Philip Dick: A Maze of Death

A general conversation among the group of them was building up. Ben found himself drifting into it without really understanding it. “At Betelgeuse 4 we had cucumbers, and we didn’t grow them from moonbeams, the way you hear.”

“I’ve never seen him.”

“Well, he exists. You’ll see him someday.”

“We’ve got a linguist so evidently there’re sentient organisms here, but so far our expeditions have been informal, not scientific. That’ll change when—”

“Nothing changes. Despite Specktowsky’s theory of God entering history and starting time into motion again.”

“If you want to talk about that; talk to Miss Walsh. Theological matters don’t interest me.”

“You can say that again. Mr. Tallchief, are you part Indian?”

“Well, I’m about one-eighth Indian. You mean the name?”

“These buildings are built lousy. They’re already ready to fall down. We can’t get it warm when we need warm; we can’t cool it when we need cool. You know what I think? I think this place was built to last only a very short time. Whatever the hell we’re here for we won’t be long; or rather, if we’re here long we’ll have to construct new installations, right down to the electrical wiring.”

“Some bug squeaks in the night. It’ll keep you awake for the first day or so. By ‘day’ of course I mean twenty-four-hour period. I don’t mean ‘daylight’ because it’s not in the daytime that it squeaks, it’s at night. Every goddamn night. You’ll see.”

“Listen, Tallchief, don’t call Susie ‘dumb.’ If there’s one thing she’s not it’s dumb.”

“Pretty, too.”

“And do you notice how her—”

“I noticed, but I don’t think we should discuss it.”

“What line of work did you say you’re in, Mr. Tallchief? Pardon?”

“You’ll have to speak up, she’s a little deaf.”

“What I said was—”

“You’re frightening her. Don’t stand so close to her.”

“Can I get a cup of coffee?”

“Ask Maggie Walsh. She’ll fix one for you.”

“If I can get the damn pot to shut off when it’s hot; it’s been just boiling the coffee over and over.”

“I don’t see why our coffee pot won’t work. They perfected them back in the twentieth century. What’s left to know that we don’t know already?”

“Think of it as being like Newton’s color theory. Everything about color that could be known was known by 1800. And then Land came along with his two-light-source and intensity theory, and what had seemed a closed field was busted all over.”

“You mean there may be things about self-regulating coffee pots that we don’t know? That we just think we know?”

“Something like that.” And so on. He listened distantly, answered when he was spoken to and then, all at once, fatigued, he wandered off, away from the group, toward a cluster of leathery green trees: they looked to Ben as if they constituted the primal source for the covering of psychiatrists’ couches.

The air smelled bad—faintly bad—as if a waste-processing plant were chugging away in the vicinity. But in a couple of days I’ll be used to it, he informed himself.

There is something strange about these people, he said to himself. What is it? They seem so… he hunted for the word. Overly bright. Yes, that was it. Prodigies of some sort, and all of them ready to talk. And then he thought, I think they’re very nervous. That must be it; like me, they’re here without knowing why. But—that didn’t fully explain it. He gave up, then, and turned his attention outward, to embrace the pompous green-leather trees, the hazy sky overhead, the small nettle-like plants growing at his feet.

This is a dull place, he thought. He felt swift disappointment. Not much better than the ship; the magic had already left. But Betty Jo Berm had spoken of unusual life forms beyond the perimeter of the colony. So possibly he couldn’t justifiably extrapolate on the basis of this little area. He would have to go deeper, farther and farther away from the colony. Which, he realized, is what they’ve all been doing. Because after all, what else is there to do? At least until we receive our instructions from the satellite.

I hope Morley gets here soon, he said to himself. So we can get started.

A bug crawled up onto his right shoe, paused there, and then extended a miniature television camera. The lens of the camera swung so that it pointed directly at his face.

“Hi,” he said to the bug.

Retracting its camera, the bug crawled off, evidently satisfied. I wonder who or what it’s probing for? he wondered. He raised his foot, fooling momentarily with the idea of crushing the bug, and then decided not to. Instead he walked over to Betty Jo Berm and said, “Were the monitoring bugs here when you arrived?”

“They began to show up after the buildings were erected. I think they’re probably harmless.”

“But you can’t be sure.”

“There isn’t anything we can do about them anyhow. At first we killed them, but whoever made them just sent more out.”

“You better trace them back to their source and see what’s involved.”

“Not ‘you,’ Mr. Tallchief. ‘We.’ You’re as much a part of this operation as anyone here. And you know just as much—and just as little—as we do. After we get our instructions we may find that the planners of this operation want us to—or do not want us to—investigate the indigenous life forms here. We’ll see. But meanwhile, what about coffee?”

“You’ve been here how long?” Ben asked her as they sat at a plastic micro-bar sipping coffee from faintly-gray plastic cups.

“Wade Frazer, our psychologist, arrived first. That was roughly two months ago. The rest of us have been arriving in dribs and drabs. I hope Morley comes soon. We’re dying to hear what this is all about.”

“You’re sure Wade Frazer doesn’t know?”

“Pardon?” Betty Jo Berm blinked at him.

“He was the first one here. Waiting for the rest of you. I mean of us. Maybe this is a psychological experiment they’ve set up, and Frazer is running it. Without telling anyone.

“What we’re afraid of,” Betty Jo Berm said, “is not that. We have one vast fear, and that is this: there is no purpose to us being here, and we’ll never be able to leave. Everyone came here by noser: that was mandatory. Well, a noser can land but it can’t take off. Without outside help we’d never be able to leave here. Maybe this is a prison—we’ve thought of that. Maybe we’ve all done something, or anyhow someone thinks we’ve done something.” She eyed him alertly with her gray, calm eyes. “Have you done anything, Mr. Tallchief?” she asked.

“Well, you know how it is.”

“I mean, you’re not a criminal or anything.”

“Not that I know of.”

“You look ordinary.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean, you don’t look like a criminal.” She rose, walked across the cramped room to a cupboard. “How about some Seagram’s VO?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, pleased at the idea.

As they sat drinking coffee laced with Seagram’s VO Canadian whiskey (imported) Dr. Milton Babble strolled in, perceived them, and seated himself at the bar. “This is a second-rate planet,” he said to Ben without preamble. His dingy, shovel-like face twisted in distaste. “It just plain is second rate. Thanks.” He accepted his cup of coffee from Betty Jo, sipped, still showed distaste. “What’s in this?” he demanded. He then saw the bottle of Seagram’s VO. “Hell, that ruins coffee,” he said angrily. He set his cup down again, his expression of distaste greater than ever.

“I think it helps,” Betty Jo Berm said.

Dr. Babble said, “You know, it’s a funny thing, all of us here together. Now see, Tallchief, I’ve been here a month and I have yet to find someone I can talk to, really talk to. Every person here is completely involved with himself and doesn’t give a damn about the others. Excluding you, of course, B.J.”