Solar Lottery by Philip k Dick

Author:Philip k Dick [Dick, Philip k]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-12-05T15:50:10.199000+00:00

ELEVEN

AT FIVE-THIRTY A.M. the heavy construction rocket settled down in the center of what had once been London. In front of it and behind it thin razor-sharp transports hissed to smooth landings and disgorged parties of armed guards. They quickly fanned out and took up positions to intercept stray Directorate police patrols.

Within a few moments the dilapidated old building that was the offices of the Preston Society had been surrounded.

Reese Verrick, in a heavy wool greatcoat and boots, stepped out and followed his construction workers down the sidewalk and around the side of the building. The air was chill and thin; buildings and streets were moist with night dampness, gray silent structures with no sign of life.

"This is the place," the foreman said to Verrick. "They own this old barn.'' He indicated the courtyard, strewn with rubble and waste. "The monument is there."

Verrick paced ahead of the foreman, up the debris-littered path to the courtyard. The workmen were akeady tearing down the steel and plastic monument. The yellowed plastic cube which was John Preston's crypt had been yanked down and was resting on the frozen concrete among bits of trash and paper that had accumulated through the months. Within the translucent crypt the dried-up shape had shifted slightly to one side; the face was obscured by one pipe-stem arm flung across the glasses and nose.

"So that's John Preston," Verrick said thoughtfully.

The foreman squatted down and began examining the seams of the crypt. "It's a vacuum-seal, of course. If we open it here it'll pulverize to dust particles."

Verrick hesitated. "All right," he agreed reluctantly. "Take the whole works to the labs. Well open it there."

The work crews who had entered the building appeared with armloads of pamphlets, tapes, records, furniture, light fixtures, clothing, endless boxes of raw paper and printing supplies. "The whole place is a storeroom," one of them said to the foreman. "They have junk heaped to the ceiling. There seems to be a false wall and some kind of sub-surface meeting chamber. We're prying the wall out and getting in there."

This was the slatternly run-down headquarters from which the Society had operated. Verrick wandered into the building and found himself in the front office. The work crews were collecting everything in sight; only the bare water-stained walls, peeling and dirty, remained. The front office led onto a yellow hall. Verrick headed down it, past a dusty fly-specked photograph of John Preston still hanging among some rusty scarf hooks. "Don't forget this," he said to his foreman. "This picture here."

Beyond the picture a section of wall had been torn away. A crude false passage ran parallel to the hall; workmen were swarming around, hunting within the passage for additional concealed entrances.

"We suppose there's some kind of emergency exit," the foreman explained. "We're looking for it, now."

Verrick folded his arms and studied the photograph of John Preston. Preston had been a small man, like most cranks. He was a tiny withered leaf of a creature with prominent wrinkled ears pulled forward by his heavy hornrimmed glasses.

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