Philip Dick - CANTATA-141

Somebody like Woodbine who's paid to take risks. This is exactly why we hired him.

He did not envy Woodbine.

And then all at once it occurred to him that old Leon Turpin might order him to go along. In which case he would have to - or lose his job. And losing one's job, these days, was no joke.

His appetite was gone. Leaving the kitchen, Don Stanley returned to his bed, gloomily aware that with such thoughts on his mind he would probably be unable to get back to sleep.

It turned out that he was right.

Because the defective Jiffi-scuttler technically belonged to him, Darius Pethel could not effectively be denied permission to cross over, along with the group of top scientific and linguistic experts leaving in the morning. Wearing a carefully ironed and starched white shut and new tie, he arrived at TD's central administrative offices in Washington, D.C., at exactly eight a. m. He felt confident. TD employees had treated him with deference ever since he had turned the defective 'scuttler over to them. After all, he could take it back... or, at least, so Pethel reasoned.

Two officials of the company, both of them tense, accompanied him to Mr. Turpin's office on the twentieth floor, depositing him there, and at once hurrying off. Now he was on his own.

The board chairman of TD did not awe Darius Pethel. 'Morning, Mr. Turpin,' he said in greeting.

'I hope I'm not late.' He was not sure where the group was assembling. Probably down in the subsurface labs near the 'scuttler.

'Ump,' the old man said, glancing at him sideways, the wrinkled neck twisting like a turkey's.

'Oh, yes. Pedal.'

'Pethel.'

'So you want to be in on things, do you ?' Leon Turpin studied him, smiling a thin, gleeful smile.

'I want to keep in touch,' Pethel said. He pointed out: 'After all, it is my, property.'

'Oh, yes, we're very conscious of that, Pethel. You're a highly important figure in all that's going on. Being a businessman, you'll no doubt be useful on this mission; you can establish trade relations with these people. In fact, we expect you to start selling them 'scuttlers.' Leon Turpin laughed. 'All right, Mr. Pethel. You go ahead downstairs to the labs and join the group; make yourself at home here at TD. Do whatever you feel like. I myself - I'm staying here. One trip across is enough for a man of my age; I’m sure you can appreciate that.'

Conscious that he had been made fun of, Darius Pethel left Mr. Turpin's office and took the elevator down. Smouldering, he said to himself, I can be important in this. The people on this alternative Earth or whatever it is can probably use an improved method of transportation even better than we can. After all, from what the TV newsman said, they seem to be backward, compared to us. There was something about a primitive ship or airplane. Something obsolete in our world several centuries ago.

The elevator let him off at the guarded lower floors of the building, and he made his way down the corridor, following the instructions painted on the walls, to the main lab proper.

When he opened the lab door he found himself facing a man whom he had seen many times on

TV. It was the Republican-Liberal candidate for president, James Briskin, and Pethel halted in awe and surprise.

'Let's get a shot of you standing at the entrance hoop,' a photographer was saying to Briskin.

'Could you move over there, please ?'

Obligingly, Briskin walked to the 'scuttler.

This is the big time, Pethel realized. Our next president is here along with me. I wonder what would happen if I said hello to him, he wondered. Would he answer back ? Probably would because he's campaigning; after he gets into office, he won't have to.

To Jim Briskin, Pethel said humbly, 'Hello, Mr. Briskin. You don't know me, but I'm going to vote for you.' He had just made up his mind; seeing Briskin in real life had decided him. 'I'm

Darius Pethel.'

Glancing at him, Briskin said, 'Hello, Mr. Pethel.'

'This Jiffi-scuttler belongs to me,' Pethel explained. 'I discovered the rent in it, the doorway to the other universe. Or rather, my repairman Rick Erickson did. But he's dead now.' He added, 'Very tragic; I was there when it happened,'

A TD official, appearing beside Jim Briskin, said, 'We're ready to get started, Mr. Briskin.'

A small, rather handsome man strolled up, and Darius, with a start, recognized him, too. This was Frank Woodbine, the famous deep-space explorer. Good lord, Pethel said to himself, and I'm going with them!

'Jim,' Woodbine said to Jim Briskin, 'we're all carrying laser pistols except you. Don't you think you're making a mistake ?'

'Hey,' Pethel said tremulously, 'nobody gave me a pistol.'

A TD employee passed a pistol, in its holster, over to him. 'Sorry, Mr. Pethel.'

'That's more like it,' Dar Pethel said, wondering if he was supposed to hold the thing in his hands or strap it on somehow.

'I don't need a gun,' Jim Briskin said.

'Of course you do,' Woodbine said. 'You want to come back, don't you ?' To Pethel, Woodbine said, 'Tell him he needs a gun."

'You ought to have one, Mr. Briskin,' Pethel said eagerly. 'No one knows what we'll run into over there.'

At last, with massive reluctance, Briskin accepted a gun. 'This is not the way,' he said, to no one in particular. 'We shouldn't be doing this, going to meet them armed like this.' He looked melancholy.

'What choice have we got ?' Woodbine said and disappeared through the entrance hoop of the

Jiffi-scuttler.

'I'll go in with you,. Mr. Briskin,' Pethel said. 'Instead of with those scientists.' He indicated the group which had formed behind them. 'I can't talk their language; I've got nothing in common with them.'

A man whom he recognized as Briskin's campaign manger, Salisbury Heim, hurried up to join

Briskin. 'Sorry I'm late.' Quickly, he made note of the news photographers, TV cameras, the gang of media people. 'You fellows get every step of this,' he called to them. 'You understand ?'

'Yes, Mr. Heim,' they murmured, moving forward.

'The time is now,' Salisbury Heim said, and gave Jim Briskin a small push in the direction of the entrance hoop. 'Let's go, Jim.'

'Are you ready, Mr. Pethel ?' Jim Briskin asked.

'Oh, thanks; I am, yes,' Pethel answered hurriedly. 'This is certainly a fascinating journey, isn't it ?'

'Momentous,' Salisbury Heim said.

'In fact even historical,' Briskin said, with a faint smile.

'Entering the Jiffi-scuttler now,' a TV newsman was saying into his lapel mike, 'the possible future president of the United States reveals no indication of concern for his personal safety.

Solicitous of the welfare of the others surrounding him, he makes certain that they understand the gravity or - as James Briskin himself just now put it - the historical significance of this body of persons passing across into a situation fraught with possible peril. But the stakes in this are vast, and no one has forgotten that, least of all James Briskin. Another world, another civilization ... what will this come to mean in future centuries to mankind ? Undoubtedly, James Briskin is asking himself that at this very instant as he crosses the threshold of the rather plain, almost ordinary-appearing Jiffi-scuttler.'

Jim Briskin winked at Darius Pethel.

Startled, Pethel attempted to wink back, but he was too tense.

'Hey, just a moment, Mr. Briskin!' a homeopape photographer called. 'We want to be sure we catch you going through the rent. Could you kindly retrace your steps back to the hoop, please ?

Those last four steps ?'

Obligingly, Jim Briskin did so.

The TV newsman was saying, 'So now in only a matter of seconds presidential candidate Jim

Briskin will be passing through the connecting link into a universe whose very existence was not even suspected two days ago. Authorities seem pretty well to agree now, on the basis of stellar charts taken by the no longer functioning Queen Bee satellite ...' -