Philip K. Dick - Solar lottery

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Solar Lottery
Philip K. Dick
eVersion 1.0 / trc
Copyright © 1955
ISBN 0-02-029125-6
ONE
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, a basic
industrial pivot of the system. Small round stones fell near work-camp installations on Mars. At
Batavia, the Directorate of the nine-planet Federation, a two-headed Jersey calf was born: a
certain sign that something of incredible magnitude was brewing.
Everybody interpreted these signs according to his own formula; speculation on what the random
forces of nature intended was a favorite pastime. 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 Hill to its
limited catastrophe was to create total catastrophe for fifty percent of its classified employees.
Fealty oaths were dissolved, and a variety of trained research technicians were tossed out. Cut
adrift, they became a further symptom of the nearing moment-of-importance for the system. Most of
the severed technicians floundered, sank down, and were lost among the unclassified masses. But
not all of them.
Ted Benteley yanked his dismissal notice from the board the moment he spotted it. As he walked
down the hall to his office he quietly tore the notice to pieces and dropped the bits down a
disposal slot. His reaction to dismissal was intense, overpowering, and immediate. It differed
from the reaction of those around him in one significant respect: he was glad to have his oath
severed. For thirteen years he had been trying every legal stratagem to break his fealty oath with
Oiseau-Lyre.
Back in his office, he locked the door, snapped off his Inter-Plan Visual Industries screen, and
did some rapid thinking. It took only an hour to develop his plan of action, and that plan was
refreshingly simple.
At noon, Oiseau-Lyre's outworker department returned his power card, obligatory when an oath was
severed from above. It was odd seeing the card again after so many years. He stood holding it
awkwardly a moment, before he carefully put it away in his wallet. It represented 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 p-card was coded at the moment of birth.
At 2:30, he dissolved his remaining fealty connections at Oiseau-Lyre; they were minor and mostly
with himself as protector and somebody else as serf. By 4:00 he had collected his assets,
liquidated them on an emergency basis (taking a high percentage loss on the fast exchange), and
bought a first-class ticket on a public transport. Before nightfall he was on his way out of
Europe, heading directly toward the Indonesian Empire and its capitol.
In Batavia he rented a cheap room in a boardinghouse and unpacked his suitcase. The rest of his
possessions were still back in France; if he was successful he could get them later, and if he
wasn't they wouldn't matter. Curiously, his room overlooked the main Directorate building. Swarms
of people like eager tropical flies crept in and out of its multiple entrances. All roads and all
spacelanes led to Batavia.
His funds didn't amount to much; he could stall only so long and then action was obligatory. From
the Public Information Library he picked up armloads of tape and a basic scanner. As the days
passed he built up an armory of information relating to all phases of biochemistry, the subject on
which his original classification had been won. As he scanned and crammed he kept one grim thought
in mind: applications for positional-fealty oaths to the Quizmaster were processed only once; if
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he failed on the first try he was through.
That first try was going to be something. He was free of the Hill system, and he wasn't going
back.
During the next five days he smoked endless cigarettes, paced an infinite number of times around
his room, and finally got out the yellow section of the ipvic directory to look up the local bed
girl agencies. His favorite agency had a nearby office; he made a grateful call, and within an
hour most of his psychological problems were in the past. Between the slim blonde sent by the
agency and the swank 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; it was now or never.
A cold chill lay over him as he got out of bed that morning. Quizmaster Verrick's hiring was
integrated on the basic principle of Minimax: positional oaths were apparently passed out on a
random basis. In six days Benteley hadn't been able to plot a pattern. It was impossible to infer
what factor—if any—determined successful application. He perspired, took a quick shower, and
perspired again. In spite of his days of cramming he had learned nothing. He was going in blind.
He shaved, dressed, paid Lori her wages, and then sent her back to the agency.
Loneliness and fear hit him hard. He surrendered his room, stored his suitcase, and, for a better
margin of safety, bought himself a second good luck charm. In a public washroom he buttoned the
charm inside his shirt and dropped a dime in the phenolbarb dispenser. The sedative calmed him a
trifle; 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, adding, "Whatever you say." MacMillans
weren't capable of fine discriminations.
Warm 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. The night before his written
papers had been shot in. He had waited about the right time; they should be appearing on the desk
of the first checker along the unlimited chain of Directorate officials.
"Here we are, sir or madam." The robot taxi settled down and grappled itself to a halt. Benteley
paid it and stepped from the open door.
People hurried everywhere. The air buzzed with a constant murmur of excitement. The tension of the
last few weeks had risen to fever pitch. Ramp hawkers were peddling "methods," low priced sure-
fire theories guaranteed to predict bottle twitches and beat the whole Minimax game. The hawkers
were ignored by the hurrying throngs of people; anybody with a genuine system of prediction would
be using it, not selling it.
On a main pedestrian artery Benteley paused to light a cigarette. His hands weren't shaking, not
really. He shoved his briefcase under his arm and put his hands in his pockets as he continued
slowly toward the processing lounge. The heavy check-arch passed around him and he was inside.
Perhaps by this time next month he would be under fealty to the Directorate. . . he gazed up
hopefully at the arch and touched one of the charms inside his shirt.
"Ted," a voice came, small and urgent. "Wait."
He halted. Breasts bobbing, Lori threaded her way through the tight-packed crowd and came quickly
up to him. "I have something for you," she said breathlessly. "I knew I'd catch you here."
"What is it?" Benteley demanded tautly. He was conscious that the Directorate's teep Corps was
close by; he didn't particularly want his intimate thoughts in the hands of eighty bored
telepaths.
"Here." Lori reached around his neck and clicked something in place. Passers-by grinned in
sympathetic amusement; it was another good luck charm.
Benteley examined the charm. It looked like an expensive one. "You think it'll do me any good?" he
asked her. Seeing Lori again wasn't part of his plans.
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"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. "You think you have much of a chance? Gee, if you get
taken on, you'll probably stay here in Batavia."
Irritated, Benteley answered, "You're being teeped while you stand here. Verrick has them planted
all over the place."
"I don't mind," Lori said wistfully. "A bed girl has nothing to conceal."
Benteley wasn't amused. "I don't like it. I've never been teeped in my life." He shrugged. "But I
guess if I'm going to lock on here, I'll have to get used to it."
He moved toward the central desk, his i.d. and power cards ready. The line moved rapidly. A few
moments later the MacMillan official accepted them, devoured them, and then addressed him
peevishly. "All right, Ted Benteley. You may go in now."
"Well," Lori said wanly, "I guess I'll be seeing you. If you get locked on here . . ."
Benteley stubbed out his cigarette and turned toward the entrance of the inner offices. "I'll look
you up," he murmured, scarcely aware of the girl. He pushed past the rows of waiting people, swept
his briefcase tight against him, and stepped quickly through the door. The door snapped instantly
shut behind him.
He was inside: it had begun.
A small middle-aged man with steel-rimmed glasses and a tiny waxed mustache was standing by the
door watching him intently. "You're Benteley, are you?"
"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 slid up onto the desk and shrugged her tangle of crimson hair back out of her
eyes. She grabbed a package of cigarettes from the desk and lit up with shaky, nervous fingers.
"Let's get the hell out of here, Peter. There's nothing of importance left."
"You know I'm staying," the small man said.
"You're a fool." The girl half turned as she noticed Benteley for the first time. Her green eyes
flickered with surprise and interest. "Who are you?"
"Maybe you 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 the runaround," 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 savagely. "I'm looking for a class 8-8 position."
A faint touch of amusement twisted the girl's red lips. "Is that so? Interesting . . ." She
shrugged her bare shoulders. "Swear him on, Peter."
The small man hesitated. Reluctantly, he stuck out his hand. "I'm Peter Wakeman," he said to
Benteley. "This girl is Eleanor Stevens. She's Verrick's private secretary."
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It wasn't exactly what Benteley had expected. There was a momentary silence as the three of them
appraised one another.
"The MacMillan sent him on in," Wakeman said presently.
There's an open call for 8-8 people. But I think Verrick has no need for more biochemists; he's
got enough already."
"What do you know about it?" Eleanor Stevens demanded. "It's none of your business; you're not
running personnel."
"I'm using common sense." Wakeman moved very deliberately between the girl and Benteley. "I'm
sorry," he said to Benteley. "You're wasting your time here. Go to the Hill hiring 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 angrily. "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 clean white lab and the
use of equipment that costs more to build than I'll earn in a lifetime. I get status-insurance and
total protection. But I wonder what the end result of my work is. I wonder what it's finally put
to. I wonder where it goes."
"Where does it go?" Eleanor asked.
"Down the rat hole! It doesn't help anybody."
"Whom should it help?"
Benteley struggled to answer. "I don't know. Somebody, somewhere. Don't you want your work to do
some good? I stood the smell hanging around Oiseau-Lyre as long as possible. The Hills are
supposed to be separate and independent economic units; actually they're shipments and expense
padding and doctored tax returns. It goes deeper than that. 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 dryly.
Benteley moved restlessly away from the two of them; they were watching him as if he were a public
entertainer. Why did he get upset about the Hills? Playing classified serf to a Hill paid off;
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."
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"Let him swear on," Eleanor said indifferently. "If that's what he wants, give it to him."
Wakeman shook his head. "I won't swear him on."
"I will, then," the girl answered.
"You'll pardon me," Wakeman said. From the desk drawer he got a fifth of Scotch and poured himself
a drink. "Anybody care to join me?"
"No, thanks," Eleanor said.
Benteley turned his back irritably. "What the hell is all this? Is this the way the Directorate is
run?"
Wakeman smiled. "You see? 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 a small plastic flesh-colored bust of Reese Verrick in the center of the desk
and turned briskly to Benteley. "Come on." As Benteley moved slowly toward the desk, she reached
up and touched the cloth bag hanging from a string around his neck, the charm Lori had put there.
"What kind of charm is that?" she asked him. She led him over beside her. "Tell me about it."
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 between her bare breasts.
"I don't understand how people get by with only one charm." Her green eyes danced. "Maybe you
don't get by. Maybe that's why you have bad luck."
"I have a high positive scale," Benteley began irritably. "And I have two other charms. Somebody
gave me this."
"Oh?" She leaned close and examined it intently. "It looks like the kind of charm a woman would
buy. Expensive, but a little too 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 6-3. Talk about luck—that man has it. 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, with shy pride. "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 discolored 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 calmly. "I think luck can be won or lost. It
comes in streaks." Speaking slowly and intently to Benteley, he continued, "Verrick may have it
now, but that doesn't mean hell always have it. They—" He gestured vaguely upward toward 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 random chance." He breathed
a complicated smell of peppermint and onions into Benteley's face. "But everybody gets his chance,
someday. And the high and mighty always fall."
Eleanor shot Wakeman a warning look. "Be careful."
Without taking his eyes from Benteley, Wakeman said slowly, "Remember what I'm telling you. You're
out of fealty; take advantage of it. Don't swear yourself on to Verrick. You'll be stuck to him,
as one of his permanent serfs. And you won't like it."
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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?"
"Things are a little uncertain right now. I can't give you any more information. Later on,
there'll be an assignment for you in terms of your class requirements; that's guaranteed."
Benteley gripped his briefcase and moved aimlessly away. His strategy, his plan, had fallen apart.
Nothing that he had run up against here corresponded to his expectations. "Then I'm in?" he
demanded, half-angrily. "I'm acceptable?"
"Sure," Wakeman said listlessly. "Verrick wants all the 8-8's he can get. You can't miss."
Benteley retreated helplessly from the two of them. Something was wrong. "Wait," he said, confused
and uncertain. "I have to think this out. Give me time to decide."
"Go right ahead," Eleanor said indifferently.
"Thanks." Benteley withdrew, to restudy the situation.
Eleanor wandered around the room, hands in her pockets. "Any more news on that fellow?" she asked
Wakeman. "I'm waiting."
"Only the initial closed-circuit warning to me," Wakeman said. "His name is Leon Cartwright. He's
a member of some kind of cult, a crackpot splinter organization. I'm curious to see what he's
like."
"I'm not." Eleanor halted at the window and stood gazing moodily out at the streets and ramps
below. "They'll be shrilling, soon. It won't be long now." She reached up jerkily and ran her thin
fingers over her temples. "God, maybe I made a mistake. But it's over; there's nothing I can do."
"It was a mistake," Wakeman agreed. "When you're a little older, you'll realize how much of a
mistake."
A flash of fear slithered over the girl's face. "I'll never leave Verrick. I have to stay with
him!"
"Why?"
"I'll be safe. Hell take care of me; he always has."
"The Corps will protect you."
"I don't want to have anything to do with the Corps." Her red 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 man."
"The Corps is a fixture, like this desk." Eleanor scraped her long nails against the surface of
the desk. "You buy all the furniture, the desk, 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. Like I would be
about some sort of bizarre animal from one of the colony planets."
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
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oath? Do you need help?"
Benteley knew the fealty oath by heart, but gnawing doubt slowed him almost to a halt. Wakeman
stood examining his nails and looking disapproving and bored, a small negative field of radiation.
Eleanor Stevens watched avidly, her face intense with a complex series of 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.
As he was halfway through, the doors of the office slid back and a group of men entered noisily.
One towered over the rest; he was a huge man, lumbering and broad-shouldered, with a gray,
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 and said nothing; but his attitude
clearly showed. Eleanor Stevens had turned rigid as stone. Cheeks flushed, body taut with feeling,
she waited out Benteley's uneasy words. As soon as he 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 p-card, Mr. Benteley. We have to have it."
Benteley, numbed, turned over his card. There it went, once again.
"Who's this fellow?" Verrick rumbled, with a wave toward Benteley.
"He swore on just now. An 8-8." Eleanor nervously grabbed up her things from the desk; between her
breasts her good luck charms dangled and vibrated excitedly. "I'll get my coat."
"8-8? Biochemist?" Verrick eyed Benteley with interest. "Is he any good?"
"He's all right," Wakeman said. "What I teeped seemed to be top-notch."
Eleanor hurriedly slammed the closet door, threw her coat around her bare shoulders, and stuffed
her pockets full. "He just came in, from Oiseau-Lyre." She rushed breathlessly up to join the
group clustered around Verrick. "He doesn't know, yet."
Verrick's heavy face was wrinkled with fatigue and worry, but a faint spark of amusement lit his
deep-set eyes, the hard gray orbs far down in the ridge of thick brow-bone. "The last crumbs, for
awhile. The rest goes to Cartwright, the Prestonite." He addressed Benteley, "What's your name?"
They shook hands, as Benteley mumbled his name. Verrick's massive hand crunched his bones in a
death-grip as Benteley feebly asked, "Where are we going? I thought—"
"Farben Hill." Verrick and his group moved toward the exit ramp, 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 Farben 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; bright
sunlight flooded down on them, mixed with the roar of street noises. For the first time the cries
of the newsmachines burst up loudly to his ears. As the party moved down the ramp toward the field
and the waiting intercon transports, Benteley demanded hoarsely, _"What's happened?"_
"Come on," Verrick grunted. "You'll know all about it, before long. We've got too much work ahead
to stand around here talking."
Benteley slowly followed the party, the copper taste of horror thick in his mouth. He knew, now.
It was being shrilled on all sides of him, screamed out by the excited mechanical voices of the
public newsmachines.
"Verrick quacked!" the machines cried, as they moved among the groups of people. "Prestonite
bottled to One! A twitch of the bottle this morning at nine-thirty Batavia time! Verrrrrick
totally quaaaaaackedl"
The random power-twitch had come, the event the harbingers had anticipated. Verrick had been
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twitched 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 Farben Hill. All of them were caught up
together in the rush of events that was shivering through the nine-planet system like a breathless
winter storm.
TWO
EARLY in the morning Leon Cartwright drove carefully along the narrow, twisting streets in his
ancient '82 Chevrolet, his competent hands firmly gripping the wheel, his eyes on the traffic
ahead. As usual, he wore an outmoded but immaculate double-breasted suit. A shapeless hat was
crushed against his head, and in his vest pocket a watch ticked to itself. Everything about him
breathed obsolescence and age; he was perhaps sixty, a lean, sinewy-built man, very tall and
straight, but small-boned, with mild blue eyes and liver-spotted wrists. His arms were thin, but
strong and wiry. He had a quiet, almost gentle expression on his gaunt face. He drove as if not
completely trusting either himself or the aged car.
In the back seat lay heaps and stacks of mailing-tapes ready to be sent out. The floor sagged
under heavy bundles of metalfoil to be imprinted and franked. An old raincoat was wadded in the
corner, together with a stale container of lunch and a number of discarded overshoes. Wedged under
the seat was a loaded Hopper popper, stuck there years ago.
The buildings on both sides of Cartwright were old and faded, thin peeling things of dusty windows
and drab neon signs. They were relics of the last century, like himself and his car. Drab men, in
faded pants and workjackets, hands in their pockets, eyes blank and unfriendly, lounged in
doorways and against walls. Dumpy middle-aged women in shapeless black coats dragged rickety
shopping carts into dark stores, to pick fretfully over the limp merchandise, stale food to be
lugged back to their stuffy urine-tinged apartments, to their restless families.
Mankind's lot, Cartwright observed, hadn't changed much, of late. The Classification system, the
elaborate Quizzes, hadn't done most people any good. The unks, the unclassified, remained.
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 1950's and '60's, consumer commodities and
farm products began to pile up in vast 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
gasoline on the cars and toasters and clothes and oranges and coffee and cigarettes that nobody
could buy, igniting them in a blinding conflagration. In each town there was a burning-place,
fenced off, a kind of rubbish and ash heap, 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 tv 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: dispenser of power—Quizmaster, and that meant running the Quiz
itself.
The disintegration of the social and economic system had been slow, gradual, and profound. 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; all that remained was probable sequence:
good odds in a universe of random chance.
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The theory of Minimax—the M-Game—was a kind of Stoic withdrawal, a nonparticipation 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.
Signalling, Cartwright pulled his ancient car to the curb. Ahead of him the Society building
gleamed dirty white in the May sun, a narrow three-story 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 cartons of mailing literature onto the sidewalk. The people swarming by ignored him; a
few yards up a fishmonger was unloading his truck in similar fashion. Across the street a looming
hotel shielded a motley family of parasitic stores and dilapidated business establishments: loan
shops, cigar stores, girl houses, bars.
Rolling a carton onto his knees, Cartwright trundled it down the narrow walk and into the gloomy
storage room of the building. A single atronic bulb glowed feebly in the dank darkness; supplies
were stacked on all sides, towering columns of crates and wire-bound boxes. He found an empty
spot, set down his heavy load, and then passed through the hall and into the cramped little front
office.
The office and its barren reception room were—as usual-empty. The front door of the building was
standing wide open. Cartwright picked up a heap of mail; sitting down on the sagging couch, he
spread the mail out on the table and began going through it. There was nothing of importance:
bills for printing, freight, rent, overdue penalties for power and garbage collection, water and
raw supplies.
Opening a letter, he removed a five dollar bill and a long note in a shaky, old-woman's
handwriting. There were a few more microscopic contributions. Adding it up, he found that the
Society had taken in thirty dollars.
"They're getting restless," Rita O'Neill said, appearing in the doorway behind him. "Maybe we
should begin."
Cartwright sighed. The time had come. Pulling himself to his feet, he emptied an ashtray,
straightened a pile of dog-eared copies of Preston's _Flame Disc_, and reluctantly followed the
girl down the narrow hall. Below the fly-specked photograph of John Preston, just to the left of
the row of scarf-hooks, he stepped forward and passed through the false slot into the vague
interior passage that ran parallel to the ordinary corridor.
At sight of him, the roomful of people ceased talking abruptly. All eyes were turned; an eager
hope mixed with fright shuddered around the room. Relieved, a few of the people edged toward 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 about him as he moved toward die center.
"Here we go," Bill Konklin said, relieved.
Beside him, Mary Uzich said eagerly, "We've waited so long—we just can't wait any longerl"
Cartwright felt in his pockets until he found his checklist. A bewildering variety of people
crowded anxiously around him: Mexican laborers mute and frightened, clutching their belongings, a
hard-faced urban couple, a jet stoker, Japanese optical workmen, a red-lipped bed girl, the middle-
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aged owner of a retail dry goods store that had gone quack, an agronomy student, a patent medicine
salesman, a cook, a nurse, a carpenter. All of them were perspiring, shoving, listening, watching
intently.
These were people with skill in their hands—not their heads. Their abilities had come from years
of practice and work, from direct contact with objects. 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," Jereti said tensely. Cartwright took a deep breath of prayer and
raised his voice so all could hear. "I want to say something before you leave. The ship is ready
to go; it's been checked over by our friends at the field."
"That's correct," Captain Groves corroborated; he was an impressive, stern-faced Negro in leather
jacket, gloves, and boots.
Cartwright rattled his scrap of crumpled metalfoil. "Well, this is it. Anybody have any doubts?
Anybody want to back out?"
There was excitement and tension, but none of them stirred. Mary Uzich smiled at Cartwright and
then up at the young man beside her; Konklin put his arm around her and pulled her close.
"This is what we've worked for," Cartwright continued. "This is the moment our money and time have
gone to. I wish John Preston were here; he'd be glad to see this. He knew it would come, some day.
He knew there'd be a ship heading out past the colony planets, beyond the regions controlled by
the Directorate. In his heart he was certain that men would seek new frontiers . . . and freedom."
He examined his watch. "Good-bye and good luck—you're on your way. Keep tight hold of your charms
and let Groves do the steering."
One by one they gathered their meager possessions and shuffled out of the room. Cartwright shook
hands with them, mumbled words of hope and comfort. When the last of them had gone he stood for a
moment, silent and thoughtful, in the now deserted room.
"I'm glad that's over," Rita declared, relaxing. "I was afraid some of them would back out."
"The unknown is a terrible place. There are monsters out there. And in one of his books Preston
describes weird calling voices." Cartwright poured himself a cup of black coffee from the silex.
"Well, we have our part here. I don't know which is worse."
"I never really believed it," Rita said, smoothing her black hair with an unconscious push of her
slim, competent fingers. "You can change the universe . . . there's nothing you can't do."
"There's plenty I can't do," Cartwright disagreed dryly. "I'll try a few things, start some
activity here and there, put an end to something else. But they'll get me, before long."
Rita was appalled. "How—can you say that?"
"I'm being realistic." His voice was hard, almost savage. "Assassins have killed every unk the
bottle ever twitched. How long do you think it'll take them to get the Challenge Convention set
up? The checks and balances of this system work to check us and balance them. As far as they're
concerned, I broke the rules by just wanting to play. Anything that happens to me from now on is
my own fault."
"Do they know about the ship?"
"I doubt it." Morbidly, he added, "I hope not."
"You can last that long, until the ship is safe. Isn't that the—" Rita broke off, turning in fear.
From outside the building came the sound of jets. A ship was setting down on the roof, a sudden
metallic whirr like that of a steel insect. There was a staggering thump, then voices and quick
movements from the floors above, as the roof trap was yanked open.
Rita saw the look on her uncle's face, the momentary terror gleaming out, the brief flash of
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file:///F|/rah/Philip%20K.Dick/Dick%20Solar%20Lottery.txtSolarLotteryPhilipK.DickeVersion1.0/trcCopyright©1955ISBN0-02-029125-6ONETHEREhadbeenharbingers.EarlyinMayof2203,newsmachineswereexcitedbyaflightofwhitecrowsoverSweden.AseriesofunexplainedfiresdemolishedhalftheOiseau-LyreHill,abasicindustria...

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