The world Jones made

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The World Jones Made

PHILIP K. DICK

ACE BOOKS, INC.

1120 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N.Y. 10036

DESTINY WAS IN HIS HANDS!

Security agent Cussick was an old hand at outwitting possible enemies of the twenty-first century

government. But in the bespectacled young man named Jones he met his match.

Because Jones could call Cussick's every move - and call it in advance! For that matter Jones

knew everything in advance - except the nature of the cosmic visitors who drifted down from outer

space.

And yet it was around these aliens that Jones built up his drive to absolute power - a drive which

was universal in scope and which no one could stop.

Because Jones knew all the answers a year ahead of time.

That is, all the answers except one.

PHILIP K. DICK, author of The World Jones Made, is a young and rising star in the science-fiction

constellation. His first book, Solar Lottery, published by Ace Books in 1955, called forth much

excited comment from reviewers and readers. For instance, Damon Knight writing in Infinity

magazine, said of the author that "it's as if Robert Sheckley should abruptly turn into a

combination of Alfred Bester, Henry and Catherine Kuttner, and A. E. Van Vogt." H. H. Holmes,

writing in the New York Herald-Tribune, called the book "as elaborately exciting as vintage Van

Vogt - with an added touch of C. M. Kornbluth's social satire." However, we think that Philip K.

Dick is not just a combination of others, but a really new great writer on his own merits. And we

think that his latest novel, this one, will prove it.

THE WORLD JONES MADE

Eph Konigsberg

who talked fast and

talked very well

Printed in U.S.A.

CHAPTER ONE

THE TEMPERATURE of the Refuge varied from 99 degrees Fahrenheit to 101 degrees

Fahrenheit. Steam lay perennially in the air, drifting and billowing sluggishly. Geysers of hot water

spurted, and the "ground" was a shifting surface of warm slime, compounded from water,

dissolved minerals, and fungoid pulp. The remains of lichens and protozoa colored and thickened

the scum of moisture that dripped everywhere, over the wet rocks and sponge-like shrubbery, the

various utilitarian installations. A careful backdrop had been painted, a long plateau rising from a

heavy ocean.

Beyond doubt, the Refuge was modeled after the womb. The semblance couldn't be denied -

and nobody had denied it.

Bending down, Louis moodily picked up a pale green fungus growing near his feet and broke it

apart. Under its moist organic skin was a mesh of man-made plastic; the fungus was artificial.

"We could be worse off," Frank said, watching him hurl the fungus away. "We might have to

pay for all this. It must have cost Fedgov billions of dollars to set up this place."

"Stage scenery," Louis said bitterly. "What for? Why were we born this way?"

Grinning, Frank said: "We're superior mutants, remember? Isn't that what we decided years

ago?" He pointed at the world visible beyond the wall of the Refuge. "We're too pure for that."

Outside lay San Francisco, the nocturnal city half-asleep in its blanket of chill fog. Occasional

cars crept here and there; pockets of commuters emerged like complicated segmented worms

from underground monorail terminals. Infrequent office lights glowed sparsely... Louis turned his

back on the sight. It hurt too much to see it, to know that he was in here, trapped, caught within

the closed circle of the group. To realize that nothing existed for them but the sitting and staring,

the empty years of the Refuge.

"There must be a purpose," he said. "A reason for us."

Frank shrugged fatalistically. "War-time sports, generated by radiation pools. Damage to the

genes. An accident... like Jones."

"But they're keeping us alive," Irma said, from behind them. "All these years, maintaining us,

caring for us. They must get something out of it. They must have something in mind."

"Destiny?" Frank asked mockingly. "Our cosmic goal?"

The Refuge was a murky, steamy bowl that imprisoned the seven of them. Its atmosphere was

a mixture of ammonia, oxygen, freon, and traces of methane, heavily laden with water vapor,

lacking carbon dioxide. The Refuge had been constructed twenty-five years ago, in 1977, and the

older members of the group had memories of a prior life in separate mechanical incubators. The

original workmanship had been superior, and from time to time improvements were made.

Normal human workmen, protected by sealed suits, periodically entered the Refuge, dragging

their maintenance equipment after them. Usually it was the mobile fauna that went out of order

and needed repairs.

"If they had a purpose for us," Frank said, "they'd tell us." He, personally, trusted the Fedgov

authorities who operated the Refuge. "Doctor Rafferty would tell us; you know that."

"I'm not so sure," Irma said.

"My God," Frank said angrily, "they're not our enemies. If they wanted to, they could wipe us

out in a second - and they haven't, have they? They could let the Youth League in here at us."

"They have no right to keep us in here," Louis protested.

Frank sighed. "If we went out there," he said carefully, as if he were speaking to children,

"we'd die." At the upper rim of the transparent wall was a pressure vent, a series of safety valves.

A dull miasma of acrid gasses trickled in, mixing with the familiar dampness of their own air.

"Smell that?" Frank demanded. "That's what it's like outside. Harsh and freezing and lethal."

"Did it ever occur to you,' Louis asked, "that maybe that stuff leaking in is a deliberate fake?"

"It occurs to all of us," Frank said. "Every couple of years. We get in our paranoia stage and

we start planning to break out. Only we don't have to break out; all we have to do is walk out.

Nobody ever stopped us. We're free to leave this steamed-up bowl, except for one fact: we can't

survive out there. We're just not strong enough."

By the transparent wall, a hundred feet away, stood the remaining four members of the group.

Frank's voice carried to them, a hollow and distorted sound. Garry, the youngest of the group,

glanced up. He listened for a moment, but no further words were audible.

"Okay," Vivian said impatiently. "Let's go." Garry nodded. "Goodbye womb," he muttered.

Reaching up, he pressed the red button that would bring Doctor Rafferty.

Doctor Rafferty said: "Our small friends get somewhat excited, once in awhile. They've

decided they can lick any man in the house." He led Cussick to the upramp. "This will be

interesting... your first time. Don't be surprised; it may be a shock. They're quite different from us,

physiologically speaking."

At the eleventh floor the first elements of the Refuge were visible, the elaborate pumps that

maintained its temperature and atmosphere. Doctors instead of police were visible, white

uniforms instead of brown. On the fourteenth floor Rafferty stepped from the rising ramp, and

Cussick followed.

"They're ringing for you," a doctor said to Rafferty. "They're highly disturbed, these days."

"Thanks." To Cussick, Rafferty said: "You can watch on that screen. I don't want them to see

you. They shouldn't be aware of the police guard."

A section of wall retired. Beyond it was the swirling blue-green landscape of the Refuge.

Cussick watched as Doctor Rafferty strode through the lock and into the artificial world beyond.

Immediately the tall figure was surrounded by seven curious parodies, gnomish miniatures both

male and female. The seven of them were agitated, and their frail, bird-cage chests rose and fell

with emotion. Crying shrilly, excitedly, they began to explain and gesture.

"What is it?" Rafferty interrupted. In the sweltering steam of the Refuge he was gasping for

breath; perspiration dripped from his reddening face.

"We want to leave here," a female piped.

"And we're walking," another announced, a male. "We've decided - you can't keep us shut up

in here. We have rights."

For an interval Rafferty discussed the situation with them; then, abruptly, he turned and made

his way back through the lock. "That's my limit," he murmured to Cussick, mopping his forehead.

"I can tolerate three minutes in there, and then the ammonia goes to work."

"You're going to let them try it?" Cussick asked.

"Activate the Van," Rafferty said to his technicians. "Have it ready to pick them up as they

drop." To Cussick he explained: "The Van is an iron lung for them. There won't be too much risk;

they're fragile, but we'll be ready to gather them up before damage is done."

Not all the mutants were leaving the Refuge. Four hesitant figures were picking their way

along the passage that led to the elevator. Behind them, their three companions remained in the

safety of the entrance, huddled together in a group.

"Those three are more realistic," Doctor Rafferty said. "And older. The slightly heavier one, the

dark-haired one who looks the most human, is Frank. It's the younger ones who give us the

trouble. I'll put them through a gradational series of stages to acclimatize their overly-vulnerable

systems - so they won't suffocate or die of heart stoppage." Worriedly, he went on: "What I want

you to do is clear the streets. I don't want anybody to see them; it's late and there won't be many

people out, but just in case..."

"I'll phone Secpol," Cussick agreed.

"How soon can it be done?"

"A few minutes. The weapons-police are already mobile, because of Jones and the mobs."

Relieved, Rafferty hurried off, and Cussick began searching for a Security police phone. He

found it, got in touch with the San Francisco office, and gave his instructions. While he kept the

phone circuit open, the airborne police teams began collecting around the Refuge building. He

stayed in direct touch until the street-blocks had been erected, and then he left the phone to look

for Rafferty.

By elevator the four mutants had descended to the street level. Staggering, groping numbly,

they followed Doctor Rafferty across the lobby, toward the wide doors that led to the street.

No pedestrians or cars were in sight, Cussick observed; the police had successfully cleared

everybody away. At the corner one gloomy shape broke the expanse of gray; the Van was

parked, its motor running, ready to follow.

"There they go," a doctor said, standing beside Cussick. "I hope Rafferty knows what he's

doing." He pointed. "The almost-pretty one is Vivian. She's the youngest female. The boy is Garry

- very bright, very unstable. That is Dieter, and his companion is Louis. There's an eighth, a baby,

still in the incubator. They haven't as yet been told."

The four diminutive figures were visibly suffering. Half-conscious, two of them in convulsions,

they crept wretchedly down the steps, trying to stay on their feet. They did not get far. Garry was

the first to go down; he tottered for a moment on the last step and then pitched face-forward onto

the cement. His small body quivering, he tried to crawl forward; sightlessly, the others stumbled

along the sidewalk, unaware of the prone shape among them, too far gone themselves even to

"Well," Dieter gasped, "we're outside."

"We - made it," Vivian agreed. Sinking wearily down she rested against the side of the

building. A moment later Dieter lay sprawled beside her, eyes shut, mouth slack, struggling

weakly to get to his feet. And presently Louis slid down beside them.

Chagrined, dazed by the suddenness of their collapse, the four of them lay huddled feebly

against the gray pavement, trying to breathe, trying to stay alive. None of them made any attempt

to move; the purpose of their ordeal was forgotten. Panting, struggling to hold onto

consciousness, they gazed sightlessly at the upright figure of Doctor Rafferty.

Rafferty had halted, hands in his overcoat pockets. "It's up to you," he said stonily. "You want

to go on?"

None of them answered; none of them even heard him.

"Your systems won't take the natural air," Rafferty continued. "Or the temperature. Or the food.

Or anything." He glanced at Cussick, an expression of pain on his face, an acute reflection of

suffering that startled the Security official. "So let's give up," he said harshly. "Let's call the Van

and go back."

Vivian nodded faintly; her lips moved, but there was no sound.

Turning, Rafferty curtly signaled. The Van rolled instantly up; robot equipment dropped to the

pavement and scuttled up to the four collapsed figures. In a moment they were being lifted into

the Van's locks. The expedition had failed; it was over. Cussick had had his view of them. He had

seen their struggle and their defeat.

For a time he and Doctor Rafferty stood on the cold night sidewalk without speaking, each

involved in his own thoughts. Finally Rafferty stirred. "Thanks for clearing the streets," he

murmured.

"I'm glad I had time," Cussick answered. "It might have been bad... some of Jones' Youth

League Patrols are roaming around."

"The eternal Jones. We really don't have a chance."

"Let's be like these four we just saw; let's keep trying."

"But it's true."

"It's true," Cussick agreed. "Just as it's true your mutants can't breathe out here. But we set up

road-blocks anyhow; we cleared the streets and hoped to hell we pushed them back this one

time."

"Have you ever seen Jones?"

"Several times," Cussick said. "I met him face to face, back in the days before he had an

organization, before anybody had heard of him."

"When he was a minister," Rafferty reflected. "With a church."

"Before that," Cussick said, thinking back. It seemed impossible that there had been a time

before Jones, a time when there had been no need of clearing the streets. When there had been

no gray-uniformed shapes roaming the streets, collecting in mobs. The crash of breaking glass,

the furious crackling of fire...

"What was he doing then?" Rafferty asked.

"He was in a carnival," Cussick said.

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TheWorldJonesMadePHILIPK.DICKACEBOOKS,INC.1120AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork,N.Y.10036DESTINYWASINHISHANDS!SecurityagentCussickwasanoldhandatoutwittingpossibleenemiesofthetwenty-firstcenturygovernment.ButinthebespectacledyoungmannamedJoneshemethismatch.BecauseJonescouldcallCussick'severymove-andcallitin...

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