Philip Dick: Ubik

“Tell me,” Ella said, “what this Melipone person is like.”

“A screwball.”

“Working for money? Or out of conviction? I always feel wary about that, when they have that PSI mystique, that sense of purpose and cosmic identity. Like that awful Sarapis had; remember him?”

“Sarapis isn’t around any more. Hollis allegedly bumped him off because he connived to set up his own outfit in competition with Hollis. One of his precogs tipped Hollis off.” He added, “Melipone is much tougher on us than Sarapis was. When he’s hot it takes three inertials to balance his field, and there’s no profit in that; we collect—or did collect—the same fee we get with one inertial. Because the Society has a rate schedule now which we’re bound by.” He liked the Society less each year; it had become a chronic obsession with him, its uselessness, its cost. Its vainglory. “As near as we can tell, Melipone is a money-Psi. Does that make you feel better? Is that less bad?” He waited, but heard no response from her. “Ella,” he said. Silence. Nervously he said, “Hey, hello there, Ella; can you hear me? Is something wrong?” Oh, god, he thought. She’s gone.

A pause, and then thoughts materialized in his right ear. “My name is Jory.” Not Ella’s thoughts; a different elan, more vital and yet clumsier. Without her deft subtlety.

“Get off the line,” Runciter said in panic. “I was talking to my wife Ella; where’d you come from?”

“I am Jory,” the thoughts came, “and no one talks to me. I’d like to visit with you awhile, mister, if that’s okay with you. What’s your name?”

Stammering, Runciter said, “I want my wife, Mrs. Ella Runciter; I paid to talk to her, and that’s who I want to talk to, not you.”

“I know Mrs. Runciter,” the thoughts clanged in his ear, much stronger now. “She talks to me, but it isn’t the same as somebody like you talking to me, somebody in the world. Mrs. Runciter is here where we are; it doesn’t count because she doesn’t know any more than we do. What year is it, mister? Did they send that big ship to Proxima? I’m very interested in that; maybe you can tell me. And if you want, I can tell Mrs. Runciter later on. Okay?”

Runciter popped the plug from his ear, hurriedly set down the earphone and the rest of the gadgetry; he left the stale, dust-saturated office and roamed about among the chilling caskets, row after row, all of them neatly arranged by number. Moratorium employees swam up before him and then vanished as he churned on, searching for the owner.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Runciter?” the von Vogelsang person said, observing him as he floundered about. “Can I assist you?”

“I’ve got some thing coming in over the wire,” Runciter panted, halting. “Instead of Ella. Damn you guys and your shoddy business practices; this shouldn’t happen, and what does it mean?” He followed after the moratorium owner, who had already started in the direction of office 2-A. “If I ran my business this way—”

“Did the individual identify himself?”

“Yeah, he called himself Jory.”

Frowning with obvious worry, von Vogelsang said, “That would be Jory Miller. I believe he’s located next to your wife. In the bin.”

“But I can see it’s Ella!”

“After prolonged proximity,” von Vogelsang explained, “there is occasionally a mutual osmosis, a suffusion between the mentalities of half-lifers. Jory Miller’s cephalic activity is particularly good; your wife’s is not. That makes for an unfortunately one-way passage of protophasons.”

“Can you correct it?” Runciter asked hoarsely; he found himself still spent, still panting and shaking. “Get that thing out of my wife’s mind and get her back—that’s your job!”

Von Vogelsang said, in a stilted voice, “If this condition persists your money will be returned to you.”

“Who cares about the money? Snirt the money.” They had reached office 2-A now; Runciter unsteadily reseated himself, his heart laboring so that he could hardly speak. “If you don’t get this Jory person off the line,” he half gasped, half snarled, “I’ll sue you; I’ll close down this place!”

Facing the casket, von Vogelsang pressed the audio outlet into his ear and spoke briskly into the microphone. “Phase out, Jory; that’s a good boy.” Glancing at Runciter he said, “Jory passed at fifteen; that’s why he has so much vitality. Actually, this has happened before; Jory has shown up several times where he shouldn’t be.” Once more into the microphone he said, “This is very unfair of you, Jory; Mr. Runciter has come a long way to talk to his wife. Don’t dim her signal, Jory; that’s not nice.” A pause as he listened to the earphone. “I know her signal is weak.” Again he listened, solemn and froglike, then removed the earphone and rose to his feet.

“What’d he say?” Runciter demanded. “Will he get out of there and let me talk to Ella?”

Von Vogelsang said, “There’s nothing Jory can do. Think of two AM radio transmitters, one close by but limited to only five-hundred watts of operating power. Then another, far off, but on the same or nearly the same frequency, and utilizing five-thousand watts. When night comes—”

“And night,” Runciter said, “has come.” At least for Ella. And maybe himself as well, if Hollis’ missing teeps, para-kineticists, precogs, resurrectors and animators couldn’t be found. He had not only lost Ella; he had also lost her advice, Jory having supplanted her before she could give it.

“When we return her to the bin,” von Vogelsang was blabbing, “we won’t install her near Jory again. In fact, if you’re agreeable as to paying the somewhat larger monthly fee, we can place her in a high-grade isolated chamber with walls coated and reinforced with Teflon-26 so as to inhibit hetero-psychic infusion, from Jory or anybody else.”

“Isn’t it too late?” Runciter said, surfacing momentarily from the depression into which this happening had dropped him.

“She may return. Once Jory phases out. Plus anyone else who may have gotten into her because of her weakened state. She’s accessible to almost anyone.” Von Vogelsang chewed his lip, palpably pondering. “She may not like being isolated, Mr. Runciter. We keep the containers—the caskets, as they’re called by the lay public—close together for a reason. Wandering through one another’s mind gives those in half-life the only—”

“Put her in solitary right now,” Runciter broke in. “Better she be isolated than not exist at all.”

“She exists,” von Vogelsang corrected. “She merely can’t contact you. There’s a difference.”

Runciter said, “A metaphysical difference which means nothing to me.”

“I will put her in isolation,” von Vogelsang said, “but I think you’re right; it’s too late. Jory has permeated her permanently, to some extent at least. I’m sorry.”

Runciter said harshly, “So am I.”

Still in gay pinstripe clown-style pajamas, Joe Chip hazily seated himself at his kitchen table, lit a cigarette and, after inserting a dime, twiddled the dial of his recently rented ’pape machine. Having a hangover, he dialed off interplan news, hovered momentarily at domestic news and then selected gossip.

“Yes sir,” the ’pape machine said heartily. “Gossip. Guess what Stanton Mick, the reclusive, interplanetarily known speculator and financier, is up to at this very moment.” Its works whizzed and a scroll of printed matter crept from its slot; the ejected roll, a document in four colors, niftily incised with bold type, rolled across the surface of the neo-teakwood table and bounced to the floor. His head aching, Chip retrieved it, spread it out flat before him.