Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick (47 page)

“Some of them,” she said huskily, “who take the stelazine—it was stelazine you got, Mr. Chien—see one apparition, some another. But distinct categories have emerged; there is not an infinite variety. Some see what you saw; we call it the Clanker. Some the aquatic horror; that's the Gulper. And then there's the Bird, and the Climbing Tube, and—” She broke off. “But other reactions tell you very little. Tell
us
very little.” She hesitated, then plunged on. “Now that this has happened to you, Mr. Chien, we would like you to join our gathering. Join your particular group, those who see what you see. Group Red. We want to know what it
really
is, and—” She gestured with tapered, wax smooth fingers.“It can't be
all
those manifestations.” Her tone was poignant, naively so. He felt his caution relax—a trifle.

He said, “What do you see? You in particular?”

“I'm a part of Group Yellow. I see—a storm. A whining, vicious whirlwind. That roots everything up, crushes condominium apartments built to last a century.” She smiled wanly. “The Crusher. Twelve groups in all, Mr. Chien. Twelve absolutely different experiments, all from the same phenothiazines, all of the Leader as he speaks over TV. As
it
speaks, rather.” She smiled up at him, lashes long—probably protracted artificially—and gaze engaging, even trusting. As if she thought he knew something or could do something.

“I should make a citizen's arrest of you,” he said presently.

“There is no law, not about this. We studied Soviet judicial writings before we—found people to distribute the stelazine. We don't have much of it; we have to be very careful whom we give it to. It seemed to us that youconstituted a likely choice… a well-known, postwar, dedicated young career man on his way up.” From his fingers she took the examination papers. “They're having you pol-read?” she asked.

“‘Pol-read'?” He did not know the term.

“Study something said or written to see if it fits the Party's current worldview. You in the hierarchy merely call it ‘read,' don't you?” Again she smiled. “When you rise one step higher, up with Mr. Tso-pin, you will know that expression.” She added somberly, “And with Mr. Pethel. He's very far up. Mr. Chien, there is no ideological school in San Fernando; these are forged exam papers, designed to read back to them a thorough analysis of
your
political ideology. And have you been able to distinguish which paper is orthodox and which is heretical?” Her voice was pixielike, taunting with amused malice. “Choose the wrong one and your budding career stops dead, cold, in its tracks. Choose the proper one—”

“Do you know which is which?” he demanded.

“Yes.” She nodded soberly. “We have listening devices in Mr. Tso-pin's inner offices; we monitored his conversation with Mr. Pethel—who is not Mr. Pethel but the Higher Secpol Inspector Judd Craine. You have probably heard mention of him; he acted as chief assistant to Judge Vorlawsky at the '98 war-crimes trial in Zurich.”

With difficulty he said, “I—see.” Well, that explained that.

The girl said, “My name is Tanya Lee.”

He said nothing; he merely nodded, too stunned for any cerebration.

“Technically, I am a minor clerk,” Miss Lee said, “at your Ministry. You have never run into me, however, that I can at least recall. We try to hold posts wherever we can. As far up as possible. My own boss—”

“Should you be telling me this?” he gestured at the TV set, which remained on. “Aren't they picking this up?”

Tanya Lee said, “We introduced a noise factor in the reception of both vid and aud material from this apartment building; it will take them almost an hour to locate the sheathing. So we have”—she examined the tiny wristwatch on her slender wrist—“fifteen more minutes. And still be safe.”

“Tell me,” he said, “which paper is orthodox.”

“Is that what you care about? Really?”

“What,” he said, “should I care about?”

“Don't you see, Mr. Chien? You've learned something. The Leader is not the Leader; he is something else, but we can't tell what. Not yet. Mr. Chien, with all due respect, have you ever had your drinking water analyzed? I know it sounds paranoiac, but have you?”

“No,” he said. “Of course not.” Knowing what she was going to say.

Miss Lee said briskly,“Our tests show that it's saturated with hallucinogens. It is, has been, will continue to be. Not the ones used during the war; not the disorientating ones, but a synthetic quasi-ergot derivative called Datrox-3. You drink it here in the building from the time you get up; you drink it in restaurants and other apartments that you visit. You drink it at the Ministry; it's all piped from a central, common source.” Her tone was bleak and ferocious. “We solved that problem; we knew, as soon as we discovered it, that any good phenothiazine would counter it. What we did not know, of course, was this—a
variety
of authentic experiences; that makes no sense, rationally. It's the hallucination which should differ from person to person, and the reality experience which should be ubiquitous—it's all turned around. We can't even construct an ad hoc theory which accounts for that, and God knows we've tried. Twelve mutually exclusive hallucinations—that would be easily understood. But not one hallucination and twelve realities.” She ceased talking then, and studied the two test papers, her forehead wrinkling. “The one with the Arabic poem is orthodox,” she stated. “If you tell them that they'll trust you and give you a higher post. You'll be another notch up in the hierarchy of Party officialdom.” Smiling—her teeth were perfect and lovely—she finished, “Look what you received back for your investment this morning. Your career is underwritten for a time. And by us.”

He said,“I don't believe you.” Instinctively, his caution operated within him, always, the caution of a lifetime lived among the hatchet men of the Hanoi branch of the CP East. They knew an infinitude of ways by which to ax a rival out of contention—some of which he himself had employed; some of which he had seen done to himself and to others. This could be a novel way, one unfamiliar to him. It could always be.

“Tonight,” Miss Lee said, “in the speech the Leader singled you out. Didn't this strike you as strange? You, of all people? A minor officeholder in a meager ministry—”

“Admitted,” he said. “It struck me that way; yes.”

“That was legitimate. His Greatness is grooming an elite cadre of younger men, postwar men, he hopes will infuse new life into the hide-bound, moribund hierarchy of old fogies and Party hacks. His Greatness singled you out for the same reason that we singled you out; if pursued properly, your career could lead you all the way to the top. At least for a time … as we know. That's how it goes.”

He thought: So virtually everyone has faith in me. Except myself; and certainly not after this, the experience with the anti-hallucinatory snuff. It had shaken years of confidence, and no doubt rightly so. However, he was beginning to regain his poise; he felt it seeping back, a little at first, then with a rush.

Going to the vidphone, he lifted the receiver and began, for the second time that night, to dial the number of the Hanoi Security Police.

“Turning me in,” Miss Lee said, “would be the second most regressive decision you could make. I'll tell them that you brought me here to bribe me; you thought, because of my job at the Ministry, I would know which examination paper to select.”

He said, “And what would be my first most regressive decision?”

“Not taking a further dose of phenothiazine,” Miss Lee said evenly.

Hanging up the phone, Tung Chien thought to himself, I don't understand what's happening to me. Two forces, the Party and His Greatness on one hand—this girl with her alleged group on the other. One wants me to rise as far as possible in the Party hierarchy; the other—
What did Tanya Lee want?
Underneath the words, inside the membrane of an almost trivial contempt for the Party, the Leader, the ethical standards of the People's Democratic United Front—what was she after in regard to him?

He said curiously, “Are you anti-Party?”

“No.”

“But—” He gestured. “That's all there is: Party and anti-Party. You must be Party, then.” Bewildered, he stared at her; with composure she returned the stare. “You have an organization,” he said, “and you meet. What do you intend to destroy? The regular function of government? Are you like the treasonable college students of the United States during the Vietnam War who stopped troop trains, demonstrated—”

Wearily Miss Lee said, “It wasn't like that. But forget it; that's not the issue. What we want to know is this: who or what is leading us? We must penetrate far enough to enlist someone, some rising young Party theoretician, who could conceivably be invited to a tête-à-tête with the Leader— you see?” Her voice lifted; she consulted her watch, obviously anxious to get away: the fifteen minutes were almost up.“Very few persons actually see the Leader, as you know. I mean really see him.”

“Seclusion,” he said. “Due to his advanced age.”

“We have hope,” Miss Lee said, “that if you pass the phony test which they have arranged for you—and with my help you have—you will be invited to one of the stag parties which the Leader has from time to time, which of course the papers don't report. Now do you see?” Her voice rose shrilly, in a frenzy of despair. “Then we would know; if you could go in there under the influence of the anti-hallucinogenic drug, could see him face-to-face as he actually is—”

Thinking aloud, he said, “And end my career of public service. If not my life.”

“You owe us something,” Tanya Lee snapped, her cheeks white. “If I hadn't told you which exam paper to choose you would have picked the wrong one and your dedicated public-service career would be over anyhow; you would have failed—failed at a test you didn't even realize you were taking!”

He said mildly, “I had a fifty-fifty chance.”

“No.” She shook her head fiercely. “The heretical one is faked up with a lot of Party jargon; they deliberately constructed the two texts to trap you. They
wanted
you to fail!”

Once more he examined the two papers, feeling confused. Was she right? Possibly. Probably. It rang true, knowing the Party functionaries as he did, and Tso-pin, his superior, in particular. He felt weary then. Defeated. After a time he said to the girl, “What you're trying to get out of me is a quid pro quo. You did something for me—you got, or claim you got, the answer to this Party inquiry. But you've already done your part. What's to keep me from tossing you out of here on your head? I don't have to do a goddamn thing.” He heard his voice, toneless, sounding the poverty of empathic emotionality so usual in Party circles.

Miss Lee said, “There will be other tests, as you continue to ascend. And we will monitor for you with them too.” She was calm, at ease; obviously she had foreseen his reaction.

“How long do I have to think it over?” he said.

“I'm leaving now. We're in no rush; you're not about to receive an invitation to the Leader's Yangtze River villa in the next week or even month.” Going to the door, opening it, she paused. “As you're given covert rating tests we'll be in contact, supplying the answers—so you'll see one or more of us on those occasions. Probably it won't be me; it'll be that disabled war veteran who'll sell you the correct response sheets as you leave the Ministry building.” She smiled a brief, snuffed-out-candle smile. “But one of these days, no doubt unexpectedly, you'll get an ornate, official, very formal invitation to the villa, and when you go you'll be heavily sedated with stelazine … possibly our last dose of our dwindling supply. Good night.” The door shut after her; she had gone.

My God, he thought. They can blackmail me. For what I've done. And she didn't even bother to mention it; in view of what they're involved with it was not worth mentioning.

But blackmail for what? He had already told the Secpol squad that he had been given a drug which had proved to be a phenothiazine.
Then they know,
he realized. They'll watch me; they're alert. Technically, I haven't broken a law, but—they'll be watching, all right.

However, they always watched anyhow. He relaxed slightly, thinking that. He had, over the years, become virtually accustomed to it, as had everyone.

I will see the Absolute Benefactor of the People as he is, he said to himself. Which possibly no one else had done. What will it be? Which of the subclasses of non-hallucination? Classes which I do not even know about … a view which may totally overthrow me. How am I going to be able to get through the evening, to keep my poise, if it's like the shape I saw on the TV screen? The Crusher, the Clanker, the Bird, the Climbing Tube, the Gulper—or worse.

He wondered what some of the other views consisted of … and then gave up that line of speculation; it was unprofitable. And too anxiety-inducing.

The next morning Mr. Tso-pin and Mr. Darius Pethel met him in his office, both of them calm but expectant. Wordlessly, he handed them one of the two “exam papers.” The orthodox one, with its short and heart-smothering Arabian poem.

“This one,” Chien said tightly,“is the product of a dedicated Party member or candidate for membership. The other—” He slapped the remaining sheets.“Reactionary garbage.” He felt anger.“In spite of a superficial—”

“All right, Mr. Chien,” Pethel said, nodding. “We don't have to explore each and every ramification; your analysis is correct. You heard the mention regarding you in the Leader's speech last night on TV?”

“I certainly did,” Chien said.

“So you have undoubtedly inferred,” Pethel said, “that there is a good deal involved in what we are attempting, here. The leader has his eye on you; that's clear. As a matter of fact, he has communicated to myself regarding you.” He opened his bulging briefcase and rummaged. “Lost the goddamn thing. Anyhow—” He glanced at Tso-pin, who nodded slightly. “His Greatness would like to have you appear for dinner at the Yangtze River Ranch next Thursday night. Mrs. Fletcher in particular appreciates—”

Chien said, “‘Mrs. Fletcher'? Who is ‘Mrs. Fletcher'?”

After a pause Tso-pin said dryly, “The Absolute Benefactor's wife. His name—which you of course had never heard—is Thomas Fletcher.”