Philip Dick - A Maze of Death

“The Form Destroyer,” Tony said, “is absolutely-not-God.”

“I realize that,” she said.

“But ‘absolutely-not-God’ is a category of being.”

“If you say so, Tony.”

“And God contains all categories of being. Therefore God can be absolutely-not-God, which transcends human reason and logic. But we intuitively feel it to be so. Don’t you? Wouldn’t you prefer a monism that transcends our pitiful dualism? Specktowsky was a great man, but there is a higher monistic structure above the dualism that he foresaw. There is a higher God.” He eyed her. “What do you think about that?” he asked, a little timidly.

“I think it’s wonderful,” Susie said, with enthusiasm. “It must be so great to have trances and perceive what you perceive. You should write a book saying that what Specktowsky says is wrong.”

“It’s not wrong,” Tony said. “It’s transcended by what I see. When you get to that level, two opposite things can be equal. That’s what I’m trying to reveal.”

“Couldn’t you reveal it tomorrow?” she asked, still shivering and massaging her bare arms. “I’m so cold and so tired and I had an awful run-in with that goddam Mary Morley tonight already, so come on, please; let’s go to bed.”

“I’m a prophet,” Tony said. “Like Christ or Moses or Specktowsky. I will never be forgotten.” Again he shut his eyes. The weak candle flickered and almost went out. He did not notice.

“If you’re a prophet,” Susie said, “perform a miracle.” She had read in Specktowsky’s Book about that, about the prophets having miraculous powers. “Prove it to me,” she said.

One eye opened. “Why must you have a sign?”

“I don’t want a sign. I want a miracle.”

“A miracle,” he said, “is a sign. All right, I’ll do something that will show you.” He gazed around the room, his face holding a deeply-ingrained resentment. She had awakened him now, she realized. And he didn’t like it.

“Your face is turning black,” she said.

He touched his brow experimentally. “It’s turning red. But the candle light doesn’t contain a full light spectrum so it looks black.” He slid to his feet and walked stiffly about, rubbing the base of his neck.

“How long were you sitting there?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s right; you lose all conception of time.” She had heard him say it. That part alone awed her. “Okay,” she said, “turn this into a stone.” She had found a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a knife; holding up the loaf of bread she moved toward him, feeling mischievous. “Can you do that?”

Solemnly, he said, “The opposite of Christ’s miracle.”

“Can you do it?”

He accepted the loaf of bread from her, held it with both hands; he gazed down at it, his lips moving. His entire face began to writhe, as if with tremendous effort. The darkness grew; his eyes faded out and were replaced by impenetrable buttons of darkness.

The loaf of bread flipped from his hands, rose until it hung well above him… it twisted, became hazy, and then, like a stone, it dropped to the floor. Like a stone? She knelt down to stare at it, wondering if the light of the room had put her into a hypnotic trance. The loaf of bread was gone. What rested on the floor appeared to be a smooth, large rock, a water-tumbled rock, with pale sides. “My good God,” she said, half-aloud. “Can I pick it up? Is it safe?”

Tony, his eyes once more filled with life, also knelt and stared at it. “God’s power,” he said, “was in me. I didn’t do that; it was done through me.”

Picking up the rock—it was heavy—she discovered that it felt warm and nearly alive. An animate rock, she said to herself. As if it’s organic. Maybe it’s not a real rock. She banged it against the floor; it felt hard enough, and it made the right noise. It is a rock, she realized. It is!

“Can I have it?” she asked. Her awe had become complete now; she gazed at him hopefully, willing to do exactly what he said.

“You may have it, Suzanne,” Tony said in a calm voice. “But arise and go back to your room. I’m tired.” He did sound tired, and his entire body drooped. “I’ll see you in the morning at breakfast. Good night.”

“Goodnight,” she said, “but I can undress you and put you to bed; I’d enjoy that.”

“No,” he said. He went to the door and held it open for her.

“Kiss.” Coming up to him she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. “Thank you,” she said, feeling humble. “Goodnight, Tony. And thanks for the miracle.” The door started to close behind her but, adroitly, she stopped it with the wedge-shaped toe of her shoe. “Can I tell everyone about this? I mean, isn’t this the first miracle you’ve ever done? Shouldn’t they know? But if you don’t want them to know I won’t tell them.”

“Let me sleep,” he said, and shut the door; it clicked in her face and she felt animal terror—this was what she feared most in life: the clicking shut of a man’s door in her face. Instantly, she raised her hand to knock, discovered the rock … she banged on the door with the rock, but not loudly, just enough to let him know how desperate she was to get back in, but not enough to bother him if he didn’t want to answer.

He didn’t. No sound, no movement of the door. Nothing but the void.

“Tony?” she gasped, pressing her ear to the door. Silence. “Okay,” she said numbly; clutching her rock she walked unsteadily across the porch toward her own living quarters.

The rock vanished. Her hand felt nothing.

“Damn,” she said, not knowing how to react. Where had it gone? Into air. But then it must have been an illusion, she realized. He put me in a hypnotic state and made me believe. I should have known it wasn’t really true.

A million stars burst into wheels of light, blistering, cold light, that drenched her. It came from behind and she felt the great weight of it crash into her. “Tony,” she said, and fell into the waiting void. She thought nothing; she felt nothing. She saw only, saw the void as it absorbed her, waiting below and beneath her as she plummeted down the many miles.

On her hands and knees she died. Alone on the porch. Still clutching for what did not exist.

Glen Belsnor lay dreaming. In the dark of night he dreamed of himself; he perceived himself as he really was, a wise and beneficial provider. Happily he thought, I can do it. I can take care of them all, help them and protect them. They must be protected at all costs, he thought to himself in his dream.

In his dream he attached connecting cable, screwed a circuit-breaker in place, tried out a servo-assist unit.

A hum rose from the elaborate mechanism. A generated field, miles high, rose in every direction. No one can get past that, he said to himself in satisfaction, and some of his fear began to dwindle away. The colony is safe and I have done it.

In the colony the people moved back and forth, wearing long red robes. It became midday and then it became midday for a thousand years. He saw, all at once, that they had become old. Tottering, with tattered beards—the women, too—they crept about in a feeble, insect-like manner. And some of them, he saw, were blind.

Then we’re not safe, he realized. Even with the field in operation. They are fading away from inside. They will all die anyhow.

“Belsnor!”

He opened his eyes and knew what it was.

Gray, early-morning sunlight filtered through the shades of his room. Seven A.M., he saw by his self-winding wristwatch. He rose up to a sitting position, pushing the covers away. Chill morning air plucked at him and he shivered. “Who?” he said to the men and women pouring into his room. He shut his eyes, grimaced, felt, despite the emergency, the rancid remains of sleep still clinging to him.