Philip Dick - World of Chance

"Flame Disc is our world. Carried by us across space to this system. Set in motion here, to circle your sun for eternity. You have no right to it. What is your purpose?"

Groves tried to direct his thoughts outward. In an instant of time he tried to project all his hopes, plans, all the needs of the race, mankind's vast yearnings... .

The voice answered: "We will consider and analyse your thoughts———"

Groves found the ipvic transmission room. He stumbled to the transmitter, a vague shape dancing beyond the rim of white fire. His fingers flung on the power: closed circuits locked automatically in place.

"Cartwright!" he gasped. Across the void the beamed signal speared its way to the Directorate monitor at Pluto and from there to Uranus. From planet to planet the thin signal went, relayed directly to the office at Batavia.

"Flame Disc was placed within your system for a reason," the great voice continued. It paused, as if consulting with companions. "Contact between our races might bring us to a new cultural level," it went on presently.

Groves huddled over the transmitter. He prayed feverishly that the signal was getting across, that back in Batavia Cartwright was hearing the booming voice he heard, and understanding the terrifying yet hope-giving words.

The voice continued: "We must know more about you. We do not decide quickly. As your ship is guided towards Flame Disc we will reach a decision; we will decide whether to destroy you or to lead you to safety on Flame Disc."

Reese Verrick accepted the ipvic technician's hurried call. "Come along," he snapped to Herb Moore. "We're cutting-in on Cartwright's ship. A transmission's coming across to Batavia, something important."

Seated before the vid-tap the ipvic technicians had set up for Chemie, Verrick and Moore gazed with incredulous amazement at the scene. Groves, a miniature figure lost in a rolling flame, was dwarfed to the size of an insect. From the aud speaker above the screen the booming voice, dis­torted and dimmed by millions of miles of space, thundered out:

"Our warning! If you attempt to ignore our friendly efforts to guide your ship, if you try to navigate on your own, then we cannot promise..."

"What is it?" Verrick croaked, blank-faced and dazed. "Is this really———"

"Shut up!" Moore grated. He peered hastily around. "You have a tape running on this?"

Verrick nodded, slack-jawed.

Moore examined the vid and aud tape recorders and then turned briskly to Verrick. "You think this is a super­natural manifestation?"

"It's from another civilization," Verrick quavered. "We've made contact with another race."

As soon as the transmission ceased, and the screen had faded into black silence, Moore snatched up the tapes and hurried them out of the Chemie buildings to the public Information Library.

Within an hour the analysis was in, from the main Quiz research organs in Geneva. Moore grabbed the report up and carried it to Reese Verrick.

"Look at this!" He slammed the report on Verrick's desk.

Verrick blinked. "What's it say? Is that voice——"

"That was John Preston." There was a peculiar expres­sion on Moore's face. "He once recorded part of his Unicorn; the Information Library has it all down on aud, together with vid shots for us to compare."

Verrick gaped foolishly. "I don't understand. Explain it to me."

"John Preston is out there. He's been waiting for that ship and now he's made contact with it. He'll lead it to the Disc."

"But Preston died a hundred and fifty years ago!"

Moore laughed sharply. "Get that crypt open as soon as possible and you'll understand. John Preston is still alive."

The MacMillan robot moved languidly up and down the aisle collecting tickets. Overhead, the midsummer sun beat down and was reflected from the gleaming silver hull of the sleek rocket liner. Below, the vast blue of the Pacific Ocean lay sprawled out, an eternal surface of colour and light.

"It really looks nice," the straw-haired young man said to the pretty girl in the seat next to him. "The ocean, I mean. The way it mixes with the sky. Earth is about the most beautiful planet in the system."

The girl lowered her portable television lenses, blinked in the sudden glare of natural sunlight, and glanced in confusion out of the window. "Yes, it's nice," she admitted shyly.

She was a very young girl, eighteen at the most. Her hair was curly and short, a halo of dark orange—the latest colour style—round her slim neck and finely cut features. She blushed and returned hastily to her lenses.

"How far are you going?" the young man asked presently.

"To Peking. I have a job at the Soong Hill, I think. I mean, I got a notice for an interview." She fluttered with her purse. "Maybe you can look at it and tell me what all those legal phrases mean. Of course," she added quickly, "when I get to Batavia Walter can..."

"You're classified?"

"Class 11-76. It isn't much, but it helps."

Her companion studied her papers. "You're going to compete against three hundred other class 11-76 people," he said presently. "For every vacancy they call a couple of hundred trained personnel. They they call an additional hundred untrained novices, like yourself, who have the classification but no actual experience. That way they have three hundred together in one spot, so———" He dropped her papers back in her lap. "Then they start taking bids."

"Bids!"

"They don't call it bidding, of course. Those who have the experience see the position going for less money and privileges to someone like yourself. To them the hiring office stresses youth and willingness to learn. To your group the office stresses need of experience. Both groups get panicky. The hiring office strategy is to pit one against the other, each individual and each group."

"But why do they do all that?"

"The one they finally condescend to hire takes the posi­tion on any terms they're willing to dole out. That's how the Hills get classified persons to swear on for their entire lives, and on any terms the Hill sets. Theoretically the skilled workers ought to be able to dictate to the Hills. But instead of being organized, they are pitted against each other."

"You sound so—cynical."

The young man laughed a thin, colourless laugh. "Maybe I am." He eyed the girl benignly. "What's your name?"

"Margaret Lloyd." She lowered her eyes shyly.

"My name's Keith Pellig," the young man said, and his voice was even thinner than before.

The girl thought about it a moment. "Keith Pellig?" For an instant her smooth forehead wrinkled unnaturally. "I think I've heard that name, haven't I?"

''You may have." Amusement was in the toneless voice.

"Where are you going?"

"Batavia."

"On business?"

"I'd call it business." Pellig smiled humourlessly. "When I've been there a while I may begin calling it pleasure. My attitude varies."

"You talk strangely," the girl said, puzzled and somewhat awed.

"I'm a strange person. Sometimes I hardly know what I'm going to do or say next. Sometimes I seem to be a stranger to myself. Sometimes what I do surprises me and I can't understand why I do it." Pellig stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. The smile had left his face and now he scowled, dark and troubled.

Peter Wakeman pushed the analysis across the breakfast table to Cartwright. "It really is Preston. It's no super­natural being from another system."

Rita O'Neill touched Cartwright's arm. "That's what he meant in the book. He planned to be there to guide us. The Voices."

Wakeman was deep in thought. "A few minutes before our call reached the Information Library another was received for an identical analysis."