Clans of the Alphane Moon by Philip K Dick

Author:Philip K Dick [Dick, Philip K]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction - Science Fiction, Mentally Ill, Psychological Fiction, Science Fiction, Dick, Psychiatric Hospital Patients, Psychiatric hospitals, General, Psychological, Philip K. - Prose & Criticism, Science Fiction - General, Satellites, Fiction
ISBN: 9780375719288
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 2002-05-14T04:00:00+00:00

NINE

As if a benign harbinger, Patricia Weaver was at home; she opened the door of her conapt and said, “Oh goodness, so you’re the man with the my script. How early you are; you said on the vidphone—”

“I got finished earlier than I had expected.” Chuck entered her apt, glancing at the excessively modern furniture; it was neo-pre-Columbian in style, based on recent archeological discoveries of the Incan culture in South America. All the furniture of course was hand wrought. And on the walls hung the new animated action-paintings that never ceased moving; they consisted of two-dimensional machines that clattered away softly, like the rush of a distant ocean. Or, he thought more practically, like a subsurface autofac. He was not certain he liked them.

“You’ve got it with you,” Miss Weaver said delightedly. She wore—and this seemed odd for so early in the evening—a high-fashion Paris dress, the like of which he had witnessed in magazines but never before in actual life. This was a long way from his desk at CIA. The dress was lavish and complex, like the petals of a non-T flower; it must have cost a thousand skins, Chuck decided. This was a dress in which to get a job; her right breast, firm and uptilted, was totally exposed; it was a very fashionable dress indeed. Had she been expecting someone else? Bunny Hentman, for example?

“I was going out,” Patty explained. “For a cocktail. But I’ll call and cancel it.” She walked to the vidphone, her sharp, high heels clacking against the synthetic—Inca-style—dirt floor.

“I hope you like the script,” he said, wandering about and feeling small-time. This was a bit over his head, the elaborate, expensive dress, the handwrought furnishings… he stood facing a painting, watched as its nonobjective surfaces slid and altered, forming entirely new—and never to be repeated—combinations.

Patty returned from the vidphone. “I was able to catch him before he left MGB Studios.” She did not specify who and Chuck decided not to ask; it would probably deflate him even further. “A drink?” She went to the sideboard, opened a pre-Columbian wood and gold cabinet, revealing bottle after bottle. “What about an Ionian Wuzzball? It’s the snig; you must try it. I bet it hasn’t gotten up into Northern California— you’re so—” She gestured. “So gas-headed up there.” She began to mix drinks.

“Can I help?” He came over beside her, feeling serious and protective… or at least wanting to be.

“No thanks.” Patty expertly handed him his glass. “Let me ask you something,” she said, “even before I look at the script. Is my part large?”

“Um,” he said. He had made it as large as he could, but the fact of the matter was this: her role was minor. The head of the fish got thrown to her, but the fillets had—of necessity—gone to Bunny.

“You mean it’s small,” Patty said, walking to the bench-like couch and seating herself; the petals of her dress spread out on each side of her. “Let me see it, please.” She had now an astute and entirely professional air about her; she was absolutely calm.

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