Dick, Philip K - Counter-Clock World

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COUNTER-CLOCK WORLD
by Philip K. Dick
Copyright 1967 by Philip K. Dick.
A Berkeley medallion book.
ISBN 0-8398-2485-8
COUNTER-CLOCK WORLD
1
Place there is none; we go backward and forward, and there is no place.
--St. Augustine
As he glided by the extremely small, out-of-the-way cemetery in his airborne prowl car,
late at night, Officer Joseph Tinbane heard unfortunate and familiar sounds. A voice. At once he
sent his prowl car up over the spiked iron poles of the badly maintained cemetery fence, descended
on the far side, listened.
The voice said, muffled and faint, "My name is Mrs. Tilly M. Benton, and I want to get
out. Can anybody hear me?"
Officer Tinbane flashed his light. The voice came from beneath the grass. As he had
expected: Mrs. Tilly M. Benton was underground.
Snapping on the microphone of his car radio Tinbane said, "I'm at Forest Knolls Cemetery--
I think it's called--and I have a 1206, here. Better send an ambulance out with a digging crew;
from the sound of her voice it's urgent."
"Chang," the radio said in answer. "Our digging crew will be out before morning. Can you
sink a temporary emergency shaft to give her adequate air? Until our crew gets there--say nine or
ten A.M."
"I'll do the best I can," Tinbane said, and sighed. It meant for him an all-night vigil.
And the dim, feeble voice from below begging in its senile way for him to hurry. Begging on and
on. Unceasingly.
This part of his job he liked least. The cries of the dead; he hated that sound, and he
had heard them, the cries, so much, and so many times. Men and women, mostly old but some not so
old, sometimes children. And it always took the digging crew so long to get there.
Again pressing his mike button, Officer Tinbane said, "I'm fed up with this. I'd like to
be reassigned. I'm serious; this is a formal request."
Distantly, from beneath the ground, the impotent, ancient female voice called, "Please,
somebody; I want to get out. Can you hear me? I know somebody's up there; I can hear you talking."
Leaning his head out the open window of his prowl car, Officer Tinbane yelled, "We'll be
getting you out any time now, lady. Just try to be patient."
"What year is this?" the elderly voice called back. "How much time has passed? Is it still
1974? I have to know; please tell me, sir."
Tinbane said, "It's 1998."
"Oh dear." Dismay. "Well, I suppose I must get used to it."
"I guess," Tinbane said, "you'll have to." He picked a cigaret butt from the car's
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ashtray, lit it and pondered. Then, once again, he pressed his mike button. "I'd like permission
to contact a private vitarium."
"Permission denied," his radio said. "Too late at night."
"But," he said, "one might happen along anyhow. Several of the bigger ones keep their
scout-ambulances heading back and forth all through the night." He had one vitarium in particular
in mind, a small one, old-fashioned. Decent in its sales methods.
"So late at night it's unlikely--"
"This man can use the business." Tinbane picked up the vidphone receiver mounted on the
car's dashboard. "I want to talk to a Mr. Sebastian Hermes," he told the operator. "You find him;
I'll wait. First of all try his place of business, the Flask of Hermes Vitarium; he probably has
an all-night relay to his residence." If the poor guy can currently afford it, Tinbane thought.
"Call me back as soon as you've located him." He hung up, then, and sat smoking his cigaret.
The Flask of Hermes Vitarium consisted primarily of Sebastian Hermes himself, with the
help of a meager assortment of five employees. No one got hired at the establishment and no one
got fired. As far as Sebastian was concerned these people constituted his family. He had no other,
being old, heavy set, and not very likable. They, another, earlier vitarium, had dug him up only
ten years ago, and he still felt on him, in the dreary part of the night, the coldness of the
grave. Perhaps it was that which made him sympathetic to the plight of the old-born.
The firm occupied a small, wooden, rented building which had survived World War Three and
even portions of World War Four. However, he was, at this late hour, of course home in bed, asleep
in the arms of Lotta, his wife. She had such attractive clinging arms, always bare, always young
arms; Lotta was much younger than he: twenty-two years by the non-Hobart Phase method of
reckoning, which she went by, not having died and been reborn, as he, so much older, had.
The vidphone beside his bed clanged; he reached, by reflex of his profession, to
acknowledge it.
"A call from Officer Tinbane, Mr. Hermes," his answering girl said brightly.
"Yes," he said, listening in the dark, watching the dull little gray screen.
A controlled young man's face appeared, familiar to him. "Mr. Hermes, I have a liye one at
a hell of a third rate place called Forest Knolls; she's crying to be let out. Can you make it
here right away, or should I begin to drill an air vent myself? I have the equipment in my car, of
course."
Sebastian said, "I'll round up my crew and get there. Give me half an hour. Can she hold
out that long?" He switched on a bedside light, groped for pen and paper, trying to recall if he
had ever heard of Forest Knolls. "The name."
"Mrs. Tilly M. Benton, she says."
"Okay," he said, and rang off.
Stirring beside him, Lotta said drowsily, "A job call?"
"Yes." He dialed the number of Bob Lindy, his engineer.
"Want me to fix you some hot sogum?" Lotta asked; she had already gotten out of bed and
was stumbling, half-asleep, toward the kitchen.
"Fine," he said. "Thanks." The screen glowed, and thereon formed the glum and grumpy, thin
and rubbery face of his company's sole technician. "Meet me at a place called Forest Knolls,"
Sebastian said. "As soon as you can. Will you have to go by the shop for gear, or--"
"I've got it all with me," Lindy grumbled, irritably. "In my own car. Chang." He nodded,
broke the connection.
Padding back from the kitchen, Lotta said, "The sogum pipe is on. Can I come along?" She
found her brush and began expertly combing her mane of heavy dark-brown hair; it hung almost to
her waist, and its intense color matched that of her eyes. "I always like to see them brought up.
It's such a miracle. I think it's the most marvelous sight i've ever watched; it seems to me it
fulfills what St. Paul says in the Bible, about 'Grave, where is thy victory?'" She waited
hopefully, then, finished with her hair, searched in the bureau drawers for her blue and white ski
sweater which she always wore.
"We'll see," Sebastian said. "If I can't get all the crew we won't be handling this one at
all; we'll have to leave it to the police, or wait for morning and then hope we're first." He
dialed Dr. Sign's number.
"Sign residence," a groggy middle-aged familiar female voice said. "Oh, Mr. Hermes.
Another job so soon? Can't it wait until morning?"
"We'll lose it if we wait," Sebastian said. "I'm sorry to get him out of bed, but we need
the business." He gave her the name of the cemetery and the name of the old-born individual.
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"Here's your sogum," Lotta said, coming from the kitchen with a ceramic container and
ornamented intake tube; she now had her big ski sweater on over her pajamas.
He had only one more call to make, this one to the company's pastor, Father Jeramy Faine.
Placing the call, he sat precariously on the edge of the bed, dialing with one hand, using the
other to hold in place the container of sogum. "You can come with me," he said to Lotta. "Having a
woman along might make the old lady--I assume she's old--more comfortable."
The vidscreen lit; elderly, dwarfish Father Faine blinked owlishly, as if surprised in the
act of a nocturnal debauchery. "Yes, Sebastian," he said, sounding, as always, fully awake; of
Sebastian's five employees, Father Faine alone seemed perpetually prepared for a call. "Do you
know which denomination this old-born is?"
"The cop didn't say," Sebastian said. As far as he himself was concerned it didn't much
matter; the company's pastor sufficed for all religions, including Jewish and Udi. Although the
Uditi, in particular, did not much share this view. Anyhow, Father Faine was what they got, like
it or not.
"It's settled, then?" Lotta asked. "We're going?"
"Yes," he said. "We've got everyone we need." Bob Lindy to sink the air shaft, put digging
tools to work; Dr. Sign to provide prompt--and vital--medical attention; Father Faine to perform
the Sacrament of Miraculous Rebirth . . . and then tomorrow during business hours, Cheryl Vale to
do the intricate paper work, and the company's salesman, R.C. Buckley, to take the order and set
about finding a buyer.
That part--the selling end of the business--did not much appeal to him; he reflected on
this as he dressed in the vast suit which he customarily wore for cold night calls. R.C., however,
seemed to get a bang out of it; he had a philosophy which he called "placement location," a
dignified term for managing to pawn off an old-born individual on somebody. It was R.C.'s line
that he placed the old-borns only in "specially viable, selected environments of proven
background," but in fact he sold wherever he could--as long as the price was sufficient to
guarantee him his five percent commission.
Lotta, trailing after him as he got his greatcoat from the closet, said, "Did you ever
read that part of First Corinthians in the N.E.B. translation? I know it's getting out of date,
but I've always liked it."
"Better get finished dressing," he said gently.
"Okay." She nodded dutifully, trotted off to get workpants and the high soft-leather boots
which she cherished so much. "I'm in the process of memorizing it, because after all I am your
wife and it pertains so directly to the work we--I mean you-- do. Listen. That's how it starts, I
mean; I'm quoting. 'Listen. I will unfold a mystery: we shall not all die, but we shall be changed
in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet call.'"
"A call," Sebastian said meditatively as he waited patiently for her to finish dressing,
"that came one day in June of the year 1986." Much, he thought, to everyone's surprise--except of
course for Alex Hobart himself, who had predicted it, and after whom the anti-time effect had been
named.
"I'm ready," Lotta said proudly; she had on her boots, workpants, sweater, and, he knew,
her pajamas under it all; he smiled, thinking of that: she had done it to save time, so as not to
detain him.
Together, they left their con apt; they ascended by the building's express elevator to the
roof-field and their parked aircar.
"Myself," he said to her as he wiped the midnight moisture from the windows of the car, "I
prefer the old King James translation."
"I've never read that," she said, childish candor in her voice, as if meaning, But I'll
read it; I promise.
Sebastian said, "As I recall, in that translation the passage goes, 'Behold! I tell you a
mystery. We shall not all sleep; we shall be changed--' and so on. Something like that. But I
remember the 'behold.' I like that better than 'listen." He started up the motor of the aircar,
and they ascended.
"Maybe you're right," Lotta said, always agreeable, always willing to look up to him--he
was, after all, so much older than she-as an authority. That perpetually pleased him. And it
seemed to please her, too. Seated beside her, he patted her on the knee, feeling affection; she
thereupon patted him, too, as always: their love for each other passed back and forth between
them, without resistance, without difficulty; it was an effortless two-way flow.
Young, dedicated Officer Tinbane met them inside the dilapidated spiked iron-pole fence of
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the cemetery. "Evening, sir," he said to Sebastian, and saluted; for Tinbane every act done while
wearing his uniform was official, not to mention impersonal. "Your engineer got here a couple of
minutes ago and he's sinking a temporary air-shaft. It was lucky I passed by." The policeman
greeted Lotta, seeing her now. "Good evening, Mrs. Hermes. Sorry it's so cold; you want to sit m
the squad car? The heater's on."
"I'm fine," Lotta said; craning her neck, she strove to catch sight of Bob Lindy at work.
"Is she still talking?" she asked Officer Tinbane.
"Chattering away," Tinbane said; he led her and Sebastian, by means of his flashlight,
toward the zone of illumination where Bob Lindy already toiled. "First to me; now to your
engineer."
On his hands and knees, Lindy studied the gauges of the tubeboring rig; he did not look up
or greet them, although he evidently was aware of their presence. For Lindy, work came first;
socializing ran a late last.
"She has relatives, she claims," Officer Tinbane said to Sebastian. "Here; I wrote down
what she's been saying; their names and addresses. In Pasadena. But she's senile; she seems
confused." He glanced around. "Is your doctor coming for sure? I think he'll be needed; Mrs.
Benton said something about Bright's disease; that's evidently what she died of. So possibly he'll
need to attach an artificial kidney."
Its landing lights on, an aircar set down. Dr. Sign stepped from it, wearing his plastic,
heat-enclosing, modern, stylish suit. "So you think you've got a live one," he said to Officer
Tinbane; he knelt over the grave of Mrs. Tilly Benton, cocked an ear, then called, "Mrs. Benton,
can you hear me? Are you able to breathe?"
The faint, indistinct, wavering voice drifted up to them, as Lindy momentarily ceased his
drilling. "It's so stuffy, and it's dark and I'm really very much afraid; I'd like to be released
to go home as soon as I can. Are you going to rescue me?"
Cupping his hands to his mouth, Dr. Sign shouted back, "We're drilling now, Mrs. Benton;
just hang on and don't worry; it'll only be another minute or so." To Lindy he said, "Didn't you
bother to yell down to her?"
Lindy growled, "I have my work. Talking's up to you guys and Father Faine." He resumed the
drilling. It was almost complete, Sebastian noted; he walked a short distance away, listening,
sensing the cemetery and the dead beneath the headstones, the corruptible, as Paul had called
them, who, one day, like Mrs. Benton, would put on incorruption. And this mortal, he thought, must
put on immortality. And then the saying that is written, he thought, will come to pass. Death is
swallowed up in victory. Grave, where is thy victory? Oh death, where is thy sting? And so forth.
He roamed on, using his flashlight to avoid tripping over headstones; he moved very slowly, and
always hearing--but not exactly; not literally, with his ears, but rather inside him--the dim
stirrings underground. Others, he thought, who one day soon will be old-born; their flesh and
particles are migrating back already, finding their way to their onetime places; he sensed the
eternal process, the unending complex activity of the graveyard, and it gave him a thrill of
enthusiasm, and of great excitement. Nothing was more profoundly optimistic, more powerful in its
momentum of good, than this re-forming of bodies which had, as Paul put it, corrupted away, and
now, with the Hobart Phase at work, reversing the corruption.
Paul's only error, he reflected, had been to anticipate it in his own lifetime.
Those who were presently being old-born had been the last to die: final mortalities before
June of 1986. But, according to Alex Hobart, the reversal of time would continue to move
backwards, continually sweeping out a greater span; earlier and still earlier deaths would be
reversed . . . and, in two thousand years from now, Paul himself would no longer "sleep," as he
himself had put it.
But by then--long, long before then--Sebastian Hermes and everyone else alive would have
dwindled back into waiting wombs, and the mothers who possessed those wombs would have dwindled,
too, and so on; assuming, of course, that Hobart was right. That the Phase was not temporary,
short in duration, but rather one of the most vast of sidereal processes, occurring every few
bfflion years.
One final aircar now sputtered to a landing; from it strode short little Father Faine,
with his religious books in his briefcase. He nodded pleasantly to Officer Tinbane and said,
"Commendable, your hearing her; I hope now you won't have to stand around in the cold any longer."
He noted the presence of Lindy at work and Dr. Sign waiting with his black medical bag, and of
course Sebastian Hermes. "We can take over now," he informed Officer Tinbane. "Thank you."
"Good evening, Father," Tinbane said. "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Hermes, and you too,
Doctor." He glanced then at sour, taciturn Bob Lindy, and did not include him; turning, he walked
off in the direction of his squad car. And was quickly off into the night, to patrol the rest of
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his beat.
Coming up to Father Faine, Sebastian said, "You know something? I--hear another one.
Somebody very near to being reborn. A matter of days, possibly even hours." I catch a terrific,
strong emanation, he said to himself. What must be a umquely vital personality very close by.
"I've got air down to her," Lindy declared; he ceased drilling, shut off the portable,
much-depended-on rig, turned now to excavation equipment. "Get ready, Sign." He tapped the
earphones which he had put on, the better to hear the person below. "She's very ill, this one.
Chronic and acute." He snapped the autonomic scoops on, and they at once began to toss dirt from
their exhaust.
As the coffin was lifted up by Sebastian, Dr. Sign and Bob Lindy, Father Faine read aloud
from his prayer book, in a suitable commanding and clear voice, so as to be audible to the person
within the coffin. "'The Lord rewarded me after my righteous dealing, according to the cleanness
of my hands did he recompense me. Because I have kept the ways of the Lord, and have not forsaken
my God, as the wicked dotb. For I have an eye unto all his laws, and will not cast out his
commandments from me. I was also uncorrupt before him, and eschewed mine own wickedness. Therefore
the Lord rewarded me after my righteous dealing, and according unto the cleanness of my hands in
his eyesight. With the holy thou shalt be holy--" On and on Father Faine read, as the work
progressed. They all knew the psalm by heart, even Bob Lindy; it was their priest's favorite on
these occasions, being sometimes replaced, as for example by psalm nine, but always returning.
Bob Lindy rapidly unscrewed the lid of the coffin; it was cheap synthetic pine,
lightweight, and the lid came right off. Instantly Dr. Sign moved forward, bent over the old lady
with his stethoscope, listening, talking to her in a low voice. Bob Lindy started up the hot fan,
keeping a stream of constant heat on Mrs. Tilly M. Benton; this was vital, this transfer of heat:
the old-born were always terribly cold; had, in fact, an inevitable phobia about cold which, as in
Sebastian's case, often lasted for years after their rebirth.
His part of the job temporarily over, Sebastian once again moved about the cemetery, among
the graves, listening. Lotta this time tagged after him and insisted on talking. "Isn't it
mystical?" she said breathlessly, in her little girl's awed voice. "I want to paint it; I wish I
could get that expression they have when they first see, when the lid of the coffin is opened.
That look. Not joy, not relief; no one particular thing, but a deeper and more--"
"Listen," he said, interrupting her.
"To what?" She obligingly listened, obviously hearing nothing. Not sensing what he sensed:
the enormous _presence_ nearby.
Sebastian said, "We're going to have to keep a watch on this strange little place. And I
want a complete list--absolutely complete--of everyone buried here." Sometimes, studying the
inventory list, he could fathom which it was; he had a virtually psionic gift, this ability to
sense in advance a forthcoming oldbirth. "Remind me," he said to his wife, "to call the
authorities who operate this place and find out exactly who they have."
This invaluably rich storehouse of life, he thought. This onetime graveyard which has
become instead a reservoir of reawakening souls.
One grave-and one alone-had an especially ornate monument placed above it; he shone his
flashlight on the monument, found the name.
THOMAS PEAK
1921-1971
Sic igitur magni quoque circum
moeriia mundi expugnata dabunt
labem putresque ruinas.
His Latin was not good enough for him to translate the epitaph; he could only guess. A
statement about the great things of the earth, all of which fell eventually into corruption and
ruin. Well, he thought, that is no longer true, that epitaph. Not about the great things with
souls; them especially. I have a hunch, he said to himself, that Thomas Peak--and he evidently had
been somebody, to judge by the size and stone-quality of the monument--is the person I sense to be
about to return, the person we should watch for.
"Peak," he said aloud, to Lotta.
"I've read about him," she said. "In a course I took on Oriental Philosophy. You know who
he is--was?"
He said, "Was he related to the Anarch by that name?"
"Udi," Lotta said.
"That Negro cult? That's overrun the Free Negro Municipality? Run by that demagogue
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Raymond Roberts? The _Uditi?_ This Thomas Peak buried here?"
She examined the dates, nodded. "But it wasn't a racket, in those days, my teacher told
us. There really is a Udi experience, I believe. Anyhow, so we were taught at San Jose State.
Everyone merges; there's no you and no--"
"I know what Udi is," he said testily. "God, now that I know who he is I'm not so sure I
want to help bring this one back."
"But when the Anarch Peak comes back," Lotta said, "he'll resume his position as head of
Udi and it'll stop being a racket."
Behind them Bob Lindy said, "You could probably make a fortune by _not_ bringing him back
to an unwilling, unwaiting world." He explained, "I'm now done with your job-call, here; Sign is
inserting one of those hand-me-down electric kidneys and getting her on a stretcher and into his
car." He lit a cigaret butt, stood smoking and shivering and meditating. "You think this fella
Peak's about to return, Seb?"
"Yes," he said. "You know my intimations." Our firm operates at a profit because of them,
he meditated; they're what keep us ahead of the big outfits, make it possible in fact to get any
business at all . . . anything, anyhow, above and beyond what the city police throw to us.
Lindy said somberly, "Wait'll R.C. Buckley hears about this. He'll really go into action
on this one; in fact, I suggest you call him right now. The sooner he knows, the sooner he can
formulate one of those wild rizzle-drizzle promotion campaigns he concocts." He laughed sharply.
"Our man in the graveyard," he said.
"I'm going to plant a bug here on Peak's grave," Sebastian said after a thoughtful pause.
"One that'll both pick up cardiac activity and will transmit a notifying coded signal to us."
"You're that sure," Lindy said, nervously. "I mean, it's illegal; if the L.A. police find
it, you know--maybe a suspension of our license to operate." His innate Swedish caution emerged,
now, and his dubiousness regarding Sebastian's psionic intimations. "Forget it," he said. "You're
getting as bad as Lotta." He plomped her friendlily on the back, meaning well. "I always say, I'm
not going to let the atmosphere of these places get to me; it's a technical job having to do with
exact location, adequate air supply, digging accurately so you don't saw it in half, then raising
it up, getting Dr. Sign to patch its busted parts together." To Lotta he said, "You're too
metaphysical about this, kid. Forget it."
Lotta said, "I'm married to a man who lay dead down below, once. When I was born,
Sebastian was dead, and he remained dead until I was twelve years old." Her voice--odd for her--
was unyielding.
"So?" Lindy demanded.
"This process," she said, "has given me the only man in the world or on Mars or on Venus
that I love or _could_ love. It has been the greatest force in my life." She put her arm around
Sebastian, then, and hugged him, hugged his big bulk against her.
"Tomorrow," Sebastian said to her. "I want you to pay a visit to Section B of the People's
Topical Library. Get all the information you can about the Anarch Thomas Peak. Most of it has
probably gone into erad by now, but they may have a few terminal typescript manuscripts."
"Was he really that important?" Bob Lindy asked.
Lotta said, "Yes. But--" She hesitated. "I'm scared of the Library, Seb; I really am. You
know I am. It's so--oh the hell with it. I'll go." Her voice sank.
"There I agree with you," Bob Lindy said. "I don't like that place. And I've been there
exactly once."
"It's the Hobart Phase," Sebastian said. "The same force at work that operates here." He
turned to Lotta again. "Avoid the Head Librarian, Mavis McGuire." He had run into her several
times in the past, and he had been repelled; she had struck him as bitchy, hostile, and mean. "Go
right to Section B," he said.
God help Lotta, he thought, if she gets fouled up and runs into that McGuire woman. Maybe
I should go - . - No, he decided; she can ask for someone else; it'll work out all right. I'll
just have to take the chance.
2
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Man is most correctly defined as a certain intellectual notion eternally made in the
divine mind.
--Erigena
Sunlight ascended and a penetrating mechanical voice declared, "ALl right, Appleford. Time
to get up and show 'em who you are and what you can do. Big man, that Douglas Appleford; everybody
acknowledges it--I hear them talking. Big man, big talent, big job. Much admired by the public at
large." It paused. "You awake, now?"
Appleford, from his bed, said, "Yes." He sat up, batted the sharp-voiced alarm clock at
his bedside into nullification. "Good morning," he said to the silent apartment. "Slept well; I
hope you did, too."
A press of problems tumbled about his disordered mind as he got grouchily from the bed,
wandered to the closet for clothing adequately dirty. Supposed to nail down Ludwig Eng, he said to
himself. The tasks of tomorrow become the worst tasks of today. Reveal to Eng that only one copy
of his great-selling book is left in all the world; the time is coming soon for him to act, to do
the job oniy he can do. How would Eng feel? After all, sometimes inventors refused to sit down and
do their job. Well, he decided, that actually consisted of an Erad Council problem; theirs, not
his. He found a stained, rumpled red shirt; removing his pajama top he got into it. The trousers
were not so easy; he had to root through the hamper.
And then the packet of whiskers.
My ambition, Appleford mused as he padded to the bathroom with the whisker packet, is to
cross the W.U.S. by streetcar. Whee. At the bowl he washed his face, then lathered on foam-glue,
opened the packet and with adroit slappings managed to convey the whiskers evenly to his chin,
jowls, neck; in a moment he had expertly gotten the whiskers to adhere. I'm fit now, he decided as
he reviewed his countenance in the mirror, to take that streetcar ride; at least as soon as I
process my share of sogum.
Switching on the automatic sogum pipe--very modern--he accepted a good masculine bundle,
sighed contentedly as he glanced over the sports section of the Los Angeles _Times_. Then at last
walked to the kitchen and began to lay out soiled dishes. In no time at all he faced a bowl of
soup, lamb chops, green peas, Martian blue moss with egg sauce and a cup of hot coffee. These he
gathered up, slid the dishes from beneath and around them--of course first checking the windows of
the room to be sure no one saw him--and briskly placed the assorted foods in their proper
receptacles, which he placed on shelves of the cupboard and in the refrigerator. The time was
eight-thirty; he still had fifteen minutes in which to get to work. No need to dwindle himself
hurrying; the People's Topical Library Section B would be there when he arrived.
It had taken him years to work up to B. And now, as a reward, he had to deal tête-a-tête
with a bewildering variety of surly, boorish inventors who balked at their assigned--and according
to the Erads mandatory--final cleaning of the sole remaining typescript copy of whatever work
their name had become associated with--linked by a process which neither he nor the assortment of
inventors completely understood. The Council presumably understood why a particular given inventor
got stuck with a particular assignment and not some other assignment entirely. For instance, Eng
and HOW I MADE MY OWN SWABBLE OUT OF CONVENTIONAL HOUSEHOLD OBJECTS IN MY BASEMENT DURING MY SPARE
TIME. Appleford reflected as he glanced over the remainder of the 'pape. Think of the
responsibility. After Eng finished, no more swabbles in all the world, unless those untrustworthy
rogues in the F.N.M. had a couple illicitly tucked away. In fact, even though the ter-cop, the
terminal copy, of Eng's book still remained, he already found it difficult to recall what a
swabble did and what it looked like. Square? Small? Or round and huge? Hmm. He put down the 'pape
and rubbed his forehead while he attempted to recall--tried to conjure up an accurate mental image
of the device while it was still theoretically possible to do so. Because as soon as Eng reduced
the ter-cop to a heavily inked silk ribbon, half a ream of bond paper, and a folio of fresh carbon
paper there existed no chance for him or for anyone else to recall either the book or the
mechanism--up to now quite useful--which the book described.
That task, however, would probably occupy Eng the rest of the year. Cleaning of the ter-
cop had to progress line by line, word by woid; it could not be handled as were the assembled
heaps of printed copies. So easy, up until the terminal typescript copy, and then . . . well, to
make it worth it to Eng, a really huge salary would be paid him, plus--.
By his elbow on the small kitchen table the receiver of the vidphone hopped from its
mooring onto the table, and from it came a distant tiny shrill voice. "Goodbye, Doug." A woman's
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voice.
Lifting the receiver to his ear he said, "Goodbye."
"I love you, Doug," Charise McFadden stated in her breathless, emotion-saturated voice.
"Do you love me?"
"Yes, I love you, too," he said. "When have I seen you last? I hope it won't be long. Tell
me it won't be long."
"Most probably tonight," Charise said. "After work. There's someone I want you to meet, a
virtually unknown inventor who's desperately eager to get official eradication for his thesis on,
ahem, the psychogenic origins of death by meteor strike. I said that because you're in Section B--
"
"Tell him to eradicate his thesis himself. At his own expense."
"There's no prestige in that." Her face on the vidscreen earnest, Charise pleaded, "It's
really a dreadful piece of theorizing, Doug; it's as nutty as the day is long. This oaf, this
Lance Arbuthnot--"
"That's his name?" It almost persuaded him. But not quite. In the course of a single day
he received many such requests, and every one, without exception, came represented as a socially
dangerous piece by a crank inventor with a goofy name. He had held his chair at Section B too long
to be easily snared. But still--he had to investigate this; his ethical structure, his
responsibility to society, insisted on it. He sighed.
"I hear you groaning," Charise said brightly.
Appleford said, "As long as he's not from the F.N.M."
"Well--he is." She looked--and sounded--guilty. "I think they threw him out, though.
That's why he's here in Los Angeles and not there."
Rising to his feet, Douglas Appleford said stiffly, "Hello, Charise. I must leave now for
work; I will not and cannot discuss this trivial matter further." And that, as far as he was
concerned, ended that.
He hoped.
Arriving home to his conapt at the end of his shift, Officer Joe Tinbane found his wife
sitting at the breakfast table. Embarrassed, he averted his gaze until she noticed him and rapidly
finished filling her cup with hot, dark coffee.
"Shame," Bethel said reprovingly. "You should have knocked on the kitchen door." With
haughty dignity she carefully placed the orange-juice bottle in the refrigerator, carried the now
nearly full box of Happy-Oats to its concealment in the cupboard. "I'll be out of your way in a
minute. My victual momentum is now just about complete." However, she took her time.
"I'm tired," he said, at last seating himself.
Bethel placed empty bowls, a glass, a cup, and a plate before him. "Guess what the 'pape
says this morning," she said as she retired discreetly to the living room so that he, too, could
disgorge. "That thug fanatic is coming here, that Raymond Roberts person. On a pug."
"Hmm," he said, enjoying the hot, liquid taste of coffee as he ruminated it up into his
weary mouth.
"The Los Angeles chief of police estimates that four _million_ people will turn out to see
him; he's performing the sacrament of Divine Unification in Dodger Stadium, and of course it'll
all be on TV until we're ready to go clear out of our minds. All day long--that's what the 'pape
says; I'm not making it up."
"Four million," Tinbane echoed, thinking, professionally, how many peace officers it would
take to handle crowd control when the crowd consisted of that many. Everybody on the force,
including Skyway Patrol and special deputies. What a job. He groaned inwardly.
"They use those drugs," Bethel said, "for that unification they practice; there's a long
article on it, here. The drug's a derivative from DNT; it's illegal here, but when he goes to
perform the sacrament they'll let him--them all--use it that one time. Because the California law
states--"
"I know what it states," Tinbane said. "It states that a psychedelic drug can he used in a
bona fide religious ceremony." God knew he had had this drummed into him by his superiors.
Bethel said, "I have half a mind to go there. And participate. It's the only time, unless
we want to fly to, ugh, the F.N.M. And I frankly don't feel much like doing _that_."
"You do that," he said, happily disgorging cereal, sliced peaches and milk and sugar, in
that order.
"Want to come? It'll be exciting. Just think: thousands of people unified into one entity.
The Udi, he calls it. Which is everyone and no one. Possessing absolute knowledge because it has
no single, limiting viewpoint." She came to the kitchen door, eyes shut. "Well?"
"No thanks," Tinbane said, his mouth embarrassingly full. "And don't watch me; you know
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how I can't stand to have anyone around when I'm having victual momentum, even if they can't see
me. They might hear me--chewing."
He could feel her there; he sensed her resentment.
"You never take me anywhere," Bethel said presently.
"Okay," he agreed, "I never take you anywhere." He added, "And if I did, it wouldn't be
there, to hear about religion." We have enough religious nuts in Los Angeles anyhow, he thought. I
wonder why Roberts didn't think of making a pilg here a long time ago. I wonder why just now. . .
of all possible times.
Earnestly, Bethel said, "Do you think he's a fake? That there's no such state as Udi?"
He shrugged. "DNT is a potent drug." Maybe it was so. In any case it didn't matter; not to
him, anyhow. "Another unexpected rebirth," he said to his wife. "At Forest Knolls, naturally.
They're never watching those minor cemeteries; they know we'll handle it--with city equipment."
Anyhow, Tilly M. Benton was safely at the L.A. receiving hospital, thanks to Seb Hermes. Within a
week she would be disgorging like the rest of them.
"Eerie," Bethel said, still at the doorway to the kitchen.
"How do you know? You never saw it happen."
"You and your damn job," Bethel said. "Don't take it out on me, just because you can't
stand it. If it's so awful, quit. Fish or cut bait, as the Romans said."
"I can handle the job; matter of fact, I've already put in for a reassignment." What's
hard, he thought, is you. "Let me disgorge in private, will you?" he said angrily. "Go off; read
the 'pape."
"Will you be affected?" Bethel asked. "By Ray Roberts coming here to the Coast?"
"Probably not," he said. He did, after all, have a regular beat. Nothing ever seemed to
change _that_.
"They won't have you out with your popgun protecting him?"
"Protecting him?" he said. "I'd shoot him."
"Oh dear," Bethel said mockingly. "Such ambition. And then you could go down in history."
"I'll go down in history anyhow," Tinbane said.
"What for? What have you done? And what in the future do you intend to do? Keep on digging
up old ladies out at Forest Knolls Cemetery?" Her tone lacerated him. "Or for being married to
me?"
"That's right; for being married to you." His tone was equally scathing; he had learned it
from her, over the long, dead months of their alleged marriage.
Bethel returned, then, to the living room. Left alone, he continued to disgorge, now left
in peace. He appreciated it.
Anyhow, he thought gloomily, Tilly M. Benton of South Pasadena likes me.
3
Eternity is a kind of measure. But to be measured belongs not to God. Therefore it does
not belong to Him to be eternal.
--St. Thomas Aquinas
It had always been difficult for Officer Joe Tinbane to determine precisely what official
rank George Gore held in the Los Angeles Police Department; he wore an ordinary citizen's cape,
natty turned-up Italian shoes and a bright, fashionable shirt which looked even a bit gaudy. Gore
was a relatively slender man, tall, in his mid-forties, Tinbane guessed. He came directly to the
point, as the two of them sat facing each other in Gore's office.
"Since Ray Roberts is arriving in town, we've been asked by the Governor to provide a
personal bodyguard . . . which we planned to do anyway. Four or possibly five men; we're in
agreement on that, too. You asked to be reassigned, so you're one." Gore shuffled some documents
on his desk; Tinbane saw that they pertained to him. "Okay?" Gore said.
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"If you say so," Tinbane said, feeling sullen--and surprised. "You don't mean for crowd
control; you mean all the time. Around the clock." In proximity, he realized. By personal they
meant personal.
Gore said, "You'll eat with him--excuse the expression; sorry--and sleep with him in the
same room; all that. He has no bodyguard, normally. But we have a lot of people out here holding
deep grudges toward the Uditi. Not that they don't in the F.N.M., but that's not our problem." He
added, "Roberts hasn't asked for this, but we're not about to consult him. Whether he likes it or
not he's going to get twenty-four hour protection while he's in our jurisdiction." Gore's tone was
bureaucratic and stony.
"I gather we won't be relieved."
"You'll stagger your wake-sleep cycle, the four of you. But no; except for that you'll be
with him all the time. It's only for forty-eight or seventy-two hours; whichever he chooses. He
hasn't decided. But you probably know that; you read the 'papes."
Tinbane said, "I don't like him."
"Too bad for you. But that's not going to affect Roberts much; I doubt if he cares. He's
got plenty of followers out here, and he'll get the curiosity crowd. He can survive your opinion.
Anyhow, what do you know about him? You've never met him."
"My wife likes him."
Gore grinned. "Well, he can probably endure that, too. I get your point, though. It is a
fact that a major part of his following are women. That seems to be generally the case. I have our
file on Ray Roberts; I think you should read it over before he shows up. You can do it on your own
time. You'll be interested; there're some strange things in there, things he's said and done, what
Udi believes. We're allowing that communal drug experience, you know, even though it's technically
illegal. That's what it is: a drug orgy; the religious aspect is just fabrication, just window-
dressing. He's a weird and violent man--at least so we view him. I guess his followers don't find
him so. Or maybe they do and they like it." Gore tapped a locked green metal box at the far edge
of his desk. "You'll see when you've read this--all the crimes he's sanctioned for those gunsels
of his, those Offspring of Might, to do." He pushed the box toward Tinbane. "And after this, I
want you to go to the People's Topical Library, Section A or B. For more."
Accepting the locked file, Tinbane said, "Give me the key and I'll read this--on my own
time."
Gore produced the key. "One thing, Officer. Don't fall for the 'pape stereotype view of
Ray Roberts. A lot's been said about him, but most of it is fictitious, and what actually is true
hasn't been said . . . but it's in there, and when you've read it you'll understand what I'm
referring to. In particular I mean the violence." He leaned toward Joe Tinbane. "Look; I'll give
you a choice. Alter you've read the material on Roberts, come back and see me; give me your
decision then. Frankly I think you'll take the job; it's officially a promotion, a step up in your
career."
Standing, Tinbane picked up the key and the locked box. I don't agree, he thought to
himself. But he said, "Okay, Mr. Gore. I have how long?"
"Call me by five," Gore said. And continued to grin his acid, knowing grin.
In Section B of the People's Topical Library, Officer Joe Tinbane warily stood at the
chief librarian's desk; something about the Librai y intimidated him--and he did not know what it
was or why.
Several persons were ahead of him; he waited restlessly, glancing about and wondering as
always about his marriage with Bethel and about his career with the police department, and then
about the purpose of life and the meaning--if any--of it, what the old-borns experienced while
they lay in the ground, and what it would be like, someday, to dwindle away as he eventually
would, and enter a nearby womb.
As he stood there a familiar person came up beside him; small, in a long cloth coat, with
her dark, extensive brown hair tumbling: a pretty, but married girl, Lotta Hermes.
"'Bye," he said, pleased to run into her.
Her face white, Lotta whispered, "I--can't stand it in here. But I have to look up some
information for Seb." Her discomfort was palpable; her whole body was held rigidly, awkwardly, so
that its natural lines were warped; her fear made her misshapen.
"Take it easy," he said, surprised at her apprehension; he wanted at once to make her feel
better and he took her by the arm, led her away from the chief librarian's desk, out of the
immense, dully booming room and into the relatively stress-free corridor.
"Oh god," she said miserably. "I just can't do it, go in there and face that woman, that
awful Mrs. McGuire. Seb told me to ask for someone else, but I don't know anyone. And when I get
scared I can't think." She gazed up at him miserably, appealing to him for help.
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摘要：

file:///F|/rah/Philip%20K.Dick/Dick,%20Philip%20K%20-%20Counter%20Clock%20World.txtCOUNTER-CLOCKWORLDbyPhilipK.DickCopyright1967byPhilipK.Dick.ABerkeleymedallionbook.ISBN0-8398-2485-8COUNTER-CLOCKWORLD1Placethereisnone;wegobackwardandforward,andthereisnoplace.--St.AugustineAsheglidedbytheextremely...

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