Philip Dick - World of Chance

Pellig said nothing. He gazed impassively at Benteley and Eleanor, his thin body relaxed and supple. There was almost no colour about him. His eyes, his hair, his skin, even his nails, were bleached and translucent.

Benteley put out his hand; Pellig shook it. His hand was cool and faintly moist.

Benteley gazed at Pellig with dulled fascination. There was something repellent about the listless, slender shape. A sexless, juiceless, hermaphroditic quality.

"You're not drinking," Benteley's voice rolled out.

Pellig shook his head.

"Why not? Have some methane gale." Benteley fumbled a glass from the tray of a passing MacMillan robot.

Benteley thrust the glass at Pellig. "Eat, drink and be merry. Tomorrow somebody, certainly not you, will die. Pellig, how does it feel to be a professional killer? You don't look like one. You don't look like anything at all, not even a man."

Eleanor tugged furiously at his arm. "Ted, Verrick's coming?"

"Let go!" Benteley broke loose and gazed at the vacant face of Keith Pellig. "Pellig, how will it feel to murder a man you've never seen, a man who never did anything to you? A harmless crank, accidentally in the way of a lot of big people..."

Moore interrupted in a mumble of resentment. "You mean to imply there's something wrong with Pellig?"

Verrick appeared from the side room, pushing people out of his way. "Moore, take Pellig out of here." He waved the group of people brusquely towards the double doors. "The party's over. Get going! You'll be con­tacted when you're needed."

Verrick started for the wide staircase, his shaggy head turned to one side. "I'm going to bed."

Balancing himself carefully, Benteley said clearly after him: "Look here, Verrick, why don't you murder Cartwright yourself? Eliminate the middle-man. More scientific."

Verrick snorted with unexpected laughter and kept on his way. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," he said over his shoulder. "Go home and get some sleep."

"I'm not going home," Benteley said stubbornly. "I came here to learn what the strategy is, and I'm staying until I learn it."

At the first step Verrick halted and turned. There was a queer look on his massive face.

Benteley closed his eyes and stood with his feet apart, balancing himself as the room tilted and shifted. When he looked again Verrick had gone up the stairs and Eleanor Stevens was pulling frantically at his arm.

"You damn fool!" she shrilled. "What's the matter?"

She led him into a side room, closed the door, shakily lit a cigarette and stood puffing furiously. "Benteley, you're a lunatic."

"I'm drunk. This Callistoan beetle-juice..."

She pushed him down in a chair and paced in a jerky little circle in front of him, taut as a marionette on a wire.

Benteley gazed up at her without comprehension until she had hold of herself again and was dabbing miserably at her swollen eyes. "Can I do something?" he asked.

Eleanor found a decanter of cold water on a low table in the shadows. She emptied a shallow dish of sweets and filled it with water. Very rapidly she doused her face, hands and arms, then yanked down an embroidered cloth from the window and dried herself.

"Come on, Benteley," she muttered, "let's get out of here."

She started blindly from the room, and Benteley struggled to his feet and followed. Her slim shape glided like a phantom between the gloomy objects that made up Verrick's possessions, up dark stairs and round corners where immobile robot servants waited silently for instruc­tions.

They came out on a deserted floor, draped in shadows and darkness. Eleanor waited for him to catch up with her. "I'm going to bed," she said bluntly. "You can come if you want to, or you can go home."

"I have no home." He followed her, down a corridor and past a series of half-closed doors. Lights showed here and there. He thought he recognized some voices—men's voices, mixed with sleepy, women's murmurs. Abruptly Eleanor vanished and he was alone.

He felt his way through a haze of shapes. Once he crashed violently against something. A hail of shattered objects cascaded upon him.

"What are you doing here?" a hard voice demanded. It was Herb Moore, somewhere close by. "Get out of here, you third-rate derelict! Class eight-eight? Don't make me laugh!"

Unnerved, confused by the taunting face, Benteley lashed out. The face crumpled. Then something slammed into him and he was bowled over. Choked and crushed by a rolling, slobbering mass, he fought his way upward, struggling to catch hold of something solid.

"Pipe down," Eleanor whispered. "Both of you!"

Benteley became inert. Beside him Moore puffed and panted and wiped at his bleeding face. "You'll be sorry you hit me. You don't know what I can do."

Stumbling, Benteley retreated in a panic. The next thing he knew was that he was sitting on something low, bending down and fumbling for his shoes. His coat was lying on the floor in front of him and his shoes lay separated from each other by an expanse of rich carpet. There was no sound; the room was utterly silent and cold. In a corner a dim lamp flickered.

"Lock the door." Eleanor's voice came from nearby. "I think Moore's gone off his head. He's out there in the hall shambling round like a maniac."

Benteley found the door and tugged at its old-fashioned manual bolt. Eleanor was standing in the centre of the room, one leg pulled up, unlacing her sandals. As the man watched, awed and astonished, she kicked off her sandals, unzipped her slacks, and stepped from them. For a moment bare ankles gleamed in the light.

Then he was stumbling his way to her, and she was reaching for him.

Much later he awoke.

The room was deathly cold. Nothing stirred. No sound, no life. Through the open window grey morning light filtered, and a wind whipped icily round him.

Figures lay sprawled out, mixed with disordered clothing in heaps. He stumbled between outstretched limbs, half-covered arms, stark-white legs that shocked him. He dis­tinguished Eleanor, lying against the wall, legs drawn up under her, breathing restlessly between half-parted lips. He wandered on—and stopped dead.

The grey light filtered over another face and figure—his old friend Al Davis, peaceful in the arms of his soundly sleeping wife.

A little further on were more persons, some snoring dully, one stirring into fitful wakefulness. Another groaned and groped feebly for some covering. Benteley's foot crushed a glass; a pool of dark liquid leaked out. Another face ahead was familiar. A man, dark-haired, good featured... .

His own face.

He stumbled against a door and found himself in a hall. Terror seized him and he began running blindly. Silently his bare feet carried him along carpeted corridors, endless and deserted, up noiseless flights of steps that never seemed to end. He blundered wildly around a corner and found himself caught in an alcove, a full-length mirror ahead of him, blocking his way.

A wavering figure hovered within the mirror. He gazed mutely at it, at the waxen hair, the vapid mouth and lips, the colourless eyes. Arms limp and boneless at its sides; a spineless, bleached thing that blinked vacantly back at him, without sound or motion.

He screamed—and the image winked out. He plunged on along the corridors, feet barely skimming the carpets. He felt nothing under him. He was rising, carried upward by his great terror, a screaming, streaking thing that hurtled towards the high-domed roof above.

Arms out, he shot soundlessly through walls and panels, in and out of empty rooms, down deserted passages, a blinded, terrorized thing that flashed and wheeled in desperate efforts to escape.

With a crash he struck against a brick fireplace and fluttered down to the soft carpet. For a moment he lay bewildered, and then he was stumbling on, hurrying frantically, hands in front of his face.