Philip Dick - The Complete Stories of Philip K. Dick Vol. 5 - The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Stories

Half to himself, Fred Doubledome said, "It's psychotic, all right. I asked it if it knew where it was and it said it was floating on a raft in the Mississippi. Now get a confirm for me; ask it who it is."

Dr. Pacemaker touched command-request buttons on the console of the vast computer, asking it: WHO ARE YOU?

The answer appeared on the vidscreen at once.

TOM SAWYER

"You see?" Doubledome said. "It is totally out of touch with the reality situation. Has reactivation of Ms. Simpson begun?"

"That's affirmative, Doubledome," Pacemaker said. And, as if proving him correct, doors slid aside to reveal the lead-lined container in which Ms. Simpson slept, listening to her favorite daytime soap opera, Ma Perkins.

"Ms. Simpson," Pacemaker said, bending over her. "We are having a problem with Mr. Computer again. It has totally spaced out. An hour ago it routed all the whipples in New York across the same intersection. Loss of life was heavy. And instead of responding to the disaster with fire and police rescue teams it dispatched a circus troop of clowns."

"I see," Ms. Simpson's voice came through the transduction and boosting system by which they communicated with her. "But first, I must attend to a fire at Ma's lumber yard. You see, her friend Shuffle -"

"Ms. Simpson," Pacemaker said, "our situation is grave. We need you. Come out of your customary fog and get to work restoring Mr. Computer to sanity. Then you may return to your radio serials."

Gazing down at Ms. Simpson he was, as always, startled by her virtually unnatural beauty. Great dark eyes with long lashes, the husky, sensuous voice, the intensely black short-cropped hair (so fashionable in a world of dreck!), the firm and supple body, the warm mouth suggesting love and comfort – amazing, he thought, that the one really sane human left on earth (and the only one capable of saving same) could at the same time be startlingly lovely.

But no matter; this was not the time to think such thoughts. NBC TV news had already reported that Mr. Computer had closed down all the airports in the world and turned them into baseball stadiums.

Shortly, Ms. Simpson was studying a composite abstract delineating Mr. Computer's erratic commands.

"It is clearly regressive," she informed them, sipping absently at a cup of coffee.

"Ms. Simpson," Doubledome said, "I'm afraid that's soapy water you're drinking."

"You're right," Ms. Simpson said, putting the cup down. "I see here that Mr. Computer is playing childish pranks on the mass of mankind. It fits with my hypostatized hypothesis."

"How will you render a return of normalcy to the vast construct?" Pacemaker asked.

"Evidently it encountered a traumatic situation which caused it to regress," Ms. Simpson said. "I shall locate the trauma and then proceed by desensitizing Mr. Computer vis-a-vis that trauma. My M.O. in that regard will be to present Mr. Computer with each letter of the alphabet in turn, gauging its reactions until I perceive what we in the mental health movement call a flinch reaction."

She did so. Mr. Computer, upon the letter J, emitted a faint whine; smoke billowed up. Ms. Simpson then repeated the sequence of letters. This time the faint whine and billows of smoke came at the letter C.

"J.C.," Ms. Simpson said. "Perhaps Jesus Christ. Perhaps the Second Coming has taken place, and Mr. Computer fears that it will be pre-empted. I will start on that assumption. Have Mr. Computer placed in a semi-comatose state so that it can free associate."

Technicians hurried to the task assigned.

The virtually unconscious mumbling of the great computer issued forth from the aud channels mounted through the control chamber.

"… programming himself to die," the computer rambled on. "Fine person like that. DNA command analysis. Going to ask not for a reprieve but for an acceleration of the death process. Salmon swimming upstream to die… appeals to him… after all I've done for him. Rejection of life. Conscious of it. Wants to die. I cannot endure the voluntary death, the reprogramming 180 degrees from the matrix purpose of DNA command programming…" On and on it rambled.

Ms. Simpson said sharply, "What name comes to you, Mr. Computer? A name!"

"Clerk in a record store," the computer mumbled. "An authority on German Lieder and bubblegum rock of the '60s. What a waste. My but the water is warm. Think I'll fish. Let down my line and catch a big catfish. Won't Huck be surprised, and Jim, too! Jim's a man even though -"

"What name?" Ms. Simpson repeated.

The vague mumble continued.

Swiftly, Ms. Simpson said to Doubledome and Pacemaker, who stood rigid and attentive, "Find a record clerk whose initials are J.C. and who is an authority on German Lieder and bubblegum rock of the '60s. And hurry! We don't have much time !''

Having left his conapt by a window, Joe Contemptible made his way among wrecked whipples and shouting, angry drivers in the direction of Artistic Music Company, the record store at which he had worked most of his life. At least he had gotten out of -

Suddenly two gray-clad police materialized before him, faces grim; both held punch-guns aimed at Joe's chest. "You're coming with us," they said, virtually in unison.

The urge to run overcame Joe; turning, he started away. But then furious pain settled over him; the police had punched him out, and now, falling, he realized that it was too late to flee. He was a captive of the authorities. But why? he wondered. Is it merely a random sweep? Or are they putting down an abortive coup against the government? Or – his fading thoughts raced – have ETIs come at last to help us in our fight for freedom? And then darkness closed over him, merciful darkness.

The next he knew, he was being served a cup of soapy water by two members of the technocrat class; an armed policeman lounged in the background, punch-gun ready were the situation to require it.

Seated in the corner of the chamber was an extraordinarily beautiful dark-haired woman; she wore a miniskirt and boots – old-fashioned but enticingly foxy – and, he saw, she had the most enormous and warm eyes he had ever seen in his life. Who was she? And – what did she want with him? Why had he been brought before her?

"Your name," one of the white-clad technocrats said.

"Contemptible," he managed to say, unable to take his eyes off the extraordinarily beautiful young woman.

"You have an appointment with DNA Reappraisal," the other of the white-clad technocrats said crisply. "What is your purpose? What ukase emanating from the gene pool do you intend – did you intend, I should say – to alter?"

Joe said lamely, "I – wanted to be reprogrammed for… you know. Longer life. The encoding for death was about to come up for me, and I -"

"We know that isn't true," the lovely dark-haired woman said in a husky, sexy voice, but a voice nonetheless filled with intelligence and authority. "You were attempting suicide, were you not, Mr. Contemptible, by having your DNA coding tinkered with, not to postpone your death, but to bring it on ?"

He said nothing. Obviously, they knew.

"WHY?" the woman said sharply.

"I -" He hesitated. Then, slumping in defeat he managed to say, "I'm not married. I've got no wife. Nothing. Just my damn job at the record store. All those damn German songs and those bubblegum rock lyrics; they go through my head night and day, constantly, mixtures of Goethe and Heine and Neil Diamond." Lifting his head he said with furious defiance, "So why should I live on? Call that living? It's existence, not living."

There was silence.

Three frogs hopped across the floor. Mr. Computer was now turning out frogs from all the airducts on earth. Half an hour before, it had been dead cats.

"Do you know what it is like," Joe said quietly, "to have such lyrics as 'The song I sang to you / The love I brang to you' keep floating through your head?"