Philip Dick - The Zap Gun

Again Don Packard paused for more coffee. He was tired, but his job was almost over. Then he would carry a copy of the document now being dictated to General Nitz. It was all routine.

Packard wound up: "S. G. Febbs fell victim to the Empathic-Telepathic whatever-it's-called Maze and shortly succumbed—in fact in record time, beating the smallest period established by voluntary prisoners from the Wes-bloc federal pen on Callisto.

"S. G. Febbs," he declared into the mike in conclusion, "is now at Wallingford Clinic, where he will remain indefinitely. However—"

At this point he broke off dictation and stared thoughtfully at his coffee cup. Since General Nitz was his client in this matter, Don Packard concluded his report with a footnote of his observations.

"It would seem," he began thoughtfully, "that since, due to the recent Emergency, Vincent Klug now has continual, legal access to the uniquely enormous autofac network of Lanferman Associates of California, and can run off in any quantity he wishes these damn mazes altered from the original weapon which was so effective against the aliens from Sirius, it might well be expedient to serve on Vincent Klug the instrument which has aided the Board so greatly in the past: an honorary but absolutely legally-binding commission in the Wes-bloc armed forces. Thus, should the need ever arrive—"

He paused once more, but this time not voluntarily.

The doorbell of his high-rent, high-rise, unlisted conapt had incredibly rung, and at not quite six a.m. Weird hour.

Well, it undoubtedly was a messenger from the Board, anxious to receive his report on the conspiracy of the six concomodies.

It was not, however, a military aide who faced him. In the hall stood a spic-and-span-new shiny 'stant mail delivery robot, with an ordinary wrapped brown-paper parcel under its arm.

"Mr. Don Packard? I have a registered parcel for you."

What the hell is it now? Packard asked himself irritably. Just when at last, he was about to knock off for the night and get some rest.

"Sign here," the 'stant mail robot said, "if you are Mr. Packard or if not Mr. Packard then on line two instead." It presented a form, pen and flat surface of itself on which to jot.

Bleary-eyed, witless from a long night of ceaseless heavy work-load in which a good deal had happened, Don Packard of the private police agency KACH signed for and accepted the parcel. More monitoring or recording equipment, I suppose, he said to himself. They're always "improving" these irritating technological contraptions which we have to lug around.

He carried the parcel grumpily back to his desk.

And opened it.