Authors: Philip K. Dick
“He’s in charge. He feels everything is his business. Anyhow we’ll be getting away from that. Thank God. Come on; cool off. You can’t do anything about it; he read it years ago.”
“Did he say whether he thought it was a good prayer?”
Mary Morley said, “Fred Gossim would never say if it was. I think it was. Evidently it was, because you got the transfer.”
“I think so. Because God doesn’t grant too many prayers by Jews due to that covenant back in the pre-Intercessor days when the power of the Form Destroyer was so strong, and our relationship to him—to God, I mean—was so fouled up.”
“I can see you back in those days,” Mary said. “Kvetching bitterly about everything the Mentufacturer did and said.”
Morley said, “I would have been a great poet. Like David.”
“You would have held a little job, like you do now.” With that she strode off, leaving him standing in the doorway of the noser, one hand on his row of stored-away marmalade jars.
His sense of impotence rose within him, choking his wind-pipe. “Stay here!” he yelled after her. “I’ll leave without you!”
She continued on under the hot sun, not looking back and not answering.
For the remainder of the day Seth Morley busied himself loading their possessions into the
Morbid Chicken.
Mary did not show herself. He realized, toward dinnertime, that he was doing it all. Where is she? he asked himself. It’s not fair.
Depression hit him, as it generally did toward mealtime. I wonder if it’s all worth it, he said to himself. Going from one no-good job to another. I’m a loser. Mary is right about me; look at the job I did selecting a noser. Look at the job I’m doing loading this damn stuff in here. He gazed about the interior of the noser, conscious of the ungainly piles of clothing, books, records, kitchen appliances, typewriter, medical supplies, pictures, wear-forever couch covers, chess set, reference tapes, communications gear and junk, junk, junk. What have we in fact accumulated in eight years of work here? he asked himself. Nothing of any worth. And in addition, he could not get it all into the noser. Much would have to be thrown away or left for someone else to use. Better to destroy it, he thought gloomily. The idea of someone else gaining use of his possessions had to be sternly rejected. I’ll burn every last bit of it, he told himself. Including all the nebbish clothes that Mary’s collected in her jaybird manner. Selecting whatever’s bright and gaudy.
I’ll pile her stuff outside, he decided, and then get all of mine aboard. It’s her own fault: she should be here to help. I’m under no mandate to load her kipple.
As he stood there with an armload of clothes gripped tightly he saw, in the gloom of twilight, a figure approaching him. Who is it? he wondered, and peered to see.
It was not Mary. A man, he saw, or rather something like a man. A figure in a loose robe, with long hair falling down his dark, full shoulders. Seth Morley felt fear. The Walker-on-Earth,
he realized. Come to stop me. Shaking, he began to set down the armload of clothes. Within him his conscience bit furiously; he felt now the complete weight of all the bad-doings he had done. Months, years—he had not seen the Walker-on-Earth for a long time, and the weight was intolerable. The accumulation which always left its mark within. Which never departed until the Intercessor removed it.
The figure halted before him. “Mr. Morley,” it said.
“Yes,” he said, and felt his scalp bleeding perspiration. His face dripped with it and he tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand. “I’m tired,” he said. “I’ve been working for hours to get this noser loaded. It’s a big job.”
The Walker-on-Earth said, “Your noser, the
Morbid Chicken
, will not get you and your little family to Delmak-O. I therefore must interfere, my dear friend. Do you understand?”
“Sure,” he said, panting with guilt.
“Select another.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding frantically. “Yes, I will. And thank you; thanks a lot. The fact of the matter is you saved our lives.” He peered at the dim face of the Walker-on-Earth, trying to see if its expression reproached him. But he could not tell; the remaining sunlight had begun to diffuse into an almost nocturnal haze.
“I am sorry,” the Walker-on-Earth said, “that you had to labor so long for nothing.”
“Well, as I say—”
“I will help you with the reloading,” the Walker-on-Earth said. It reached its arms out, bending; it picked up a pile of boxes and began to move among the parked, silent nosers. “I recommend this,” it said presently, halting by one and reaching to open its door. “It is not much to look at, but mechanically it’s perfect.”
“Hey,” Morley said, following with a swiftly snatched-up load. “I mean, thanks. Looks aren’t important anyhow; it’s what’s on the inside that counts. For people as well as
nosers.” He laughed, but the sound emerged as a jarring screech; he cut it off instantly, and the sweat gathered around his neck turned cold with his great fear.
“There is no reason to be afraid of me,” the Walker said.
“Intellectually I know that,” Morley said.
Together, they labored for a time in silence, carrying box after box from the
Morbid Chicken
to the better noser. Continually Morley tried to think of something to say, but he could not. His mind, because of his fright, had become dim; the fires of his quick intellect, in which he had so much faith, had almost flickered off.
“Have you ever thought of getting psychiatric help?” the Walker asked him at last.
“No,” he said.
“Let’s pause a moment and rest. So we can talk a little.” Morley said, ” “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to know anything; I don’t want to hear anything.” He heard his voice bleat out in its weakness, steeped in its paucity of knowledge. The bleat of foolishness, of the greatest amount of insanity of which he was capable. He knew this, heard it and recognized it, and still he clung to it; he continued on. “I know I’m not perfect,” he said. “But I can’t change. I’m satisfied.”
“Your failure to examine the
Morbid Chicken.”
“Mary made a good point; usually my luck is good.”
“She would have died, too.”
“Tell her that.” Don’t tell me, he thought. Please, don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to know!
The Walker regarded him for a moment. “Is there anything,” it said at last, “that you want to say to me?”
“I’m grateful, damn grateful. For your appearance.”
“Many times during the past years you’ve thought to yourself what you would say to me if you met me again. Many things passed through your mind.”
“I—forget,” he said, huskily.
“May I bless you?”
“Sure,” he said, his voice still husky. And almost inaudible. “But why? What have I done?”
“I am proud of you, that’s all.”
“But why?” He did not understand; the censure which he had been waiting for had not arrived.
The Walker said, “Once years ago you had a tomcat whom you loved. He was greedy and mendacious and yet you loved him. One day he died from bone fragments lodged in his stomach, the result of filching the remains of a dead Martian root-buzzard from a garbage pail. You were sad, but you still loved him. His essence, his appetite—all that made him up had driven him to his death. You would have paid a great deal to have him alive again, but you would have wanted him as he was, greedy and pushy, himself as you loved him, unchanged. Do you understand?”
“I prayed then,” Morley said. “But no help came. The Mentufacturer could have rolled time back and restored him.”
“Do you want him back now?”
“Yes,” Morley said raspingly.
“Will you get psychiatric help?”
“No.”
“I bless you,” the Walker-on-Earth said, and made a motion with his right hand: a slow and dignified gesture of blessing. Seth Morley bowed his head, pressed his right hand against his eyes … and found that black tears had lodged in the hollows of his face. Even now, he marveled. That awful old cat; I should have forgotten him years ago. I guess you never really forget such things, he thought. It’s all in there, in the mind, buried until something like this comes up.
“Thank you,” he said, when the blessing ended.
“You will see him again,” the Walker said. “When you sit with us in Paradise.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly as he was?”
“Yes.”
“Will he remember me?”
“He remembers you now. He waits. He will never stop waiting.”
“Thanks,” Morley said. “I feel a lot better.”
The Walker-on-Earth departed.
Entering the cafeteria of the kibbutz, Seth Morley sought out his wife. He found her eating curried lamb shoulder at a table in the shadows of the edge of the room. She barely nodded as he seated himself facing her.
“You missed dinner,” she said presently. “That’s not like you.”
Morley said, “I saw him.”
“Who?” She eyed him keenly.
“The Walker-on-Earth. He came to tell me that the noser I picked out would have killed us. We never would have made it.”
“I knew that,” Mary said. “I knew that—
thing
would never have gotten us there.”
Morley said, “My cat is still alive.”
“You don’t have a cat.”
He grabbed her arm, halting her motions with the fork. “He says we’ll be all right; we’ll get to Delmak-O and I can begin the new job.”
“Did you ask him what the new job is all about?”
“I didn’t think to ask him that, no.”
“You fool.” She pried his hand loose and resumed eating. “Tell me what the Walker looked like.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“You
know
I’ve never seen it!”
“Beautiful and gentle. He held out his hand and blessed me.”
“So it manifested itself to you as a man. Interesting. If it had been as a woman you wouldn’t have listened to—”
“I pity you,” Morley said. “It’s never intervened to save you. Maybe it doesn’t consider you worth saving.”
Mary, savagely, threw down her fork; she glowered at him with animal ferocity. Neither of them spoke for a time.
“I’m going to Delmak-O alone,” Morley said at last.
“You think so? You really think so? I’m going with you; I want to keep my eyes on you at all times. Without me—”
“Okay,” he said scathingly. “You can come along. What the hell do I care? Anyhow if you stayed here you’d be having an affair with Gossim, ruining his life—” He ceased speaking, panting for breath.
In silence, Mary continued eating her lamb.
“You are one thousand miles above the surface of Delmak-O,” the headphone clamped against Ben Tallchief’s ear declared. “Switch to automatic pilot, please.”
“I can land her myself,” Ben Tallchief said into his mike. He gazed at the world below him, wondering at its colors. Clouds, he decided. A natural atmosphere. Well, that answers one of my many questions. He felt relaxed and confident. And then he thought of his next question: Is this a god-world? And that issue sobered him.
He landed without difficulty … stretched, yawned, belched, unfastened his seat belt, stood up, awkwardly walked to the hatch, opened the hatch, then went back to the control room to shut off the still active rocket engine. While he was at it he shut off the air supply, too. That seemed to be all. He clambered down the iron steps and bounced his way clumsily onto the surface of the planet.
Next to the field a row of flat-roofed buildings: the tiny colony’s interwoven installations. Several persons were moving toward his noser, evidently to greet him. He waved, enjoying
the feel of the plastic leather steering gloves—that and the very great augmentation of his somatic self which his bulky suit provided.
“Hi!” a female voice called.
“Hi,” Ben Tallchief said, regarding the girl. She wore a dark smock, with matching pants, a general issue outfit that matched the plainness of her round, clean, freckled face. “Is this a god-world?” he asked, walking leisurely toward her.
“It is not a god-world,” the girl said, “but there are some strange things out there.” She gestured toward the horizon vaguely; smiling at him in a friendly manner she held out her hand. “I’m Betty Jo Berm. Linguist. You’re either Mr. Tailchief or Mr. Morley; everyone else is here already.”
“Tallchief,” he said.
“I’ll introduce you to everyone. This elderly gentleman is Bert Kosler, our custodian.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Kosler.” Handshake.
“I’m glad to meet you, too,” the old man said.
“This is Maggie Walsh, our theologian.”
“Glad to meet you, Miss Walsh.” Handshake. Pretty girl.
“Glad to meet you, too, Mr. Tallchief.”
“Ignatz Thugg, thermoplastics.”
“Hi, there.” Overly masculine handshake. He did not like Mr. Thugg.
“Dr. Milton Babble, the colony’s M.D.”
“Nice to know you, Dr. Babble.” Handshake. Babble, short and wide, wore a colorful short-sleeved shirt. His face had on it a corrupt expression which was hard to penetrate.
“Tony Dunkelwelt, our photographer and soil-sample expert.”
“Nice to meet you.” Handshake.
“This gentleman here is Wade Frazer, our psychologist.” A long, phony handshake with Frazer’s wet, unclean fingers.
“Glen Belsnor, our electronics and computer man.”
“Glad to meet you,” Handshake. Dry, horny, competent hand.
A tall, elderly woman approached, supporting herself with a cane. She had a noble face, pale in its quality but very fine. “Mr. Tallchief,” she said, extending a slight, limp hand to Ben Tallchief. “I am Roberta Rockingham, the sociologist. It’s nice to meet you. We’ve all been wondering and wondering about you.”
Ben said, “Are you
the
Roberta Rockingham?” He felt himself glow with the pleasure of meeting her. Somehow he had assumed that the great old lady had died years ago. It confused him to find himself being introduced to her now.
“And this,” Betty Jo Berm said, “is our clerk-typist, Susie Dumb.”
“Glad to know you, Miss—” He paused.
“Smart,” the girl said. Full-breasted and wonderfully shaped. “Suzanne Smart. They think it’s funny to call me Susie Dumb.” She extended her hand and they shook.
Betty Jo Berm said, “Do you want to look around, or just what?”