The Second Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK®: 13 Fantastic Stories

Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series

THE UNRECONSTRUCTED M

SALES PITCH

SHELL GAME

BREAKFAST AT TWILIGHT

ADJUSTMENT TEAM

FOSTER, YOU’RE DEAD

THE CRAWLERS

THE GOLDEN MAN

THE LAST OF THE MASTERS

THE TURNING WHEEL

UPON THE DULL EARTH

HUMAN IS

MEDDLER

COPYRIGHT INFO

The Second Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2015, 2016 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved. Cover art copyright © Dmytro Tolokonov / Fotolia.

Version 1.2. (Thanks to Eleanor Forman for typo reports!)

* * * *

The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Surely Philip K. Dick needs little introduction today—between his books, movies, and television shows, he has emerged as one of the iconic science fiction figures of the 20th century. And this is also the second volume of his short stories released as a MEGAPACK®, so you have probably already read the first volume and my introduction therein.

So—on with the stories. Enjoy!

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

ABOUT THE SERIES

Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, Who’s the editor?

The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.

The MEGAPACK® Ebook Series

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THE GOLDEN AGE OF SCIENCE FICTION

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2. Mark Clifton

3. Poul Anderson

4. Clifford D. Simak

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6. Charles L. Fontenay

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11. F.L. Wallace

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29. Katherine MacLean

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THE UNRECONSTRUCTED M

Originally published in Science Fiction Stories, Jan. 1957.

I

The machine was a foot wide and two feet long; it looked like an oversized box of crackers. Silently, with great caution, it climbed the side of a concrete building; it had lowered two rubberized rollers and was now beginning the first phase of its job.

From its rear, a flake of blue enamel was exuded. The machine pressed the flake firmly against the rough concrete and then continued on. Its upward path carried it from vertical concrete to vertical steel: it had reached a window. The machine paused and produced a microscopic fragment of cloth fabric. The cloth, with great care, was embedded in the fitting of the steel window frame.

In the chill darkness, the machine was virtually invisible. The glow of a distant tangle of traffic briefly touched it, illuminated its polished hull, and departed. The machine resumed its work.

It projected a plastic pseudopodium and incinerated the pane of window glass. There was no response from within the gloomy apartment: nobody was home. The machine, now dulled with particles of glass-dust, crept over the steel frame and raised an inquisitive receptor.

While it received, it exerted precisely two hundred pounds pressure on the steel window frame; the frame obediently bent. Satisfied, the machine descended the inside of the wall to the moderately thick carpet. There it began the second phase of its job.

One single human hair—follicle and speck of scalp included—was deposited on the hardwood floor by the lamp. Not far from the piano, two dried grains of tobacco were ceremoniously laid out. The machine waited an interval of ten seconds and then, as an internal section of magnetic tape clicked into place, it suddenly said, Ugh! Damn it…

Curiously, its voice was husky and masculine.

The machine made its way to the closet door, which was locked. Climbing the wood surface, the machine reached the lock mechanism, and, inserting a thin section of itself, caressed the tumblers back. Behind the row of coats was a small mound of batteries and wires: a self-powered video recorder. The machine destroyed the reservoir of film—which was vital—and then, as it left the closet, expelled a drop of blood on the jagged tangle that had been the lens-scanner. The drop of blood was even more vital.

While the machine was pressing the artificial outline of a heel mark into the greasy film that covered the flooring of the closet, a sharp sound came from the hallway. The machine ceased its work and became rigid. A moment later a small, middle-aged man entered the apartment, coat over one arm, briefcase in the other.

Good God, he said, stopping instantly as he saw the machine. What are you?

The machine lifted the nozzle of its front section and shot an explosive pellet at the man’s half-bald head. The pellet traveled into the skull and detonated. Still clutching his coat and briefcase, bewildered expression on his face, the man collapsed to the rug. His glasses, broken, lay twisted beside his ear. His body stirred a little, twitched, and then was satisfactorily quiet.

Only two steps remained to the job, now that the main part was done. The machine deposited a bit of burnt match in one of the spotless ashtrays resting on the mantel, and entered the kitchen to search for a water glass. It was starting up the side of the sink when the noise of human voices startled it.

This is the apartment, a voice said, clear and close.

Get ready—he ought to still be here. Another voice, a man’s voice, like the first. The hall door was pushed open and two individuals in heavy overcoats sprinted purposefully into the apartment. At their approach, the machine dropped to the kitchen floor, the water glass forgotten. Something had gone wrong. Its rectangular outline flowed and wavered; pulling itself into an upright package it fused its shape into that of a conventional TV unit.

It was holding that emergency form when one of the men—tall, red-haired—peered briefly into the kitchen.

Nobody in here, the man declared, and hurried on.

The window, his companion said, panting. Two more figures entered the apartment, an entire crew. The glass is gone—missing. He got in that way.

But he’s gone. The red-haired man reappeared at the kitchen door; he snapped on the light and entered, a gun visible in his hand. Strange…we got here right away, as soon as we picked up the rattle. Suspiciously, he examined his wristwatch. Rosenburg’s been dead only a few seconds…how could he have got out again so fast?

* * * *

Standing in the street entrance, Edward Ackers listened to the voice. During the last half hour the voice had taken on a carping, nagging whine; sinking almost to inaudibility, it plodded along, mechanically turning out its message of complaint.

You’re tired, Ackers said. Go home. Take a hot bath.

No, the voice said, interrupting its tirade. The locus of the voice was a large illuminated blob on the dark sidewalk, a few yards to Acker’s right. The revolving neon sign read:

BANISH IT!

Thirty times—he had counted—within the last few minutes the sign had captured a passerby and the man in the booth had begun his harangue. Beyond the booth were several theaters and restaurants: the booth was well-situated.

But it wasn’t for the crowd that the booth had been erected. It was for Ackers and the offices behind him; the tirade was aimed directly at the Interior Department. The nagging racket had gone on so many months that Ackers was scarcely aware of it. Rain on the roof. Traffic noises. He yawned, folded his arms, and waited.

Banish it, the voice complained peevishly. Come on, Ackers. Say something; do something.

I’m waiting, Ackers said complacently.

* * * *

A group of middle-class citizens passed the booth and were handed leaflets. The citizens scattered the leaflets after them, and Ackers laughed.

Don’t laugh, the voice muttered. It’s not funny; it costs us money to print those.

Your personal money? Ackers inquired.

Partly. Garth was lonely, tonight. "What are you waiting for? What’s happened? I saw a police team leave your roof a few minutes ago…?

We may take in somebody, Ackers said, there’s been a killing.

Down the dark sidewalk the man stirred in his dreary propaganda booth. Oh? Harvey Garth’s voice came. He leaned forward and the two looked directly at each other: Ackers, carefully-groomed, well-fed, wearing a respectable overcoat… Garth, a thin man, much younger, with a lean, hungry face composed mostly of nose and forehead.

So you see, Ackers told him, we do need the system. Don’t be Utopian.

A man is murdered; and you rectify the moral imbalance by killing the killer. Garth’s protesting voice rose in a bleak spasm. Banish it! Banish the system that condemns men to certain extinction!

Get your leaflets here, Ackers parodied dryly. And your slogans. Either or both. What would you suggest in place of the system?

Garth’s voice was proud with conviction. Education.

Amused, Ackers asked: "Is that all? You think that would stop anti-social activity? Criminals just don’t—know better?"

And psychotherapy, of course. His projected face bony and intense, Garth peered out of his booth like an aroused turtle. They’re sick…that’s why they commit crimes, healthy men don’t commit crimes. And you compound it; you create a sick society of punitive cruelty. He waggled an accusing finger. You’re the real culprit, you and the whole Interior Department. You and the whole Banishment System.

Again and again the neon sign blinked BANISH IT! Meaning, of course, the system of compulsory ostracism for felons, the machinery that projected a condemned human being into some random backwater region of the sidereal universe, into some remote and out-of-the-way corner where he would be of no harm.

No harm to us, anyhow, Ackers mused aloud.

Garth spoke the familiar argument. Yes, but what about the local inhabitants?

* * * *

Too bad about the local inhabitants. Anyhow, the banished victim spent his energy and time trying to find a way back to the Sol System. If he got back before old age caught up with him he was readmitted by society. Quite a challenge…especially to some cosmopolite who had never set foot outside Greater New York. There were—probably—many involuntary expatriates cutting grain in odd fields with primitive sickles. The remote sections of the universe seemed composed mostly of dank rural cultures, isolated agrarian enclaves typified by small-time bartering of fruit and vegetables and handmade artifacts.

Did you know, Ackers said, that in the Age of Monarchs, a pickpocket was usually hanged?

Banish it, Garth continued monotonously, sinking back into his booth. The sign revolved; leaflets were passed out. And Ackers impatiently watched the late-evening street for sign of the hospital truck.

He knew Heimie Rosenburg. A sweeter little guy there never was…although Heimie had been mixed up in one of the sprawling slave combines that illegally transported settlers to outsystem fertile planets. Between them, the two largest slavers had settled virtually the entire Sirius System. Four out of six emigrants were hustled out in carriers registered as freighters. It was hard to picture gentle little Heimie Rosenburg as a business agent for Tirol Enterprises, but there it was.

As he waited, Ackers conjectured on Heimie’s murder. Probably one element of the incessant subterranean war going on between Paul Tirol and his major rival, David Lantano, was a brilliant and energetic newcomer…but murder was anybody’s game. It all depended on how it was done; it could be commercial hack or the purest art.

Here comes something, Garth’s voice sounded, carried to his inner ear by the delicate output transformers of the booth’s equipment. Looks like a freezer.

It was; the hospital truck had arrived. Ackers stepped forward as the truck halted and the back was let down.

How soon did you get there? he asked the cop who jumped heavily to the pavement.

Right away, the cop answered, but no sign of the killer. I don’t think we’re going to get Heimie back…they got him dead-center, right in the cerebellum. Expert work, no amateur stuff.

Disappointed, Ackers clambered into the hospital truck to inspect for himself.

* * * *

Very tiny and still, Heimie Rosenburg lay on his back, arms at his sides, gazing sightlessly up at the roof of the truck. On his face remained the expression of bewildered wonder. Somebody—one of the cops—had placed his bent glasses in his clenched hand. In falling he had cut his cheek. The destroyed portion of his skull was covered by a moist plastic web.

Who’s back at the apartment? Ackers asked presently.

The rest of my crew, the cop answered. And an independent researcher. Leroy Beam.

Him, Ackers said, with aversion. How is it he showed up?

Caught the rattle, too, happened to be passing with his rig. Poor Heimie had an awful big booster on that rattle… I’m surprised it wasn’t picked up here at the main offices.

They say Heimie had a high anxiety level, Ackers said. Bugs all over his apartment. You’re starting to collect evidence?

The teams are moving in, the cop said. We should begin getting specifications in half an hour. The killer knocked out the vid bug set up in the closet. But— He grinned. He cut himself breaking the circuit. A drop of blood, right on the wiring; it looks promising.

* * * *

At the apartment, Leroy Beam watched the Interior police begin their analysis. They worked smoothly and thoroughly, but Beam was dissatisfied.

His original impression remained: he was suspicious. Nobody could have gotten away so quickly. Heimie had died, and his death—the cessation of his neural pattern—had triggered off an automatic squawk. A rattle didn’t particularly protect its owner, but its existence ensured (or usually ensured) detection of the murderer. Why had it failed Heimie?

Prowling moodily, Leroy Beam entered the kitchen for the second time. There, on the floor by the sink, was a small portable TV unit, the kind popular with the sporting set: a gaudy little packet of plastic and knobs and multi-tinted lenses.

Why this? Beam asked, as one of the cops plodded past him. This TV unit sitting here on the kitchen floor. It’s out of place.

The cop ignored him. In the living room, elaborate police detection equipment was scraping the various surfaces inch by inch. In the half hour since Heimie’s death, a number of specifications had been logged. First, the drop of blood on the damaged vid wiring. Second, a hazy heel mark where the murderer had stepped. Third, a bit of burnt match in the ashtray. More were expected; the analysis had only begun.

It usually took nine specifications to delineate the single individual. Leroy Beam glanced cautiously around him. None of the cops was watching, so he bent down and picked up the TV unit; it felt ordinary. He clicked the on switch and waited. Nothing happened; no image formed. Strange.

He was holding it upside down, trying to see the inner chassis, when Edward Ackers from Interior entered the apartment. Quickly, Beam stuffed the TV unit into the pocket of his heavy overcoat.

What are you doing here? Ackers said.

Seeking, Beam answered, wondering if Ackers noticed his tubby bulge. I’m in business, too.

Did you know Heimie?

By reputation, Beam answered vaguely. Tied in with Tirol’s combine, I hear; some sort of front man. Had an office on Fifth Avenue.

Swank place, like the rest of those Fifth Avenue feather merchants. Ackers went on into the living room to watch detectors gather up evidence.

There was a vast nearsightedness to the wedge grinding ponderously across the carpet. It was scrutinizing at a microscopic level, and its field was sharply curtailed. As fast as material was obtained, it was relayed to the Interior offices, to the aggregate file banks where the civil population was represented by a series of punch cards, cross-indexed infinitely.

Lifting the telephone, Ackers called his