Philip Dick - THE MAN WHO JAPED

"You do believe what I say, don't you? About you; about what's inside you."

"Okay," he said. "I'm taken in by your story."

"It's true. I—really care about you, Allen. You're a lot like Donna's father. Equivocating about the system, leaving it and then going back. The same doubts and mistrusts. Now he's back here for good. I said goodbye to him. I'm saying goodbye to you, the same way."

"One last thing," Allen said. "For the record. Do you honestly suppose I'm going to pay that bill?"

"It does seem stupid. There's a routine procedure, and it was marked ‘for services rendered,' so nobody would identify it. I'll have the account voided." She was suddenly shy. "I'd like to ask for something. Possibly you'll laugh."

"Let's hear it."

"Why don't you kiss me goodbye?"

"I hadn't thought about it." He made no move.

Stripping off her gloves, Gretchen laid them with her purse and raised her bare, slim fingers to his face. "There really isn't anybody named Molly, is there? You just made her up." She dug her nails into his neck, tugging him down against her. Her breath, as she kissed him, was faintly sweet with peppermint, and her lips were moist. "You're so good." she said, turning her face away.

She screamed.

On the floor of the office was a metal earwig-shaped creature, its receptor stalks high and whirring. The juvenile scuttled closer, then retreated in a dash of motion.

Allen grabbed up a paper weight from the desk and threw it at the juvenile. He missed, and the thing kept on going. It was trying to get back out the window, through which it had come. As it scooted up the wall he lifted his foot and smashed it; the juvenile fell broken to the floor and crawled in a half-circle. Allen found a typewriter and dropped it on the crippled juvenile. Then he began searching for its reservoir of tape.

While he was searching, the office door fell open and a second juvenile spurted in. Behind it was Fred Luddy, snapping pictures with a flash camera. With him were Blake-Moffet technicians, trailing wires and earphones and lenses and mikes and batteries. After the Blake-Moffet people came a horde of T-M employees, screeching and fluttering.

"Sue us for the lock!" Luddy shouted, tripping on a mike cable. "Somebody get the tape from that busted juve—"

Two technicians jumped past Gretchen and swept up the remains of the demolished juvenile. "Looks intact, Fred."

As Luddy snapped pictures, tape transports revolved and the surviving juvenile whirred exultantly. The office was jammed with people and equipment; Gretchen stood huddled in a corner, and somewhere far off burglar alarms were ringing.

"We reamed out the lock!" Luddy shouted, rushing up to Allen with his camera. "You didn't hear it; you were killing that juve we sent in through the window. Up six flights—those things climb!"

"Run," Allen said to Gretchen, pushing people out of her way. "Get downstairs and out of here."

She broke from her paralysis and started toward the open door. Luddy saw and yelped with dismay; he shoved his camera into a subordinate's arm and hurried after. As he caught hold of her arm, Allen reached him and socked him on the jaw. Luddy collapsed, and Gretchen, with a wail of despair, disappeared down the corridor.

"Oh boy," one of Blake-Moffet's men chortled, helping Luddy up. "Have we got pictures."

There were now three juveniles, and more were on the way. Allen seated himself on an air conditioner and rested. Turmoil surged everywhere; the Blake-Moffet people were still taking pictures and his own T--M [sic] people were trying to restore order.

"Mr. Purcell," one of his secretaries—probably Vivian—was shrilling in his ear. "What'll we do? Call the police?"

"Get them out," Allen grunted. "Bring up people from the other departments and throw them out. They're trespassing."

"Yes sir," the secretary said, and darted off.

Luddy, propped up by two of his compatriots, approached. He was fingering his chin and he had got back his camera. "The first tape's intact. You and that gal clinching; it's all down. And the rest, too; you busting the juve up and hitting me, and sending her off. And the door locked, the intercom ripped out—the whole works."

From the confusion Harry Priar emerged. "What happened, Allen?" He saw Luddy and the juveniles. "Oh no," he said. "No."

"You didn't last long," Luddy said to Allen. "You—" He ducked off as Priar started at him.

"I guess," Priar said, "I didn't get here in time."

"How'd you come? On your hands?" Some of the chaos was dying down. The Blake-Moffet people, and their equipment, were being forcibly ushered out. They were all smiles. His own staff was gathering in gloomy bunches, glancing at him and exchanging mutters. A T-M repairman was inspecting the hole in the office door where the lock had been. Blake-Moffet had carried the lock off with them, probably as a trophy.

"Invasion," Priar said. "I never would have thought Luddy had the guts."

"Blake's idea," Allen said. "And Luddy's vendetta. So now it comes full cycle. I got Luddy, now he gets me."

"Did they—I mean, they got what they wanted, didn't they?"

"Drums of it," Allen said. "I did the ultimate; I stamped on a juvenile."

"Who was the girl?"

Allen grimaced. "Just a friend. A niece visiting from the country. My daughter. Why do you ask?"

Late that night he sat with Janet in the darkness, listening to the noises filtering through the walls from other apartments. The murmur of voices, faint music, rattle of dishes and pans, and indiscriminate globs of sound that could be anything. "Want to go for a walk?" he asked. "No." Janet stirred a little beside him. "Want to go to bed?"

"No. Just sit."

Presently Allen said: "I ran into Mrs. Birmingham on my way to the bathroom. They brought the reports in a convoy of Getabouts. Six men guarding it. Now she's got it all hidden somewhere, probably in an old stocking."

"You're going into the block meeting?"

"I'll be there, and I'm going to fight with everything I've got."

"Will it do any good?" He reflected. "No."

"Then," Janet said, "we're washed up."

"We'll lose our lease, if that's what you mean. But that's all Mrs. Birmingham can do. Her authority ends when we leave here."

"You've resigned yourself to that," Janet said.

"I might as well." He searched for his cigarettes, then gave up. "Haven't you?"

"Your family worked decades for this lease. All those years your mother was with the Sutton Agency before it merged. And your father in T-M's art department."

"Pooled status," he said. "You don't have to remind me. But I'm still Director of Telemedia. Maybe I can wangle a lease out of Sue Frost. Technically I'm entitled to one. We should be living in Myron Mavis' apartment, within walking distance of my work."

"Would she give you a lease now? After this business today?"

He tried to imagine Sue Frost and the expression on her face. The sound of her voice. The rest of the day he had hung around his office at T-M expecting her to call, but she hadn't. No word had arrived from above; the powers had remained mum.

"She'll be disappointed," he said. "Sue had the kind of hopes for me only a mother could invent."

Up the ladder generation by generation. The schemings of old women, the secret ambitions and activity of parents boosting their children one more notch. Exhaustion, sweat, the grave.

"We can assume Blake-Moffet briefed her," he said. "I guess it's time to tell you what happened last night at her apartment."

He told Janet, and she had nothing to say. There wasn't enough light in the apartment to see her face, and he wondered if she had passed out with wretchedness. Or if some primordial storm were going to burst over him. But, when he finally nudged her, she simply said: "I was afraid it was something like that."