Philip Dick - The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch

“Come on,” Alec said to Leo, “and take a look at the marker commemorating the event.” He and his companion led the way; Leo, reluctantly, followed. “The Proxers,” Alec said over his shoulder, “always seek to—you know. Desiccate this.”

“Desecrate,” his companion corrected.

“Yeah,” Alec said, nodding. “Anyhow, here it is.” He stopped.

Ahead of them jutted an imitation—but impressive– granite pillar; on, it a brass plaque had been bolted securely at eye-level. Leo, against his better judgment, read the plaque.

“Hoopla,” Leo ejaculated, impressed despite himself. He read it again. And again. “I wonder,” he said, half to himself, “if Palmer’s seen this.”

“If he’s a chooser ,” Alec said, “he probably has. The original form of Chew-Z produced what the manufacturer—Eldritch himself—called ‘time-overtones.’ That’s you right now; you occupy a locus years after you’re dead. I guess you’re dead by now, anyhow.” To his companion he said, “Leo Bulero’s dead by now, isn’t he?”

“Oh hell, sure,” his companion said. “By several decades.”

“In fact I think I read—” Alec began, then ceased, looking past Leo; he nudged his companion. Leo turned to see what it was.

A scraggly, narrow, ungainly white dog was approaching.

“Yours?” Alec asked.

“No,” Leo said.

“It looks like a chooser dog,” Alec said. “See, you can look through it a little.” The three of them watched the dog as it marched up to them, then past them to the monument itself.

Picking up a pebble, Alec chucked it at the dog; the pebble passed through the dog and landed in the grass beyond. It was a chooser dog.

As the three of them watched, the dog halted at the monument, seemed to gaze up at the plaque for a brief interval, and then it—.

“Defecation!” Alec shouted, his face turning bright red with rage. He ran toward the dog, waving his arms and trying to kick it, then reaching for the laser pistol at his belt but missing its handle in his excitement.

“Desecration,” his companion corrected.

Leo said, “It’s Palmer Eldritch.” Eldritch was showing his contempt for the monument, his lack of fear toward the future. There would never be such a monument. The dog leisurely strolled off, the two evolved Terrans cursing futilely at it as it departed.

“You’re sure that’s not your dog?” Alec demanded suspiciously. “As far as I can make out you’re the only chooser around.” He eyed Leo.

Leo started to answer, to explain to them what had happened; it was important that they understand. And then without harbinger of any kind the two evolved Terrans disappeared; the grassy plain, the monument, the departing dog—the entire panorama evaporated, as if the method by which it had been projected, stabilized, and maintained had clicked to the off position. He saw only an empty white expanse, a focused glare, as if there were now no 3-D slide in the projector at all. The light, he thought, that underlies the play of phenomena which we call “reality.”

And then he was sitting in the barren room in Palmer Eldritch’s demesne on Luna, facing the table with its electronic gadget.

The gadget or contraption or whatever it was said, “Yes, I’ve seen the monument. About 45 percent of the futures have it. Slightly less than equal chances obtain so I’m not terribly concerned. Have a cigar.” Once again the machine extended a lighted cigar to Leo.

“No,” Leo said.

“I’m going to let you go,” the gadget said, “for a short time, for about twenty-four hours. You can return to your little office at your minuscule company on Terra; while you’re there I want you to ponder the situation. Now you’ve seen Chew-Z in force; you comprehend the fact that your antediluvian product Can-D can’t even remotely compare to it. And furthermore—”

“Bull,” Leo said. “Can-D is far superior.”

“Well, you think it over,” the electronic contraption said, with confidence.

“All right,” Leo said. He stood stiffly. Had he actually been on the artificial Earth-satellite Sigma 14-B? It was a job for Felix Blau; experts could trace it down. No use worrying about that now. The immediate problem was serious enough; he still had not gotten out from under Palmer Eldritch’s control.

He could escape only when—and if—Eldritch decided to release him. That was an undisguised piece of factual reality, hard as it was to face.

“I’d like to point out,” the gadget said, “that I’ve shown mercy to you, Leo. I could have put an—well, let’s say a period to the sentence that constitutes your rather short life. And at any time. Because of this I expect—I insist– that you consider very seriously doing the same.”

“As I said, I’ll think it over,” Leo answered. He felt irritable, as if he had dunk too many cups of coffee, and he wanted to leave as soon as possible; he opened the door of the room, and made his way out into the corridor.

As he started to shut the door after him the electronic gadget said, “If you don’t decide to join me, Leo, I ’ m not going to wait . I’m going to kill you. I must, to save my own self. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Leo said, and shut the door after him. And I have to, too , he thought. Must kill you… or couldn’t we both put it in a less direct way, something like they say about animals: put you to sleep.

And I have to do it not just to save myself but everyone in the system, and that’s my staff on which I’m leaning. For example, those two evolved Terran soldiers I ran into at the monument. For them so they’ll have something to guard.

Slowly he walked up the corridor. At the far end stood the group of ‘pape reporters; they had not left yet, had not even obtained their interview—almost no time had passed. So on that point Palmer was right.

Joining the reporters Leo relaxed, and felt considerably better. Maybe he would get away, now; maybe Palmer Eldritch was actually going to let him go. He would live to smell, see, drink in the world once more.

But underneath he knew better. Eldritch would never let him go; one of them would have to be destroyed, first.

He hoped it would not be himself. But he had a terrible intuition, despite the monument, that it could well be.

The door to Barney Mayerson’s inner office, flung open, revealed Leo Bulero, hunched with weariness, travel-stained. “You didn’t try to help me.”

After an interval Barney answered, “That’s correct.” There was no use trying to explain why, not because Leo would fail to understand or believe but because of the reason itself. It was simply not adequate.

Leo said, “You are fired, Mayerson.”

“Okay.” And he thought, Anyhow I ’ m alive. And if I ’ d gone after Leo I wouldn ’ t be, now . He began with numbed fingers gathering up his personal articles from his desk, dropping them into an empty sample case.

“Where’s Miss Fugate?” Leo demanded. “She’ll be taking your place.” He came close to Barney, and scrutinized him. “Why didn’t you come and get me? Name me the goddam reason, Barney.”

“I looked ahead. It would have cost me too much. My life.”

“But you didn’t have to come personally. This is a big company—you could have arranged for a party from here, and stayed behind. Right?”

It was true. And he hadn’t even considered it.