Philip K. Dick - Cantata 141

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Cantata-104 by Philip K. Dick

CANTATA-141

by Philip K. Dick

Also by Philip K. Dick

Solar Lottery (1955)

The World Jones Made (1956)

The Man Who Japed (1956)

The Cosmic Puppets (1957)

Eye in the Sky (1957)

Dr. Futurity (1959)

Time Out of Joint (1959)

Vulcan's Hammer (1960)

The Man in the High Castle (1962)

The Game-Players of Titan (1963)

The Penultimate Truth (1964)

The Simulacra (1964)

Martian Time Slip (1964)

Clans of the Alphane Moon (1964)

The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch (1965)

Dr. Bloodmoney or How We Got Along After the Bomb (1965)

The Ganymede Takeover (with Ray F. Nelson) (1967)

Now Wait for Last Year (1966)

The Zap Gun (1967)

Counter-Clock World (1967)

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep ? (1968)

Galactic Pot-Healer (1969)

Ubik (1969)

Our Friends from Frolix 8 (1970)

A Maze of Death (1970)

We Can Build You (1972)

Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said (1974)

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Cantata-104 by Philip K. Dick

Confessions of a Crap Artist (1975)

Deus Irae (with Roger Zelazny) (1976)

A Scanner Darkly (1977)

The Divine Invasion (1981)

Valis (1981)

The Transmigration of Timothy Archer (1982)

Lies, Inc (1984)

The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly Alike (1984)

Puttering About in a Small Land (1985)

In Milton Lumky Territory (1985)

Radio Free Albemuth (1985)

Humpty Dumpty in Oakland (1986)

Mary and the Giant (1987)

The Broken Bubble (1988)

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

The Variable Man (1957)

A Handful of Darkness (1966)

The Turning Wheel (1977)

The Best of Philip K. Dick (1977)

The Golden Man (1980)

Minority Report (2002)

THE COLLECTED STORIES OF PHILIP K. DICK

Beyond Lies the Wub (1987)

Second Variety (1987)

The Father Thing (1987)

Minority Report (1987)

We Can Remember It For You Wholesale (1987)

The right of Philip K. Dick to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with

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Cantata-104 by Philip K. Dick

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2003 by Gollancz

An imprint of the Orion Publishing Group

Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane, London WC2H 9EA

ISBN 0 575 07459 0

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

The young couple, black-haired, dark-skinned, probably Mexican or Puerto Rican, stood

nervously at Herb Lackmore's counter and the boy, the husband, said in a low voice, 'Sir, we

want to be put to sleep. We want to become bibs.'

Rising from his desk, Lackmore walked to the counter and although he did not like Cols - there

seemed to be more of them every month, coming into his Oakland branch office of the U.S.

Department on Special Public Welfare - he said in a pleasant tone of voice designed to reassure

the two of them, 'Have you thought it over carefully, folks ? It's a big step. You might be out for,

say, a few hundred years. Have you shopped for any professional advice about this ?'

The boy, glancing at his wife, swallowed and murmured, 'No, sir. We just decided between us.

Neither of us can get a job and we're about to be evicted from our dorm. We don't even own a

wheel, and what can you do without a wheel ? You can't go anywhere. You can't even look for

work.' He was not a bad-looking boy, Lackmore noticed. Possibly eighteen, he still wore the coat

and trousers which were army-separation issue. The girl had long hair; she was quite small, with

black, bright eyes and a delicately-formed almost doll-like face. She never ceased watching her

husband.

'I'm going to have a baby,' the girl blurted.

'Aw, the heck with both of you,' Lackmore said in disgust, drawing his breath in sharply. 'You

both get right out of here.'

Ducking their heads guiltily the boy and his wife turned and started from Lackmore's office, back

outside onto the busy downtown early-morning Oakland, California street.

'Go see an abort-consultant!' Lackmore called after them irritably. He resented having to help

them, but obviously someone had to; look at the spot they had gotten themselves into. Because

no doubt they were living on a government military pension, and if the girl was pregnant the

pension would automatically be withdrawn.

Plucking hesitantly at the sleeve of his wrinkled coat the Col boy said, 'Sir, how do we find an

abort-consultant ?'

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Cantata-104 by Philip K. Dick

The ignorance of the dark-skinned strata, despite the government's ceaseless educational

campaigns. No wonder their women were often preg. 'Look in the phone book,' Lackmore said.

'Under abortionists, therapeutic. Then the subsection advisors. Got it ?'

'Yes, sir. Thank you.' The boy nodded rapidly.

'Can you read ?'

'Yes. I stayed in school until I was thirteen.' On the boy's face fierce pride showed; his black eyes

gleamed.

Lackmore returned to reading his homeopape; he did not have any more time to offer gratis. No

wonder they wanted to become bibs. Preserved, unchanged, in a government warehouse, year

after year, until - would the labor market ever improve ? Lackmore personally doubted it, and he

had been around a long time; he was ninety-five years old, a jerry. In his time he had put to sleep

thousands of people, almost all of them, like this couple, young. And - dark.

The door of the office shut. The young couple had gone again as quietly as they had come.

Sighing, Lackmore began to read once more the pape's article on the divorce trial of Lurton D.

Sands, Jr, the most sensational event now taking place; as always, he read every word of it avidly.

This day began for Darius Pethel with vidphone calls from irate customers wanting to know why

their Jiffi-scuttlers hadn't been fixed. Any time now, he told them soothingly, and hoped that

Erickson was already at work in the service department of Pethel Jiffi-scuttler Sales & Service.

As soon as he was off the vidphone Pethel searched among the litter on his desk for the day's

copy of U.S. Business Report; he of course kept abreast of all the economic developments on the

planet. This alone set him above his employees; this, his wealth, and his advanced age.

'What's it say ?' his salesman, Stu Hadley, asked, standing in the office doorway, robant magnetic

broom in hand, pausing in his activity.

Silently, Pethel read the major headline.

EFFECTS ON THE NATION'S BUSINESS

COMMUNITY OF A NEGRO PRESIDENT

And there, in 3-D, animated, was a pic of James Briskin; the pic came to life, Candidate Briskin

smiled in miniature, as Pethel pressed the tab beneath it. The Negro's mustache-obscured lips

moved and above his head a balloon appeared, filled with the words he was saying.

My first task will be to find an equitable disposition of the tens of millions of sleeping.

'And dump every last bib back on the labor market,' Pethel murmured, releasing the word tab. 'If

this guy gets in, the nation's ruined.' But it was inevitable. Sooner or later, there would be a

Negro president; after all, since the Event of 1993 there had been more Cols than Caucs.

Gloomily, he turned to page-two for the latest on the Lurton Sands scandal; maybe that would

cheer him up, the political news being so bad. The famous org-trans surgeon had become

involved in a sensational contested divorce suit with his equally famous wife Myra, the abort-

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Cantata-104 by Philip K. Dick

consultant. All sorts of juicy details were beginning to filter out, charges on both sides. Dr Sands,

according to the homeopapes, had a mistress; that was why Myra had stomped out, and rightly

so. Not like the old days, Pethel thought, recalling his youth in the late decades of the twentieth

century. Now it was 2080 and public - and private - morality had worsened.

Why would Dr Sands want a mistress anyhow, Pethel wondered, when there's that Golden Door

Moments of Bliss satellite passing overhead every day ? They say there're five thousand girls to

choose from.

He, himself, had never visited Thisbe Olt's satellite; he did not approve of it, nor did very many

jerries - it was too radical a solution to the overpopulation problem, and seniors, by letter and

telegram, had fought its passage in Congress back in '72. But the bill had gone through

anyhow ... probably, he reflected, because most Congressmen had the idea of taking a jet'ab up

there themselves. And no doubt regularly did, now.

'If we whites stick together - ' Hadley began.

'Listen,' Pethel said, 'that time has passed. If Briskin can dispose of the bibs, more power to him;

personally, it keeps me awake at night, thinking of all those people, most of them just kids, lying

in those gov warehouses year after year. Look at the talent going to waste. It's - bureaucratic!

Only a swollen socialist government would have dreamed up a solution like that.' He eyed his

salesman harshly. 'If you hadn't gotten this job with me, even you might - '

Hadley interrupted quietly, 'But I'm white.'

Reading on further, Pethel saw that Thisbe Olt's satellite had grossed a billion U.S. dollars in

2079. Wow, he said to himself. That's big business, Before him was a pic of Thisbe; with

cadmium-white hair and little high conical breasts she was a superb sight, an aesthetic as well as

a sexual treat. The pic showed her serving male guests of her satellite a tequila sour - an added

fillip because tequila, being derived from the mescal plant, had long been illegal on Earth proper.

Pethel touched the word tab of Thisbe's pic and at once Thisbe's eyes sparkled, her head turned,

her stable, dense breasts vibrated subtly, and in the balloon above her head the proper words

formed.

Embarrassing personal urgency, Mr. American businessman ? Do as many doctors recommend:

visit my Golden Door!

It was an ad, Pethel discovered. Not an informative article.

'Excuse me.' A customer had entered the store and Hadley moved in his direction.

Oh lord, Darius Pethel thought as he recognized the customer. Don't we have his 'scuttler fixed

yet ? He rose to his feet, knowing that he would be personally needed to appease the man; this

was Dr Lurton Sands, and because of his recent domestic troubles he had become, of late,

demanding and hot-tempered.

'Yes, Doctor,' Pethel said, walking toward him. 'What can I do for you today ?' As if he didn't

know. Trying to fight off Myra as well as keep his mistress, Cally Vale, Dr Sands had enough

problems; he really needed the use of his Jiffi-scuttler. Unlike other customers it was not going

to be possible to put this man off.

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Cantata-104 by Philip K. Dick

Plucking by reflex at his great handlebar mustache, presidential candidate Jim Briskin said

tentatively, 'We're in a rut, Sal. I ought to fire you. You're trying to make me out the epitome of

the Cols and yet you know I've spent twenty years playing up to the white power structure.

Frankly, I think we'd have better luck trying to get the white vote, not the dark. I'm used to them;

I can appeal to them.'

'You're wrong,' his campaign manager, Salisbury Heim, said. 'Your appeal - listen and

understand this, Jim - is to the dark kid and his wife scared to death their only prospect is

winding up bibs in some gov warehouse. "Bottled in bond," as they say. In you these people

see...'

'But I feel guilty.'

'Why ?' Sal Heim demanded.

'Because I'm a fake. I can't close the Dept of SPW warehouses; you know that. You got me to

promise, and ever since I've been sweating my life away trying to conceive how it could be done.

And there isn't any way.' He examined his wristwatch; one quarter-hour remained before he had

to give his speech. 'Have you read the speech Phil Danville wrote for me ?' He reached into his

disorganized, lumpy coat-pouch.

'Danville!' Heim's face convulsed. 'I thought you got rid of him; give me that.' He grabbed the

folded sheets and began going over them. 'Danville is a nut. Look.' He waved the first sheet in

Jim Briskin's face. 'According to him, you're going to ban traffic from the U.S. to Thisbe's

satellite.

That's insane! If the Golden Door is closed, the birth rate will jump back up again where it was -

what then ? How does Danville manage to counter that ?'

After a pause Briskin said, 'The Golden Door is immoral.'

Spluttering, Heim said, 'Sure. And animals should wear pants.'

'There's just got to be a better solution than that satellite.'

Heim lapsed into silence as he read further into title speech. 'And he has you advocate this

outmoded, thoroughly discredited planet-wetting technique of Bruno Mini.' He tossed the papers

into Jim Briskin's lap. 'So what do you wind up with ? You back a planetary colonization scheme

tried twenty years ago and abandoned; you advocate closing the Golden Door satellite - you'll be

popular, Jim, after tonight. But popular with whom, though ? Just answer me; who is this aimed

at ?’ He waited.

There was silence.

'You know what I think ?' Heim said presently. 'I think this is your elaborate way of giving up.

Of saying to hell with the whole thing. It's how you shed responsibility; I saw you start to do the

same thing at the convention in that crazy doomsday speech you gave, that morbid curiosity

which still has everyone baffled. But fortunately you'd already been nominated. It was too late

for the convention to repudiate you.'

Briskin said, 'I expressed my real convictions in that speech.'

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'What, that civilization is now doomed because of this overpopulation biz ? Some convictions for

the first Col President to have.' Heim got to his feet and walked to the window; he stood looking

out at downtown Philadelphia, at tide jet-copters landing, the runnels of autocars and ramps of

footers coming and going, into and out of every high-rise building in sight. 'I once in a while

think,' Heim said in a low voice, 'that you feel it's doomed because it's nominated a Negro and

may elect him; it's a way of putting yourself down.'

'No,' Briskin said, with calm; his long face remained unruffled.

'I'll tell you what to say in your speech for tonight,' Heim said, his back to Briskin. 'First, you

once more describe your relationship with Frank Woodbine, because people go for space

explorers; Woodbine is a hero, much more so than you or what's-his-name. You know; the man

you're running against. The SRCD incumbent.'

'William Schwarz.'

Heim nodded exaggeratedly. 'Yes, you're right. Then after you gas about Woodbine - and we

show a few shots of you and him standing together on various planets - then you make a joke

about Dr Sands.'

'No,' Briskin said.

'Why not ? Is Sands a sacred cow ? You ain't touch him ?'

Jim Briskin said slowly, painstakingly, 'Because Sands is a great doctor and shouldn't be

ridiculed in the media the way he is right now.'

'He saved your brother's life. By finding him a wet new liver just in the nick of time. Or he saved

your mother just when...'

'Sands has preserved hundreds, thousands, of people. Including plenty of Cols. Whether they

were able to pay or not.' Briskin was silent a moment and then he added, 'Also I met his wife

Myra and I didn't like her. Years ago I went to her; I had made a girl preg and we wanted abort

advice.'

'Good!' Heim said violently. 'We can use that. You made a girl pregnant - that, when Nonovulid

is free for the asking; that shows you're a provident type, Jim.' He tapped his forehead. 'You

think ahead.'

'I now have five minutes,' Briskin said woodenly. He gathered up the pages of Phil Danville's

speech and returned them to his inside coat pouch; he still wore a formal dark suit even in hot

weather. That, and a flaming red wig, had been his trademark back in the days when he had

telecast as a TV newsclown.

'Give that speech,' Heim said, 'and you're politically dead. And if you're...' He broke off. The

door to the room had opened and his wife Patricia stood there.

'Sorry to bother you,' Pat said. 'But everyone out here can hear you yelling.' Heim caught a

glimpse, then, of the big outside room full of teen-age Briskinettes, uniformed young volunteers

who had come from all over the country to help elect the Republican Liberal candidate.

'Sorry,' Heim murmured.

Pat entered the room and shut the door after her. 'I think Jim’s right, Sal.' Small, gracefully-built

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- she had once been a dancer - Pat lithely seated herself and lit a cigar. 'The more naive Jim

appears, the better.' She blew gray smoke from between her luminous, pale lifts. 'He still has a

lingering reputation for being cynical. Whereas he should be another Wendell Wilkie.'

'Wilkie lost,' Heim pointed out.

'And Jim may lose,' Pat said; she tossed her head, brushing back her long hair from her eyes. 'But

if he does, he can run again and win next time. The important thing is for him to appear sensitive

and innocent, a sweet person who takes the world's suffering on his own shoulders because he's

made that way. He can't help it; he has to suffer. You see ?'

'Amateurs,' Heim said, and groaned.

The TV cameras stood inert, as the seconds passed, but they were ready to begin; the time for the

speech lay just ahead as Jim Briskin sat at the small desk which he employed when addressing

the people. Before him, near at hand, rested Phil Danville's speech. And he sat meditating as the

TV technicians prepared for the recording.

The speech would be beamed to the Republican-Liberal Party's satellite relay station and from it

telecast repeatedly until saturation point had been achieved. States Rights Conservative

Democrat attempts to jam it would probably fail, because of the enormous signal-strength of the

R-L satellite. The message would get through despite Tompkins Act, which permitted jamming

of political material. And, simultaneously, Schwarz' speech would be jammed in return; it was

scheduled for release at the same time.

Across from him sat Patricia Heim, lost in a cloud of nervous introspection. And, in the control

room, he caught a glimpse of Sal, busy with the TV engineers, making certain that the image

recorded would be flattering.

And, off in a corner by himself, sat Phil Danville. No one talked to Danville; the party bigwigs,

passing in and out of the studio, astutely ignored his existence.

A technician nodded to Jim. Time to begin his speech.

'It's very popular these days,' Jim Briskin said to the TV camera, 'to make fun of the old dreams

and schemes for planetary colonization. How could people have been so nutty ? Trying to live in

completely inhuman environments ... on worlds never designed for Homo sapiens. And it's

amusing that they tried for decades to alter these hostile environments to meet human needs - and

naturally failed.' He spoke slowly, almost drawlingly; he took his time. He had the attention of

the nation, and he meant to make thorough use of it. 'So now we're looking for a planet ready-

made, another "Venus", or more accurately what Venus specifically never was. What we had

hoped it would be: lush, moist and verdant and productive, a Garden of Eden just waiting for us

to show up.'

Reflectively, Patricia Heim smoked her El Producto alta cigar, never taking her eyes from him.

'Well,' Jim Briskin said, 'we'll never find it. And if we do, it'll be too late. Too small, too late, too

far away. If we want another Venus, a planet we can colonize, we'll have to manufacture it

ourselves. We can laugh ourselves sick at Bruno Mini, but the fact is, he was right.'

In the control room Sal Heim stared at him in gross anguish. He had done it. Sanctioned Mini's

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abandoned scheme of recasting the ecology of another world. Madness revisited.

The camera clicked off.

Turning his head, Jim Briskin saw the expression on Sal Heim's face. He had been cut off there

in the control room; Sal had given the order.

'You're not going to let me finish ?' Jim said.

Sal's voice, amplified, boomed, 'No, goddam it. No!'

Standing up, Pat called back, 'You have to. He's the candidate. If he wants to hang himself, let

him.'

Also on his feet, Danville said hoarsely, 'If you cut him off again I'll spill it publicly. I'll leak the

entire thing how you're working him like a puppet!' He started at once toward the door of the

studio; he was leaving. Evidently he meant what he had said.

Jim Briskin said, 'You better turn it back on, Sal. They' re right; you have to let me talk.' He did

not feel angry, only impatient. His desire was to continue, nothing else. 'Come on, Sal,' he said

quietly. 'I'm waiting.'

The party brass and Sal Heim, in the control room, conferred.

'He'll give in,' Pat said to Jim Briskin. 'I know Sal.' Her face was expressionless; she did not

enjoy this, but she intended to endure it.

'Right,' Jim agreed, nodding.

'But will you watch a playback of the speech, Jim ?' She said, 'For Sal's sake. Just to be sure you

intend what you say.'

'Sure,' he said. He had meant to anyhow.

Sal Heim's voice boomed from the wall speaker. 'Damn your black Col hide, Jim!'

Grinning, Jim Briskin waited, seated at his desk, his arms folded.

The read light of the central camera clicked back on.

After the speech Jim Briskin’s press secretary, Dorothy Gill, collared him in the corridor. 'Mr.

Briskin, you asked me yesterday to find out if Bruno Mini is still alive. He is, after a fashion.'

Miss Gill examined her notes. 'He's a buyer for a dried fruit company in Sacramento, California,

now. Evidently Mini's entirely given up his planet-wetting career, but your speech just now will

probably bring him back to his old grazing ground.'

'Possibly not,' Briskin said. 'Mini may not like the idea of a Col taking up his ideas and

propagandizing them. Thanks, Dorothy.'

Coming up beside him, Sal Heim shook his head and said, 'Jim, you just don't have political

instinct.'

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Cantata-104 by Philip K. Dick

Shrugging, Jim Briskin said, 'Possibly you're right.' He was in that sort of mood, now he felt

passive and depressed. In any case the damage had been done; the speech was on tape and

already being relayed to the R-L satellite. His review of it had been cursory at best.

'I heard what Dotty said,' Sal said. 'That Mini character will be showing up here now; we'll have

him to contend with, along with all our other problems. Anyhow, how about a drink ?'

'Okay,' Jim Briskin agreed. 'Wherever you say. Lead the way.'

'May I join you ?' Patricia said, appearing beside her husband.

'Sure, 'Sal said. He put his arm around her and hugged her. 'A good big tall one, full of curiously-

refreshing tiny little bubbles that last all through the drink. Just what women like.'

As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Jim Briskin saw a picket - two of them, in fact - carrying

signs.

KEEP THE

WHITE HOUSE WHITE

LET'S KEEP AMERICA CLEAN!

The two pickets, both young Caucs, stared at him and he and Sal and Patricia stared at them. No

one spoke. Several homeopape camera men snapped picks; their flashbulbs lit the static scene

starkly for an instant, and then Sal and Patricia, with Jim Briskin following, started on. The two

pickets continued to pace back and forth along their little routes.

'The bastards,' Pat said as the three of them sealed themselves at a booth in the cocktail lounge

across the street from the TV studio.

Jim Briskin said, 'It's their job. God evidently meant them to do that.' It did not particularly

bother him; in one form or another it had been a part of his life as long as he could remember.

'But Schwarz agreed to keep race and religion out of the election,' Pat said.

'Bill Schwarz did,' Jim Briskin said, 'but Verne Engel didn't. And it's Engel who runs CLEAN,

not the SRCD Party.'

'I know darn well the SRCD pays the money to keep CLEAN solvent,' Sal murmured. 'Without

their support it’d fold in a day.'

'I don't agree with you,' Briskin said. 'I think there'll always be a hate organization like CLEAN,

and there'll always be people to support it.' After all, CLEAN had a point; they did not want to

see a Negro President, and wasn't it their right to feel like that ? Some people did, some people

didn't; that was perfectly natural. And, he thought, why should we pretend that race is not the

issue ? It is, really. I am a Negro. Verne Engel is factually correct. The real question was: how

large a percentage of the electorate supported CLEAN'S views ? Certainly, CLEAN did not hurt

his feelings; he could not be wounded; he had experienced too much already in his years as a

newsclown. In my years, he thought to himself acidly, as an American Negro.

A small boy, white, appeared at the booth with a pen and tablet of paper. 'Mr. Briskin, can I get

your autograph ?'

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Philip K. Dick - Cantata 141

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