The Book of Philip K Dick (1973) by Philip K Dick

Author:Philip K Dick [Dick, Philip K]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Philip K Dick

He was back in the high school library where he had spent much time. The familiar place of books and bright-faced youths, gaily-dressed girls giggling and studying and flirting … young people totally oblivious of the approaching war. The mass death that would leave nothing of this city but dead, drifting ash.

He hurried from the library, conscious of the circle of bewilderment he had left behind. It was awkward to make a switch in which the passive entity was near other people; the abrupt transformation of a sixteen-year-old high school boy into the stern, towering figure of a thirty-year-old man was difficult to assimilate, even in a society theoretically aware of Psionic powers.

Theoretically—because at this date public consciousness was minimal. Awe and disbelief were the primary emotions; the surge of hopefulness hadn’t begun. Psi-powers seemed miraculous only; the realization that these powers were at the disposal of the public wouldn’t set in for a number of years.

He emerged on the busy Chicago street and hailed a taxi. The roar of buses, autos, the metallic swirl of buildings and people and signs, dazed him. Activity on all sides: the ordinary harmless routines of the common citizen, remote from the lethal planning at top levels. The people on all sides of him were about to be traded for the chimera of international prestige … human life for metaphysical phantoms. He gave the cabdriver the address of Butterford’s hotel suite and settled back to prepare himself for the familiar encounter.

The first steps were routine. He gave his identification to the battery of armed guards, was checked, searched, and processed into the suite. For fifteen minutes he sat in a luxurious anteroom smoking and restlessly waiting-as always. There were no alterations he could make here: the changes, if they were to materialize, came later.

“Do you know who I am?” he began bluntly, when the tiny, suspicious head of General Butterford was stuck from an inner office. He advanced grimly, case gripped. “This is the twelfth visit; there had better be results this time.”

Butterford’s deep-set little eyes danced hostilely behind his thick glasses. “You’re one of those supermen,” he squeaked. “Those Psionics.” He blocked the door with his wizened, uniformed body. “Well? What do you want? My time’s valuable.”

Jack seated himself facing the general’s desk and corps of aides. “You have the analysis of my talent and history in your hands. You know what I can do.”

Butterford glanced hostilely at the report. “You move into time. So?” His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, twelfth time?” He grabbed up a heap of memoranda. “I’ve never seen you before. State what you have to say and then get out; I’m busy.”

“I have a present for you,” Jack said grimly. He carried the metal case to the desk, unsnapped it, and exposed the contents. “They belong to you—go ahead, take them out and run your hands over them.”

Butterford gazed with revulsion at the bones. “What is this, some sort of anti-war exhibit? Are you Psis mixed up with those Jehovah’s Witnesses?” His voice rose shrilly, resentfully.

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