Philip Dick - Prominent Author

Suddenly the tiny figures were shouting shrilly at each other, squeaking a strange gibberish. They had broken out of their freeze and now ran about in queer, frantic circles. They raced with incredible speed, scampering like ants on a hot griddle. They raced jerkily, their arms and legs pumping wildly. And all the time they squeaked in their shrill high-pitched voices.

Ellis found his briefcase. He picked it up slowly. The figures watched in mixed wonder and terror as the huge bag rose, only a short distance from them. An idea drifted through Ellis’ brain. Good Lord—could they come into the Jiffi-scuttler, through the gray haze?

But he had no time to find out. He was already late, as it was. He pulled away and hurried toward the New York end of the tunnel A second later he stepped out in the blinding sunlight, abruptly finding himself on the busy street- corner in front of his office.

“Hey, there, Hank!” Donald Potter shouted, as he raced through the doors into the TD building. “Get with it!”

“Sure, sure.” Ellis followed after him automatically. Behind, the entrance to the Jiffi-scuttler was a vague circle above the pavement, like the ghost of a soapbubble.

He hurried up the steps and inside the offices of Terran Development, his mind already on the hard day ahead.

As they were locking up the office and getting ready to go home, Ellis stopped Coordinator Patrick Miller in his office. “Say, Mr. Miller. You’re also in charge of the research end, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Let me ask you something. Just where does the Jiffi-scuttler go? It must go somewhere.”

“It goes out of this continum completely.” Miller was impatient to get home. “Into another dimension.”

“I know that. But— where?” Miller unfolded his breastpocket handkerchief rapidly and spi'ead it out on his desk. “Maybe I can explain it to you this way. Suppose you’re a two-dimensional creature and this handkerchief represents your—”

“I’ve seen that a million times,” Ellis said, dissapointed. “That’s merely an analogy, and I’m not interested in an analogy. I want a factual answer. Where does my Jiffi-scuttler go, between here and Cedar Groves?”

Miller laughed. “What the hell do you care?”

Ellis became abruptly guarded. He shrugged indifferently. “Just curious. It certainly must go someplace. 3 '

Miller put his hand on Ellis’ shoulder in a friendly big-brother fashion. “Henry, old man, you just leave that up to us. Okay? We’re the designers, you’re the consumer. Your job is to use the ’scuttler, try it out for us, report any defects or failures so when we put it on the market next year we’ll be sure there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“As a matter of fact—” Ellis began.

“What is it?”

Ellis clamped his sentence off. “Nothing.” He picked up his briefcase. “Nothing at all. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks, Mr. Miller. Goodnight.”

He hurried downstairs and out of the TD building. The faint outline of his Jiffi-scuttler was visible in the fading late-afternoon sunlight. The sky was already full of mono jets taking off. Weary workers beginning their long trip back to their homes in the country. The endless commute. Ellis made his way to the hoop and stepped into it. Abruptly the bright sunlight dimmed and faded.

AGAIN he was in the wavery - gray tunnel. At the far end flashed a circle of green and white. Rolling green hills and his own house. His backyard. The cedar tree and flower beds. The town of Cedar Groves.

Two steps down the tunnel. Ellis halted, bending over. He studied the floor of the tunnel intently. He studied the misty gray wall, where it rose and flickered—and the thin

place. The place he had noticed.

They were still there. Still? It was a different bunch. This time ten or eleven of them. Men and women and children. Standing together, gazing up at him with awe and wonder. No more than a half inch high, each. Tiny distorted figures, shifting and changing shape oddly. Altering colors and hues.

Ellis hurried on. The tiny figures watched him go. A brief glimpse of their microscopic astonishment—and then he was stepping out into his back yard.

He clicked off the Jiffi-scuttler and mounted the back steps. He entered his house, deep in thought.

“Hi,” Mary cried, from the kitchen. She rustled toward him in her hip-length mesh shirt, her arms out. “How was work today?” “Fine.”

“Is anything wrong? You look— strange.”

“No. No, nothing’s wrong.” Ellis kissed his wife absently on the forehead. “What’s for dinner?”

“Something choice. Siriusian mole steak. One of your favorites. Is that all right?”

“Sure.” Ellis tossfed his hat and coat down on the chair. The chair folded them up and put them away. His thoughtful, preoccupied look still remained. “Fine, honey.” “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You didn’t get into another argument with Pete Taylor, did you?”

>“No. Of course not.” Ellis shook his head in annoyance. “Everything’s all right, honey. Stop needling me.”

“Weil, I hope so,” Mary said, with a sigh.

THE NEXT morning they were waiting for him.

He saw them the first step into the Jiffi-scuttler. A small group waiting within the wavering gray, like bugs caught in a block of jello. They moved jerkily, rapidly, arms and legs pumping in a blur of motion. Trying to attract his attention. Piping wildly in their pathetically faint voices.

Ellis stopped and squatted down. They were putting something through the wall of the tunnel, through the thin place in the gray. It was small, so incredibly small he could scarcely see it. A square of white at the end of a microscopic pole. They were watching him eagerly, faces alive with fear and hope. Desperate, pleading hope.

Ellis took the tiny square. It came loose like some fragile rose petal from its stalk. Clumsily, he let it drop and had to hunt all around for it. The little figures watched in an agony of dismay as his huge hands moved blindly around the floor of the tunnel. At last he found it and gingerly lifted it up.

It was too small to make out. Writing? Some tiny lines—but he couldn’t read them. Much too small to read. He got out his wallet and carefully placed the square between two cards. He restored his wallet to his pocket.

“I’ll look at it later,” he said.

His voice boomed and echoed up and down the tunnel. At the sound the tiny creatures scattered. They all fled, shrieking in their shill, piping voices, away from the gray shimmer, into the dimness beyond. In a flash they were gone. Like startled mice. He was alone.

Ellis knelt down and put his eye against the gray shimmer, where it was thin. Where they had stood waiting. He could see something dim and distorted, lost in a vague haze. A landscape of some sort. Indistinct. Hard to make out.

Hills. Trees and crops. But so tiny. And dim. . .

He glanced at his watch. God, it was ten! Hastily he scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the tunnel, onto the blazing N’York sidewalk.

Late. He raced up the stairs of the Terran Development building and down the long corridor to his office.

At lunchtime he stopped in at the Research Labs. “Hey,” he called, as Jim Andrews brushed past, loaded down with reports and equipment. “Got a second?” “What do you want, Henry?” “I’d like to borrow something. A magnifying glass.” He considered. “Maybe a small photon-microscope would be better. One or two hundred power.”

“Kids’ stuff.” Jim found him a small microscope. “Slides?”

“Yeah, a couple of blank slides.” He carried the microscope back to his office. He set it up on his desk, clearing away his papers. As a precaution he sent Miss Nelson, his secretary, out of the room and off to lunch. Then carefully, cautiously, he got the tiny wisp from his wallet and slipped it between two slides.