Philip Dick - Deus Irae

“Hello,” Tiber said. One had an ax, a foliage ax. The other carried only his pants and the remains of a canvas shirt. They were nearly eight feet tall. No flesh—bones and hard angles and large, curious eyes, heavily lidded. There undoubtedly were internal changes, radically different metabolism and cell structure, ability to utilize hot salts, altered digestive system. They both stared at Tibor with interest.

“Say,” one of them said. ‘“You’re a human being.”

“That’s right,” Tibor said.

“My name’s Jackson.” The youth extended his thin blue horny hand and Tibor shook it awkwardly with his front right extensor. “My friend here is Earl Potter.”

Tibor shook hands with Potter. “Greetings,” Potter said. His scaly rough lips twitched. “Can we have a look at your rig, that cart you’re tied into? We’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Muties, Tibor said to himself. The lizard kind. He managed to suppress a thrill of aversion; he made his face smile. “I’m willing to let you look at what I have,” he said. “But I can’t leave the cart; I don’t have any arms or legs, just these grippers.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said, nodding. “So we see.” He slapped the cow on its flank; the cow mooed and raised her head. Her tail, in the evening gloom, switched from side to side. “How fast can she pull you?” he asked Tibor.

“Fast enough.” In his front left gripper he held his single-shot pistol; if they tried to kill him he would get one of them. But not both. “I’m based about thirty miles from here,” he said. “In what we call Charlottesville. Have you heard of us?”

“Sure,” Jackson said. “How many are there of you?”

Tibor said cautiously, “One hundred and five.” He exaggerated, deliberately; the larger the camp, the greater the chance that they would not kill him. After all, some of the hundred and five might come looking for revenge.

“How have you survived?” Potter asked. “This whole area was hard hit, wasn’t it?”

“We hid in mines,” Tibor said. “Our ancestors; they burrowed down deep when the Smash began. We’re fairly well set up. Grow our own food in tanks, a few machines, pumps and compressors and electrical generators. Some hand lathes. Looms.” He didn’t mention that generators now had to be cranked by hand, that only about half of the tanks were still operative. After ninety years metal and plastic weren’t much good—despite endless patching and repairing. Everything was wearing out and breaking down.

“Say,” Potter said. “This sure makes a fool of Dave Hunter.”

“Dave? Big fat Dave?” Jackson said.

Potter said, “Dave says there aren’t any true humans left outside this area.” He poked at Tiber’s helmet curiously. “Our settlement’s an hour away by tractor—our hunting tractor. Earl and I were out hunting flap rabbits. Good meat but hard to bring down—weigh about twenty-five pounds.”

“What do you use?” Tibor asked. “Not that ax, surely.”

Potter and Jackson laughed. “Look at this here.” Potter slid a long brass rod from his trousers. It fitted down inside his pants along his pipe-stem leg.

Tibor examined the rod. It was tooled by hand. Soft brass, carefully bored and straightened. One end was shaped into a nozzle. He peered down it. A tiny metal pin was lodged in a cake of transparent material. “How does it work?” he asked.

“Launched by hand,” Potter said. “Like a blow gun. But once the b-dart is in the air, it follows its target forever. The initial thrust has to be provided.” Potter laughed. “I supply that. A big puff of air.”

“Interesting,” Tibor said with elaborate casualness. Studying the two blue-gray faces, he asked, “Many humans near here?”

“Damn near none,” Potter and Jackson mumbled together. “What do you say about staying with us awhile? The Old Man will be pleased to welcome you; you’re the first human we’ve seen this month. What do you say? We’ll take care of you, feed you, bring you cold plants and animals, for a week, maybe?”

“Sorry,” Tibor said. “Other business. But if I come through here on my way back…” He rummaged in the sack of artifacts and tools next to him. “See this picture?” he said, holding up the dim piece of paper on which was printed a picture—of sorts—of Carleton Lufteufel. “Do you recognize this man?”

Potter and Jackson studied the picture. “A human being,” Potter said. “Frankly, you all tend to look alike to us.” They handed the picture back to Tibor. “But the Old Man might recognize it,” Jackson said. “Come with us; it’s lucky to have a human being staying with you. What do you say?”

“No.” Tibor shook his head. “I have to keep going; I have to find this man.”

Jackson’s face fell in disappointment. “Not for a little while? Overnight? We’ll pump you plenty of cold food. We have a fine lead-sealed cooler the Old Man fixed up.”

“You’re sure there’re no humans in this region?” Tibor said as he prepared to continue on; he slapped the rump of the cow briskly.

“We thought for a while there weren’t any left anywhere. A rumor once in a while. But you’re the first we’ve seen in a couple of years.” Potter pointed west. “There’s a tribe of rollers off that way.” He pointed vaguely south. “A couple of tribes of bugs, too.”

“And some runners,” Jackson said. “And north there’s some kind of underground ones—the blind digging kind.” Potter and Jackson both made a face. “I can’t see them and their bores and scoops. But what the hell.” He grinned. “Everybody has his own way. I guess to you we lizards seem sort of—” He gestured “Weird.”

Tibor said, “What’s the story on this apple tree? Is this the tree from which the Christian-Jewish idea of the serpent in the garden of eden comes?”

“It’s our understanding that the Garden of Eden is located around a hundred miles to the east,” Jackson said. “You’re a Christian, are you?” Tibor nodded. “And that picture you showed us–

“A Christian deity,” Jackson said.

“No.” Tibor shook his head firmly. Amazing, he thought; they don’t seem to know anything about the SOWs or about us. Well, he thought, we didn’t know much about them.

A third lizard approached. “Greetings, natural,” it said, holding its open palm up in the air. “I just wanted to get a look at a human being.” It studied Tibor. “You’re not all that different. Can you live on the surface?”

“Pretty well,” Tibor said. “But I’m not exactly a human; I’m what we called an inc—incomplete. As you can see.” He showed the third lizard the photo of Carleton Lufteufel. “Have you ever seen this man? Think. It’s important to me.”

“You’re trying to find him?” the third lizard said. “Yes, it’s obvious that you are on a Pilg; why else would you be traveling, especially at night, and with you handicapped by virtue of the fact that you don’t have any legs or feet and no arms. That’s a smart car you’ve built yourself. But how did you do it, lacking hands? Did someone else build it for you? And if they did, why? Are you valuable?”

“I’m a painter,” Tibor said simply.

“Then you’re valuable,” the lizard said. “Listen, inc. Did you know that someone’s following you?”

“What?” Tibor said, instantly tense and alert. “Who?” he demanded.

“Another actual human,” the lizard said. “But on a machine with two big wheels, propelled by a chain-linked gear system, pedally operated. A bykel, I think it’s called.”

“Bicycle,” Tibor said.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Can you hide me?” Tibor asked, and then thought, They’re making it up; they just want to get me into their settlement where they can absorb some of my luck.