Philip Dick - Prominent Author

“Gathering information. A sort of—creative business. So to speak.”

BY THE END of the week he had turned over quite a body of information to them.

He began starting for work about nine-thirty. That gave him a whole thirty minutes to spend squatting down on his hands and knees, peering through the thin place in the shimmer. He got so he was pretty good at seeing them and what they were doing in their microscopic world.

Their civilization was somewhat primitive. No doubt of that. By Terran standards it was scarcely a civilization at all. As near as he could tell, they were virtually without scientific techniques; a kind of agrarian culture, rural communism, a monolithic tribal-based organization apparently without too many members.

At least, not at one time. That was the part he didn’t understand. Every time he came past there was a different group of them. No familiar faces. And their world changed, too. The trees, the crops, fauna. The weather, apparently.

Was their time rate different? They moved rapidly, jerkily. Like a vidtape speeded up. And their shrill voices. Maybe that was it. A totally different universe in which the whole time structure was radically different.

As to their attitude toward him, there was no mistaking it. After the first couple of times they began assembling offerings, unbelievably small bits of smoking food, prepared in ovens and on open brick hearths. If he got down with his nose against the gray shimmer he could get a faint whiff of the food. It smelled good. Strong and pungent. Highly spiced. Meat, probably.

On Friday he brought a magnifying glass along and watched them through it. It was meat, all right. They were bringing ant-sized animals to be killed and cooked, leading them up to the ovens. With the magnifying glass he could see more of their faces. They had strange faces. Strong and dark, with a peculiar firm look.

Of course, there was only one look he got from them. A combination of fear, reverence, and hope. The look made him feel good. It was a look for him, only. Between themselves they shouted and argued—and sometimes stabbed and fought each other furiously, rolling in their brown robes in a wild tangle. They were a passionate and strong species. He got so he admired them.

Which was good—because it made him feel better. To have the reverent awe of such a proud, sturdy race was really something. There was nothing craven about them.

About the fifth time he came there was a rather attractive structure built. Some kind of temple. A place of religious worship.

To him! They were developing a real religion about him. No doubt of it. He began going to work at nine o’clock, to give himself a full hour with them. They had, by the middle of the second week, a full- sized ritual evolved. Processions, lighted tapers, what seemed to be songs or chants. Priests in long robes. And the spiced offerings.

No idols, though. Apparently he was so big they couldn’t make out his appearance. He tried to imagine what it looked like to be on their side of the shimmer. An immense shape looming up above them, beyond a wall of gray haze. An indistinct being, something like themselves, yet not like them at all. A different kind of being, obviously. Larger—but different in other ways. And when he spoke—boom- ing echoes up and down the Jiffi- scuttler. Which still sent them fleeing in panic.

An evolving religion. He was changing them. Through his actual presence and through his answers, the precise, correct responses he obtained from the Federal Library of Information and had the Linguistics Machine translate into their language. Of course, by their time- rate they had to wait generations for the answers. But they had become accustomed to it, by now. They waited. They expected. They passed up questions and after a couple centuries he passed down answers, answers which they no doubt put to good use.

“What in the world?” Mary demanded, as he got home from work an hour late, one night. “Where have you been?”

“Working,” Ellis said carelessly, removing his hat and coat. He threw himself down on the couch. “I’m tired. Really tired.” He sighed with relief and motioned for the couch-arm to bring him a whisky sour.

Mary came over by the couch. “Henry, I’m a little worried.” “Worried?”

“You shouldn’t work so hard. You ought to take it easy, more. How long since you’ve had a real vacation? A trip off Terra. Out of the System. You know, I’d just like to call that fellow Miller and ask him why it’s necessary a man your age put in so much—”

“A man my age!” Ellis bristled indignantly. “I’m not so old.”

“Of course not.” Mary sat down beside him and put her arms around him affectionately. “But you shouldn’t have to do so much. You deserve a rest. Don’t you think?” “This is different. You don’t understand. This isn’t the same old stuff. Reports and statistics and the damn filing. This is—”

“What is it?”

“This is different. I’m not a cog. This gives me something. I can’t explain it to you, I guess. But it’s something I have to do.”

“If you could tell me more about it—”

“I can’t tell you any more about it,” Ellis said. “But there’s nothing in the world like it. I’ve worked twenty-five years for Terran Development. Twenty-five years at the same desk. Classifying the same reports, again and again. Twenty-five years—and I never felt this way.”

“OH, YEAH?” Miller roared. “Don’t give me that! Come clean, Ellis!”

Ellis opened and closed his mouth. “What are you talking about?” Horror rolled through him. “What’s happened?”

“Don’t try to give me the runaround.” On the vidscreen Miller’s face was purple. “Come into my office.”

The screen went dead.

Ellis sat stunned at his desk. Gradually, he collected himself and got shakily to his feet. “Good Lord.” Weakly, he wiped cold sweat from his forehead. All at once. Everything in ruins. He was dazed with the shock.

“Anything wrong?” Miss Nelson asked sympathetically.

“No.” Ellis moved numbly toward the door. He was shattered. What had Miller found out? Good God! Was it possible he had— “Mr. Miller looked angry.” “Yeah.” Ellis moved blindly down the hall, his mind reeling. Miller looked angry, all right. Somehow, he had found out. But why was he mad? Why did he care? A cold chill settled over Ellis. It looked bad. Miller was his superior—with hiring and firing powers. Maybe he’d done something wrong. Maybe he had somehow broken a law. Committed a crime. But what?

What did Miller care about them? What concern was it of Terran Development?

He opened the door to Miller’s office. “Here I am, Mr. Miller,” he muttered. “What’s the trouble?” Miller glowered at him in rage. “All this goofy stuff about your cousin on Proxima.”

“It’s—uh—you mean a business friend on Centaurus VI.”

“You—you swindler!” Miller leaped up. “And after all the Company’s done for you.”

“I don’t understand,” Ellis muttered. “What have—”

“Why do you think we gave you the Jiffi-scuttler in the first place?” “Why?”

“To test! To try out, you walleyed Venusian stink-cricket! The Company magnanimously consented to allow you to operate a Jiffi-scuttler in advance of market presentation, and what do you do? Why, you—■”

Ellis started to get indignant. After all, he had been with TD twenty-five years. “You don’t have to be so offensive. I plunked down my thousand gold credits for it.” “Well, you can just mosey down to the accountant’s office and get your money back. I’ve already sent out a directive for a construction team to crate up your Jiffi-scuttler and bring it back to receiving.”