We Can Build You by Dick Philip K

Author:Dick, Philip K. [Dick, Philip K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Fantasy
Amazon: B005LVQYWG
Goodreads: 19914823
Publisher: Mariner Books
Published: 1972-07-01T07:00:00+00:00

The next morning there was plenty of warm sunlight, and I felt a good deal better without even getting up from my bed. And then, after I had gotten up and shaved, had breakfast at the motel cafe of hotcakes and bacon and coffee and orange juice and had read the newspaper, I felt as good as new. Really recovered.

It shows what breakfast does, I said to myself. Healed, maybe? I’m back in there a whole, well man again?

No. We’re better but not healed. Because we weren’t well in the first place, and you can’t restore health where there wasn’t any health to begin with. What is this sickness?

Pris has had it almost to the point of death. And it has touched me, moved into me and lodged there. And Maury and Barrows and after him all the rest of us until my father; my father has it the least.

Dad! I had forgotten; he was coming over.

Hurrying outside, I hailed a taxi.

I was the first to reach the office of MASA ASSOCIATES. A moment later, from the office window, I saw my Chevrolet Magic Fire parking. Out stepped Pris. Today she wore a blue cotton dress and a long-sleeved blouse; her hair was tied up and her face was scrubbed and shiny.

As she entered the office she smiled at me. “I’m sorry I used the wrong word last night. Maybe next time. No harm done.”

“No harm done,” I said.

“Do you mean that, Louis?”

“No,” I said, returning her smile.

The office door opened and Maury entered. “I got a good night’s rest. By god, buddy boy, we’ll take this nogoodnik Barrows for every last cent he’s got.”

Behind him came my dad, in his dark, striped, train-conductor’s suit. He greeted Pris gravely, then turned to Maury and me. “Is he here, yet?”

“No, Dad,” I said. “Any time now.”

Pris said, “I think we should turn the Lincoln back on. We shouldn’t be afraid of Barrows.”

“I agree,” I said.

“No,” Maury said, “and I’ll tell you why. It whets Barrows’ appetite. Isn’t that so? Think about it.”

After a time I said, “Maury’s right. We’ll leave it off. Barrows can kick it and pound it, but let’s not turn it back on. It’s greed that motivates him.” And, I thought, it’s fear that motivates us; so much of what we’ve done of late has been inspired by fear, not by common sense . . .

There was a knock at the door.

“He’s here,” Maury said, and cast a flickering glance at me.

The door opened. There stood Sam K. Barrows, David Blunk, Mrs. Nild, and with them stood the somber, dark figure of Edwin M. Stanton.

“We met it down the street,” Dave Blunk boomed cheerfully. “It was coming here and we gave it a lift in our cab.”

The Stanton simulacrum looked sourly at all of us.

Good lord, I said to myself. We hadn’t expected this—does this make a difference? Are we hurt and if so how bad?

I did not know. But in any case we had to go on, and this time to a showdown.

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