Dick, Philip K - The World Jones Made

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THE WORLD
JONES MADE
PHILIP K. DICK
ACE BOOKS, INC.
1120 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N.Y. 10036
DESTINY WAS IN HIS HANDS!
Security agent Cussick was an old hand at outwitting possible enemies of the
twenty-first century government. But in the bespectacled young man named Jones
he met his match.
Because Jones could call Cussick's every move -- and call it in advance! For
that matter Jones knew everything in advance -- except the nature of the
cosmic visitors who drifted down from outer space.
And yet it was around these aliens that Jones built up his drive to absolute
power -- a drive which was universal in scope and which no one could stop.
Because Jones knew all the answers a year ahead of time.
That is, all the answers except one.
PHILIP K. DICK, author of The World Jones Made, is a young and rising star in
the science-fiction constellation. His first book, Solar Lottery, published by
Ace Books in 1955, called forth much excited comment from reviewers and
readers. For instance, Damon Knight writing in Infinity magazine, said of the
author that "it's as if Robert Sheckley should abruptly turn into a
combination of Alfred Bester, Henry and Catherine Kuttner, and A. E. Van
Vogt." H. H. Holmes, writing in the New York Herald-Tribune, called the book
"as elaborately exciting as vintage Van Vogt -- with an added touch of C. M.
Kornbluth's social satire." However, we think that Philip K. Dick is not just
a combination of others, but a really new great writer on his own merits. And
we think that his latest novel, this one, will prove it.
THE WORLD JONES MADE
Copyright (c), 1956, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
To
Eph Konigsberg
who talked fast and
talked very well
Printed in U.S.A.
CHAPTER ONE
THE TEMPERATURE of the Refuge varied from 99 degrees Fahrenheit to 101
degrees Fahrenheit. Steam lay perennially in the air, drifting and billowing
sluggishly. Geysers of hot water spurted, and the "ground" was a shifting
surface of warm slime, compounded from water, dissolved minerals, and fungoid
pulp. The remains of lichens and protozoa colored and thickened the scum of
moisture that dripped everywhere, over the wet rocks and sponge-like
shrubbery, the various utilitarian installations. A careful backdrop had been
painted, a long plateau rising from a heavy ocean.
Beyond doubt, the Refuge was modeled after the womb. The semblance couldn't
be denied -- and nobody had denied it.
Bending down, Louis moodily picked up a pale green fungus growing near his
feet and broke it apart. Under its moist organic skin was a mesh of man-made
plastic; the fungus was artificial.
"We could be worse off," Frank said, watching him hurl the fungus away. "We
might have to pay for all this. It must have cost Fedgov billions of dollars
to set up this place."
"Stage scenery," Louis said bitterly. "What for? Why were we born this way?"
Grinning, Frank said: "We're superior mutants, remember? Isn't that what we
decided years ago?" He pointed at the world visible beyond the wall of the
Refuge. "We're too pure for that."
Outside lay San Francisco, the nocturnal city half-asleep in its blanket of
chill fog. Occasional cars crept here and there; pockets of commuters emerged
like complicated segmented worms from underground monorail terminals.
Infrequent office lights glowed sparsely... Louis turned his back on the
sight. It hurt too much to see it, to know that he was in here, trapped,
caught within the closed circle of the group. To realize that nothing existed
for them but the sitting and staring, the empty years of the Refuge.
"There must be a purpose," he said. "A reason for us."
Frank shrugged fatalistically. "War-time sports, generated by radiation
pools. Damage to the genes. An accident... like Jones."
"But they're keeping us alive," Irma said, from behind them. "All these
years, maintaining us, caring for us. They must get something out of it. They
must have something in mind."
"Destiny?" Frank asked mockingly. "Our cosmic goal?"
The Refuge was a murky, steamy bowl that imprisoned the seven of them. Its
atmosphere was a mixture of ammonia, oxygen, freon, and traces of methane,
heavily laden with water vapor, lacking carbon dioxide. The Refuge had been
constructed twenty-five years ago, in 1977, and the older members of the group
had memories of a prior life in separate mechanical incubators. The original
workmanship had been superior, and from time to time improvements were made.
Normal human workmen, protected by sealed suits, periodically entered the
Refuge, dragging their maintenance equipment after them. Usually it was the
mobile fauna that went out of order and needed repairs.
"If they had a purpose for us," Frank said, "they'd tell us." He, personally,
trusted the Fedgov authorities who operated the Refuge. "Doctor Rafferty would
tell us; you know that."
"I'm not so sure," Irma said.
"My God," Frank said angrily, "they're not our enemies. If they wanted to,
they could wipe us out in a second -- and they haven't, have they? They could
let the Youth League in here at us."
"They have no right to keep us in here," Louis protested.
Frank sighed. "If we went out there," he said carefully, as if he were
speaking to children, "we'd die." At the upper rim of the transparent wall was
a pressure vent, a series of safety valves. A dull miasma of acrid gasses
trickled in, mixing with the familiar dampness of their own air. "Smell that?"
Frank demanded. "That's what it's like outside. Harsh and freezing and
lethal."
"Did it ever occur to you,' Louis asked, "that maybe that stuff leaking in is
a deliberate fake?"
"It occurs to all of us," Frank said. "Every couple of years. We get in our
paranoia stage and we start planning to break out. Only we don't have to break
out; all we have to do is walk out. Nobody ever stopped us. We're free to
leave this steamed-up bowl, except for one fact: we can't survive out there.
We're just not strong enough."
By the transparent wall, a hundred feet away, stood the remaining four
members of the group. Frank's voice carried to them, a hollow and distorted
sound. Garry, the youngest of the group, glanced up. He listened for a moment,
but no further words were audible.
"Okay," Vivian said impatiently. "Let's go." Garry nodded. "Goodbye womb," he
muttered. Reaching up, he pressed the red button that would bring Doctor
Rafferty.
Doctor Rafferty said: "Our small friends get somewhat excited, once in
awhile. They've decided they can lick any man in the house." He led Cussick to
the upramp. "This will be interesting... your first time. Don't be surprised;
it may be a shock. They're quite different from us, physiologically speaking."
At the eleventh floor the first elements of the Refuge were visible, the
elaborate pumps that maintained its temperature and atmosphere. Doctors
instead of police were visible, white uniforms instead of brown. On the
fourteenth floor Rafferty stepped from the rising ramp, and Cussick followed.
"They're ringing for you," a doctor said to Rafferty. "They're highly
disturbed, these days."
"Thanks." To Cussick, Rafferty said: "You can watch on that screen. I don't
want them to see you. They shouldn't be aware of the police guard."
A section of wall retired. Beyond it was the swirling blue-green landscape of
the Refuge. Cussick watched as Doctor Rafferty strode through the lock and
into the artificial world beyond. Immediately the tall figure was surrounded
by seven curious parodies, gnomish miniatures both male and female. The seven
of them were agitated, and their frail, bird-cage chests rose and fell with
emotion. Crying shrilly, excitedly, they began to explain and gesture.
"What is it?" Rafferty interrupted. In the sweltering steam of the Refuge he
was gasping for breath; perspiration dripped from his reddening face.
"We want to leave here," a female piped.
"And we're walking," another announced, a male. "We've decided -- you can't
keep us shut up in here. We have rights."
For an interval Rafferty discussed the situation with them; then, abruptly,
he turned and made his way back through the lock. "That's my limit," he
murmured to Cussick, mopping his forehead. "I can tolerate three minutes in
there, and then the ammonia goes to work."
"You're going to let them try it?" Cussick asked.
"Activate the Van," Rafferty said to his technicians. "Have it ready to pick
them up as they drop." To Cussick he explained: "The Van is an iron lung for
them. There won't be too much risk; they're fragile, but we'll be ready to
gather them up before damage is done."
Not all the mutants were leaving the Refuge. Four hesitant figures were
picking their way along the passage that led to the elevator. Behind them,
their three companions remained in the safety of the entrance, huddled
together in a group.
"Those three are more realistic," Doctor Rafferty said. "And older. The
slightly heavier one, the dark-haired one who looks the most human, is Frank.
It's the younger ones who give us the trouble. I'll put them through a
gradational series of stages to acclimatize their overly-vulnerable systems --
so they won't suffocate or die of heart stoppage." Worriedly, he went on:
"What I want you to do is clear the streets. I don't want anybody to see them;
it's late and there won't be many people out, but just in case..."
"I'll phone Secpol," Cussick agreed.
"How soon can it be done?"
"A few minutes. The weapons-police are already mobile, because of Jones and
the mobs."
Relieved, Rafferty hurried off, and Cussick began searching for a Security
police phone. He found it, got in touch with the San Francisco office, and
gave his instructions. While he kept the phone circuit open, the airborne
police teams began collecting around the Refuge building. He stayed in direct
touch until the street-blocks had been erected, and then he left the phone to
look for Rafferty.
By elevator the four mutants had descended to the street level. Staggering,
groping numbly, they followed Doctor Rafferty across the lobby, toward the
wide doors that led to the street.
No pedestrians or cars were in sight, Cussick observed; the police had
successfully cleared everybody away. At the corner one gloomy shape broke the
expanse of gray; the Van was parked, its motor running, ready to follow.
"There they go," a doctor said, standing beside Cussick. "I hope Rafferty
knows what he's doing." He pointed. "The almost-pretty one is Vivian. She's
the youngest female. The boy is Garry -- very bright, very unstable. That is
Dieter, and his companion is Louis. There's an eighth, a baby, still in the
incubator. They haven't as yet been told."
The four diminutive figures were visibly suffering. Half-conscious, two of
them in convulsions, they crept wretchedly down the steps, trying to stay on
their feet. They did not get far. Garry was the first to go down; he tottered
for a moment on the last step and then pitched face-forward onto the cement.
His small body quivering, he tried to crawl forward; sightlessly, the others
stumbled along the sidewalk, unaware of the prone shape among them, too far
gone themselves even to register its existence.
"Well," Dieter gasped, "we're outside."
"We -- made it," Vivian agreed. Sinking wearily down she rested against the
side of the building. A moment later Dieter lay sprawled beside her, eyes
shut, mouth slack, struggling weakly to get to his feet. And presently Louis
slid down beside them.
Chagrined, dazed by the suddenness of their collapse, the four of them lay
huddled feebly against the gray pavement, trying to breathe, trying to stay
alive. None of them made any attempt to move; the purpose of their ordeal was
forgotten. Panting, struggling to hold onto consciousness, they gazed
sightlessly at the upright figure of Doctor Rafferty.
Rafferty had halted, hands in his overcoat pockets. "It's up to you," he said
stonily. "You want to go on?"
None of them answered; none of them even heard him.
"Your systems won't take the natural air," Rafferty continued. "Or the
temperature. Or the food. Or anything." He glanced at Cussick, an expression
of pain on his face, an acute reflection of suffering that startled the
Security official. "So let's give up," he said harshly. "Let's call the Van
and go back."
Vivian nodded faintly; her lips moved, but there was no sound.
Turning, Rafferty curtly signaled. The Van rolled instantly up; robot
equipment dropped to the pavement and scuttled up to the four collapsed
figures. In a moment they were being lifted into the Van's locks. The
expedition had failed; it was over. Cussick had had his view of them. He had
seen their struggle and their defeat.
For a time he and Doctor Rafferty stood on the cold night sidewalk without
speaking, each involved in his own thoughts. Finally Rafferty stirred. "Thanks
for clearing the streets," he murmured.
"I'm glad I had time," Cussick answered. "It might have been bad... some of
Jones' Youth League Patrols are roaming around."
"The eternal Jones. We really don't have a chance."
"Let's be like these four we just saw; let's keep trying."
"But it's true."
"It's true," Cussick agreed. "Just as it's true your mutants can't breathe
out here. But we set up road-blocks anyhow; we cleared the streets and hoped
to hell we pushed them back this one time."
"Have you ever seen Jones?"
"Several times," Cussick said. "I met him face to face, back in the days
before he had an organization, before anybody had heard of him."
"When he was a minister," Rafferty reflected. "With a church."
"Before that," Cussick said, thinking back. It seemed impossible that there
had been a time before Jones, a time when there had been no need of clearing
the streets. When there had been no gray-uniformed shapes roaming the streets,
collecting in mobs. The crash of breaking glass, the furious crackling of
fire...
"What was he doing then?" Rafferty asked.
"He was in a carnival," Cussick said.
CHAPTER TWO
HE WAS twenty-six years old when he first met Jones. It was April 4, 1995. He
always remembered that day; the spring air was cool and full of the smell of
new growth. The war had ended the year before.
Ahead of him spread out a long descending slope. Houses were perched here and
there, mostly privately-constructed shelters, temporary and flimsy. Crude
streets, working-class people wandering... a typical rural region that had
survived, remote from industrial centers. Normally there would be the hum of
activity: plows and forges and crude manufacturing processes. But today a
quiet hung over the community. Most able-bodied adults, and all of the
children, had trudged off to the carnival.
The ground was soft and moist under his shoes. Cussick strode eagerly along,
because he, too, was going to the carnival. He had a job.
Jobs were scarce; he was glad to get it. Like other young men intellectually
sympathetic to Hoff's Relativism, he had applied for the government service.
Fedgov's apparatus offered a chance to become involved in the task of
Reconstruction; as he was earning a salary -- paid in stable silver -- he was
helping mankind.
In those days he had been idealistic.
Specifically, he had been assigned to the Interior Department. At the
Baltimore Antipol center he had taken political training and then approached
Secpol: the Security arm. But the task of suppressing extremist political and
religious sentiment had, in 1995, seemed merely bureaucratic. Nobody took it
seriously; with world-wide food rationing, the panic was over. Everybody could
be sure of basic subsistence. War-time fanaticism had dwindled out of
existence as rational control regained its pre-inflation position.
Before him, spread out like a sheet of tin, the carnival sat assembled. Ten
metal buildings, displaying bright neon signs, were the main structures. A
central lane led to the hub: a cone within which seats had been erected.
There, the basic acts would take place.
Already, he could see the first familiar spectacle. Pushing ahead, Cussick
made his way among the densely-packed mass of people. The odor of sweat and
tobacco rose around him, an exciting smell. Sliding past a family of grimy
field laborers, he reached the railing of the first freak exhibit, and gazed
up.
The war, with its hard radiation and elaborate diseases, had produced
countless sports, oddities, freaks. Here, in this one minor carnival, a vast
variety had been collected.
Directly above him sat a multi-man, a tangled mass of flesh and organs.
Heads, arms, legs, wobbled dully; the creature was feeble-minded and helpless.
Fortunately, his offspring would be normal; the multi-organisms were not true
mutants.
"Golly," a portly, curly-headed citizen behind him said, horrified. "Isn't
that awful?"
Another man, lean and tall, casually remarked: "Saw a lot of them in the war.
We burned a barnful of them, a sort of colony."
The portly man blinked, bit deep into his candied apple, and moved away from
the war veteran. Leading his wife and three children, he meandered up beside
Cussick.
"Horrible, isn't it?" he muttered. "All these monsters."
"Sort of," Cussick admitted.
"I don't know why I come to these things." The portly man indicated his wife
and children, all of them stonily gobbling up their popcorn and spun-sugar
candy. "They like to come. Women and kids go in for this stuff."
Cussick said: "Under Relativism we have to let them live."
"Sure," the portly man agreed, emphatically nodding. A bit of candied apple
clung to his upper lip; he wiped it away with a freckled paw. "They got their
rights, just like everybody else. Like you and me, mister... they got their
lives, too."
Standing by the railing of the exhibit, the lean war veteran spoke up. "That
don't apply to freaks. That's just people."
The portly men flushed. Waving his candied apple earnestly, he answered:
"Mister, maybe they think we're freaks. Who says who's a freak?"
Disgusted, the veteran said: "I can tell a freak." He eyed Cussick and the
portly man with distaste. "What are you," he demanded, "a freak-lover?"
The portly man sputtered and started over; but his wife seized his arm and
dragged him away, into the crowd, to the next exhibits. Still protesting, he
disappeared from sight. Cussick was left facing the war veteran.
"Damn fool," the veteran said. "It's contrary to common sense. You can see
they're freaks. My God, that's why they're here!"
"He's right, though," Cussick pointed out. "The law gives anybody the right
to live as he pleases. Relativism says -- "
"Then the hell with Relativism. Did we fight a war, did we beat those Jews
and atheists and Reds, so people could be any damn kind of freak they want?
Believe any kind of egghead trash?"
"Nobody beat anybody," Cussick answered. "Nobody won the war."
A small knot of people had stopped to listen. The veteran noticed them; all
at once his cold eyes faded and glazed over. He grunted, shot a last hostile
look at Cussick, and melted off into the group. Disappointed, the people moved
on.
The next freak was part human, part animal. Somewhere along the line, inter-
species mating had occurred; the event was certainly lost in the nightmarish
shadows of the war. As he gazed up, Cussick tried to determine what the
original progenitors had been; one, certainly, had been a horse. This freak,
in all probability, was a fake, artificially grafted; but it was visually
convincing. From the war had come intricate legends of man-animal progeny,
exaggerated accounts of pure human stock that had degenerated, erotic tales of
copulation between women and beasts.
There were many-headed babies, a common sport. He passed by the usual display
of parasites living on sibling hosts. Feathered, scaled, tailed, winged
humanoid freaks squeaked and fluttered on all sides: infinite oddities from
ravaged genes. People with internal organs situated outside the dermal wall;
eye-less, face-less, even head-less freaks; freaks with enlarged and elongated
and multi-jointed limbs; sad-looking creatures peeping out from within other
creatures. A grotesque panorama of malformed organisms: dead-ends that would
leave no spawn, monsters surviving by exhibiting their monstrous qualities.
In the main area, the entertainers were beginning their acts. Not mere
freaks, but legitimate performers with skills and talents. Exhibiting not
themselves, but rather their unusual abilities. Dancers, acrobats, jugglers,
fire-eaters, wrestlers, fighters, animal-tamers, clowns, riders, divers,
strong men, magicians, fortune-tellers, pretty girls... acts that had come
down through thousands of years. Nothing new: only the freaks were new. The
war brought new monsters, but not new abilities.
Or so he thought. But he hadn't seen Jones, yet. Nobody had; it was too
early. The world went on rebuilding, re-constructioning: its time hadn't come.
To his left glared and winked the furious display of a girl exhibit. With
some spontaneous interest, Cussick allowed himself to drift with the crowd.
Four girls lounged on the platform, bodies slack with ennui. One was clipping
her nails with a pair of scissors; the others gazed vacantly at the crowd of
men below. The four were naked, of course. In the weak sunlight their flesh
glowed faintly luminous, oily, pale-pink, downy. The pitchman babbled
metallically into his horn; his amplified voice thundered out in a garble of
confused noise. Nobody paid any attention to the din; those who were
interested stood peering up at the girls. Behind the girls was a closed sheet-
tin building in which the show itself took place.
"Hey," one of the girls said.
Startled, Cussick realized she was speaking to him. "What?" he answered
nervously.
"What time is it?" the girl asked.
Hurriedly, Cussick examined his wrist watch. "Eleven-thirty."
The girl wandered out of line, over to the edge of the platform. "Got a
cigarette?" she asked.
Fumbling in his pocket, Cussick held up his pack.
"Thanks." Breasts bobbing, the girl crouched down and accepted a cigarette.
After an uncertain pause, Cussick reached up his lighter and lit it for her.
She smiled down at him, a small and very young woman, with brown hair and
eyes, slim legs pale and slightly moist with perspiration. "You coming in to
see the show?" she inquired.
He hadn't intended to. "No," he told her.
The girl's lips pulled together in a mocking pout. "No? Why not?" Nearby
people watched with amusement. "Aren't you interested? Are you one of those?"
People around Cussick tittered and grinned. He began to feel embarrassment.
"You're cute," the girl said lazily. She settled down on her haunches,
cigarette between her red lips, arms resting on her bare, out-jutting knees.
"Don't you have fifty dollars? Can't you afford it?"
"No," Cussick answered, nettled. "Can't afford it."
"Aw." Teasing, pretending disappointment, the girl reached out her hand and
rumpled his carefully-combed hair. "That's too bad. Maybe I'll take you on
free. Would you like that? Want to be with me for nothing?" Winking, she stuck
out the tip of a pink tongue at him. "I can show you a lot. You'd be
surprised, the techniques I know."
"Pass the hat," a perspiring bald-headed man on Cussick's right chuckled.
"Hey, let's get up a collection for this young fellow." A general stir of
laughter drifted around, and a few five-dollar pieces were tossed forward.
"Don't you like me?" the girl was asking him, bending down and toward him,
one hand resting on his neck. "Don't you think you could?" Taunting, coaxing,
her voice murmured on: "I'll bet you could. And all these people think you
could, too. They're going to watch. Don't you worry -- I'll show you how."
Suddenly she grabbed tight hold of his ear. "You just come on up here; mama'll
show all of you people what she can do."
A roar of glee burst from the crowd, and Cussick was pushed forward and
boosted up. The girl let go of his ear and reached with both hands to take
hold of him; in that moment he twisted his way loose and dropped back down in
the mass of people. After a short interval of shoving and running, he was
standing beyond the crowd, panting for breath, trying to rearrange his coat...
and his savior faire.
Nobody was paying attention to him, so he began walking aimlessly along,
hands in his pockets, as nonchalant as possible. People milled on all sides,
most of them heading toward the main exhibits and the central area. Carefully,
he evaded the moving flow; his best bet was the peripheral exhibits, open
places where literature could be distributed and speeches made, tiny
gatherings around a single orator. He wondered if the lean war veteran had
been a fanatic; maybe he had identified Cussick as a cop.
The girl exhibit had been a sort of all-man's land between freak and talent.
Beyond the stage of girls stood the booth of the first fortuneteller, one of
several.
"They're charlatans," the portly curly-haired man revealed to him; he was
standing with his family by a dart-throwing booth, a handful of darts
clutched, trying to win a twenty-pound Dutch ham. "Nobody can read the future;
that's for suckers."
Cussick grinned. "So's a twenty-pound Dutch ham. It's probably made of wax."
"I'm going to win this ham," the man asserted good-naturedly. His wife said
nothing, but his children displayed overt confidence in their father. "I'm
going to take it home with me, tonight."
"Maybe I'll get my fortune told," Cussick said.
"Good luck, mister," the curly-headed man said charitably. He turned back to
the dart target: a great eroded backdrop of the nine planets, pitted with
endless near-misses. Its virgin center, an incredibly minute Earth, was
untouched. The portly, curly-headed man drew back his arm and let fly; the
dart, attracted by a deflecting concealed magnet, missed Earth and buried its
steel tip in empty space a little past Ganymede.
At the first fortunetelling booth an old woman, dark-haired and fat, sat
hunched over a squat table on which was arranged timeless apparatus: a
translucent globe. A few people were lined up on the stage, crowded in among
the tawdry hangings waiting to pay their twenty dollars. A glaring neon sign
announced:
YOUR FORTUNE READ
MADAME LULU CARIMA-ZELDA
KNOW THE FUTURE
BE PREPARED FOR ALL EVENTUALITIES
There was nothing here. The old woman mumbled through the traditional
routine, satisfying the middle-aged women waiting in line. But next to Madame
Lulu Carima-Zelda's booth was a second booth, shabby and ignored. A second
fortuneteller, of sorts, sat here. But the bright glaring cheapness of Madame
Carima-Zelda's booth had faded; the glittering nimbus died into gloomy
darkness. Cussick was no longer walking through the shifting artificial
fluorescent lights; he was standing in a gray twilight zone, between gaudy
worlds.
On the barren platform sat a young man, not much older than himself, perhaps
a little younger. His sign intrigued Cussick.
THE FUTURE OF MANKIND
(NO PERSONAL FORTUNES)
For an interval Cussick stood studying the young man. He was slouched in a
sullen heap, smoking angrily and staring off into space. Nobody waited in
line: the exhibit was ignored. His face was fringed with a stubbled beard; a
strange face, swollen deep red, with bulging forehead, steel-rimmed glasses,
puffy lips like a child's. Rapidly, he blinked, puffed on his cigarette,
jerkily smoothed back his sleeves. His bare arms were pale and thin. He was an
intent, sullen figure, seated alone on an empty expanse of platform.
No personal fortunes. An odd come-on for an exhibit; nobody was interested in
abstract fortunes, group fortunes. It sounded as if the teller wasn't much
good; the sign implied vague generalities. But Cussick was interested. The man
was licked before he started; and still he sat there. After all,
fortunetelling was ninety-nine percent showmanship and the rest shrewd
guesswork. In a carny he could learn the traditional ropes; why did he choose
this offbeat approach? It was deliberate, obviously. Every line of the
hunched, ugly body showed that the man intended to stick it out -- had stuck
it out, for God knew how long. The sign was shabby and peeling; maybe it had
been years.
This was Jones. But at the time, of course, Cussick didn't know it.
Leaning toward the platform, Cussick cupped his hands and yelled: "Hey."
After a moment the youth's head turned. His eyes met Cussick's. Gray eyes,
small and cold behind his thick glasses. He blinked and glared back, without
speaking, without moving. On the table his fingers drummed relentlessly.
"Why?" Cussick demanded. "Why no personal fortunes?"
The youth didn't answer. Gradually his gaze faded; he turned his head and
again glared down sightlessly at the table.
There was no doubt about it: this boy had no pitch, no line. Something was
wrong; he was off-key. The other entertainers were hawking, yelling, turning
themselves inside out (often literally) to attract attention, but this boy
simply sat and glared. He made no move to get business; and he got none. Why,
then, was he there?
Cussick hesitated. It didn't look like much of a place to snoop; actually, he
was wasting the government's time.
But his interest had been aroused. He sensed a mystery, and he didn't like
mysteries. Optimistically, he believed things should be solved; he liked the
universe to make sense. And this blatantly flaunted sense.
Climbing the steps, Cussick approached the youth. "All right," he said. "I'll
bite."
The steps sagged under his feet; a rickety platform, unstable and unsafe. As
he seated himself across from the youth, the chair groaned under him. Now that
he was closer he could see that the youth's skin was mottled with deep
splotches of color that might have been skin grafts. Had he been injured in
the war? A faint odor of medicine hung about him, suggesting care of his frail
body. Above the dome of his forehead his hair was tangled; his clothes clung
in folds against his knobby frame. Now, he was peering up at Cussick,
appraising him, warily studying him.
But not fearfully. There was an awkward crudeness about him, an uncertain
twitch of his gaunt body. But his eyes were harsh and unyielding. He was
gauche, but not afraid. It was no weak personality that faced Cussick; it was
a blunt, determined young man. Cussick's own cheery bluster faded; he felt
suddenly apprehensive. He had lost the initiative.
"Twenty dollars," Jones said.
Clumsily, Cussick fumbled in his pocket. "For what? What am I getting?"
After a moment Jones explained. "See that?" He indicated a wheel on the
table. Pulling back a lever he released it; the hand on the wheel slowly
turned, accompanied by a laborious metallic clicking. The face of the wheel
was divided into four quarters. "You have one hundred and twenty seconds.
Anything you want to ask. Then your time is up." He took the change and
dropped it in his coat pocket.
"Ask?" Cussick said huskily. "About what?"
"The future." There was contempt in the youth's voice, undisguised,
unconcealed. It was obvious; of course, the future. What else? Irritably, his
thin, hard fingers drummed. And the wheel ticked.
"But not personal?" Cussick pursued. "Not about myself?"
Lips twitching spasmodically, Jones shot back: "Of course not. You're a
nonentity. You don't figure."
Cussick blinked. Embarrassed, feeling his ears begin to burn, he answered as
evenly as possible: "Maybe you're wrong. Maybe I'm somebody." Hotly, he was
thinking of his position; what would this rustic punk say if he knew he was
facing a Fedgov secret-service man? It was on the tip of his tongue angrily to
blurt it out, to give his role away in self-defense. That, of course, would
finish him off with Security. But he was harried, and uncertain.
"You're down to ninety seconds," Jones notified him dispassionately. Then his
gaunt, stony voice took on feeling. "For God's sake, ask something! Don't you
want to know anything? Aren't you curious?"
Licking his lips, Cussick said: "Well, what's the future hold? What's going
to happen?"
Disgusted, Jones shook his head. He sighed and stubbed out his cigarette. For
a moment it seemed as if he wasn't going to answer; he concentrated on the
smashed cigarette butt under the sole of his shoe. Then he dragged himself
upright and carefully said: "Specific questions. Do you want me to think up
one for you? All right, I will. Question. Who'll be the next Council chairman?
Answer. The Nationalist candidate, a trivial individual named Ernest T.
Saunders."
"But the Nationalists aren't a party! They're a cultist splinter-group!"
Ignoring him, Jones went on: "Question. What are the drifters? Answer. Beings
from beyond the solar system, origin unknown, nature unknown."
Puzzled, Cussick hesitated. "Unknown up to what date?" he ventured. Plucking
up his courage, he demanded: "How far can you see?"
Without particular inflection, Jones said: "I can see without error over a
span of a year. After that, it fades. I can see major events, but specific
details dim and I get nothing at all. As far as I can see ahead, the origin of
the drifters is unknown." Glancing at Cussick, he added, "I mention them
because they're going to be the big issue from now on."
"They already are," Cussick said, recalling the present sensational headlines
in the cheap press: UNKNOWN FLIGHTS OF SHIPS DETECTED BY OUT-PLANET PATROLS.
"You say they're beings? Not ships? I don't get it -- you mean what we've
sighted are the actual living creatures, not their artificially constructed --
"
"Alive, yes," Jones interrupted impatiently, almost feverishly. "But Fedgov
knows it already. Right now, at high level, they have detailed reports. The
reports will be out in a few weeks; the bastards are withholding them from the
public. A dead drifter was hauled in by a scout coming back from Uranus."
Suddenly the wheel ceased slicking, and Jones dropped back in his chair, his
flow of agitated words ceasing. "Your time is up," he announced. "If you want
to know anything more, it'll be another twenty dollars."
Dazed, Cussick retreated away from him, down the steps and off the platform.
"No thanks," he murmured. "That's plenty."
CHAPTER THREE
AT FOUR O'CLOCK the police car picked him up and carried him back to
Baltimore. Cussick was seething. Excitedly, he lit a cigarette, stubbed it
out, and lit another. Maybe he had something; maybe not. The Baltimore secret-
service buildings stood like a vast cube of concrete on the surface of the
earth, a mile outside the city. Around the cube jutted metallic dots:
coordinate block houses that were the mouths of elaborate subsurface tunnels.
In the blue spring sky lazily flitted a few robot interception aerial mines.
摘要：

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

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