Philip Dick - Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

“Made from soy bean whey. I wish I had some—” He broke off, flushing. “It used to be eaten with beef gravy.”

“An android,” Pris murmured. “That’s the sort of slip an android makes. That’s what gives it away.” She came over, stood beside him, and then to his stunned surprise put her arm around his waist and for an instant pressed against him.

“I’ll try a slice of peach,” she said, and gingerly picked out a slippery pink-orange furry slice with her long fingers. And then, as she ate the slice of peach, she began to cry. Cold tears descended her cheeks, splashed on the bosom of her dress. He did not know what to do, so he continued dividing the food. “Goddamn it,” she said, furiously. “Well—” She moved away from him, paced slowly, with measured steps, about the room. “—see, we lived on Mars. That’s how come I know androids.” Her voice shook but she managed to continue; obviously it meant a great deal to her to have someone to talk to.

“And the only people on Earth that you know,” Isidore said, “are your fellow ex-emigrants.”

“We knew each other before the trip. A settlement near New New York. Roy Baty and Irmgard ran a drugstore; he was a pharmacist and she handled the beauty aids, the creams and ointments; on Mars they use a lot of skin conditioners. I—” She hesitated. “I got various drugs from Roy—I needed them at first because—well, anyhow, it’s an awful place. This “—she swept in the room, the apartment, in one violent gesture—” this is nothing. You think I’m suffering because I’m lonely. Hell, all Mars is lonely. Much worse than this.”

“Don’t the androids keep you company? I heard a commercial on—” Seating himself he ate, and presently she too picked up the glass of wine; she sipped expressionlessly. “I understood that the androids helped.”

“The androids,” she said, “are lonely, too.”

“Do you like the wine?”

She set down her glass. “It’s fine.”

“It’s the only bottle I’ve seen in three years.”

“We came back,” Pris said, “because nobody should have to live there. It wasn’t conceived for habitation, at least not within the last billion years. It’s so old . You feel it in the stones, the terrible old age. Anyhow, at first I got drugs from Roy; I lived for that new synthetic pain-killer, that silenizine. And then I met Horst Hartman, who at that time ran a stamp store, rare postage stamps; there’s so much time on your hands that you’ve got to have a hobby, something you can pore over endlessly. And Horst got me interested in pre-colonial fiction.”

“You mean old books?”

“Stories written before space travel but about space travel.”

“How could there have been stories about space travel before—”

“The writers,” Pris said, “made it up.”

“Based on what?”

“On imagination. A lot of times they turned out wrong. For example they wrote about Venus being a jungle paradise with huge monsters and women in breastplates that glistened.” She eyed him. “Does that interest you? Big women with long braided blond hair and gleaming breastplates the size of melons?”

“No,” he said.

“Irmgard is blond,” Pris said. “But small. Anyhow, there’s a fortune to be made in smuggling pre-colonial fiction, the old magazines and books and films, to Mars. Nothing is as exciting. To read about cities and huge industrial enterprises, and really successful colonization. You can imagine what it might have been like. What Mars ought to be like. Canals.”

“Canals?” Dimly, he remembered reading about that; in the olden days they had believed in canals on Mars.

“Crisscrossing the planet,” Pris said. “And beings from other stars. With infinite wisdom. And stories about Earth, set in our time and even later. Where there’s no radioactive dust.”

“I would think,” Isidore said, “it would make you feel worse.”

“It doesn’t,” Pris said curtly.

“Did you bring any of that pre-colonial reading material back with you? “ It occurred to him that he ought to try some.

“It’s worthless, here, because here on Earth the craze never caught on. Anyhow there’s plenty here, in the libraries; that’s where we get all of ours—stolen from libraries here on Earth and shot by autorocket to Mars. You’re out at night humbling across the open space, and all of a sudden you see a flare, and there’s a rocket, cracked open, with old pre-colonial fiction magazines spilling out everywhere. A fortune. But of course you read them before you sell them.” She warmed to her topic. “Of all—”

A knock sounded on the hall door.

Ashen, Pris whispered, “I can’t go. Don’t make any noise; just sit.” She strained, listening. “I wonder if the door’s locked,” she said almost inaudibly. “God, I hope so.” Her eyes, wild and powerful, fixed themselves beseechingly on him, as if praying to him to make it true.

A far-off voice from the hall called, “Pris, are you in there?” A man’s voice. “It’s Roy and Irmgard. We got your card.”

Rising and going into the bedroom, Pris reappeared carrying a pen and scrap of paper; she reseated herself, scratched out a hasty message.

YOU GO TO THE DOOR.

Isidore, nervously, took the pen from her and wrote:

AND SAY WHAT?

With anger, Pris scratched out:

SEE IF IT’S REALLY THEM.

Getting up, he walked glumly into the living room. How would I know if it was them? he inquired of himself. He opened the door.

Two people stood in the dim hall, a small woman, lovely in the manner of Greta Garbo, with blue eyes and yellow-blond hair; the man larger, with intelligent eyes but flat, Mongolian features which gave him a brutal look. The woman wore a fashionable wrap, high shiny boots, and tapered pants; the man lounged in a rumpled shirt and stained trousers, giving an air of almost deliberate vulgarity. He smiled at Isidore but his bright, small eyes remained oblique.

“We’re looking—” the small blond woman began, but then she saw past Isidore; her face dissolved in rapture and she whisked past him, calling. “Pris! How are you?” Isidore turned. The two women were embracing. He stepped aside, and Roy Baty entered, somber and large, smiling his crooked, tuneless smile.

Can we talk?” Roy said, indicating Isidore.

Pris, vibrant with bliss, said, “It’s okay up to a point.” To Isidore she said, “Excuse us.” She led the Batys off to one side and muttered at them; then the three of them returned to confront J. R. Isidore, who felt uncomfortable and out of place. “This is Mr. Isidore,” Pris said. “He’s taking care of me.” The words came out tinged with an almost malicious sarcasm; Isidore blinked. “See? He brought me some natural food.”

“Food,” Irmgard Baty echoed, and trotted lithely into the kitchen to see. “Peaches,” she said, immediately picking up a bowl and spoon; smiling at Isidore she ate with brisk little animal bites. Her smile, different from Pris’s, provided simple warmth; it had no veiled overtones.

Going after her—he felt attracted to her—Isidore said, “You’re from Mars.”

“Yes, we gave up.” Her voice bobbed, as, with birdish acumen, her blue eyes sparkled at him. “What an awful building you live in. Nobody else lives here, do they? We didn’t see any other fights.”

“I live upstairs,” Isidore said.

“Oh, I thought you and Pris were maybe living together.” Irmgard Baty did not sound disapproving; she meant it, obviously, as merely a statement.

Dourly—but still smiling his smile—Roy Baty said, “Well, they got Polokov.”

The joy which had appeared on Pris’s face at seeing her friends at once melted away. “Who else?”