazette office," the woman
said, taking off her glasses. "Why
don't you try there ? But if you'd
tell me, maybe I could help you"
He went out.
The Gazette office was down a
side street; the sidewalk was broken
and cracked. He went inside. A
heater glowed in the corner of the
small office. A heavy-set man stood
up and came slowly over to the
counter.
"What did you want, mister ?"
he said.
"Old papers. A month. Or
more."
"To buy ? You want to buy
them ?"
"Yes." He held out some of the
money he had. The man stared.
"Sure," he said. "Sure. Wait a
minute." He went quickly out of
the room. When he came back he
was staggering under the weight of
his armload, his face red. "Here
are some," he grunted. "Took what
I could find. Covers the whole
year. And if you want more..."
Conger carried the papers outside.
He sat down by the road and
began to go through them.
What he wanted was four months back, in December. It was a tiny item, so small that he almost missed it. His hands trembled as he scanned it, using the small dictionary for some of the archaic terms.
What he wanted was four months back, in December. It was a tiny item, so small that he almost missed it. His hands trembled as he scanned it, using the small dictionary for some of the archaic terms.
MAN ARRESTED FOR
UNLICENSED
DEMONSTRATION
An unidentified man who
refused to give his name was
picked up in Cooper Creek by
special agents of the sheriff's
office, according to Sheriff
Duff. It was said the man was
recently noticed in this area
and had been watched continually.
It was Cooper Creek. December, 1960.
His heart pounded. That was all he
needed to know. He stood up, shaking
himself, stamping his feet on
the cold ground. The sun had
moved across the sky to the very
edge of the hills. He smiled. Already
he had discovered the exact
time and place. Now he needed
only to go back, perhaps to November,
to Cooper Creek.
He walked back through the
main section of town, past the library,
past the grocery store. It
would not be hard; the hard part
was over. He would go there; rent
a room, prepare to wait until the
man appeared.
He turned the corner. A woman
was coming out of a doorway,
loaded down with packages. Conger
stepped aside to let her pass.
The woman glanced at him. Suddenly
her face turned white. She
stared, her mouth open.
Conger hurried on. He looked
back. What was wrong with her ?
The woman was still staring; she
had dropped the packages to the
ground. He increased his speed. He
turned a second corner and went
up a side street. When he looked
back again the woman had come to
the entrance of the street and was
starting after him. A man joined
her, and the two of them began to
run toward him.
He lost them and left the town,
striding quickly, easily, up into the
hills at the edge of town. When
he reached the cage he stopped.
What had happened ? Was it something
about his clothing ? His dress ?
He pondered. Then, as the sun
set, he stepped into the cage.
Conger sat before the wheel. For
a moment he waited, his hands
resting lightly on the control. Then
he turned the wheel, just a little,
following the control readings carefully.
The grayness settled down
around him.
But not for very long.
The man looked him over critically. "You better come inside," he said. "Out of the cold."
The man looked him over critically. "You better come inside," he said. "Out of the cold."
"Thanks." Conger went gratefully
through the open door, into the
living-room. It was warm and close
from the heat of the little kerosene
heater in the corner. A woman,
large and shapeless in her flowered
dress, came from the kitchen. She
and the man studied him critically.
"It's a good room," the woman
said. "I'm Mrs. Appleton. It's got
heat. You need that this time of
year."
"Yes." He nodded, looking
around.
"You want to eat with us ?"
"What ?"
"You want to eat with us ?" The
man's brows knitted. "You're not a
foreigner, are you, mister ?"
"No." He smiled. "I was born in
this country. Quite far west,
though."
"California ?"
"No." He hesitated. "In Oregon."
"What's it like up there ?" Mrs.
Appleton asked. "I hear there's a
lot of trees and green. It's so barren
here. I come from Chicago, myself."
"That's the Middle West," the
man said to her. "You ain't no foreigner."
"Oregon isn't foreign, either,"
Conger said. "It's part of the United
States."
The man nodded absently. He
was staring at Conger's clothing.
"That's a funny suit you got on,
mister," he said. "Where'd you get
that ?"
Conger was lost. He shifted uneasily.
"It's a good suit," he said.
"Maybe I better go some other
place, if you don't want me here."
They both raised their hands protestingly.
The woman smiled at him.
"We just have to look out for those
Reds. You know, the government
is always warning us about them."
"The Reds ?" He was puzzled.
"The government says they're all
around. We're supposed to report
anything strange or unusual, anybody
doesn't act normal."
"Like me ?"
They looked embarrassed. "Well,
you don't look like a Red to me,"
the man said. "But we have to be
careful. The Tribune says..."
Conger half listened. It was going
to be easier than he had thought.
Clearly, he would know as soon as
the Founder appeared. These people,
so suspicious of anything different,
would be buzzing and gossiping
and spreading the story. All he had
to do was lie low and listen, down
at the general store, perhaps. Or
even here, in Mrs. Appleton's
boarding house.
"Can I see the room ?" he said.
"Certainly." Mrs. Appleton went
to the stairs. "I'll be glad to show
it to you."
They went upstairs. It was colder
upstairs, but not nearly as cold as
outside. Nor as cold as nights on
the Martian deserts. For that he was
grateful.
He was walking slowly around the store, looking at the cans of vegetables, the frozen packages of fish and meats shining and clean in the open refrigerator counters.
He was walking slowly around the store, looking at the cans of vegetables, the frozen packages of fish and meats shining and clean in the open refrigerator counters.
Ed Davies came toward him.
"Can I help you?" he said. The man
was a little oddly dressed, and with
a beard ! Ed couldn't help smiling.
"Nothing," the man said in a
funny voice. "Just looking."
"Sure," Ed said. He walked back
behind the counter. Mrs. Hacket
was wheeling her cart up.
"Who's he ?" she whispered, her
sharp face turned, her nose moving,
as if it were sniffing. "I never seen
him before."
"I don't know."
"Looks funny to me. Why does
he wear a beard ? No one else wears
a beard. Must be something the
matter with him."
"Maybe he likes to wear a beard.
I had an uncle who..."
"Wait." Mrs. Hacket stiffened.
"Didn't that what was his name ?
The Red that old one. Didn't he
have a beard ? Marx. He had a
beard."
Ed laughed. "This ain't Karl
Marx. I saw a photograph of him
once."
Mrs. Hacket was staring at him.
"You did ?"
"Sure." He flushed a little.
"What's the matter with that ?"
"I'd sure like to know more about
him," Mrs. Hacket said. "I think
we ought to know more, for our
own good."
"Hey, mister! Want a ride ?"
"Hey, mister! Want a ride ?"
Conger turned quickly, dropping
his hand to his belt. He relaxed.
Two young kids in a car, a girl and
a boy.
He smiled at them. "A ride ? Sure."
He smiled at them. "A ride ? Sure."
Conger got into the car and
closed the door. Bill Willet pushed
the gas and the car roared down
the highway.
"I appreciate a ride," Conger
said carefully. "I was taking a walk
between towns, but it was farther
than I thought."
"Where are you from ?" Lora
Hunt asked. She was pretty, small
and dark, in her yellow sweater and
blue skirt.
"From Cooper Creek."
"Cooper Creek ?" Bill said. He
frowned. "That's funny. I don't remember
seeing you before."
"Why, do you come from there ?"
"I was born there. I know everybody
there."
"I just moved in. From Oregon."
"From Oregon ? I didn't know
Oregon people had accents."
"Do I have an accent ?"
"You use words funny."
"How ?"
"I don't know. Doesn't he,
Lora ?"
"You slur them," Lora said, smiling.
"Talk some more. I'm interested
in dialects." She glanced at
him, white-teethed. Conger felt his
heart constrict.
"I have a speech impediment."
"Oh." Her eyes widened. "I'm
sorry."
They looked at him curiously as
the car purred along. Conger for his
part was struggling to find some way
of asking them questions without
seeming curious. "I guess people
from out of town don't come here
much," he said. "Strangers."
"No." Bill shook his head. "Not
very much."
"I'll bet I'm the first outsider for
a long time."
"I guess so."
Conger hesitated. "A friend of
mine, someone I know, might be
coming through here. Where do
you suppose I might..." He stopped.
"Would there be anyone certain to
see him ? Someone I could ask,
make sure I don't miss him if he
comes ?"
They were puzzled. "Just keep
your eyes open. Cooper Creek isn't
very big."
"No. That's right."
They drove in silence. Conger
studied the outline of the girl. Probably
she was the boy's mistress. Perhaps
she was his trial wife. Or had
they developed trial marriage back
so far ? He could not remember.
But surely such an attractive girl
would be someone's mistress by
this time; she would be sixteen or
so, by her looks. He might ask her
sometime, if they ever met again.
The next day Conger went walking along the one main street of Cooper Creek. He passed the general store, the two filling stations, and then the post office. At the corner was the soda fountain.
The next day Conger went walking along the one main street of Cooper Creek. He passed the general store, the two filling stations, and then the post office. At the corner was the soda fountain.
He stopped. Lora was sitting inside,
talking to the clerk. She was
laughing, rocking back and forth.
Conger pushed the door open.
Warm air rushed around him. Lora
was drinking hot chocolate, with
whipped cream. She looked up in
surprise as he slid into the seat beside
her.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
"Am I intruding ?"
"No." She shook her head. Her
eyes were large and dark. "Not at
all."
The clerk came over. "What do
you want ?"
Conger looked at the chocolate.
"Same as she has."
Lora was watching Conger, her
arms folded, elbows on the counter.
She smiled at him. "By the way.
You don't know my name. Lora
Hunt."
She was holding out her hand.
He took it awkwardly, not knowing
what to do with it. "Conger is my
name," he murmured.
"Conger ? Is that your last or first
name ?"
"Last or first ?" He hesitated.
"Last. Omar Conger."
"Omar ?" She laughed. "That's
like the poet, Omar Khayyam."
"I don't know of him. I know
very little of poets. We restored
very few works of art. Usually only
the Church has been interested
enough..." He broke off. She was
staring. He flushed. "Where I
come from," he finished.
"The Church ? Which church do
you mean ?"
"The Church." He was confused.
The chocolate came and he began
to sip it gratefully. Lora was still
watching him.
"You're an unusual person," she
said. "Bill didn't like you, but he
never likes anything different. He's
so...so prosaic. Don't you think
that when a person gets older he
should become broadened in his
outlook ?"
Conger nodded.
"He says foreign people ought
to stay where they belong, not come
here. But you're not so foreign. He
means orientals; you know."
Conger nodded.
The screen door opened behind
them. Bill came into the room. He
stared at them. "Well," he said.
Conger turned. "Hello."
"Well." Bill sat down. "Hello,
Lora." He was looking at Conger.
"I didn't expect to see you here."
Conger tensed. He could feel the
hostility of the boy. "Something
wrong with that ?"
"No. Nothing wrong with it."
There was silence. Suddenly Bill
turned to Lora. "Come on. Let's
go."
"Go ?" She was astonished.
"Why ?"
"Just go !" He grabbed her hand.
"Come on ! The car's outside."
"Why, Bill Willet," Lora said.
"You're jealous !"
"Who is this guy ?" Bill said. "Do
you know anything about him ?
Look at him, his beard "
She flared. "So what ? Just because
he doesn't drive a Packard
and go to Cooper High !"
Conger sized the boy up. He was
big, big and strong. Probably he
was part of some civil control organization.
"Sorry," Conger said. "I'll go."
"What's your business in town ?"
Bill asked. "What are you doing
here ? Why are you hanging around
Lora ?"
Conger looked at the girl. He
shrugged. "No reason. I'll see you
later."
He turned away. And froze. Bill
had moved. Conger's fingers went
to his belt. Half pressure, he whispered
to himself. No more. Half
pressure.
He squeezed. The room leaped
around him. He himself was protected
by the lining of his clothing,
the plastic sheathing inside.
"My God " Lora put her hands
up. Conger cursed. He hadn't
meant any of it for her. But it would
wear off. There was only a half-amp
to it. It would tingle.
Tingle, and paralyze.
He walked out the door without
looking back. He was almost to the
corner when Bill came slowly out,
holding onto the wall like a drunken
man. Conger went on.
As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him. He stopped, holding his breath.
As Conger walked, restless, in the night, a form loomed in front of him. He stopped, holding his breath.
"Who is it ?" a man's voice came.
Conger waited, tense.
"Who is it ?" the man said again.
He clicked something in his hand.
A light flashed. Conger moved.
"It's me," he said.
"Who is 'me' ?"
"Conger is my name. I'm staying
at the Appleton's place. Who are
you ?"
The man came slowly up to him.
He was wearing a leather jacket.
There was a gun at his waist.
"I'm Sheriff Duff. I think you're
the person I want to talk to. You
were in Bloom's today, about three
o'clock ?"
"Bloom's ?"
"The fountain. Where the kids
hang out." Duff came up beside
him, shining his light into Conger's
face.
Conger blinked.
Conger blinked.
"Turn that thing away," he said.
A pause. "All right." The light
flickered to the ground. "You were
there. Some trouble broke out between
you and the Willet boy. Is
that right ? You had a beef over his
girl"
"We had a discussion," Conger
said carefully.
"Then what happened ?"
"Why ?"
"I'm just curious. They say you
did something."
"Did something ? Did what ?"
"I don't know. That's what I'm
wondering. They saw a flash, and
something seemed to happen. They
all blacked out. Couldn't move."
"How are they now ?"
"All right."
There was silence.
"Well ?" Duff said. "What was
it ? A bomb ?"
"A bomb ?" Conger laughed.
"No. My cigarette lighter caught
fire. There was a leak, and the fluid
ignited."
"Why did they all pass out ?"
"Fumes."
Silence. Conger shifted, waiting.
His fingers moved slowly toward his
belt. The Sheriff glanced down. He
grunted.
"If you say so," he said. "Anyhow,
there wasn't any real harm
done." He stepped back from Conger.
"And that Willet is a trouble-maker."
"Good night, then," Conger said.
He started past the Sheriff.
"One more thing, Mr. Conger.
Before you go. You don't mind if I
look at your identification, do you ?"
"No. Not at all." Conger reached
into his pocket. He held his wallet
out. The Sheriff took it and shined
his flashlight on it. Conger watched,
breathing shallowly. They had
worked hard on the wallet, studying
historic documents, relics of the
times, all the papers they felt would
be relevant.
Duff handed it back. "Okay. Sorry
to bother you." The light winked
off.
When Conger reached the house
he found the Appletons sitting
around the television set. They did
not look up as he came in. He lingered
at the door.
"Can I ask you something ?" he
said. Mrs. Appleton turned slowly.
"Can I ask you what's the date ?"
"The date ?" She studied him.
"The first of December."
"December first ! Why, it was
just November !"
They were all looking at him.
Suddenly he remembered. In the
twentieth century they still used the
old twelve-month system. November
fed directly into December;
there was no Quartember between.
He gasped. Then it was tomorrow ! The second of December ! Tomorrow !
He gasped. Then it was tomorrow ! The second of December ! Tomorrow !
"Thanks," he said. "Thanks."
He went up the stairs. What a
fool he was, forgetting. The Founder
had been taken into captivity on
the second of December, according
to the newspaper records. Tomorrow,
only twelve hours hence, the
Founder would appear to speak to
the people and then be dragged
away.
The day was warm and bright. Conger's shoes crunched the melting crust of snow. On he went, through the trees heavy with white. He climbed a hill and strode down the other side, sliding as he went.
The day was warm and bright. Conger's shoes crunched the melting crust of snow. On he went, through the trees heavy with white. He climbed a hill and strode down the other side, sliding as he went.
He stopped to look around. Everything
was silent. There was no
one in sight. He brought a thin rod
from his waist and turned the handle
of it. For a moment nothing
happened. Then there was a shimmering
in the air.
The crystal cage appeared and
settled slowly down. Conger sighed.
It was good to see it again. After
all, it was his only way back.
He walked up on the ridge. He
looked around with some satisfaction,
his hands on his hips. Hudson's
field was spread out, all the
way to the beginning of town. It
was bare and flat, covered with a
thin layer of snow.
Here, the Founder would come.
Here, he would speak to them.
And here the authorities would
take him.
Only he would be dead before
they came. He would be dead before
he even spoke.
Conger returned to the crystal
globe. He pushed through the door
and stepped inside. He took the
Slem-gun from the shelf and
screwed the bolt into place. It was
ready to go, ready to fire. For a moment
he considered. Should he have
it with him ?
No. It might be hours before the Founder came, and suppose someone approached him in the meantime ? When he saw the Founder coming toward the field, then he could go and get the gun.
No. It might be hours before the Founder came, and suppose someone approached him in the meantime ? When he saw the Founder coming toward the field, then he could go and get the gun.
Conger looked toward the shelf.
There was the neat plastic package.
He took it down and unwrapped it.
He held the skull in his hands,
turning it over. In spite of himself,
a cold feeling rushed through him.
This was the man's skull, the skull
of the Founder, who was still alive,
who would come here, this day, who
would stand on the field not fifty
yards away.
What if he could see this, his
own skull, yellow and eroded ? Two
centuries old. Would he still speak ?
Would he speak, if he could see it,
the grinning, aged skull ? What
would there be for him to say, to
tell the people ? What message
could he bring ?
What action would not be futile,
when a man could look upon his
own aged, yellowed skull ? Better
they should enjoy their temporary
lives, while they still had them to
enjoy.
A man who could hold his own
skull in his hands would believe in
few causes, few movements. Rather,
he would preach the opposite. A sound. Conger dropped the
skull back on the shelf and took up
the gun. Outside something was
moving. He went quickly to the
door, his heart beating. Was it he ?
Was it the Founder, wandering by
himself in the cold, looking for a
place to speak ? Was he meditating
over his words, choosing his sentences ? What if he could see what Conger
had held ! He pushed the door open, the
gun raised.
Lora!
He stared at her. She was dressed
in a wool jacket and boots, her
hands in her pockets. A cloud of
steam came from her mouth and
nostrils. Her breast was rising and
falling.
Silently, they looked at each
other. At last Conger lowered the
gun.
"What is it ?" he said. "What are
you doing here ?"
She pointed. She did not seem
able to speak. He frowned; what
was wrong with her ?
"What is it ?" he said. "What do
you want ?" He looked in the direction
she had pointed. "I don't see
anything."
"They're coming."
"They ? Who ? Who are coming ?"
"They are. The police. During
the night the Sheriff had the state
police send cars. All around, everywhere.
Blocking the roads. There's
about sixty of them coming. Some
from town, some around behind."
She stopped, gasping. "They said...they
said..."
"What ?"
"They said you were some kind
of a Communist. They said..."
Conger went into the cage. He put the gun down on the shelf and came back out. He leaped down and went to the girl.
Conger went into the cage. He put the gun down on the shelf and came back out. He leaped down and went to the girl.
"Thanks. You came here to tell
me ? You don't believe it ?"
"I don't know."
"Did you come alone ?"
"No. Joe brought me in his truck.
From town."
"Joe ? Who's he ?"
"Joe French. The plumber. He's
a friend of Dad's."
"Let's go." They crossed the
snow, up the ridge and onto the
field. The little panel truck was
parked half way across the field. A
heavy short man was sitting behind
the wheel, smoking his pipe. He sat
up as he saw the two of them coming
toward him.
"Are you the one ?" he said to
Conger.
"Yes. Thanks for warning me."
The plumber shrugged. "I don't
know anything about this. Lora
says you're all right." He turned
around. "It might interest you to
know some more of them are coming.
Not to warn you, just
curious."
"More of them ?" Conger looked
toward the town. Black shapes were
picking their way across the snow.
"People from the town. You can't
keep this sort of thing quiet, not in
a small town. We all listen to the
police radio; they heard the same
way Lora did. Someone tuned in,
spread it around"
The shapes were getting closer.
Conger could, make out a couple of
them. Bill Willet was there, with
some boys from the high school.
The Appletons were along, hanging
back in the rear.
"Even Ed Davies," Conger murmured.
The storekeeper was toiling onto
the field, with three or four other
men from the town.
"All curious as hell," French
said. "Well, I guess I'm going back
to town. I don't want my truck shot
full of holes. Come on, Lora."
She was looking up at Conger,
wide-eyed.
"Come on," French said again.
"Let's go. You sure as hell can't
stay here, you know."
"Why ?"
"There may be shooting. That's
what they all came to see. You
know that don't you, Conger ?"
"Yes."
"You have a gun ? Or don't you
care ?" French smiled a little.
"They've picked up a lot of people
in their time, you know. You won't
be lonely."
He cared, all right ! He had to
stay here, on the field. He couldn't
afford to let them take him away.
Any minute the Founder would appear,
would step onto the field.
Would he be one of the townsmen,
standing silently at the foot of the
field, waiting, watching ?
Or maybe he was Joe French. Or
maybe one of the cops. Anyone of
them might find himself moved to
speak. And the few words spoken
this day were going to be important
for a long time.
And Conger had to be there,
ready when the first word was
uttered !
"I care," he said. "You go on
back to town. Take the girl with
you."
Lora got stiffly in beside Joe
French. The plumber started up
the motor. "Look at them, standing
there," he said. "Like vultures.
Waiting to see someone get
killed."
The truck drove away, Lora sitting stiff and silent, frightened now. Conger watched for a moment. Then he dashed back into the woods, between the trees, toward the ridge.
The truck drove away, Lora sitting stiff and silent, frightened now. Conger watched for a moment. Then he dashed back into the woods, between the trees, toward the ridge.
He could get away, of course.
Anytime he wanted to he could get
away. All he had to do was to leap
into the crystal cage and turn the
handles. But he had a job, an important
job. He had to be here,
here at this place, at this time.
He reached the cage and opened
the door. He went inside and
picked up the gun from the shelf.
The Slem-gun would take care of
them. He notched it up to full
count. The chain reaction from it
would flatten them all, the police,
the curious, sadistic people. They wouldn't take him ! Before
they got him, all of them
would be dead. He would get away.
He would escape. By the end of the
day they would all be dead, if that
was what they wanted, and he...
He saw the skull. Suddenly he put the gun down.
He picked up the skull. He turned
the skull over. He looked at the
teeth. Then he went to the mirror.
He held the skull up, looking in
the mirror. He pressed the skull
against his cheek. Beside his own
face the grinning skull leered back
at him, beside his skull, against his
living flesh.
He bared his teeth. And he knew. It was his own skull that he held.
He was the one who would die. He
was the Founder.
After a time he put the skull
down. For a few minutes he stood
at the controls, playing with them
idly. He could hear the sound of
motors outside, the muffled noise of
men. Should he go back to the present,
where the Speaker waited ? He
could escape, of course. Escape ?
He turned toward the skull.
There it was, his skull, yellow with
age. Escape ? Escape, when he had
held it in his own hands ?
What did it matter if he put it
off a month, a year, ten years, even
fifty ? Time was nothing. He had
sipped chocolate with a girl born a
hundred and fifty years before his
time. Escape ? For a little while,
perhaps.
But he could not really escape,
no more so than anyone else had
ever escaped, or ever would.
Only, he had held it in his hands,
his own bones, his own death's-head.
They had not.
He went out the door and across
the field, empty handed. There
were a lot of them standing around,
gathered together, waiting. They
expected a good fight; they knew
he had something. They had heard
about the incident at the fountain.
And there were plenty of police, police
with guns and tear gas, creeping
across the hills and ridges, between
the trees, closer and closer. It
was an old story, in this century.
One of the men tossed something
at him. It fell in the snow by his
feet, and he looked down. It was a
rock. He smiled.
"Come on !" one of them called.
"Don't you have any bombs ?"
"Throw a bomb ! You with the
beard ! Throw a bomb !"
"Let 'em have it !"
"Toss a few A Bombs !"
They began to laugh. He smiled. He put his hands to his hips. They suddenly turned silent, seeing that he was going to speak.
They began to laugh. He smiled. He put his hands to his hips. They suddenly turned silent, seeing that he was going to speak.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I
don't have any bombs. You're mistaken."
There was a flurry of murmuring.
"I have a gun," he went on. "A
very good one. Made by science
even more advanced than your
own. But I'm not going to use that,
either."
They were puzzled.
"Why not ?" someone called. At
the edge of the group an older
woman was watching. He felt a
sudden shock. He had seen her before.
Where ?
He remembered. The day at the
library. As he had turned the corner
he had seen her. She had noticed
him and been astounded. At the
time, he did not understand why.
Conger grinned. So he would
escape death, the man who right
now was voluntarily accepting it.
They were laughing, laughing at a
man who had a gun but didn't use
it. But by a strange twist of science
he would appear again, a few
months later, after his bones had
been buried under the floor of a
jail.
And so, in a fashion, he would
escape death. He would die, but
then, after a period of months, he
would live again, briefly, for an
afternoon. An afternoon. Yet long enough
for them to see him, to understand
that he was still alive. To know that
somehow he had returned to life. And then, finally, he would appear
once more, after two hundred
years had passed. Two centuries
later. He would be born again, born, as
a matter of fact, in a small trading
village on Mars. He would grow up,
learning to hunt and trade...
A police car came on the edge of
the field and stopped. The people
retreated a little. Conger raised his
hands.
"I have an odd paradox for you,"
he said. "Those who take lives will
lose their own. Those who kill, will
die. But he who gives his own life
away will live again !"
They laughed, faintly, nervously.
The police were coming out, walking
toward him. He smiled. He had
said everything he intended to say.
It was a good little paradox he had
coined. They would puzzle over it,
remember it.
Smiling, Conger awaited a death
foreordained.