Philip Dick - CANTATA-141

he asked himself. Dawn men don't have anything on the ball, technologically speaking.

'Flint axes,' Turpin spat out disappointedly. 'So that's what's over there; that's what hopped out of that childish glider. And we've expended a QB satellite, seven million dollars.' Of course there were still mineral rights. The Pekes, according to Don Stanley's report, definitely did not mine; therefore, everything below the soil remained intact.

But that was not enough. Turpin yearned for more. There had to be more. His mind reverted to the fallen satellite. They did manage to knock that out, he realized, and we're still having trouble doing that.

Across from him Don Stanley shifted about restlessly in his chair. 'If you'd like to see the Peking man we brought back, this Bill Smith, as the linguistics machine calls him - '

'If I want to see a Peking man,' Turpin said, 'I'll look in the Britannica. That's where they belong,

Stanley, not walking around on the face of the globe as if they owned it. But I guess it can't be helped, not at this late date.' From his desk he picked up a letter. 'Here's a young couple, Art and

Rachael Chaffy, that want to emigrate over there. The first of a horde. Why not ? Call them up and tell them to come by, and we'll let them go across.' He tossed the letter toward Eton Stanley.

'Should I explain to them the risks ?"

Turpin shrugged. 'I don't see why you should; that's not our business. Let them find out the hard way. Colonists are supposed to be hardy and brave. At least they used to be, in my time. Back in the twentieth century, when we first started landing on the planets. This certainly is no worse than that; in fact it's considerably better.'

'You've got a point, Mr. Turpin.' Stanley folded the letter and placed it in his breast pocket.

The intercom on Turpin's desk said, 'Mr. T, there's an official from the U.S. Department of

Special Public Welfare here to see you. It's Mr. Thomas Rosenfeld, commissioner of the department.'

Cabinet level, Turpin said to himself. A big man. Capable of setting policy. He said to the intercom, 'Send Mr. Rosenfeld in.' To Stanley he said, 'You know what this is going to be ?'

'Bibs,' Stanley said.

'I can't make up my mind whether to tell him or not,' Turpin said. The news about the Pekes would very soon, of course, begin to seep out; it was a temporary secret only. But still, that was better than nothing. The party had just returned from the other side, and the media people who had been along could not possibly have released the news through their services so soon.

Rosenfeld, then, did not know; he could assume that. And could deal with the man accordingly.

A tall, red-haired man, well-dressed, entered Turpin's office, smiling. 'Mr. Turpin ? What a pleasure. President Schwarz asked me to drop by here for a little while and sort of chat with you.

Sound you out, as it were. Is that an original Ramon Cadiz you have there on the wall behind you ?' Rosenfeld walked over to inspect it. 'White on white. His best period.

'I'd give the painting to you,' Turpin said, 'but it was a gift to me. I know you'll understand.' He lied in his feet, but why not ? Why, for purposes of mere etiquette, should he give away a costly work of art ? It made no sense.

Rosenfeld said, 'How's your defective 'scuttler functioning ? Still as defective as ever ? We're very interested in it. We were, even before Jim Briskin's speech ... President Schwarz was exceptionally quick - even for him - to spot the potentialities in this. I don't believe anyone else is able to reach a major decision as efficiently as he.'

This was odd, in view of the fact that no way existed by which Schwarz could have known about the break-through prior to Briskin's speech, Turpin realized. However, he let this pass. Politics was politics.

Don Stanley spoke up. 'How many sleepers do you have in the fedgov warehouses, Mr.

Rosenfeld ?

'Well,' Rosenfeld said dryly, 'the figure generally given is close to seventy million. But actually the true number at this date is more like one hundred million.' He smiled a wry, humorless smile that was more a grimace than anything else.

Whistling, Stanley said, 'That's a lot.'

'Yes, ' Rosenfeld agreed. 'We admit it. Domestically speaking, it's the number one headache here in Washington. Of course as you very well know, this administration inherited it from the last.'

'You want us to put your hundred million bibs through into this alternate Earth ?' Turpin spoke up, weary of formalities.

'If the situation is such that...'

'We can do it,' Turpin said shortly. 'But you understand our role in this is simply a technologic one. We provide the means of conveyance to this other 'Earth, but we make no warranty as to the conditions that obtain over there. We're not anthropologists or sociologists or whoever it is that knows about such things.'

Rosenfeld nodded. 'That's understood. We're not going to try to compel you to produce any given set of conditions, over there. Your job, as you say, is merely to get the persons across, and the rest is up to them. The government takes the identical position regarding itself; we put forth no warranty, either. This will be strictly on an as-is basis. If the settlers don't like what they find, they can return.'

To himself Turpin thought acutely: So Schwarz doesn't actually care what happens to them after they emigrate. He just wants those warehouses empty and the enormous financial drain involved abolished.

'As to our costs ...' Turpin began.

'We've worked out a proposed schedule,' Rosenfeld said, digging into his briefcase. 'Per capita and then extrapolated. Basing this on the figure of one hundred million persons, this is what we feel would be an equitable return for your corporation.' He slid a folded document to Leon

Turpin and sat back to wait

Turpin, examining the figure, blanched.

Coming around behind him, Don Stanley also looked. He grunted and said in a strained voice,

That's a good deal of money, Mr. Rosenfeld.'

'It's a good deal of a problem.' Rosenfeld said, candidly.

Glancing up, Turpin said, 'It's actually worth that much to you ?'

'Our costs in the Dept of SPW are ...' Rosenfeld gestured. 'Let's simply say they're excessive.'

But that doesn't explain this figure, Turpin decided. However, I know what does. If you can get the ball rolling light away, get the bibs started on their trek to the alter-Earth, you'll have deprived Jim Briskin of his major appeal. Why vote for Briskin when the incumbent is already shipping the bibs across as rapidly as possible ?

As rapidly as possible. Turpin thought suddenly: But just how rapidly is that ? To Don Stanley he said, 'How fast can full-grown human beings be put through that rent ?'

'It would have to be one at a time,' Stanley said, after a thoughtful pause. 'Since it's not very large. In fact, as you probably recall, you have to stoop down to get through.'

With pencil and paper Turpin began to calculate.

Allowing five seconds for each person - which was not a great deal - the time involved in conveying one hundred million bibs across would be approximately twenty years.

Seeing the figures, Don Stanley said, 'But they don't care; they're asleep. For them twenty years is...'

'But I imagine Mr. Rosenfeld cares,' Turpin said caustically.

'Is that how long it would require ?' Rosenfeld looked a little unnerved. 'That is a long time.'

Turpin reflected that Bill Schwarz, by the time the job had been completed, would have been out of office sixteen years. Probably totally forgotten, to boot. So there was no use trying to sell the fedgov on the idea. The time element would simply have to be cut down.

To Don Stanley, Turpin said, 'Can that rent be enlarged ?'

Pondering, Stanley answered, 'Probably. Increased grid voltage or oscillation within the field as it...'