Philip K. Dick - We Can Remember it For You Wholesale

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The science fiction writers of this world are resolutely

differentfrom mankind and from each other-except that

Philip K. Dick is more different. He goes his own way,

writing his own kind of book, irrespective of changing moods

and styles, true unto himself and his own inner vision. He

produces steadily, but never badly, and won a well-deserved

Hugo for his "Man in the High Castle." Here he is at his

deep-probing best, keeping the reader on the run, exploring

levels of consciousness and worryingbut worrying wellthe

SF worrying-tooth of "what is reality?"

WE CAN REMEMBER IT

FOR YOU WHOLESALE

Philip K. Dick

He awokeand wanted Mars. The valleys, he thought. What

would it be like to trudge among them? Great and greater yet:

the dream grew as he became fully conscious, the dream and

the yearning. He could almost feel the enveloping presence of

the other world, which only Government agents and high

officials had seen. A clerk like himself? Not likely.

"Are you getting up or not?" his wife Kirsten asked

drowsily, with her usual hint of fierce crossness. "If you are,

push the hot coffee button on the darn stove."

"Okay," Douglas Quail said, and made his way barefoot

from the bedroom of their conapt to the kitchen. There,

having dutifully pressed the hot coffee button, he seated

himself at the kitchen table, brought out a yellow, small tin of

fine Dean Swift snuff. He inhaled briskly,, and the Beau Nash

mixture stung his nose, burned the roof of his mouth. But still

he inhaled; it woKe him up and allowed his dreams, his

nocturnal desires and random wishes, to condense into a

semblance of rationality.

I will go, he said to himself. Before I die I'll see Mars.

It was, of course, impossible, and he knew this even as he

dreamed. But the daylight, the mundane noise of his wife now

brushing her hair before the bedroom mirroreverything

conspired to remind him of what he was. A miserable little

salaried employee, he said to himself with bitterness. Kirsten

reminded him of this at least once a day and he did not blame

her; it was a wife's job to bring her husband down to Earth.

Down to Earth, he thought, and laughed. The figure of speech

in this was literally apt.

"What are you sniggering about?" his wife asked as she

swept into the kitchen, her long busy-pink robe wagging after

her. "A dream, I bet. You're always full of them."

"Yes," he said, and gazed out the kitchen window at the

hovercars and traffic runnels, and all the little energetic people

hurrying to work. In a little while he would be among them.

As always.

"I'll bet it has to do with some woman," Kirsten said

witheringly.

"No," he said. "A god. The god of war. He has wonderful

craters with every kind of plant-life growing deep down in

them."

"Listen." Kirsten crouched down beside him and spoke

earnestly, the harsh quality momentarily gone from her voice.

"The bottom of the oceanour ocean is much more, an

infinity of times more beautiful. You know that; everyone

knows that. Rent an artificial gill-outfit for both of us, take a

week off from work, and we can descend and live down there

at one of those year-round aquatic resorts. And in addition"

She broke off. "You're not listening. You should be. Here is

something a lot better than that compulsion, that obsession

you have about Mars, and you don't even listen!" Her voice

rose piercingly. "God in heaven, you're doomed, Dougl

What's going to become of you?"

"I'm going to work," he said, rising to his feet, his break-

fast forgotten. "That's what's going to become of me."

She eyed him. "You're getting worse. More fanatical every

day. Where's it going to lead?"

"To Mars," he said, and opened the door to the closet to

get down a fresh shirt to wear to work.-

Having descended from the taxi Douglas Quail slowly

walked across three densely-populated foot runnels and to the

modern, attractively inviting doorway. There he halted, im-

peding mid-morning traffic, and with caution read the shift-

ing-color neon sign. He had, in the past, scrutinized this sign

before... but never had he come so close. This was very

different; what he did now was something else. Something

which sooner or later had to happen.

REKAL, INCORPORATED

Was this the answer? After all, an illusion, no matter how

convincing, remained nothing more than an illusion. At least

objectively. But subjectivelyquite the opposite entirely.

And anyhow he had an appointment. Within the next five

minutes.

Taking a deep breath of mildly smog-infested Chicago air,

he walked through the dazzling poly-chromatic shimmer of

the doorway and up to the receptionist's counter.

The nicely-articulated blonde at the counter, bare-bosomed

and tidy, said pleasantly, "Good morning, Mr. Quail."

"Yes," he said. "I'm here to see about a Rekal course. As I

guess you know."

"Not 'rekal' but recall," the receptionist corrected him. She

picked up the receiver of the vidphone by her smooth elbow

and said into it, "Mr. Douglas Quail is here, Mr. McClane.

May he come inside, now? Or is it too soon?"

"Giz wetwa wum-wum wamp," the phone mumbled.

"Yes, Mr. Quail," she said. "You may go on in; Mr.

McClane is expecting you." As he started off uncertainly she

called after him, "Room D, Mr. Quail. To your right."

After a frustrating but brief moment of being lost he found

the proper room. The door hung open and inside, at a big

genuine walnut desk, sat a genial-looking man, middle-aged,

wearing the latest Martian frog-pelt gray suit; his attire alone

would have told Quail that he had come to the right person.

"Sit down, Douglas," McClane said, waving his plump

hand toward a chair which faced the desk. "So you want to

have gone to Mars. Very good."

Quail seated himself, feeling tense. "I'm not so sure this is

worth the fee," he said. "It costs a lot and as far as I can see I

really get nothing." Costs almost as much as going, he

thought.

"You get tangible proof of your trip," McClane disagreed

emphatically. "All the proof you'll need. Here; I'll show you."

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