Philip Dick - The Zap Gun

"You may offer suggestions," Febbs decided, after some thought. "I will permit it. But you understand our sacred pact. As a political organization we are to allow policy to be decided by our elected leader without bureaucratic, hampering-type restrictions. Correct?"

Everyone mumbled correct.

Febbs was that unhampered, unbureaucratically restricted, elected leader. Of their clandestine political revolutionary-type organization which (after long debate) had titled itself, menacingly, the BOCFDUTCRBASEBFIN, The Benefactors of Constitutional Freedoms Denied Under the Contemporary Rule By a Small Elite By Force If Necessary. Cell One.

Picking up his component and Ed Jones', Febbs seated himself and reached into the bin of brand-new tools with which at great cost the organization had provided itself. He brought out a long, slender, tapered, German-made screwdriver with autonomic clockwise or anti-clockwise rotation action (depending on which way you pressed the plastic handle) and began his work.

Reverently, the other five members of the organization watched.

An hour later Surley G. Febbs grunted sweatily, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief as he halted to take a breather, said, "This will take time. It isn't easy. But we're getting there."

Martha Raines said nervously, "I hope a roving, random police monitor doesn't happen to cruise by above-surface and pick up our thoughts."

Politely, Jones pointed and said, "Um, I believe that doodad there fits up against that template. See where those screw-holes are?"

"Conceivably so," Febbs said. "This brings me to something I intended to take up later. But since I'm pausing for a while I might as well say it to you all now." He glanced around at them to be sure he had their individual, undivided attention, and then spoke as authoritatively as possible. Given a man of his ability and knowledge this was very authoritative. "I want all of you comprising Cell One clear in your minds as to the exact type of socio-economic, pol-struc of society we shall install in place of the undemo-tyr by the privileged cog elite which now holds power."

"You tell 'em Febbs," Jones said encouragingly.

"Yeah," Jason Gill agreed. "Let's hear once again! I like this part, what happens after we run 'em out of office with this item 401."

With superlative calm, Febbs continued, "Everyone on the UN-W Natsec Board will of course be tried as war criminals. We've agreed on that."

"Yeah!"

"It is Article A in our Constitution. But as to the rest of the cogs, especially those Commie bastards in Peep-East that traitor General Nitz is so pally with. Like that Marshal Paponovich or whatever his name is. Well, like I've explained to you in our past secret meetings down here—"

"Right, Febbs!"

"—they're really going to get it. They're the worst. But mainly we have to seize—and I demand absolute obedience on this, because this is tactically crucial—we initially must gain control of the ENTIRE SUBSURFACE INSTALLATIONS OF LANFERMAN ASSOCIATES IN CALIFORNIA, because as we all know, it's from there the new weapons come. Like this 401 they stupidly turned over to us for—ha-ha—'plowsharing.' I mean, we don't want them to build any more of these."

Martha Raines asked timidly, "And what do we do after we, ah, seize Lanferman Associates?"

Febbs said, "Thereupon we then arrest their hired stooge, that Lars Powderdry, And then we compel him to start designing weapons for us."

Harry Markison, a middle-aged businessman with a certain amount of common sense, spoke up. "But the weapon by which we won what they are now calling 'The Big War' with—"

"Get to it, Markison."

"It, uh, wasn't designed by Mr. Lars, Incorporated. Originally it was some sort of maze invented by some non-cog toy-manufacturing outfit, Klug Enterprises. So—don't we have to beware that this Klug fella—"

"Listen," Febbs said quietly. "I'll tell you the real scoop on that. But now I'm busy."

He then picked up a small Swedish watchmaker's screwdriver and resumed the task of reassembling weapon 401. He ignored the other five concomodies. There was no more time for blabbing; work had to be done, if their blitz-swift coup again the cog elite was to be successful. And it would be.

Three hours later, with most of the components (in fact all except one fast, outlandish, goose-neck-squash-like geegaw) assembled ready for all systems go, with Febbs wet with perspiration and the other five concomodies out of their minds or bored or restless, depending on their natures, there sounded—shockingly, making the room suddenly deathly still—a knock at the door.

Laconically, Febbs grunted, "I'll handle this." From the tool bin he lifted a beautifully balanced Swiss chrome-steel hammer and walked slowly across the room, past the rigid, pale other five concomodies. He unbolted, unfastened, untied the triple-locked door, opened it a crack, peered out into the gloomy hall.

A spic-and-span-new shiny autonomic 'stant mail delivery robot stood there, waiting.

"Yes?" Febbs inquired.

The 'stant mail robot whirred, "Parcel for Mr. Surley Grant Febbs. Registered. Sign here if you are Mr. Febbs or if not Mr. Febbs then on line two instead." It presented a form, pen and flat surface of itself on which to scribble.

Laying down the hammer Febbs said, turning briefly to the other five concomodies, "It's okay. More tools we ordered, probably." He signed the form, and the autonomic 'stant mail delivery robot handed him a brown-paper-wrapped package, Febbs shut the door, stood shakily holding the package, then shrugged in courageous defiance. He walked unconcernedly back to where he had been sitting.

"You've got guts, Febbs," Ed Jones declared, expressing the sentiments of the group. "I was sure it was an Einsatzgruppe from KACH."

"In my opinion," Harry Markison said, with overwhelming relief, "it looked to be the goddam Soviet secret police, the KVB. I've got a brother-in-law in Estonia—"

Febbs said, "They're just not smart enough to pinpoint our meetings. History will deal them out, evolution-wise to make way for superior forms."

"Yeah," Jones agreed. "Like look how long it took them to come up with a weapon to defeat the alien slavers from Sirius with."

"Open the package," Markison said.

"In time," Febbs said. He fitted the squash-like gewgaw in place and mopped his drenched, steaming forehead.

"When do we act, Febbs?" Gill asked. They all sat, eyes fixed on Febbs, waiting for his decision. Aware of this, he felt relaxed. The pressure was off.

"I've been thinking," Febbs said, in his most Febbs-ish manner. It had been deep thinking, indeed. Reaching out, he picked up the weapon, tearwep item 401, held it cradled, his hand on the trigger.

"I required the five of you," he said, "because I had to obtain all six components that constitute this weapon. However—"

Pressing the trigger he demolecularized, by means of the wide-angle setting of the phase-inversion beam emanating from the muzzle of the weapon, his fellow five concomodies at their seats here and there around the rickety table.

It happened soundlessly. Instantly. As he had anticipated. The vid and aud tapes from Lanferman Associates, shown to the Board, had indicated these useful aspects of item 401's action.

There was now left only Surley G. Febbs. And armed with Earth's most modern, fashionable, advanced, soundless, instant weapon. Against which no defense was yet known... even to Lars Powderdry, whose business it was to conjure up such things.

And you, Mr. Lars, Febbs said to himself, are next.

He laid the weapon down carefully and, with calm hands, lit another cigarette. He regretted that there was no longer anyone in the room to witness his rational, precise movements—anyone but himself, anyhow.