Philip Dick - CANTATA-141

'I like that,' Turpin said. 'You've notified our PR people that we have Woodbine on the payroll, of course.'

'Absolutely,' Stanley said. 'There'll be teams from all the media along, catching everything you and Woodbine do and say. Don't worry, Mr. Turpin; your trip across will be well-covered.'

Tickled, Leon Turpin giggled in glee. 'Terrific!' he exclaimed. 'I think you've done a good job,

Don. It'll be an adventure, going over there to ...' He broke off, again puzzled. 'Where do you say it is ? It's Earth; I understand that. But...'

'It'll be easier to show you than to tell you,' Stanley said 'So let's wait until we're actually there.'

'Yes, of course,' Leon Turpin said. He had always found that it paid to do what Don Stanley told him; he trusted Stanley's judgment completely. And, as he aged, he trusted Don more and more.

On the second subsurface level of TD's Washington plant, Leon Turpin met the deep-space explorer Frank Woodbine, about whom he had heard so much. To his vast surprise, he found

Woodbine to be dainty and slight. The man was dapper, with a tiny waxed mustache and rapidly blinking eyes. When they shook, Woodbine's hand was soft and a little damp.

'How'd you ever get to be an explorer ?' Turpin asked bluntly; he was too old, too experienced, to beat around the bush.

Stammering slightly, Woodbine said, 'Bad blood.'

Turpin, amused, laughed. 'But you're good. Everybody knows that. What do you know about this place we're going to ?' He had spied the Jiffi-scuttler within which the breakthrough had occurred; it was surrounded by TD researchers and engineers - and armed company guards.

'I know very little,' Woodbine said. 'I've studied the star charts that have been taken, and I don't argue the fact that it's Earth on the other side; that's certain.' Woodbine had on his heavy troublesuit, with helmet, supply of oxygen, propulsion jets, meters and atmosphere analysis gear, and, of course, two-way com system. Always he was pictured gotten up this way; everyone expected it of him. 'It's not my job to make a decision in this matter; that's up to your company geologists.'

Puzzled, Turpin turned to Don Stanley. 'I didn't know we had any geologists.'

Ten of them,' Stanley said.

'Your astrophysicists have done all they can,' Woodbine said. 'Now that the observation satellite has been launched.' Seeing that Turpin did not understand, he amplified. 'Earlier this morning, a

Queen Bee satellite and launcher were taken through to the other side, and the satellite was successfully put into orbit; it's already sending back TV reports of what it sees.'

"That's correct,' Don Stanley added. 'So far it's functioning perfectly. From that vantage point we can learn more about this other world in an hour than fifty surface teams can learn in a year. But of course we're going to augment the TB's data with geological analysis; that's what Woodbine was referring to. And we've borrowed a botanist from Georgetown University; he's over there right now, inspecting plants. And there's a zoologist on the way from Harvard; he should arrive any time now.' After a pause, Stanley said thoughtfully, 'And we've contacted the sociology and anthropology departments at the University of Chicago to stand by in case, we need them.'

'Hmm,' Turpin said. What did that mean, for heaven's sake ? He was lost. Anyhow, Stanley and

Frank Woodbine appeared to have the situation well in hand; evidently there was nothing to worry about. Even if he did not quite comprehend the situation, they did.

'I'm anxious; to go over,' Woodbine said. 'I haven't been there yet, Turpin; they asked me to wait for you.'

'Then let's get started,' Turpin said eagerly. 'Lead the way.' He started toward the 'scuttler.

Frank Woodbine lit a cigar. 'Good enough. But don't be too disappointed, Turpin, if it leads us right back here. This break-through may be nothing but a doorway to our own world, a connection with some remote spot, say the extreme northern part of India where I understand native trees and grasses are still allowed to grow wild. Or it may turn out to be an African bird sanctuary.' He grinned. 'That will upset my good friend Mr. Briskin, if it's so.'

'Briskin ?' Leon Turpin echoed. 'I've heard of him. Oh yes; he's that political fellow.'

'He's the one who made the speech,' Don Stanley said, accompanying the two of them through the small mob of engineers and researchers, up to the hooped entrant of the 'scuttler.

Puffing out clouds of gray cigar smoke, Woodbine stepped through the hoop and into the tube.

Assisting Leon Turpin, Stanley followed. The three of them were at once followed by a gang of

TV cameramen and homeopape autonomic recording machines as well as human reporters.

Already the data-gathering extensors of the media were busily at work, collecting, recording, transmitting all. Woodbine did not seem to be bothered, but Leon Turpin felt slightly irritable.

Publicity was of course necessary, but why did they have to push so close ? I guess they're just interested, he decided. Doing their job. Can't blame them; this is important, especially with

Woodbine here. He wouldn't have come if this wasn't something big. And they know it.

Halfway down the tube of the Jiffi-scuttler Frank Woodbine conferred with a TD engineer and then stooped down. His cigar jutting stiffly ahead of him, he crept headfirst through the wall of the tube and disappeared.

'I'll be darned!' Turpin said, amazed. 'Can I get through there, Don ? I mean, it's all been tested, like you said; it's safe ?'

With the assistance of three TD engineers Turpin managed to kneel down and crawl tremulously after Woodbine. Felt like a kid again, Turpin said, to himself, experiencing both fear and delight.

Haven't done anything like this in ninety years. The wall of the tube shimmered before him. 'You in there somewhere, Frank ?' he called as he gingerly made his way forward. The shimmer passed over him, and now he saw blue sky and a horizontal procession of great trees.

Taking hold of him by the shoulders, Woodbine lifted Turpin to his feet and set him upright on the grass-covered soil. The air smelled of weird things. Leon Turpin inhaled, perplexed; the scents were old and familiar, but he could not place them. I've experienced this before, in my childhood, sometime, he said to himself. Back in the twentieth century. Yes, this certainly is

Earth; nothing else could smell this way. This is no alien, foreign planet. But was that good or bad ? He did not know.

Bending, Woodbine picked a meager white flower. 'Have a morning glory,' he said to Turpin.

Ahead of them, TD space engineers sat at mobile high-frequency receiving equipment; they were no doubt accepting communications from the Queen Bee satellite somewhere overhead. The

'scope of the central van revolved slowly, a peculiar presence on this pastoral landscape.

'We're particularly interested in what it obtains from the dark side,' Don Stanley said. 'That's where it is, now.'

Glancing at him, Woodbine said, 'Lights, you mean.'

'Yes.' Stanley nodded.

'Lights of what ?' Turpin asked.

'If there are lights,' Stanley said patiently, 'anywhere, in any quantity, it means that this place is inhabited by a sentient race.' He added, 'It's found roads, already, on the sun side. Or at least what appear to be roads. The QB isn't by any means the best observation satellite; actually it was selected because it's the easiest and quickest to launch. We'd follow it up in a few days with more sophisticated equipment, of course,'

'If a developed society exists here,' Woodbine said, 'it'll be of enormous importance anthropologically. But it'll hurt Jim Briskin. His whole speech took as its premise the unestablished fact that this planet is vacant and available for colonization. I don't know which to hope for; I'd personally like to see the bibs revived and conveyed here, but...'