Philip Dick - A Maze of Death

There, in plain sight, on the rumpled bed, lay Russell’s wallet and papers. His transfer, his everything else, back to his birth certificate; Glen Belsnor pawed through them, conscious that here he had something. The chaos attendant on Susie’s death had confused them all; undoubtedly Russell had not meant to leave these here. Unless he was not accustomed to carrying them… and the ostriches at the aviary did not carry identification of any sort.

At the door appeared Dr. Babble. In a voice shrill with panic he said, “I—can’t find Mrs. Rockingham.”

“The briefing room? The cafeteria?” She may have gone off for a walk, he thought. But he knew better. Roberta Rockingham could scarcely walk; her cane was essential to her, due to a long-term circulatory ailment. “I’ll help look,” he grunted; he and Babble hurried from the porch and across the common, hiking aimlessly; Glen Belsnor stopped, realizing that they were simply running in fear. “We have to think,” he gasped. “Wait a minute.” Where the hell might she be? he asked himself. “That fine old woman,” he said in frenzy and in despair. “She never did any harm to anyone in her life. Goddam them, whoever they are.”

Babble nodded glumly.

She had been reading. Hearing a noise, she glanced up. And saw a man, unfamiliar to her, standing in the entrance-way of her small, neatly-arranged room.

“Yes?” she said, politely lowering her microtape scanner. “Are you a new member of the settlement? I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

“No, Mrs. Rockingham,” he said. His voice was kind and very pleasant, and he wore a leather uniform, complete with huge leather gloves. His face gave off a near radiance… or perhaps her glasses had steamed up, she wasn’t sure. His hair, cut short, did gleam a little, she was positive of that. What a nice expression he has, she declared to herself. So thoughtful, as if he has thought and done many wonderful things.

“Would you like a little bourbon and water?” she asked. Toward afternoon she generally had one drink; it eased the perpetual ache in her legs. Today, however, they could enjoy the Old Crow bourbon a little earlier.

“Thank you,” the man said. Tall, and very slender, he stood at the doorway, not coming fully in. It was as if he were in some way attached to the outside; he could not fully leave it and would soon go back to it entirely. I wonder, she thought, could he be a Manifestation, as the theological people of this enclave call it? She peered at him in an effort to distinguish him more clearly, but the dust on her glasses—or whatever it was—obscured him; she could not get a really clear view.

“I wonder if you might get it,” she said, pointing. “There’a a drawer in that somewhat shabby little table by the bed. You’ll find the bottle of Old Crow in there, and three glasses. Oh dear; I don’t have any soda. Can you enjoy it with just bottled tapwater? And no ice?”

“Yes,” he said, and walked lightly across her room. He had on tall boots, she observed. How very attractive.

“What is your name?” she inquired.

“Sergeant Ely Nichols.” He opened the table drawer, got out the bourbon and two of the glasses. “Your colony has been relieved. I was sent here to pick you up and fly you home. From the start they were aware of the malfunctioning of the satellite’s tape-transmission.”

“Then it’s over?” she said, filled with joy.

“All over,” he said. He filled the two glasses with bourbon and water, brought her hers, seated himself in a straightbacked chair facing her. He was smiling.

Glen Belsnor, searching futilely for Roberta Rockingham, saw a small number of people trudging toward the settlement. Those who had gone off: Frazer and Thugg, Maggie Walsh, the new man Russell, Mary and Seth Morley… they were all there. Or were they?

His heart laboring, Belsnor said. “I don’t see Betty Jo Berm. Is she injured? You left her, you bastards?” He stared at them, feeling his jaw tremble with impotent anger. “Is that correct?”

“She’s dead,” Seth Morley said.

“How?” he said. Dr. Babble came up beside him; the two of them waited together as the four men and two women approached.

Seth Morley said, “She drowned herself.” He looked around. “Where’s that kid, that Dunkeiwold?”

“Dead,” Dr. Babble said.

Maggie Walsh said, “And Bert Kosler?”

Neither Babble nor Belsnor answered.

“Then he’s dead, too,” Russell said.

“That’s right.” Belsnor nodded. “There’re eight of us left. Roberta Rockingham—she’s gone. So possibly she’s dead, too. I think we’ll have to assume she is.”

“Didn’t you stay together?” Russell said.

“Did you?” Glen Belsnor answered.

Again there was silence. Somewhere, far off, a warm wind blew dust and infirm lichens about; a swirl lifted above the main buildings of the settlement and then writhed off and gone. The air, as Glen Belsnor sucked it in noisily, smelled bad. As if, he thought, the skins of dead dogs are drying somewhere on a line.

Death, he thought. That’s all I can think of now. And it’s easy to see why. Death for us has blotted everything else out; it has become, in less than twenty-four hours, the mainstay of our life.

“You couldn’t bring her body back?” he said to them.

“It drifted downstream,” Seth Morley said. “And it was on fire.” He came up beside Belsnor and said. “How did Bert Kosler die?”

“Tony stabbed him.”

“What about Tony?”

Glen Belsnor said, “I shot him. Before he could kill me.”

“What about Roberta Rockingham? Did you shoot her, too?”

“No,” Belsnor said shortly.

“I think,” Frazer said, “we’re going to have to pick a new leader.”

Belsnor said woodenly. “I had to shoot him. He would have killed all the rest of us. Ask Babble, he’ll back me up.”

“I can’t back you up,” Babble said. “I have nothing more to go on than they do. I have only your oral statement.”

Seth Morley said. “What was Tony using as a weapon?”

“A sword,” Belsnor said. “You can see that; it’s still there with him in his room.”

“Where did you get the gun you shot him with?” Russell said.

“I had it,” Belsnor said. He felt sick and weak. “I did what I could,” he said. “I did what I had to.”

“So ‘they’ aren’t responsible for all the deaths,” Seth Morley said. “You are responsible for Tony Dunkelwold’s death and he’s responsible for Bert’s.”

“Dunkelwelt,” Belsnor corrected, aimlessly.

“And we don’t know if Mrs. Rockingham is dead; she may just have roamed off. Possibly out of fear.”

“She couldn’t,” Belsnor said. “She was too ill.”

“I think,” Seth Morley said, “that Frazer is right. We need a different leader.” To Babble he said, “Where’s his gun?”

“He left it in Tony’s room,” Babble said.

Belsnor slid away from them, in the direction of Tony Dunkelwelt’s living quarters.

“Stop him,” Babble said.

Ignatz Thugg, Wade Frazer, Seth Morley and Babble hurried past Belsnor; in a group they trotted up the steps and onto the porch and then into Tony’s quarters. Russell stood aloof; he remained with Belsnor and Maggie Walsh.

Coming out of Tony’s doorway, Seth Morley held the gun in his hand and said, “Russell, don’t you think we’re doing the right thing?”

“Give him back his gun,” Russell said.

Surprised, Seth Morley halted. But he did not bring the gun over to Belsnor. “Thanks,” Belsnor said to Russell. “I can use the support.” To Morley and the others he said, “Give me the gun, as Russell says. It isn’t loaded anyhow; I took the shells out.” He held out his hand and waited.