Philip K. Dick - World of Chance

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WORLD
OF
CHANCE
Philip K. Dick
He sought to deliver
Society from the
collapse and chaos
of the world of 2203
A Universe
of Chaos and
Cynicism . . .
a society in which the very concept of honesty has ceased to exist . . . . In
the world of 2203, power and authority are distributed on a random basis,
taken and given in a chance manner that cannot be predicted.
Then, somehow, corruption sets in . . . the supreme authority is undermined;
even more disturbing, the principle of randomness - the very foundation on
which this civilization is built is being exploited by a fanatical crackpot.
CHAPTER I
THERE had been harbingers.
Early in May of 2203 newsmachines were excited by a flight of white crows over
Sweden. A series of unexplained fires demolished half the Oiseau-Lyre Hill, an
industrial pivot of the system. Small stones fell near work-camp installations
on Mars. At Batavia, the Directorate of the nine-planet Federation, a two-
headed calf was born, a sign that something of incredible magnitude was
brewing.
Everybody speculated on what the forces of Nature intended. Everybody guessed,
consulted, and argued about the bottle-the socialized instrument of chance.
Directorate fortune-tellers were booked up weeks in advance.
But one man's harbinger is another man's event. The first reaction from
Oiseau-Lyre to its limited catastrophe was to create total catastrophe for
half its employees. Fealty oaths were dissolved, and a variety of research
technicians were tossed out. Adrift, they became a further symptom of the
approaching moment-of-importance for the system. Most of these technicians
floundered and were lost among the masses. But not all.
Ted Benteley yanked his dismissal notice from the board and as he walked to
his office he tore the notice to bits. His reaction differed from that of
those around him; he was glad to have his oath severed. For thirteen years he
had been trying to break his fealty oath with Oiseau-Lyre.
He locked his office door, snapped off his Inter-Plan Visual Industries Corp.
screen, and did some thinking. It took only an hour to develop his plan of
action.
At noon Oiseau-Lyre's outworker department returned his power card. His one
chance out of six billion in the great lottery. His fragile possibility of
being twitched by
the random motion of the bottle to the Number One class position. Politically
speaking, he was back thirty-three years; the power-card was coded at the
moment of birth.
At two-thirty he dissolved his remaining fealty connections at Oiseau-Lyre;
they were mostly with himself as protector and somebody else as serf. By four
o'clock he had liquidated his assets and had bought a first-class transport
ticket. Before nightfall he was on his way out of Europe, heading for the
Indonesian Empire.
In Batavia he rented a room and unpacked his case; the rest of his possessions
were still in France. Curiously, his room overlooked the main Directorate
building. Like tropical flies people crept in and out of its many doors. All
roads, and all space-lanes, led to Batavia.
His funds didn't amount to much; he could stall only so long. From the Public
Information Library he picked up armloads of tape and a basic scanner. As the
days passed he built up information relating to all aspects of biochemistry,
the subject on which his original classification had been won. As he scanned
and crammed he kept one thought in mind: applications for positional-fealty
oaths were processed only once; if he failed in the first try he was finished.
That first try was going to be successful. He was free of the Hill system, and
he wasn't going back.
During the next five days he smoked endless cigarettes, paced his room, and
finally got out the yellow section of the ipvic directory to look up the local
girl agencies. His favourite agency had a nearby office; within an hour most
of his psychological problems were solved. With the aid of the blonde sent by
the agency and the cocktail bar down the street, he was able to last another
twenty-four hours. But that was as far as he could string it out; the time to
act had come.
A cold chill lay over him as he got out of bed. With Quizmaster Verrick
employment oaths were apparently handed out haphazardly. It was impossible to
deduce what factor, if any, determined successful application.
He shaved, dressed, paid Lori her wages, and sent her back to the agency.
Loneliness hit him hard. And fear. He surrendered his room, stored his suit-
case, and bought himself a second good luck charm. In a public washroom he
buttoned the charm inside his shirt and dropped a coin in the phenol-barb
dispenser. The sedative calmed him; he emerged and flagged down a robot taxi.
"Main Directorate building," he told the driver, "and take your time."
"All right, sir or madam," the MacMillan robot answered; MacMillans weren't
capable of fine discriminations.
Spring air billowed into the cab as it zipped above the rooftops. Benteley
wasn't interested; his eyes were fixed on the growing syndrome of buildings
ahead. His written papers had been shot in the night before. He had waited
about the right time; they should be appearing on the desk of the first
checker in the chain of Directorate officials.
"Here we are, sir or madam." The robot taxi settled down and grappled itself
to a halt. Benteley stepped from the open door.
On a main pedestrian artery he paused to light a cigarette. His hands weren't
shaking, not really. He shoved his case under his arm as he reached the
processing lounge. Perhaps by this time next month he would be under fealty to
the Directorate . . . he touched one of the charms inside his shirt.
"Ted," a voice came, small and urgent. "Wait!"
He halted as Lori threaded her way through the crowd and came to him.
"I have something for you," she said breathlessly. "I knew I'd catch you
here."
"What is it?" Benteley demanded. He knew that the Directorate's special Corps
was close by; he didn't want his intimate thoughts known by eighty bored
telepaths.
Lori reached round his neck and clicked something in place. It was another
good luck charm.
Benteley examined the charm. "You think it'll do me any good?" he asked.
"I hope so." She touched his arm briefly. "Thanks for being so nice. You
hustled me off before I could tell you." She lingered plaintively. "If you get
taken on you'll probably stay here in Batavia."
Irritably, Benteley answered: "You're being observed. Verrick has observers
planted all over the place."
"I don't mind," Lori said wistfully. "Call girls have nothing to conceal."
"I don't like it." Benteley shrugged. "But if I'm going to hook on here I'll
have to get used to being watched."
He moved towards the central desk, his identifying cards ready. A few moments
later the MacMillan official accepted them.
"All right, Ted Benteley. You may go in."
Benteley stubbed out his cigarette and turned towards the inner offices.
"I'll look you up," he murmured to Lori as he stepped through the door.
He was inside: it had begun.
A small middle-aged man with steel-rimmed glasses and a tiny waxed moustache
was standing by the door watching him intently.
"You're Benteley?"
"That's right," Benteley answered. "I'm here to see Quizmaster Verrick."
"Why?"
"I'm looking for a class 8-8 position."
A girl pushed abruptly into the office. Ignoring Benteley, she said rapidly:
"Well, it's over." She touched her temple. "See? Now are you satisfied?"
"Don't blame me," the small man said. "It's the law."
"The law!" The girl shrugged her crimson hair out of
her eyes. She grabbed a packet of cigarettes from the desk and lit up with
shaky fingers. "Let's get out, Peter. There's nothing of importance left."
"You know I'm staying," the small man said.
The girl half-turned as she noticed Benteley for the first time. Her green
eyes flickered with interest.
"Who are you?"
"Maybe you'd better come back some other time," the small man said to
Benteley. "This isn't exactly the--"
"I didn't come this far to get chucked out," Benteley said hoarsely. "Where's
Verrick?"
The girl eyed him curiously. "You want to see Reese? What are you selling?"
"I'm a biochemist," Benteley answered, "looking for a class 8-8 position."
Amusement twisted the girl's lips. "Is that so? Interesting. . . ." She
shrugged her bare shoulders. "Swear him, Peter."
The small man hesitated.
"I'm Peter Wakeman," he said to Benteley. "This girl is Eleanor Stevens,
Verrick's private secretary."
It wasn't exactly what Benteley had expected. There was a silence as the three
of them appraised one another.
"The MacMillan passed him in," Wakeman said presently. "There's an open call
for 8-8 people. But I think Verrick has no need for more biochemists."
"What do you know about it?" Eleanor Stevens demanded. "You're not running
personnel."
"I'm using common sense." Very deliberately Wakeman moved between the girl and
Benteley. "I'm sorry," he said to the man. "You're wasting your time here. Go
to the Hill offices-they're always buying and selling biochemists."
"I know," Benteley said. "I've worked for the Hill system since I was
sixteen."
"Then what do you want here?" Eleanor asked.
"Oiseau-Lyre dropped me."
"Go over to Soong."
"I'm not working for any more Hills!" Benteley's voice lifted harshly. "I'm
through with the Hills."
"Why?" Wakeman asked.
Benteley grunted.
"The Hills are corrupt. The whole system's decaying. It's up for sale to the
highest bidder . . . and bidding's going on."
Wakeman pondered. "I don't see what that matters to you. You have your work;
that's what you're supposed to be thinking about."
"For my time, skill and loyalty I get money," Benteley agreed. "I have a lab
and equipment that cost more to build than I'll earn in a lifetime. But what
is the result of my work? Where does it go?" Benteley struggled to continue.
"I stood the smell of Oiseau-Lyre as long as possible. The Hills are supposed
to be separate, independent economic units; actually, they're sliding together
into a homogeneous mass. It isn't merely a question of mis-shipments and
expense padding and doctored tax returns. You know the Hill slogan: SERVICE IS
GOOD AND BETTER SERVICE IS BEST. That's a laugh! You think the Hills care
about serving anybody? Instead of existing for the public good they're
parasites on the public."
"I never imagined the Hills were philanthropic organizations," Wakeman said.
Benteley moved away from them. Why did he get upset about the Hills? Nobody
had complained yet. But he was complaining. Maybe it was lack of realism on
his part, an anachronistic survival the child-guidance clinic hadn't been able
to shake out of him. Whatever it was, he had taken as much as he could stand.
"How do you know the Directorate is any better?" Wakeman asked. "You have a
lot of illusions about it, I think."
"Let him swear," Eleanor said indifferently.
Wakeman shook his head. "I won't swear him."
"I will, then," the girl answered.
From the desk drawer Wakeman got a flask and poured himself a drink. "Anybody
care to join me?"
Benteley turned irritably. "Is this the way the Directorate is run?"
Wakeman smiled. "Your illusions are being shattered. Stay where you are,
Benteley; you don't know when you're well off."
Eleanor slid from the desk and hurried out of the room. She returned in a
moment with the customary symbol-representation of the Quizmaster. "Come over
here, Benteley. I'll accept your oath." She placed the small plastic flesh-
coloured bust of Reese Verrick in the centre of the desk and turned briskly to
Benteley. As Benteley moved towards the desk she reached up and touched the
cloth bag hanging from a string round his neck, the charm Lori had put there.
"What kind of charm is that?" she asked.
Benteley showed her the bit of magnetized steel and white powder.
"Virgin's milk," he explained curtly.
"That's all you carry?" Eleanor indicated the array of charms dangling on her
chest. "I don't understand how people manage with only one charm." Her green
eyes danced. "Maybe you don't! Maybe that's why you have bad luck."
"I have a high positive scale," Benteley replied. "And I have two other
charms. Somebody gave me this."
She leaned close and examined it intently. "It's the kind of charm a woman
would buy. Expensive, but flashy."
"Is it true," Benteley asked her, "that Verrick doesn't carry any charms?"
"That's right," Wakeman spoke up. "He doesn't need them. When the bottle
twitched him to One he was already class six-three. Talk about luck! He's
risen all the way to the top exactly as you see on the children's edutapes.
Luck leaks out of his pores."
"I've seen people touch him hoping to get some of it," Eleanor said. "I don't
blame them. I've touched him myself, many times."
"What good has it done you?" Wakeman asked quietly; he indicated the girl's
discoloured temples.
"I wasn't born at the same time and place as Reese," Eleanor answered shortly.
"I don't hold with astro-cosmology," Wakeman said. "Luck comes in streaks."
Speaking slowly and intently to Benteley, he continued: "Verrick may have it
now, but that doesn't mean he'll always have it." He gestured vaguely towards
the floor above, "They like to see some kind of balance." He added hastily:
"I'm not a Christian or anything like that, you understand. I know it's all
chance. Everybody gets his chance. And the high and the mighty always fall."
Eleanor shot Wakeman a warning look. "Be careful!"
Without taking his eyes from Benteley, Wakeman said slowly:
"You're out of fealty; take advantage of that. Don't swear yourself on to
Verrick. You'll be stuck to him, as one of his permanent serfs."
Benteley was chilled. "You mean I'm supposed to take an oath directly to
Verrick? Not a positional oath to the Quizmaster?"
"That's right," Eleanor said.
"Why?"
"I can't give you information. Later on there'll be an assignment for you in
terms of your class requirements; that's guaranteed."
Benteley gripped his case and moved away. His expectations had fallen apart.
"I'm in?" he demanded, half-angrily. "I'm acceptable?"
"Verrick wants all eight-eight's he can get. You can't miss."
"Wait," Bentley said, confused and uncertain. "Give me time to decide." Then
he withdrew.
Eleanor wandered about the room. "Any more news of that fellow?" she asked
Wakeman.
"Only the initial closed-circuit warning to me," Wakeman said. "His name is
Leon Cartwright. He's a member of some kind of cult. I'm curious to see what
he's like."
"I'm not." Eleanor halted at the window and gazed
down at the streets below. "Maybe I made a mistake. But it's over; there's
nothing I can do."
"When you're older you'll realize how much of a mistake," Wakeman agreed.
Fear came to the girl's face. "I'll never leave Verrick. He'll take care of
me; he always has."
"The Corps will protect you."
"I don't want anything to do with the Corps." Her lips drew back against her
even, white teeth. "My family. My willing Uncle Peter-up for sale, like his
Hills." She indicated Benteley. "And he thinks he won't find it here."
"It's not a question of sale," Wakeman said. "It's a principle. The Corps is
above any man."
"The Corps is a fixture, like this desk. You buy all the furniture, the
lights, the ipvics, the Corps." Disgust glowed in her eyes. "A Prestonite, is
that it?"
"That's it."
"No wonder you're anxious to see him. In a morbid way I suppose I'm curious,
too."
At the desk, Benteley roused himself from his thoughts. "All right," he said
aloud. "I'm ready."
"Fine!" Eleanor slipped behind the desk, one hand raised, the other on the
bust. "You know the oath?"
Benteley knew the fealty oath by heart, but gnawing doubt slowed him almost to
a halt. Wakeman stood examining his nails, looking disapproving and bored.
Eleanor Stevens watched avidly, her face intense with emotions that altered
each moment. With a growing conviction that things were not right, Benteley
began reciting his fealty oath to the small plastic bust.
The doors of the office slid back and a group of men entered noisily. One
towered over the rest; a huge man, lumbering and broad-shouldered, with a
grey, weathered face and thick iron-streaked hair. Reese Verrick, surrounded
by those of his staff in personal fealty to him, halted as he saw the
procedure taking place at the desk.
Wakeman glanced up and caught Verrick's eye. He smiled faintly but said
nothing. Eleanor Stevens had
become as rigid as stone. As soon as Benteley had finished she snapped into
life. She carefully hurried the plastic bust out of the office and then
returned, hand held out.
"I want your power-card, Mr. Benteley. We have to have it."
"Who's this fellow?" Verrick mumbled, with a wave towards Benteley.
"An eight-eight." Eleanor nervously grabbed up her things from the desk; her
good luck charms dangled and vibrated excitedly. "I'll get my coat."
"Eight-eight? Biochemist?" Verrick eyed Benteley with interest. "Is he any
good?"
"He's all right," Wakeman said. "What I found out seemed to be top-notch."
Eleanor slammed the cupboard door, then threw her coat over her shoulders. "He
just came in, from Oiseau-Lyre." She breathlessly joined the group clustered
round Verrick. "He doesn't know, yet."
Verrick's heavy face was wrinkled with fatigue and worry, but a faint spark of
amusement lit up his deep-set eyes.
"The last crumbs, for a while. The rest goes to Cartwright, the Prestonite."
He addressed Benteley. "What's your name?"
They shook hands as Benteley replied. Verrick's massive hand crunched his
bones has Benteley feebly asked: "Where are we going? I thought--"
"Chemie Hill." Verrick and his group moved towards the exit-all but Wakeman,
who remained behind to await the new Quizmaster. To Eleanor Stevens, Verrick
explained briefly: "We'll operate from there. The lock I put on Chemie last
year was to me personally. I can still claim loyalty there, in spite of this."
"In spite of what?" Benteley demanded, suddenly horrified. The outside doors
were open; for the first time the cries of the newsmachines came loudly to his
ears. As the party moved down the ramp towards the waiting intercon transports
Benteley demanded hoarsely: "What's happened?"
"Come on," Verrick grunted. "You'll know all about it before long."
Benteley slowly followed the party. He knew, now. It was being shrilled on all
sides of him, screamed out by the mechanical voices of public newsmachines.
"Verrick quacked!" the machines cried. "Prestonite bottled to One! A twitch of
the bottle this morning at nine-thirty Batavia time! Verrrrrick quaaaaaacked!"
The power switch had come, the event the harbingers had expected. Verrick had
been switched from the number One position; he was no longer Quizmaster. He
had plunged to the bottom, out of the Directorate completely.
And Benteley had sworn an oath to him.
It was too late to turn back. He was on his way to the A.G. Chemie Hill. All
of them were caught up together in the rush of events that was shivering
through the nine-planet system like a winter storm.
CHAPTER II
EARLY in the morning Leon Cartwright drove carefully along the narrow,
twisting streets in his ancient '82 Chevrolet. As usual, he wore an outmoded
but immaculate suit and a shapeless hat was crushed against his head.
Everything about him breathed obsolescence and age; he was perhaps sixty, a
lean, sinewy man, tall and straight but small-boned, with mild blue eyes and
liver-spotted wrists. His arms were thin but strong and wiry. He had an almost
gentle expression on his gaunt face.
In the back seat lay heaps of mailing-tapes ready to be sent out. The floor
sagged under heavy bundles of metal-foil to be imprinted and franked. An old
raincoat was in the corner, together with a lunchbox and a number of discarded
overshoes.
The buildings on both sides of Cartwright were old and faded, peeling things
with dusty windows and drab neon signs. Relics of the last century, like
himself and his car. Drab men in faded clothing, eyes blank and unfriendly,
lounged in doorways. Dumpy middle-aged women in shapeless coats dragged
rickety shopping carts into dark stores, to pick fretfully over the stale food
to be lugged back to their restless families.
Mankind's lot, Cartwright ruminated, hadn't changed much, of late. The
Classification system, the elaborate Quizzes, hadn't done many people any
good.
In the early twentieth century the problem of production had been solved;
after that, it was the problem of consumption that plagued society. In the
nineteen fifties and sixties consumer commodities and farm products began to
pile up in towering mountains all over the Western World. As much as possible
was given away-but that threatened to subvert the open market. By 1980 the pro
tem solution
was to heap up the products and burn them-billions of dollars' worth, week
after week.
Each Saturday townspeople had collected in sullen, resentful crowds to watch
the troops squirt petrol on the cars and clothes and oranges and coffee and
cigarettes that nobody could buy, igniting them in a blinding bonfire. In each
town there was a burning-place, fenced off, where the fine things that could
not be purchased were systematically destroyed.
The Quizzes had helped, a trifle. If people couldn't afford to buy the
expensive manufactured goods, they could still hope to win them. The economy
was propped up for decades by elaborate give-away devices that dispensed tons
of glittering merchandise. But for every man who won a car and a refrigerator
and a television set there were millions who didn't. Gradually, over the
years, prizes in the Quizzes grew from material commodities to more realistic
items: power and prestige. And at the top, the final exalted post: the
dispenser of power, the Quizmaster.
The disintegration of the social and economic system had been gradual. It went
so deep that people lost faith in natural law itself. Nothing seemed stable or
fixed; the universe was a sliding flux. Nobody knew what came next. Nobody
could count on anything. Statistical prediction became popular; the very
concept of cause and effect died out. People lost faith in the belief that
they could control their environment.
The theory of Minimax-the M-game-was a kind of stoic withdrawal, a non-
participation in the aimless swirl in which people struggled. The M-game
player never really committed himself; he risked nothing, gained nothing . . .
and wasn't overwhelmed. He sought to hoard his pot and strove to outlast the
other players. The M-game player sat waiting for the game to end; that was the
best that could be hoped for.
Minimax, the method of surviving the great game of life, was invented by two
twentieth-century mathematicians: von Neumann and Morgenstern. It had been
used
in the Second World War, in the Korean War, and in the Final War. Military
strategists and then financiers had played with the theory. In the middle of
the century von Neumann was appointed to the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission,
recognition of the burgeoning significance of his theory. And in two centuries
and a half it became the basis of government.
That was why Leon Cartwright, electronics repairman and human being with a
conscience, had become a Prestonite. Cartwright pulled his ancient car to the
kerb. Ahead of him the Society building gleamed white in the May sun, a narrow
three-storey structure of wood, its single sign jutting up above the laundry
next door.
PRESTON SOCIETY
Main offices at
rear
This was the back entrance, the loading platform. Cartwright opened the back
of the car and began dragging out cartons of mailing literature.
He trundled a heavy wood carton down the narrow walk and into the gloomy
storage room of the building. A single atronic bulb was fastened to the
ceiling; it glowed feebly in the dank silence. Supplies were stacked on all
sides, towering columns of crates and wire-bound boxes. He found an empty spot
and set down his load.
He passed through the hall and into the cramped front office. Nobody was
there; the office and its barren reception room were empty. The front door of
the building was standing wide open, as usual. Cartwright picked up a heap of
letters, sat down on the sagging couch and spread them out on the table, after
pushing aside a dog-eared copy of John Preston's third book, Flame Disc.
He opened a letter and removed a five-dollar bill and a long note in a shaky
handwriting. There were a few more microscopic contributions. Adding them up,
he found the Society had received thirty dollars. Bills added up to over five
hundred dollars. He folded the money and crossed to the counter to snap on the
ancient ipvic.
"What's the exact time?" he asked the mechanical clerk.
"Nine fifty-two, sir or madam."
Cartwright set his pocket watch and wandered about the office. He stood for a
moment in the narrow doorway; the sunlight was cold and pleasant, and it made
him sleepy. He yawned and relaxed against the door jamb.
"They're getting restless," Rita O'Neill said behind him. "Stop putting it
off."
"I'm waiting because I have to," he answered, without turning round.
"You're not afraid of them, are you?"
"I'm afraid, but not of them." Cartwright turned back into the office. He
moved down the narrow hall and Rita O'Neill hurried after him, into the gloomy
inner passage that ran parallel to the ordinary corridor.
"Any more funds come in today?" she asked.
"Thirty dollars."
"Don't turn up your nose at that. It'll buy us another crate of protine."
Cartwright passed on to Doctor Flood, sitting on a stool in the shadows beyond
the turn of the corridor. The air was musty and dark; cobwebs and rubbish
littered the passage. Somewhere in the rat-scratched depths creaky ventilation
equipment wheezed laboriously. Beyond the sealed doorway at the end of the
corridor came a crack of light and the low murmur of voices.
"You certainly took your time getting here," Doctor Flood complained. A sullen
mound of a man, thick-fingered, with watery red eyes, he grinned a sour gold-
toothed leer at Cartwright. "What were you doing-waiting for more members?" He
chuckled wetly. "There won't be any because this is all there is. This is the
total organization."
Cartwright and Rita O'Neill pushed open the metal door and entered the meeting
chamber.
The people waiting glanced up as the door opened. Talk ceased abruptly and all
eyes were on Cartwright. An eager hope mixed with fright shuddered through the
room;
relieved, a few people edged towards him. The murmur boiled up again and
became a babble; now they were all trying to get his attention. A ring of
excited, gesturing men and women formed round him as he moved through the
room. For one another they had uneasy, hostile glares. The parallel-club
system had been successful: to one another they were strangers.
"Can we start?" Ralf Butler demanded.
"Soon," Cartwright answered. He moved on among them, aware of the tension. But
another ten minutes wouldn't make any difference.
Jack McLean glanced up and grinned at Cartwright. "Not long? It's about time."
Cartwright felt in his pockets. Somewhere he had a crumpled, often-folded list
of names. And on the back was a short speech he planned to deliver before the
line of cars hidden in the underground garage lumbered off.
"What are you looking for?" Mary Uzich asked. "A writer?"
He found the list and carefully unfolded it. Names had been entered, crossed
off, and re-entered. He smoothed it out and made an attention-attracting
sound. It was unnecessary; he was surrounded by a ring of eager faces.
A bewildering variety of people. Mexican labourers mute and frightened. A
hard-faced urban couple. A jet stoker. Japanese workmen. A red-lipped girl.
The middle-aged owner of a retail store that had failed. An agronomy student.
A salesman. A cook. A nurse. A carpenter. All of them perspiring, shoving,
listening, watching intently.
These were people with skill in their hands, not their heads. Their ability
had come from years of practice, from direct contact with work. They could
grow plants, sink foundations, repair leaking pipes, maintain machinery, weave
clothing, cook meals. According to the classification system they were
failures.
"I think everybody's here," Rita O'Neill said. "You can go ahead."
Cartwright took a deep breath of prayer and raised his voice.
"I want to say something before the cars leave. The ship has been checked over
and it's supposed to be ready for deep-space flight."
"That's correct," Captain Groves said impassively. He was a stern-faced Negro,
big and solemn and dignified.
Cartwright rattled his scrap of crumpled metal foil.
"Well, this is it. Anybody want to back out?"
Excitement and tension, but none of them stirred.
"This is what we've been working for. Now the parallel-club system can be
disbanded; you're seeing each other face to face. During the flight you'll get
to know each other. I hope you get along."
Faint, nervous smiles.
"This is the Society." Cartwright managed to get a half-joking note in his
voice. "You people are it. This is all of us."
They peered good-naturedly at each other. Opinions were forming fast; perhaps
too fast.
"You'll be jammed in tight," Cartwright continued. "This isn't a pleasure
ship; it's a run-down General Motors ore freighter ready for the scrap heap.
But it's all we could afford. Maybe if some rich woman had given a few million
more . . ."
No smiles. It was too bitterly painful. The money had been squeezed out of
these people dollar by dollar; it had been turned over to the Society with
hope, faith and agonizing doubts.
"I wish John Preston were here," Cartwright said. "He'd be glad to see this,
if he were alive. He knew it would come, some day." He examined his watch and
then finished what he had to say. "Good luck! You're on your way. Hold your
charms and let Groves do the steering."
It took a moment to sink in. Then the roar of shock billowed up and slapped
him violently.
"You son of a bitch!" Ralf Butler screamed in terror. "You're not coming with
us!"
It was amazing, Cartwright thought in a detached way, how fast the mood of a
group could change.
"You're afraid!" Butler shouted. "You want us to go out there but you won't
come with us."
"What's going on?" Bill Konklin demanded suspiciously. There was apprehension,
mixed with growing anger. "Explain, Leon."
"I'm not coming," Cartwright admitted. "You'll be in Groves's hands. He's a
good navigator."
"Isn't there anything out there?" Janet Sibley asked anxiously. "Don't you
believe any more? Have you changed your mind, Mr. Cartwright?"
"You know the reason," Jack McLean snorted. "Nobody wants to die out there in
dead space. Nobody wants to wander around with those space monsters."
"There's nothing out there," Flood snapped contemptuously. "He knows why those
astronomers back in 'forty saw nothing. They tried to find it; they did
everything they could."
"Tell us why you're not coming," Jereti said. He raised his gnarled hands for
silence. "He must have some good reason."
Cartwright took a deep breath of dry, stale air. "Sorry," he said. "I can't
tell you my reason."
"See?" Butler shouted wildly. "He knows we're going to die out there. He knows
it isn't there."
Rita O'Neill's eyes blazed. "You ought to send them home," she said to
Cartwright.
"It's a racket," McLean muttered ominously.
"It is not a racket!" Groves retorted. His dark face flushed. "The Society has
never been a racket."
"It'd be nice," Bill Konklin said, "if you could tell us a little more. It
seems unfair to send us off without some kind of an explanation."
"You'll know one of these days." Cartwright said quietly.
He was going to say more but Rita O'Neill suddenly pushed against him to
thrust a sliver of sealed metal foil in his hand.
"From Sam Oster." The look on her face told him
what it was. "Code-monitored from his first television transmission."
Cartwright slit the plastic seal and examined the metal foil. Then he stuffed
it into his pocket.
"There's nothing more," he said sharply to the group. "Collect your personal
possessions and climb into the cars. I'm not going with you. Good-bye and good
luck."
Nat Gardner's eyes blazed with fury. "You're not even coming down to the
field?" His sluggish brain moved into action as he started resentfully towards
Cartwright.
"Take it easy," Konklin said. Groves moved up to him, and Gardner reluctantly
stopped. "Keep your hands to yourself."
Doctor Flood grinned slyly at Cartwright. "You had everybody fooled-even me."
Behind his thick glasses his eyes danced knowingly. "And the supply rooms-
they're full of sand, I suppose?"
Groves headed for the exit slot. "The ship's ready to take off."
A few of the group collected their things and followed him, still darting
baffled, uncertain glances at Cartwright.
Cartwright stood with his hands in his pockets, saying nothing and waiting for
them to leave. A few lingered.
"Something important is going on," Mary Uzich said to him in a low, shrewd
voice. "When will we know?"
"Soon," Cartwright said.
"I think you handled this wrong," Bill Konklin said to Cartwright. "You
shouldn't send them out this way. They have a right to know."
"I trust you, Mr. Cartwright," Janet Sibley gasped timidly, sweeping past
Cartwright with an armload of things.
The Japanese optical workers bowed stiffly, smiled, and hurried out. Gradually
the room emptied. Butler and Flood shot looks of suspicion at Cartwright, then
reluctantly followed the others. Presently only Cartwright and his black-eyed
niece remained.
Cartwright sagged. "I'm glad that's over."
Rita was breathing rapidly. "How dare they talk to you like that?"
"They're afraid. The unknown is always worse than the known."
"Are we going to keep the office open?" Rita moved swiftly about the room,
摘要：

WORLDOFCHANCEPhilipK.DickHesoughttodeliverSocietyfromthecollapseandchaosoftheworldof2203AUniverseofChaosandCynicism...asocietyinwhichtheveryconceptofhonestyhasceasedtoexist....Intheworldof2203,powerandauthorityaredistributedonarandombasis,takenandgiveninachancemannerthatcannotbepredicted.Then,someho...

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