Philip Dick - Prominent Author

It was writing, all right. But nothing he could read. Utterly unfamiliar. Complex, interlaced little characters.

For a time he sat thinking. Then he dialed his inter-department vid- phone. “Give me the Linguistics Department.”

After a moment Earl Peterson’s good-natured face appeared. “Hi, there, Ellis. What can I do for you?”

Ellis hesitated. He had to do this right. “Say, Earl, old man. Got a little favor to ask you.”

“Like what? Anything to oblige an old pal.”

“You, uh— you have that Machine down there, don’t you? That translating business you use for working over documents from non- Terran cultures?”

“Sure. So?”

“Think I could use it?” He talked fast. “It’s a screwy sort of a deal, Earl. I got this pal living on— uh—Centaurus VI, and he writes me in—uh—you know, the Cen- tauran native semantic system, and I—”

“You want the Machine to translate a letter? Sure, I think we could manage it. This once, at least. Bring it down.”

He brought it down. He got Earl to show him how the intake feed worked, and as soon as Earl had turned his back he fed in the the tiny square of material. The Linguistics Machine clicked and whirred. Ellis prayed silently that the paper wasn’t too small. Wouldn’t fall out between the re- lay-probes of the Machine.

But sure enough, after a couple of seconds, a tape unreeled from the output slot. The tape cut itself off and dropped into a basket. The Linguistics Machine turned promptly to other stuff, more vital material from TD’s various export branches.

With trembling figures Ellis spread out the tape. The words danced before his eyes.

Questions. They were asking him questions. God, it was getting complicated. He read the questions intently, his lips moving. What was he getting himself into? They were expecting answers. He had taken their paper, gone off with it. Probably they would be waiting for him, on his way home.

He returned to his office and dialed his vidphone. “Give me outside,” he ordered.

The regular vid monitor appeared. “Yes sir?”

“I want the Federal Library of Information,” Ellis said. “Cultural Research Division.”

THAT NIGHT they were waiting, all right. But not the same ones. It was odd—each time a different group. Their clothing was slightly different, too. A new hue. And in the background the landscape had also altered slightly. The trees he had seen were gone. The hills were still there, but a different shade. A hazy gray-white. Snow?

He squatted down. He had worked it out with care. The answers from the Federal Library of Information had gone back to the Linguistics Machine for re-trans- lation. The answers were now in the original tongue of the questions —but on a trifle larger piece of paper.

Ellis made like a marble game and flicked the wad of paper through the gray shimmer. It bowled over six or seven of the watching figures and rolled down the side of the hill on which they were standing. After a moment of terrified immobility the figures scampered frantically after it. They disappeared into the vague and invisible depths of their world and Ellis got stiffly to his feet again.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “that’s that.”

But it wasn’t. The next morning there was a new group—and a new list of questions. The tiny figures pushed their microscopic square of paper through the thin spot in the wall of the tunnel and stood waiting and trembling as Ellis bent over and felt around for it.

He found it—finally. He put it in his wallet and continued on his way, stepping out at New York, frowning. This was getting serious. Was this going to be a full time job?”

But then he grinned. It was the damn oddest thing he had ever heard of. The little rascals were cute, in their own way. Tiny intent faces, screwed up with serious concern. And terror. They were scared of him, really scared. And why not? Compared to them he was a giant.

He conjectured about their world. What kind of a planet was theirs? Odd to be so small. But size was a relative matter. Small, though, compared to him. Small and reverent. He could read fear and a yearning, gnawing hope, as they pushed up their papers. They were depending on him. Praying he’d give them answers.

Ellis grinned. “Damn unusual job,” he said to himself.

“What’s this?” Peterson said, when he showed up in the Linguistics Lab at noontime.

“Well, you see, I got another letter from my friend on Centauraus VI.”

“Yeah?” A certain suspicion flickered across Peterson’s face. “You’re not ribbing me, are you, Henry? This Machine has a lot to do, you know. Stuff’s coming in all the time. We can’t afford to waste any time with—”

“This is really serious stuff, Earl.” Ellis patted his wallet. “Very important business. Not just gossip.”

“Okay. If you say so.” Peterson gave the nod to the team operating the Machine. “Let this guy use the Translator, Tommie.”

“Thanks,” Ellis murmured.

He went through the routine, getting a translation and then carrying the questions up to his vid- phone and passing them over to the Library research staff. By nightfall the answers were back in the original tongue and with them carefully in his wallet, Ellis headed out of the Terran Development building and into his Jiffi-scuttler.

As usual, a new group was waiting.

“Here you are, boys,” Ellis boomed, flicking the wad through the thin place in the shimmer. The wad rolled down the microscopic countryside, bouncing from hill to hill, the little people tumbling jerkily after it in their funny stiff-legged fashion. Ellis watched them go, grinning with interest—and pride.

They really hurried; no doubt about that. He could make them out only vaguely, now. They had raced wildly off away from the shimmer. Only a small portion of their world was tangent to the Jiffi- scuttler, apparently. Only the one spot, where the shimmer was thin. He peered intently through.

They were getting the wad open, now. Three or four of them, unpry- ing the paper and examining the answers.

Ellis swelled with pride as he continued along the tunnel and out into his own back yard. He couldn’t read their questions—and when translated, he couldn’t answer them. The Linguistics Department did the first part, the Library research staff the rest. Nevertheless, Ellis felt pride. A deep, glowing spot of warmth far down inside him. The expression on their faces. The look they gave him when they saw the answer-wad in his hand. When they realized he was going to answer their questions. And the way they scampered after it. It was sort of —satisfying. It made him feel damn good.

“Not bad,” he murmured, opening the back door and entering his house. “Not bad at all.”

“What’s not bad, dear?” Mary asked, looking quickly up from the table. She laid down her magazine and got to her feet. “Why, you look so happy! What is it?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all!” He kissed her warmly on the mouth. “You’re looking pretty good tonight yourself, kid.”

“Oh, Henry!” Much of Mary blushed prettily. “How sweet.”

He surveyed his wife in her two- piece wraparound of clear plastic with appreciation. “Nice looking fragments you have on.”

“Why Henry! What’s come over you? You seem so—so spirited!”

Ellis grinned. “Oh, I guess I enjoy my job. You know, there’s nothing like taking pride in your work. A job well done, as they say. Work you can be proud of.”

“I thought you always said you were nothing but a cog in a great impersonal machine. Just a sort of cypher.”

“Things are different,” Ellis said firmly. “I’m doing a—uh—a new project. A new assignment.”

“A new assignment?”