Philip Dick - World of Chance

There had been harbingers.

Early in May of 2203 newsmachines were excited by a flight of white crows over Sweden. A series of un­explained fires demolished half the Oiseau-Lyre Hill, an industrial pivot of the system. Small stones fell near work-camp installations on Mars. At Batavia, the Directorate of the nine-planet Federation, a two-headed calf was born, a sign that something of incredible magni­tude was brewing.

Everybody speculated on what the forces of Nature in­tended. Everybody guessed, consulted, and argued about the bottle—the socialized instrument of chance. Directorate fortune-tellers were booked up weeks in advance.

But one man's harbinger is another man's event. The first reaction from Oiseau-Lyre to its limited catastrophe was to create total catastrophe for half its employees. Fealty oaths were dissolved, and a variety of research technicians were tossed out. Adrift, they became a further symptom of the approaching moment-of-importance for the system. Most of these technicians floundered and were lost among the masses. But not all.

Ted Benteley yanked his dismissal notice from the board and as he walked to his office he tore the notice to bits. His reaction differed from that of those around him; he was glad to have his oath severed. For thirteen years he had been trying to break his fealty oath with Oiseau-Lyre.

He locked his office door, snapped off his Inter-Plan Visual Industries Corp. screen, and did some thinking. It took only an hour to develop his plan of action.

At noon Oiseau-Lyre's outworker department returned his power card. His one chance out of six billion in the great lottery. His fragile possibility of being twitched by the random motion of the bottle to the Number One class position. Politically speaking, he was back thirty-three years; the power-card was coded at the moment of birth.

At two-thirty he dissolved his remaining fealty connec­tions at Oiseau-Lyre; they were mostly with himself as protector and somebody else as serf. By four o'clock he had liquidated his assets and had bought a first-class trans­port ticket. Before nightfall he was on his way out of Europe, heading for the Indonesian Empire.

In Batavia he rented a room and unpacked his case; the rest of his possessions were still in France. Curiously, his room overlooked the main Directorate building. Like tropical flies people crept in and out of its many doors. All roads, and all space-lanes, led to Batavia.

His funds didn't amount to much; he could stall only so long. From the Public Information Library he picked up armloads of tape and a basic scanner. As the days passed he built up information relating to all aspects of bio­chemistry, the subject on which his original classification had been won. As he scanned and crammed he kept one thought in mind: applications for positional-fealty oaths were processed only once; if he failed in the first try he was finished.

That first try was going to be successful. He was free of the Hill system, and he wasn't going back.

During the next five days he smoked endless cigarettes, paced his room, and finally got out the yellow section of the ipvic directory to look up the local girl agencies. His favourite agency had a nearby office; within an hour most of his psychological problems were solved. With the aid of the blonde sent by the agency and the cocktail bar down the street, he was able to last another twenty-four hours. But that was as far as he could string it out; the time to act had come.

A cold chill lay over him as he got out of bed. With Quizmaster Verrick employment oaths were apparently handed out haphazardly. It was impossible to deduce what factor, if any, determined successful application.

He shaved, dressed, paid Lori her wages, and sent her back to the agency.

Loneliness hit him hard. And fear. He surrendered his room, stored his suit-case, and bought himself a second good luck charm. In a public washroom he buttoned the charm inside his shirt and dropped a coin in the phenol-barb dispenser. The sedative calmed him; he emerged and flagged down a robot taxi.

"Main Directorate building," he told the driver, "and take your time."

"All right, sir or madam," the MacMillan robot answered; MacMillans weren't capable of fine discrimina­tions.

Spring air billowed into the cab as it zipped above the rooftops. Benteley wasn't interested; his eyes were fixed on the growing syndrome of buildings ahead. His written papers had been shot in the night before. He had waited about the right time; they should be appearing on the desk of the first checker in the chain of Directorate officials.

"Here we are, sir or madam." The robot taxi settled down and grappled itself to a halt. Benteley stepped from the open door.

On a main pedestrian artery he paused to light a cigarette. His hands weren't shaking, not really. He shoved his case under his arm as he reached the processing lounge. Perhaps by this time next month he would be under fealty to the Directorate... he touched one of the charms inside his shirt.

"Ted," a voice came, small and urgent. "Wait!"

He halted as Lori threaded her way through the crowd and came to him.

"I have something for you," she said breathlessly. "I knew I'd catch you here."

"What is it?" Benteley demanded. He knew that the Directorate's special Corps was close by; he didn't want his intimate thoughts known by eighty bored telepaths.

Lori reached round his neck and clicked something in place. It was another good luck charm.

Benteley examined the charm. "You think it'll do me any good?" he asked.

"I hope so." She touched his arm briefly. "Thanks for being so nice. You hustled me off before I could tell you." She lingered plaintively. "If you get taken on you'll probably stay here in Batavia."

Irritably, Benteley answered: "You're being observed. Verrick has observers planted all over the place."

"I don't mind," Lori said wistfully. "Call girls have nothing to conceal."

"I don't like it." Benteley shrugged. "But if I'm going to hook on here I'll have to get used to being watched."

He moved towards the central desk, his identifying cards ready. A few moments later the MacMillan official accepted them.

"All right, Ted Benteley. You may go in."

Benteley stubbed out his cigarette and turned towards the inner offices.

"I'll look you up," he murmured to Lori as he stepped through the door.

He was inside: it had begun.

A small middle-aged man with steel-rimmed glasses and a tiny waxed moustache was standing by the door watching him intently.

"You're Benteley?"

"That's right," Benteley answered. "I'm here to see Quizmaster Verrick."

"Why?"

"I'm looking for a class 8-8 position."

A girl pushed abruptly into the office. Ignoring Benteley, she said rapidly:

"Well, it's over." She touched her temple. "See? Now are you satisfied?"

"Don't blame me," the small man said. "It's the law."

"The law!" The girl shrugged her crimson hair out of her eyes. She grabbed a packet of cigarettes from the desk and lit up with shaky fingers. "Let's get out, Peter. There's nothing of importance left."

"You know I'm staying," the small man said.

The girl half-turned as she noticed Benteley for the first time. Her green eyes flickered with interest.

"Who are you?"

"Maybe you'd better come back some other time," the small man said to Benteley. "This isn't exactly the——"

"I didn't come this far to get chucked out," Benteley said hoarsely. "Where's Verrick?"

The girl eyed him curiously. "You want to see Reese? What are you selling?"

"I'm a biochemist," Benteley answered, "looking for a class 8-8 position."

Amusement twisted the girl's lips. "Is that so? Interest­ing... ." She shrugged her bare shoulders. "Swear him, Peter."