Complete Stories 4

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The Complete Stories of Philip K. Dick Vol. 4:

The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories

by Philip K. Dick

eVersion 4.0 / Scan Notes at EOF

Contents

Autofac

SERVICE CALL

CAPTIVE MARKET

THE MOLD OF YANCY

THE MINORITY REPORT

RECALL MECHANISM

THE UNRECONSTRUCTED M

EXPLORERS WE

WAR GAME

IF THERE WERE No BENNY CEMOLI

NOVELTY ACT

WATERSPIDER

WHAT THE DEAD MEN SAY

ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET

THE DAYS OF PERKY PAT

STAND-BY

WHAT'LL WE Do WITH RAGLAND PARK?

OH, TO BE A BLOBEL!

NOTES

"A useful acquisition for any serious SF library or collection." -Kirkus

Reviews

"Awe-inspiring." -The Washington Post

CITADEL PRESS BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief

quotes used in reviews.

The excerpt by Philip K. Dick that appears in the beginning of this volume is

from a collection of interviews with the author conducted by Paul Williams and

published in Only Apparently Real, Arbor House, 1986. Used with permission.

All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special

quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising,

educational, or institutional use. Special book excerpts or customized printings can

also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the

Kensington special sales manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 850 Third Avenue,

New York, NY 10022, attn: Special Sales Department.

Citadel Press and the Citadel Logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

First Kensington printing: May 2002

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Printed in the United States of America

Cataloging data may be obtained from the ibrary of Congress. L

ISBN 0-8065-2379-4

INTRODUCTION

By James Tiptree, Jr.

How do you KNOW YOU'RE READING PHILIP K. DICK?

I think, first and pervasively, it was the strangeness. Strange, Dick was and is. I

think it was that which kept me combing the SF catalogs for more by him, waiting for

each new book to come out. One hears it said, "X just doesn't think like other people."

About Dick, it was true. In the stories, you can't tell what's going to happen next.

And yet his characters are seemingly designed to be ordinary people -- except for

the occasional screaming psychotic female who is one of Dick's specialties, and is always

treated with love. They are ordinary people caught up in wildly bizarre situations,

running a police force with the help of the mumblings of precognitive idiots, facing a

self-replicating factory that has taken over the earth. Indeed, one of the factors in the

strangeness is the care Dick takes to set his characters in the world of reality, an aspect

most other writers ignore.

In how many other science fiction stories do you know what the hero does for a

living when he isn't caught up in the particular plot? Oh, he may be a member of a space

crew, or, vaguely, a scientist. Or Young Werther. In Dick, you are introduced to the

hero's business concerns on page one. That's not literally true of the short stories in this

volume (I went back and checked), but the impression of the pervasiveness of "grubby"

business concerns is everywhere, especially in the novels. The hero is in the antique

business, say; as each new marvel turns up, he ruminates as to whether it is saleable.

When the dead talk, they offer business advice. Dick never sheds his concern that we

know how his characters earn their bread and butter. It is a part of the peculiar "grittiness"

of Dick's style.

Another part of the grittiness is the jerkiness of the dialog. I can never decide

whether Dick's dialog is purely unreal, or more real than most. His people do not interact

as much as they deliver monologs to carry on the plot, or increase the reader's awareness

of a situation.

And the situations are purely Dick. His "plots" are like nothing else in SF. If Dick

writes a time-travel story, say, it will have a twist on it that makes it sui generis. Quite

typically, the central gee-whiz marvel will not be centered, but will come at you

obliquely, in the course, for instance, of a political election.

And any relation between Dick and a nuts-and-bolts SF writer is a pure

coincidence. In my more sanguine moments, I concede that he probably knows what

happens when you plug in a lamp and turn it on, but beyond that there is little evidence of

either technology or science. His science, such as it is, is all engaged in the technology of

the soul, with a smattering of abnormal psychology.

So far I have perhaps emphasized his oddities at the expense of his merits. What

keeps you reading Dick? Well, for one thing, the strangeness, as I said, but within it there

is always the atmosphere of striving, of men desperately trying to get some necessary job

done, or striving at least to understand what is striking at them. A large percentage of

Dick's heroes are tortured men; Dick is expert at the machinery of despair.

And another beauty is the desolations. When Dick gives you a desolation, say

after the bomb, it is a desolation unique of its kind. There is one such in this book. But

amid the desolation you often find another of Dick's characteristic touches, the little

animals.

The little animals are frequently mutants, or small robots who have taken on life.

They are unexplained, simply noted by another character in passing. And what are they

doing? They are striving, too. A freezing sparrow hugs a rag around itself, a mutant rat

plans a construction, "peering and planning." This sense of the ongoing busy-ness of life,

however doomed, of a landscape in which every element has its own life, is trying to live,

is typically and profoundly Dick. It carries the quality of compassion amid the hard edges

and the grit, the compassion one suspects in Dick, but that never appears frontally. It is

this quality of love, always quickly suppressed, that gleams across Dick's rubbled plains

and makes them unique and memorable.

James Tiptree, Jr.

December, 1986

I used to believe the universe was basically hostile. And that I was misplaced in it,

I was different from it. . . fashioned in some other universe and placed here, you see. So

that it zigged while I zagged. And that it had singled me out only because there was

something weird about me. I didn't really groove with the universe.

I had a lot of fears that the universe would discover just how different I was from

it. My only suspicion about it was that it would find out the truth about me, and its

reaction would be perfectly normal: it would get me. I didn't feel that it was malevolent,

just perceptive. And there's nothing worse that a perceptive universe if there's something

weird about you.

But this year I realized that that's not true. That the universe is perceptive, but it's

friendly. . . I just don't feel that I'm different from the universe anymore.

- Philip K. Dick in an interview, 1974.

(from ONLY APPARENTLY REAL)

Autofac

Tension hung over the three waiting men. They smoked, paced back and forth,

kicked aimlessly at weeds growing by the side of the road. A hot noonday sun glared

down on brown fields, rows of neat plastic houses, the distant line of mountains to the

west.

"Almost time," Earl Ferine said, knotting his skinny hands together. "It varies

according to the load, a half second for every additional pound."

Bitterly, Morrison answered, "You've got it plotted? You're as bad as it is. Let's

pretend it just happens to be late."

The third man said nothing. O'Neill was visiting from another settlement; he

didn't know Ferine and Morrison well enough to argue with them. Instead, he crouched

down and arranged the papers clipped to his aluminum check-board. In the blazing sun,

O'Neill's arms were tanned, furry, glistening with sweat. Wiry, with tangled gray hair,

horn-rimmed glasses, he was older than the other two. He wore slacks, a sports shirt and

crepe-soled shoes. Between his fingers, his fountain pen glittered, metallic and efficient.

"What're you writing?" Ferine grumbled.

"I'm laying out the procedure we're going to employ," O'Neill said mildly. "Better

to systemize it now, instead of trying at random. We want to know what we tried and

what didn't work. Otherwise we'll go around in a circle. The problem we have here is one

of communication; that's how I see it."

"Communication," Morrison agreed in his deep, chesty voice. "Yes, we can't get

in touch with the damn thing. It comes, leaves off its load and goes on -- there's no

contact between us and it."

"It's a machine," Ferine said excitedly. "It's dead -- blind and deaf."

"But it's in contact with the outside world," O'Neill pointed out. "There has to be

some way to get to it. Specific semantic signals are meaningful to it; all we have to do is

find those signals. Rediscover, actually. Maybe half a dozen out of a billion possibilities."

A low rumble interrupted the three men. They glanced up, wary and alert. The

time had come.

"Here it is," Ferine said. "Okay, wise guy, let's see you make one single change in

its routine."

The truck was massive, rumbling under its tightly packed load. In many ways, it

resembled conventional human-operated transportation vehicles, but with one exception -

- there was no driver's cabin. The horizontal surface was a loading stage, and the part that

would normally be the headlights and radiator grill was a fibrous spongelike mass of

receptors, the limited sensory apparatus of this mobile utility extension.

Aware of the three men, the truck slowed to a halt, shifted gears and pulled on its

emergency brake. A moment passed as relays moved into action; then a portion of the

loading surface tilted and a cascade of heavy cartons spilled down onto the roadway.

With the objects fluttered a detailed inventory sheet.

"You know what to do," O'Neill said rapidly. "Hurry up, before it gets out of

here."

Expertly, grimly, the three men grabbed up the deposited cartons and ripped the

protective wrappers from them. Objects gleamed: a binocular microscope, a portable

radio, heaps of plastic dishes, medical supplies, razor blades, clothing, food. Most of the

shipment, as usual, was food. The three men systematically began smashing objects. In a

few minutes, there was nothing but a chaos of debris littered around them.

"That's that," O'Neill panted, stepping back. He fumbled for his check-sheet.

"Now let's see what it does."

The truck had begun to move away; abruptly it stopped and backed toward them.

Its receptors had taken in the fact that the three men had demolished the dropped-off

portion of the load. It spun in a grinding half circle and came around to face its receptor

bank in their direction. Up went its antenna; it had begun communicating with the

factory. Instructions were on the way.

A second, identical load was tilted and shoved off the truck.

"We failed," Ferine groaned as a duplicate inventory sheet fluttered after the new

load. "We destroyed all that stuff for nothing."

"What now?" Morrison asked O'Neill. "What's the next strategem on our board?"

"Give me a hand." O'Neill grabbed up a carton and lugged it back to the truck.

Sliding the carton onto the platform, he turned for another. The other two men followed

clumsily after him. They put the load back onto the truck. As the truck started forward,

the last square box was again in place.

The truck hesitated. Its receptors registered the return of its load. From within its

works came a low sustained buzzing.

"This may drive it crazy," O'Neill commented, sweating. "It went through its

operation and accomplished nothing."

The truck made a short, abortive move toward going on. Then it swung

purposefully around and, in a blur of speed, again dumped the load onto the road.

"Get them!" O'Neill yelled. The three men grabbed up the cartons and feverishly

reloaded them. But as fast as the cartons were shoved back on the horizontal stage, the

truck's grapples tilted them down its far-side ramps and onto the road.

"No use," Morrison said, breathing hard. "Water through a sieve."

"We're licked," Ferine gasped in wretched agreement, "like always. We humans

lose every time."

The truck regarded them calmly, its receptors blank and impassive. It was doing

its job. The planetwide network of automatic factories was smoothly performing the task

imposed on it five years before, in the early days of the Total Global Conflict.

"There it goes," Morrison observed dismally. The truck's antenna had come down;

it shifted into low gear and released its parking brake.

"One last try," O'Neill said. He swept up one off the cartons and ripped it open.

From it he dragged a ten-gallon milk tank and unscrewed the lid. "Silly as it seems."

"This is absurd," Ferine protested. Reluctantly, he found a cup among the littered

debris and dipped it into the milk. "A kid's game!"

The truck has paused to observe them.

"Do it," O'Neill ordered sharply. "Exactly the way we practiced it."

The three of them drank quickly from the milk tank, visibly allowing the milk to

spill down their chins; there had to be no mistaking what they were doing.

As planned, O'Neill was the first. His face twisting in revulsion, he hurled the cup

away and violently spat the milk into the road.

"God's sake!" he choked.

The other two did the same; stamping and loudly cursing, they kicked over the

milk tank and glared accusingly at the truck.

"It's no good!" Morrison roared.

Curious, the truck came slowly back. Electronic synapses clicked and whirred,

responding to the situation; its antenna shot up like a flagpole.

"I think this is it," O'Neill said, trembling. As the truck watched, he dragged out a

second milk tank, unscrewed its lid and tasted the contents. "The same!" he shouted at the

truck. "It's just as bad!"

From the truck popped a metal cylinder. The cylinder dropped at Morrison's feet;

he quickly snatched it up and tore it open.

STATE NATURE OF DEFECT

The instruction sheets listed rows of possible defects, with neat boxes by each; a

punch-stick was included to indicate the particular deficiency of the product.

"What'll I check?" Morrison asked. "Contaminated? Bacterial? Sour? Rancid?

Incorrectly labeled? Broken? Crushed? Cracked? Bent? Soiled?"

Thinking rapidly, O'Neill said, "Don't check any of them. The factory's

undoubtedly ready to test and resample. It'll make its own analysis and then ignore us."

His face glowed as frantic inspiration came. "Write in that blank at the bottom. It's an

open space for further data."

"Write what?"

O'Neill said, "Write: the product is thoroughly pizzled."

"What's that?" Ferine demanded, baffled.

"Write it! It's a semantic garble -- the factory won't be able to understand it.

Maybe we can jam the works."

With O'Neill's pen, Morrison carefully wrote that the milk was pizzled. Shaking

his head, he resealed the cylinder and returned it to the truck. The truck swept up the milk

tanks and slammed its railing tidily into place. With a shriek of tires, it hurtled off. From

its slot, a final cylinder bounced; the truck hurriedly departed, leaving the cylinder lying

in the dust.

O'Neill got it open and held up the paper for the others to see.

A FACTORY REPRESENTATIVE

WILL BE SENT OUT.

BE PREPARED TO SUPPLY COMPLETE DATA

ON PRODUCT DEFICIENCY.

For a moment, the three men were silent. Then Ferine began to giggle. "We did it.

We contacted it. We got across."

"We sure did," O'Neill agreed. "It never heard of a product being pizzled."

Cut into the base of the mountains lay the vast metallic cube of the Kansas City

factory. Its surface was corroded, pitted with radiation pox, cracked and scarred from the

five years of war that had swept over it. Most of the factory was buried subsurface, only

its entrance stages visible. The truck was a speck rumbling at high speed toward the

expanse of black metal. Presently an opening formed in the uniform surface; the truck

plunged into it and disappeared inside. The entrance snapped shut.

"Now the big job remains," O'Neill said. "Now we have to persuade it to close

down operations -- to shut itself off."

Judith O'Neill served hot black coffee to the people sitting around the living

room. Her husband talked while the others listened. O'Neill was as close to being an

authority on the autofac system as could still be found.

In his own area, the Chicago region, he had shorted out the protective fence of the

local factory long enough to get away with data tapes stored in its posterior brain. The

factory, of course, had immediately reconstructed a better type offence. But he had shown

that the factories were not infallible.

"The Institute of Applied Cybernetics," O'Neill explained, "had complete control

over the network. Blame the war. Blame the big noise along the lines of communication

that wiped out the knowledge we need. In any case, the Institute failed to transmit its

information to us, so we can't transmit our information to the factories -- the news that the

war is over and we're ready to resume control of industrial operations."

"And meanwhile," Morrison added sourly, "the damn network expands and

consumes more of our natural resources all the time."

"I get the feeling," Judith said, "that if I stamped hard enough, I'd fall right down

into a factory tunnel. They must have mines everywhere by now."

"Isn't there some limiting injunction?" Ferine asked nervously. "Were they set up

to expand indefinitely?"

"Each factory is limited to its own operational area," O'Neill said, "but the

network itself is unbounded. It can go on scooping up our resources forever. The Institute

decided it gets top priority; we mere people come second."

"Will there be anything left for us?" Morrison wanted to know.

"Not unless we can stop the network's operations. It's already used up half a dozen

basic minerals. Its search teams are out all the time, from every factory, looking

everywhere for some last scrap to drag home."

"What would happen if tunnels from two factories crossed each other?"

O'Neill shrugged. "Normally, that won't happen. Each factory has its own special

section of our planet, its own private cut of the pie for its exclusive use."

"But it could happen."

"Well, they're raw material-tropic; as long as there's anything left, they'll hunt it

down." O'Neill pondered the idea with growing interest. "It's something to consider. I

suppose as things get scarcer --"

He stopped talking. A figure had come into the room; it stood silently by the door,

surveying them all.

In the dull shadows, the figure looked almost human. For a brief moment, O'Neill

thought it was a settlement latecomer. Then, as it moved forward, he realized that it was

only quasi-human: a functional upright biped chassis, with data-receptors mounted at the

top, effectors and proprioceptors mounted in a downward worm that ended in floor-

grippers. Its resemblance to a human being was testimony to nature's efficiency; no

sentimental imitation was intended.

The factory representative had arrived.

It began without preamble. "This is a data-collecting machine capable of

communicating on an oral basis. It contains both broadcasting and receiving apparatus

and can integrate facts relevant to its line of inquiry."

The voice was pleasant, confident. Obviously it was a tape, recorded by some

Institute technician before the war. Coming from the quasi-human shape, it sounded

grotesque; O'Neill could vividly imagine the dead young man whose cheerful voice now

issued from the mechanical mouth of this upright construction of steel and wiring.

"One word of caution," the pleasant voice continued. "It is fruitless to consider

this receptor human and to engage it in discussions for which it is not equipped. Although

purposeful, it is not capable of conceptual thought; it can only reassemble material

already available to it."

The optimistic voice clicked out and a second voice came on. It resembled the

first, but now there were no intonations or personal mannerisms. The machine was

utilizing the dead man's phonetic speech-pattern for its own communication.

"Analysis of the rejected product," it stated, "shows no foreign elements or

noticeable deterioration. The product meets the continual testing-standards employed

throughout the network. Rejection is therefore on a basis outside the test area; standards

not available to the network are being employed."

"That's right," O'Neill agreed. Weighing his words with care, he continued, "We

found the milk substandard. We want nothing to do with it. We insist on more careful

output."

The machine responded presently. "The semantic content of the term 'pizzled' is

unfamiliar to the network. It does not exist in the taped vocabulary. Can you present a

factual analysis of the milk in terms of specific elements present or absent?"

"No," O'Neill said warily; the game he was playing was intricate and dangerous. "

'Fizzled' is an overall term. It can't be reduced to chemical constituents."

"What does 'pizzled' signify?" the machine asked. "Can you define it in terms of

alternate semantic symbols?"

O'Neill hesitated. The representative had to be steered from its special inquiry to

more general regions, to the ultimate problem of closing down the network. If he could

pry it open at any point, get the theoretical discussion started. . .

" 'Pizzled,' " he stated, "means the condition of a product that is manufactured

when no need exists. It indicates the rejection of objects on the grounds that they are no

longer wanted."

The representative said, "Network analysis shows a need of high-grade

pasteurized milk-substitute in this area. There is no alternate source; the network controls

all the synthetic mammary-type equipment in existence." It added, "Original taped

instructions describe milk as an essential to human diet."

O'Neill was being outwitted; the machine was returning the discussion to the

specific. "We've decided," he said desperately, "that we don't want any more milk. We'd

prefer to go without it, at least until we can locate cows."

"That is contrary to the network tapes," the representative objected. "There are no

cows. All milk is produced synthetically."

"Then we'll produce it synthetically ourselves," Morrison broke in impatiently.

"Why can't we take over the machines? My God, we're not children! We can run our own

lives!"

The factory representative moved toward the door. "Until such time as your

community finds other sources of milk supply, the network will continue to supply you.

Analytical and evaluating apparatus will remain in this area, conducting the customary

random sampling."

Ferine shouted futilely, "How can we find other sources? You have the whole

setup! You're running the whole show!" Following after it, he bellowed, "You say we're

not ready to run things -- you claim we're not capable. How do you know? You don't give

us a chance! We'll never have a chance!"

O'Neill was petrified. The machine was leaving; its one-track mind had

completely triumphed.

"Look," he said hoarsely, blocking its way. "We want you to shut down,

understand. We want to take over your equipment and run it ourselves. The war's over

with. Damn it, you're not needed anymore!"

The factory representative paused briefly at the door. "The inoperative cycle," it

said, "is not geared to begin until network production merely duplicates outside

production. There is at this time, according to our continual sampling, no outside

production. Therefore network production continues." Without warning, Morrison swung

the steel pipe in his hand. It slashed against the machine's shoulder and burst through the

elaborate network of sensory apparatus that made up its chest. The tank of receptors

shattered; bits of glass, wiring and minute parts showered everywhere.

"It's a paradox!" Morrison yelled. "A word game -- a semantic game they're

pulling on us. The Cyberneticists have it rigged." He raised the pipe and again brought it

down savagely on the unprotesting machine. "They've got us hamstrung. We're

completely helpless."

The room was in uproar. "It's the only way," Ferine gasped as he pushed past

O'Neill. "We'll have to destroy them -- it's the network or us." Grabbing down a lamp, he

hurled it in the "face" of the factory representative. The lamp and the intricate surface of

plastic burst; Ferine waded in, groping blindly for the machine. Now all the people in the

room were closing furiously around the upright cylinder, their impotent resentment

boiling over. The machine sank down and disappeared as they dragged it to the floor.

Trembling, O'Neill turned away. His wife caught hold of his arm and led him to

the side of the room.

"The idiots," he said dejectedly. "They can't destroy it; they'll only teach it to

build more defenses. They're making the whole problem worse."

Into the living room rolled a network repair team. Expertly, the mechanical units

detached themselves from the half-track mother-bug and scurried toward the mound of

struggling humans. They slid between people and rapidly burrowed. A moment later, the

inert carcass of the factory representative was dragged into the hopper of the mother-bug.

Parts were collected, torn remnants gathered up and carried off. The plastic strut and gear

was located. Then the units restationed themselves on the bug and the team departed.

Through the open door came a second factory representative, an exact duplicate

of the first. And outside in the hall stood two more upright machines. The settlement had

been combed at random by a corps of representatives. Like a horde of ants, the mobile

data-collecting machines had filtered through the town until, by chance, one of them had

come across O'Neill.

"Destruction of network mobile data-gathering equipment is detrimental to best

human interests," the factory representative informed the roomful of people. "Raw

material intake is at a dangerously low ebb; what basic materials still exist should be

utilized in the manufacture of consumer commodities."

O'Neill and the machine stood facing each other.

"Oh?" O'Neill said softly. "That's interesting. I wonder what you're lowest on --

and what you'd really be willing to fight for."

Helicopter rotors whined tinnily above O'Neill's head; he ignored them and peered

through the cabin window at the ground not far below.

Slag and ruins stretched everywhere. Weeds poked their way up, sickly stalks

among which insects scuttled. Here and there, rat colonies were visible: matted hovels

constructed of bone and rubble. Radiation had mutated the rats, along with most insects

and animals. A little farther, O'Neill identified a squadron of birds pursuing a ground

squirrel. The squirrel dived into a carefully prepared crack in the surface of slag and the

birds turned, thwarted.

"You think we'll ever have it rebuilt?" Morrison asked. "It makes me sick to look

at it."

"In time," O'Neill answered. "Assuming, of course, that we get industrial control

back. And assuming that anything remains to work with. At best, it'll be slow. We'll have

to inch out from the settlements."

To the right was a human colony, tattered scarecrows, gaunt and emaciated, living

among the ruins of what had once been a town. A few acres of barren soil had been

cleared; drooping vegetables wilted in the sun, chickens wandered listlessly here and

there, and a fly-bothered horse lay panting in the shade of a crude shed.

"Ruins-squatters," O'Neill said gloomily. "Too far from the network -- not tangent

to any of the factories."

"It's their own fault," Morrison told him angrily. "They could come into one of the

settlements."

"That was their town. They're trying to do what we 're trying to do -- build up

things again on their own. But they're starting now, without tools or machines, with their

bare hands, nailing together bits of rubble. And it won't work. We need machines. We

can't repair ruins; we've got to start industrial production."

Ahead lay a series of broken hills, chipped remains that had once been a ridge.

Beyond stretched out the titanic ugly sore of an H-bomb crater, half filled with stagnant

water and slime, a disease-ridden inland sea.

And beyond that -- a glitter of busy motion.

"There," O'Neill said tensely. He lowered the helicopter rapidly. "Can you tell

which factory they're from?"

"They all look alike to me," Morrison muttered, leaning over to see. "We'll have

to wait and follow them back, when they get a load."

"If they get a load," O'Neill corrected.

The autofac exploring crew ignored the helicopter buzzing overhead and

concentrated on its job. Ahead of the main truck scuttled two tractors; they made their

way up mounds of rubble, probes burgeoning like quills, shot down the far slope and

disappeared into a blanket of ash that lay spread over the slag. The two scouts burrowed

until only their antennas were visible. They burst up to the surface and scuttled on, their

treads whirring and clanking.

"What are they after?" Morrison asked.

"God knows." O'Neill leafed intently through the papers on his clipboard. "We'll

have to analyze all our back-order slips."

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TheCompleteStoriesofPhilipK.DickVol.4:TheMinorityReportandOtherClassicStoriesbyPhilipK.DickeVersion4.0/ScanNotesatEOFContentsAutofacSERVICECALLCAPTIVEMARKETTHEMOLDOFYANCYTHEMINORITYREPORTRECALLMECHANISMTHEUNRECONSTRUCTEDMEXPLORERSWEWARGAMEIFTHEREWERENoBENNYCEMOLINOVELTYACTWATERSPIDERWHATTHEDEADMENSA...

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