Philip Dick - Upon the Dull Earth

He made his way back to his parked car. In half an hour he had crossed the state line. Cold, bright sunlight sparkled off dew-moist roofs and sidewalks as he sped through tiny unfamiliar towns.

Along the shiny morning streets he saw them moving—early risers, on their way to work. In twos and threes they walked, their heels echoing in the sharp silence. At bus stops he saw groups of them collected together. In the houses, rising from their beds, eating breakfast, bathing, dressing, were more of them—hundreds of them, lesions without number. A town of them preparing for the day, resuming their regular tasks, as the circle widened and spread.

He left the town behind. The car slowed under him as his foot slid heavily from the gas pedal. Two of them walked across a level field together. They carried books—children on their way to school. Repetitions, unvarying and identical. A dog circled excitedly after them, unconcerned, his joy untainted.

He drove on. Ahead a city loomed, its stern columns of office buildings sharply outlined against the sky. The streets swarmed with noise and activity as he passed through the main business section. Somewhere, near the center of the city, he overtook the expanding periphery of the circle and emerged beyond. Diversity took the place of the endless figures of Silvia. Gray eyes and brown hair gave way to countless varieties of men and women, children and adults, of all ages and appearances. He increased his speed and raced out on the far side, onto the wide four-lane highway.

He finally slowed down. He was exhausted. He had driven for hours; his body was shaking with fatigue.

Head of him a carrot-haired youth was cheerfully thumbing a ride, a thin bean-pole in brown slacks and light camel’s-hair sweater. Rick pulled to a halt and opened the front door. “Hop in,” he said.

“Thanks, buddy.” The youth hurried to the car and climbed in as Rick gathered speed. He slammed the door and settled gratefully back against the seat. “It was getting hot, standing there.”

“How far are you going?” Rick demanded.

“All the way to Chicago.” The youth grinned shyly. “Of course, I don’t expect you to drive me that far. Anything at all is appreciated.” He eyed Rick curiously. “Which way you going?”

“Anywhere,” Rick said. “I’ll drive you to Chicago.”

“It’s two hundred miles!”

“Fine,” Rick said. He steered over into the left lane and gained speed. “If you want to go to New York, I’ll drive you there.”

“You feel all right?” The youth moved away uneasily. “I sure appreciate a lift, but . . .” He hesitated. “I mean, I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

Rick concentrated on the road ahead, his hands gripped hard around the rim of the wheel. “I’m going fast. I’m not slowing down or stopping.”

“You better be careful,” the youth warned, in a troubled voice. “I don’t want to get in an accident.”

“I’ll do the worrying.”

“But it’s dangerous. What if something happens? It’s too risky.”

“You’re wrong,” Rick muttered grimly, eyes on the road. “It’s worth the risk.”

“But if something goes wrong—” The voice broke off uncertainly and then continued, “I might be lost. It would be so easy. It’s all so unstable.” The voice trembled with worry and fear. “Rick, please . . .”

Rick whirled. “How do you know my name?”

The youth was crouched in a heap against the door. His face had a soft, molten look, as if it were losing its shape and sliding together in an unformed mass. “I want to come back,” he was saying, from within himself, “but I'm afraid. You haven’t seen it—the region between. It’s nothing but energy, Rick. He tapped it a long time ago, but nobody else knows how.”

The voice lightened, became clear and treble. The hair faded to a rich brown. Gray, frightened eyes flickered up at Rick. Hands frozen, he hunched over the wheel and forced himself not to move. Gradually he decreased speed and brought the car over into the right-hand lane.

“Are we stopping?” the shape beside him asked. It was Silvia’s voice now. Like a new insect, drying in the sun, the shape hardened and locked into firm reality. Silvia struggled up on the seat and peered out. “Where are we? We’re between towns.”

He jammed on the brakes, reached past her and threw open the door. “Get out!”

Silvia gazed at him uncomprehendingly. “What do you mean?” she faltered. “Rick, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“ Get out! ”

“Rick, I don’t understand.” She slid over a little. Her toes touched the pavement. “Is there something wrong with the car? I thought everything was all right.”

He gently shoved her out and slammed the door. The car leaped ahead, out into the stream of midmorning traffic. Behind him the small, dazed figure was pulling itself up, bewildered and injured. He forced his eyes from the rear-view mirror and crushed down the gas pedal with all his weight.

The radio buzzed and clicked in vague static when he snapped it briefly on. He turned the dial and, after a time, a big network station came in. A faint, puzzled voice, a woman’s voice. For a time he couldn’t make out the words. Then he recognized it and, with a pang of panic, switched the thing off.

Her voice. Murmuring plaintively. Where was the station? Chicago. The circle had already spread that far.

He slowed down. There was no point hurrying. It had already passed him by and gone on. Kansas farms—sagging stores in little old Mississippi towns—along the bleak streets of New England manufacturing cities swarms of brown-haired gray-eyed women would be hurrying.

It would cross the ocean. Soon it would take in the whole world. Africa would be strange—kraals of white-skinned young women, all exactly alike, going about the primitive chores of hunting and fruit - gathering, mashing grain, skinning animals. Building fires and weaving cloth and carefully shaping razor-sharp knives.

In China . . . he grinned inanely. She’d look strange there, too. In the austere high-collar suit, the almost monastic robe of the young Communist cadres. Parades marching up the main streets of Peiping. Row after row of slim-legged full-breasted girls, with heavy Russian-made rifles. Carrying spades, picks, shovels. Columns of cloth-booted soldiers. Fast-moving workers with their precious tools. Reviewed by an identical figure on the elaborate stand overlooking the street, one slender arm raised, her gentle, pretty face expressionless and wooden.

He turned off the highway onto a side road. A moment later he was on his way back, driving slowly, listlessly, the way he had come.

At an intersection a traffic cop waded out through traffic to his car. He sat rigid, hands on the wheel, waiting numbly.

“Rick,” she whispered pleadingly as she reached the window. “Isn’t everything all right?”

“Sure,” he answered dully.

She reached in through the open window and touched him imploringly on the arm. Familiar fingers, red nails, the hand he knew so well. “I want to be with you so badly. Aren’t we together again? Aren’t I back?”

“Sure.”

She shook her head miserably. I don’t understand,” she repeated. I thought it was all right again.”

Savagely he put the car into motion and hurtled ahead. The intersection was left behind.

It was afternoon. He was exhausted, riddled with fatigue. He guided the car toward his own town automatically. Along the streets she hurried everywhere, on all sides. She was omnipresent. He came to his apartment building and parked.

The janitor greeted him in the empty hall. Rick identified him by the greasy rag clutched in one hand, the big push-broom, the bucket of wood shavings. “Please,” she implored, “tell me what it is, Rick. Please tell me.”