The Penultimate Truth (S.F. MASTERWORKS) by Philip K. Dick

Author:Philip K. Dick
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780575098275
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2010-04-17T23:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

The first giant autonomic ‘dozer groaned like a stiff old man. And, as it dipped stink-buglike head down, tail up, the first scoop of earth—and a huge scoop, too—was gathered, pried loose, swung up and then off to one side; the scoop of dirt was dropped into a waiting converter, also on autocircuit, operating homeostatically, without human attention. Within its field the dirt was transformed into energy, and that energy, which did not deserve to be wasted, was carried by cable to a major storage meta-battery assembly a quarter mile away. The meta-battery, a development which had come shortly before the war, could store up power which, when read off as ergs, consisted of billions of units. And—it could store that power for decades.

The energy from the meta-battery would provide electricity to run the completed dwelling units of the conapt buildings; it would be the source for everything that lit up, heated, cooled or turned.

Over the years Runcible had made his modus operandi a highly efficient one. Nothing was discarded.

And the real profit, Robert Hig reflected as he stood near the automatic ’dozer—or rather near the first one; twelve had gone into operation simultaneously—came ultimately from the people who would live in the conapts. Because, as they had worked below ground in their ant tanks, assembling leadies to augment the entourages, the private armies of the demesne owners, now they would work for Runcible.

The lower floors of each conapt building consisted of shops, and in these shops the components for the leadies were made. The components, turned out by hand—the intricate network of the surface autofac system having been wiped out by the war. Below ground the tankers of course did not know this, had no idea where their supply of components originated. Because to let them know this would have been to let them know—god forbid—that humans could live on the surface.

And the whole point, Hig reflected, is to see that they don’t know, because just as soon as they come up we will have another war.

At least so he had been told. And he did not question this; he was, after all, not a Yance-man; he was merely an employee of the Agency, of Brose. Someday, if he were lucky and did his job properly, Brose would advance his name as candidate; he would be legally entitled to seek out a hot-spot for his demesne … assuming any hot-spots still existed by then.

Perhaps, Hig thought, as a result of this one job, this major special Agency project, I’ll be a Yance-man. And then I can start paying those private cops of Webster Foote to keep readings going for me in the hot-spots that remain; I can start the long vigil like David Lantano did up until just recently. If he could do it, so can I, because who ever heard of him before?

“How’s it look, Mr. Hig?” a human workman yelled at him, as all the ’dozers dug, dropped their dirt into the converters, dug again.

“Okay,” Hig yelled back.

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