Philip Dick - The Zap Gun

"Are you honestly not going to go into a trance?" Dr. Todt said.

"No. There's no need to. Lilo's tried it."

Lilo said, "Do you want to see my sketches, Lars?"

"I'll look at them." He held out his hand and after a moment a pile of sketches was given to him. He leafed briefly through them and saw what he had expected—no less, no more. He set them them down on a nearby table.

"They are of an elaborate construct," Dr. Todt pointed out.

"Of an android," Lilo said hopefully, her eyes fixed on Lars.

He said, "They're of him." He pointed at the ancient huddled shape with its ceaselessly revolving, turret-like head. "Or rather it. You didn't pick up the contents of its mind. You picked up the anatomical ingredients constituting its biochemical basis. What makes it go. The artificial mechanism that it is." He added. "I'm aware that it's an android, and I know the carbon-dating of the biopsy sample will bear this out. What I want to learn is its exact age."

After a time Dr. Todt said hoarsely, "Why?"

"How long," Lars said, "have the aliens been in our midst?"

"A week."

"I doubt," Lars said, "whether an android as perfectly built as this one could be thrown together in a week."

Lib said presently, "Then the builder knew—if you're right—"

"Oh, hell," Lars said. "I'm right. Look at your own sketches and tell me if they aren't of 'Ricardo Hastings.' I mean it. Go ahead." He picked up the sketches, presented them to her; she accepted them reflexively and in a numbed, sightless way turned from one to the next, nodding faintly.

"Who could have built such a successful android?" Dr. Todt said, glancing over Lilo's shoulder. "Who has the facilities and the capabilities, not to mention the—inspirational talent?"

Lars said, "Lanferman Associates."

"Anyone else?" Dr. Todt said.

"Not that I know of." Through KACH, he of course had a fairly accurate concept of Peep-East's facilities. They had nothing comparable. Nothing was comparable to Lanferman Associates, which after all stretched subsurface from San Francisco to Los Angeles: an economic, industrial organism five hundred miles long.

And making androids which could pass, under close scrutiny, as authentic human beings, was one of their major enterprises.

All at once Ricardo Hastings croaked. "If it hadn't been for that accident when that power-surge overloaded the—"

Lars, walking over, interrupted him, abruptly. "Are you operating on intrinsic?"

The ancient, dim eyes confronted him. But there was no answer; the sunken mouth did not stir, now.

"Come on," Lars said. "Which is it, intrinsic or remote? Are you homeostatic or are you a receptor for instructions coming from an outside point? Frankly, I'd guess you're fully intrinsic. Programmed in advance." To Lilo and Dr. Todt he said, "That explains what you call its 'senility.' The repetition of certain stereotyped semantic units over and over again."

Ricardo Hastings mumbled wetly, "Boy, how we clobbered them. They didn't expect it; thought we were washed up. Our weapons fashion designers, they hadn't come through. The aliens thought they could just walk right in and take over, but we showed them. Too bad you people don't remember; it was before your time." He—or it—chuckled, sightlessly staring at the floor, its mouth twitching in a grimace of delight.

"I don't," Lars said, pausing, "buy the idea of the time-travel weapon anyhow."

"We got the whole mess of them," Ricardo Hastings mumbled. "We warped their goddam satellites entirely out of this time-vector, a billion years into the future, and they're still there. Heh-heh." His eyes, momentarily, lit with a spark of life. "Orbiting a planet that's uninhabited except by maybe spiders and protozoa. Too bad for them. We caught their ships of the line, too; with the T.W.G. we sent them into the remote past; they're set to invade Earth around the time of the trilobite. They can win that easy. Beat the trilobites, club them into submission." Triumphantly, the old veteran snorted.

At two-thirty, after a wait which Lars would not have undergone again at any price, the carbon-dating of the tissue taken from the old man's body was brought in by a hospital attendant.

"What does it show?" Lilo asked, standing up stiffly, her eyes fixed on his face, trying to apprehend his reaction, to share it with him.

Lars handed her the single sheet. "Read it yourself."

Faintly she said, "You tell me."

"The microscopic analysis showed it to be indubitably human, not syntho—that is, android—tissue. The carbon-17-B dating procedures, applied to the tissue-sample, indicate that the sample is one hundred and ten years to one hundred and fifteen years old. And possibly—but not probably—even older." Lilo said, "You were wrong."

Nodding, Lars said, "Yes." To himself, Ricardo Hastings chuckled.

On this score, Lars Powderdry said to himself, I have failed as completely as, formerly, I let them down authentic, in time of need, weapons-wise. There has never been one point at which I have really served them, except of course in the old situation, the benign game which Peep-East and Wes-bloc played all those years, the Era of Plowsharing in which we duped the multitude, the pursaps everywhere, for their own good, at the expense of their own proclivities.

I did bring Lilo to Washington, though, he thought. Maybe that should be entered in the record-books as an achievement. But—what has that accomplished, besides the hideous suicide of Maren Faine, who had every reason for living on, enjoying a full and happy life?

To Dr. Todt, Lars said, "My Escalatium and my Conjorizine, please. Twice the customary dose." To Lilo he said, "And that East German firm's product that you have a monopoly on. I want you to double your intake of it at this time. It's the only way I can think of to increase our sensitivity and I want us to be as sensitive as our systems can withstand. Because we'll probably only make one real try."

"I'll agree to that," Lilo said somberly.

The door shut after Todt and the hospital staff-members. He and Lilo, with Ricardo Hastings, were sealed off.

"This may," he said to Lilo, "kill either or both of us, or impair us permanently. Liver-toxicity or brain—"

"Shut up!" Lilo said. And, with a cup of water, downed her tablets.

He did the same.

They sat facing each other for a moment, ignoring the mumbling, slavering old man between them.

"Will you ever recover," Lilo asked presently, "from her death?"

"No. Never."

"You blame me? No, you blame yourself."

"I blame her," Lars said. "For owning that miserable, lousy little Beretta in the first place; no one should carry a weapon like that or even own it; we're not living in a jungle."

He ceased. The medication was taking effect; it paralyzed, like an enormous overdose of phenothiazine, his jaws and he shut his eyes, suffering. The dose, much too much, was carrying him off and he could no longer see, experience the presence of, Lilo Topchev. Too bad, he thought. And it was regret, and pain, that he experienced, rather than fear, as the cloud condensed around him, the familiar descent—or was it ascent?—now heightened, magnified out of all reasonable proportion, by the deliberate over-supply of the two drugs.

I hope, he hoped, that she isn't going to be required to endure this, too; I hope it is easier on her—knowing that would make it easier on me.

"We really blasted them," Ricardo Hastings mumbled, chuckling, wheezing, dribbling.

"Did we?" Lars managed to say.

"Yes, Mr. Lars," Ricardo Hastings said. And the garrulous, trivial mumble, somehow, seemed cleared, became lucid. "But not with any so-called 'Time Warpage Generator.' That is a fabrication—in the bad sense. I mean a cover-story." The old man chuckled, but this time harshly. Differently.