Philip Dick - GALACTIC POT HEALER

"Because there're too many unemployed people on Earth as it is. The government faked scientific evidence and documentation to say robots couldn't be done. They are rare, however. They are hard to build and costly. I'm surprised to see this many. It is all he has, I'm sure. This is a—" She searched for the word. "For our benefit. A display. To impress us."

One of the robots, catching sight of Joe, coasted directly toward him. "Mr. Fernwright?"

"Yes," Joe said. He looked around him at the corridors and massive doors and the recessed overhead lighting. Efficient, extensive, and labyrinthine. And without defect. Obviously it had just been built—and not yet put to use.

"I'm amazingly glad to see you," the robot declared. "In the center of my chest you will probably see the word ‘Willis' stenciled. I am programmed to respond to any instruction beginning with that word. For example, if you would like to see your work-area, merely say, ‘Willis, I would like to be taken to my work-area,' and I would then happily lead you there, giving pleasure to myself and hopefully to you as well."

"Willis," Joe said, "are there living quarters here for us? For example is there a private room for Miss Yojez? She's tired; she should be asleep."

"A three-room apartment is ready for you and Miss Yojez," Willis said. "Your personal living quarters."

"What?" Joe said.

"A three-room apartment—"

"You mean we have an actual apartment ? Not just a room?"

"A three-room apartment," Willis repeated, with robotic patience.

"Take us there," Joe said.

"No," Willis said, "you have to say, ‘Willis, take us there.'

"Willis, take us there."

"Yes, Mr. Fernwright." The robot led them across the foyer to the elevators.

After looking over the apartment Joe got Mali into bed; she fell asleep without a sound. Even the bed was large. Everything in the apartment was solid and in good taste (of a modest sort), and the apartment itself was, like its contents, large. He could hardly believe it. He examined the kitchen, the living room--.

And found, in the living room, on a coffee table, a jar from Heldscalla. As soon as he saw it he knew what it was. Seating himself on the couch he reached out and carefully picked it up.

The deep yellow glaze. He had never seen such a rich yellow before; it surpassed even the yellows of Delft tiles—surpassed, in fact, Royal Albert yellow. That made him wonder about bone china. Are there bone beds here? he asked himself. And, if so, what percentage bone are they using? Sixty percent? Forty? And are their bone beds as good as the peoples' bone bed in Moravia?

"Willis," he said.

"Yassuh."

Questioningly, Joe said, " ‘Yassuh'? Why not ‘Yessir'?"

The robot said, "I jes' done bin readin' Earth history, Massah Fernwright, suh."

"Are there bone beds here on Plowman's Planet?"

"Well, Massuh Fernwright, I don' rightly know. Ah gues' dat you'all kin as' de central computator iffen—"

"I order you to talk correctly," Joe said.

"You'all gotta say ‘Willis' fust. Iffen you'all wan' me tuh—"

"Willis, talk correctly."

"Yes, Mr. Fernwright."

"Willis, can you take me to my work-area?"

"Yes, Mr. Fernwright."

"Okay," Joe said. "Take me there."

The robot unlocked the heavy steel and asbestos door and stood to one side, permitting Joe Fernwright to enter the enormous, dark room. Overhead lights came on automatically as he crossed the threshold.

He saw, at the far end of the room, a major workbench, and fully equipped. Three sets of waldoes. Glare-free lighting which operated from a pedal console. Self-focusing magnifying glasses, fifteen inches and more in diameter. The separate heat-needles, all the known sizes. To the left of the workbench he saw protective cartons, a kind which he had read about but never seen. Going over, he picked up one, dropped it experimentally... and watched it float downward, gently landing, without impact.

And the sealed containers of glazes. Every tint, shade, and hue was represented; the row of containers lined one side of the room in four rows. With them he could match virtually the glazes of every pot coming onto his bench. One more item. He walked over to it and inspected it with wonder. A weightless area, where gravity was balanced by a ring of invisible counterspin: this was the ultimate workshop device for a pot-healer, this weightless area. He would not need to secure the pieces of pot in order to meld them together; the pieces, in the weightless chamber, would simply remain where he put them. By means of this he could handle four times the number of pots he had turned out in former times, and those were times of prosperity. And the positioning would be absolutely exact. Nothing would slip, slide, or tilt during the healing process.

He noted, too, the kiln, which might be needed if a shard were missing and the need to create a duplicate came into being. Thus he could complete pots of which he did not have all the pieces. This aspect of the craft of pot-healing was not generally dealt with publicly, but—it existed.

Never in his life had he seen such a well-equipped shop for pot-healing.

Already, a number of broken pots had been brought in; a pile of filled protective cartons had accumulated at the incoming end of the bench. I could start right now, he realized. All I have to do is to flip a half-dozen switches and I'm in business. Tempting... He walked over to the rack of heatneedles, took one down, held it. Well balanced, he decided. Quality product; the best. He opened one of the filled cartons, gazed down at the potsherds. His interest became emergent instantly; setting down the heat-needle he took the shards out one by one, enjoying the glazes and the glaze texture of the pot. A fat, short pot. A funny pot, perhaps. He put the pieces back in the carton and turned, with the idea of carrying them over to the weightless area. He wanted to begin. This was his life. Never did I think, he thought, that I would have access to, the use of--.

He halted. And felt, inside, as if some animal had gnawed at his heart. Gnawed it with greed. And delight.

A black figure, like a negative of life itself, stood facing him. It had been watching him, and now that he faced it he thought it would go away. But it remained. He waited a little longer. It still remained.

"What is this thing?" he asked the robot, who still stood at the threshold of the workroom.

"You have to say ‘Willis' first," the robot reminded him. "You have to say, ‘Willis, what—‘

"Willis," he said, "what is it?"

"A Kalend," the robot said.

With them, Joe Fernwright thought, there is not life but merely a synopsis of life. We are a thread that passes through their hands; always in motion, always flowing, we slip by and are never fully grasped. The slipping away is continuous, and carries all of us with it, on and on, toward the dreadful alchemy of the tomb.

To Willis he said, "Can you contact Glimmung?"

"You have to say—"

"Willis," he said, "can you contact Glimmung?" Across the room from him the Kalend stood silently—not silently as an owl might stand, absorbing and subduing noise with its feathers, but silent in the mechanical sense: as if its audio portion had been severed. Is it really there? Joe wondered. It appeared to be substantial; it did not have a ghostly, vaporous, wraithlike quality. It really is there, he said to himself. It has invaded my work-area before I have placed a single shard into the weightless chamber. Before I have ignited one heat-needle.

"I can't contact Glimmung," Willis said. "He's sleeping; this is his time for that. In another twelve hours he'll wake up and then I can contact him. But he's left a large number of servo-assist mechanisms ready, in case of an emergency. Do you want any of them activated?"