Philip Dick - The Zap Gun

Lars, with extreme difficulty, said, "Who are you?"

"I am an ambulatory toy," the old man answered.

"Toy!"

"Yes, Mr. Lars. Originally an ingredient of a war-game invented by Klug Enterprises. Sketch me, Mr. Lars. Your compatriot, Miss Topchev, is no doubt sketching, but merely repeating, without realizing it, the worthless visual-presentation formerly produced... and ignored by everyone but you. She is drawing me. You were absolutely right."

"But you're old."

"A simple technical solution presented itself to Mr. Klug. He foresaw the possibility—in fact the inevitability—of an application of the new dating-test by carbon-17-B. So my constituents are modifications of organic matter slightly in excess of one hundred years vintage. If that expression doesn't disgust you."

"It doesn't disgust me," Lars said, or thought. He could no longer tell if he were actually speaking aloud. "I just plain don't believe it," he said.

"Then," Hastings said, "consider this possibility. I am an android, as you suspected, but built over a century ago."

"In 1898?" Lars asked with bottomless scorn. "By a buggywhip concern in Nebraska?" He laughed, or tried to, anyhow. "Give me another one. Another theory that fits what you know and I know to be the facts."

"This time would you like to try the truth, Mr. Lars? Hear it openly, with nothing held back? Do you feel capable? Honestly? You're sure?"

After a pause Lars said, "Yes."

The soft, whispering voice, perhaps composed of nothing more in this deep-trance relationship than a thought, informed him, "Mr. Lars, I am Vincent Klug."

"The small-time operator. The marginal, null-credit, kicked-around toy man himself," Lars said.

"That's right. Not an android but a man like yourself, only old, very old. At the end of my days. Not as you've met me and seen me subsurface, at Lanferman Associates." The voice was weary, toneless. "I have lived a long time and seen a good deal. I saw the Big War, as I said. As I told everyone and anyone who would listen to me as I sat on the park bench. I knew eventually the proper person would come along, and he did. They got me inside."

"And you were main-man in the war?"

"No. Not for that or any weapon. A time-warpage instrument exists—will exist—but it will not factor in the Big War against the Sirius slavers. That part I made up. Sixty-four years from now, in 2068, I will make use of it to return.

"You don't understand. I can come back here from 2068; I've done so. Here I am. But I can't bring anything. Weapon, artifact, news, idea, the most minuscule technological pursap entertainment novelty—anything." The voice was savage, roused to bitterness. "Go ahead! Telepathically pry at me, tinker with my memory and knowledge of the next six decades. Obtain the specs for the Time Warpage Generator. And take it to Pete Freid at Lanferman Associates in California; get a rush-order on it, have a prototype made right up and used on the aliens. Go ahead! You know what'll happen? It will cancel me out, Mr. Lars." The voice cut at him, deafening him, cruel. Corrupted by vindictiveness and the futility of the situation. "And when it cancels me out, by instigating an alternate time-path, it will cancel the weapon out, too. And an oscillation, with me caught in it, will be erected in perpetuity."

Lars was silent. He did not dispute; it seemed evident and he accepted it.

"Time-travel," said the ancient, decayed Klug of sixty-four years from now, "is one of the most rigidly limited mechanisms arrived at by the institutional research system. Do you want to know exactly how limited I am, Mr. Lars, at this moment in time, which is for me over sixty years in the past? I can see ahead and I can't tell anything—I can't inform you; I can't be an oracle. Nothing! All I can do, and this is very little, but it may be enough—I know, as a matter of fact, whether it'll be enough, but I can't even risk telling you this—is call your attention to some object, artifact or aspect of your present environment. You see? It must already exist. Its presence must not in any way be dependent on my return here from your future."

"Hmm," Lars said.

" 'Hmm.' " Vincent Klug sneered, mocking him.

"Well," Lars said, "What can I say? It's been said; you just now went through it, stage by stage."

"Ask me something."

"Why?"

"Just ask! I came back for a reason; isn't that obvious? God, I'm tied in knots by this damn principle—it's called—" Klug broke off, choked with impotence and fury.

"I can't even give you the name of the principle that limits me," he said, with descending strength. The battle to communicate—but not to communicate beyond the narrow, proper line—was palpably draining him rapidly.

Lars said, "Guessing games. That's right; you like games."

"Exactly." A resurgence of energy pulsed in the dry, dust-like voice. "You guess. I either answer or I don't."

"Something exists now, in our times, in 2004."

"Yes!" Frenzied, vibrant, humming excitement; the furious regathering of the life-force in response.

"You, in this time period, are not a cog. You're on the outside and that is a fact. You've tried to bring it to UN-W Natsec's attention but since you're not a cog, no one will listen."

"Yes!"

"A working prototype?"

"Yes. By Pete Freid. On his own time. After Jack Lanferman gave him permission to use the company shops. He's so goddam good; he can build so goddam fast."

"Where is the device now?"

A long silence. Then, haltingly, in agony, "I—am—afraid to—say too much."

"Pete has it."

"N-no."

"Okay," Lars pondered. "Why didn't you try to communicate with Lilo?" he asked. "When she went into a trance-state and probed at your mind?"

"Because," Klug whispered wearily in his dry, rushing voice, "she is from Peep-East."

"But the Prototype—"

"I see ahead. This weapon, Mr. Lars, is for Wes-bloc alone."

"Is the weapon," Lars said, "in Festung Washington, D.C. at this time?"

Witheringly, the voice of the ancient Vincent Klug eaten away by the destroyer retorted. "If it were I would not be talking to you. I would have returned to my own period." He added, "Frankly, I have plenty to lose by being here, my friend. The medical science of my own era is capable of sustaining my life on an endurable basis. That, however, is not the case in this year, 2004." His voice pulsated with the rhythm of fatigue and contempt intertwined.

"Okay, this device," Lars said—and sighed—"this weapon originates from my own time and not from the future. You've had the prototype made. Presumably it works. So you've either taken it back to your own tiny factory or whatever it is you operate!" For a long time he considered, recapitulating in his mind over and over again. "All right," he said. "I don't need to ask you any more; we don't need to stain it. Better not to take any more chances. You agree?"

"I agree," Klug said, "if you feel you can continue on your own—with what you now know and no more."

"I'll find it."

Obviously he had to immediately approach the Vincent Klug of this period, drag the device out of him. But—and he saw it already—the Vincent Klug of 2004, having invented the device, would not recognize it as a weapon.

He would not therefore know which object was wanted; Klug might, in his typical, zany, marginal operations, possess a dozen, two dozen, constructs in every possible stage all the way from the rough sketch, the drafting board, to the final autofac-run retail-sales production items themselves.

He had broken contact with the ancient Vincent Klug of 2068 prematurely.

"Klug," he said instantly, urgently. "What kind of toy is it? A hint! Give me some clue. A board game? A war game?" He listened.

In his ears, as spoken words, not telepathically received thoughts, the cracked, senile voice mumbled, "Yeah, we really clobbered them, those slavers; they sure didn't expect us to come up with anything." The old man wheezing chuckling with delight. "Our weapons fashions designers. What a washout they were. Or so the aliens thought"