Philip Dick - CANTATA-141

Sourly, Woodbine said, 'Let's not go up in the 'hopper; let's just stand here in one spot with our eyes shut and theorize.'

But I know I'm right, Leon Turpin said to himself. I've got a sure instinct, sometimes; that's how

I rose to be chairman of the board of directors of TD. Frank Woodbine will find out, pretty soon, and he'll have to apologize to me. I'll wait for that and not say anything more.

Together, Woodbine and Stanley assisted the old man in entering the 'hopper. The hatch slid shut; the 'hopper rose in the air and headed out across the meadow and over the nearby great trees.

If that's true, Turpin realized suddenly, then TD owns an entire Earth. And, since I control TD, what Don Stanley said is true; Earth belongs to me. This particular Earth, anyhow. But isn't one as good as another ? They're all equally real.

Rubbing his hands together with excitement, Turpin said, 'Isn't this a lovely virgin place ? Look at that forest down below; look at all that timber!' And mines, he realized. Maybe there's never been any coal mined here or oil wells sunk. All the metals, all the ores, may still be buried, on this particular Earth - unlike our own, where everything valuable has been brought up long ago.

I'd rather possess this one than our own, Turpin said to himself. Any day. Who wants a worn-out world, thoroughly exploited over tens of centuries ?

'I'll carry it to the Supreme Court,' he said aloud, 'with the finest legal minds in the world. I'll put all the financial resources of TD into this, even if it breaks the company's back. It'll be worth it.'

Both Stanley and Woodbine glanced at him sourly.

Below them, directly ahead, lay an ocean. Evidently it was the Atlantic, Turpin decided. It looked like the Atlantic, at least. Gazing down at the shoreline, he saw only trees. No roads, no towns - in fact no sign of human habitation of any variety whatsoever. Like it was before the damn Pilgrims showed up here, he said to himself. But he also saw no Indians, either. Strange.

Assuming he was correct, assuming this was an Earth parallel to their own, why was it so underpopulated ? For instance, what had become of the racial groups which had lived in North

America before the whites arrived ?

Could parallel Earths differ that much and still be considered authentically parallel ? Unparallel is more like it, Turpin decided.

All at once in a hoarse voice, Don Stanley said, 'Woodbine, something is following us.'

Turpin looked back, but his eyes were not good enough; he made out nothing in the bright blue mid-morning sky. Woodbine, however, seemed able to see it; he grunted, rose from the controls of the 'hopper and stood peering. By autopilot, the 'hopper continued on.

'It's losing ground,' Stanley said. 'We're leaving it behind. Want to turn around and approach it ?'

'What's it seem to be ?' Turpin asked apprehensively. 'We better not get too close; it may shoot us down.' He cringed from the idea of an emergency crash: he was well aware of the brittleness of his bones. Any sort of unsafe landing would end his life. And he did not want it ended, just now.

This was the worst possible time.

'I'll swing back that way,' Woodbine said, returning to the controls. A moment later the 'hopper had reversed its direction.

And, at last, Turpin could perceive the other object in the sky. It was clearly not a bird; no wings flapped, and anyhow it was too large. He knew, saw with his own eyes, that it was an artificial construct, a man-made vehicle.

The vehicle was hurrying off as rapidly as possible.

Woodbine said, 'It won't be long; it's very slow. You know what it looks like ? A boat, a goddam boat. It's got a hull and sails. It's a flying boat.' Hi; laughed tautly. 'It's absurd!'

Yes, Turpin thought. It does look grotesque. It's a wonder it can stay up. And now, sure enough, the boat-shaped airborne vehicle was dipping down in increasingly narrowing spirals, its sails hanging limply. The vehicle held one single person who, they could now see, was working frantically with the controls of his craft. Was he trying to land it or keep it in the air ? Turpin did not know, but in any case the vehicle was about to land - or crash.

It landed. In an open pasture, away from trees.

As the 'hopper began to descend after it, the figure within leaped from the vehicle and scampered off to disappear into the closest stand of trees.

'We frightened him,' Woodbine said, as he brought the 'hopper expertly down beside the parked, abandoned craft. 'But anyhow we get to examine his ship; that ought to tell us a lot, practically everything we want to know.' Immediately he slammed the cabin hatch back and scrambled out, to drop to the ground. Without waiting for Stanley or Turpin, he sprinted toward the parked alien vehicle.

As he, too, clambered out of the 'hopper Don Stanley murmured, 'It looks like it's made out of wood.' He dropped to the ground and walked over to stand beside Woodbine.

I'd better stay here, Leon Turpin decided. Too risky for me to try to get out; I might break a leg.

And anyhow it's their job to inspect this flying machine. That's what I hired them for.

'It's wood, all right,' Stanley said, his voice filtering to Leon Turpin, mixing with the rushing of wind through the nearby trees. 'And a cloth sail; I guess it's canvas.'

'But what makes it go ?' Woodbine said, walking all around it. 'Is it just a glider ? No power supply ?'

'That was certainly a timid individual in it,' Stanley said.

'How do you think a jet-hopper would look to the innocent eye ?' Woodbine said severely. 'Pretty horrible. But he had the courage to follow us for a time.' He had climbed up on the vehicle and was peering inside. 'It's laminated wood,' he said suddenly. 'Very thin layers. Looks to be extremely strong.' He banged on the hull with his fist.

Stanley, examining the rear of the craft, straightened up and said, 'It has a power supply. Looks like a turbine of some kind. Or possibly a compressor. Take a look at it.'

Together, as Leon Turpin watched, Frank Woodbine and Stanley studied the machinery which propelled the craft.

'What is it ?' Turpin yelled. His voice, in the open like this, sounded feeble.

Neither man paid any attention to him. He felt agitated and peeved, and he shifted about irritably, wishing they'd come back.

'Apparently,' Woodbine said, 'the turbine or whatever it is gives it an initial thrust which launches it. Then it glides for a while. Then the operator starts up the turbine once more and it receives an additional thrust. Thrust, coast, thrust, coast and so on. Odd damn way to get from, one place to another. My god, it may have to land at the end of each glide. Could that be ? It doesn't seem likely.'

Stanley said, 'Like a flying squirrel.' He turned to Woodbine. 'You know what ?' he said. 'The turbine is made out of wood, too.'

'It can't be,' Woodbine said. 'It’ll incinerate.'

'You can scrape the paint off,' Stanley said. He had a pocket knife open and was working with it.

'I'd guess this is asbestos paint; anyhow it's heat resistant. And underneath it, more laminated wood. I wonder what the fuel is.' He left the turbine, began walking all around the craft. 'I smell oil,' he said. 'I guess it could burn oil. The late twentieth century turbines and diesel engines all burned low-grade oil, so that's not too impossible.'

'Did you notice anything peculiar about the man piloting this ship ?' Woodbine said.

'No,' Stanley said. 'We were too far off. I could just barely make him out.'

Woodbine said, thoughtfully, 'He was hunched. I noticed it when he ran. He loped along decidedly bent over.'

Late at night, Tito Cravelli sat in his conapt, before a genuine fire, sipping Scotch and milk and reading over the written report which his contact at Terran Development had a little earlier in the evening submitted to him.