Philip Dick: Souvenir

Three or four huge wooden buildings loomed up in the darkness. A few dim shapes moved around—human shapes.

“Dinner’s ready,” Williamson said, sniffing. “I can smell it.” They entered the main building. Several men and women were sitting at a long rough table. Plates and dishes had been set in front of them. They were waiting for Williamson.

“This is Edward Rogers,” Williamson announced. The people studied Rogers curiously, then turned back to their food.

“Sit down,” a dark-eyed girl urged. “By me.”

They made a place for him near the end of the table. Rogers started forward, but Williamson restrained him. “Not there. You’re my guest. You’re expected to sit with me.”

The girl and her companions laughed. Rogers sat down awkwardly by Williamson. The bench was rough and hard under him. He examined a hand made wooden drinking cup. The food was piled in huge wooden bowls. There was a stew and a salad and great loaves of bread.

“We could be back in the fourteenth century,” Rogers said.

“Yes,” Williamson agreed. “Manor life goes back to Roman times and to the classical world. The Gauls. Britons.”

“These people here. Are they—”

Williamson nodded. “My family. We’re divided up into small units arranged according to the traditional patriarch basis. I’m the oldest male and titular head.” The people were eating rapidly, intent on their food—boiled meat, vegetables, scooped up with hunks of bread and butter and washed down with milk. The room was lit by fluorescent lighting.

“Incredible,” Rogers murmured. “You’re still using electric power.”

“Oh, yes. There are plenty of waterfalls on this planet. The vehicle was electric. It was run by a storage battery.”

“Why are there no older men?” Rogers saw several dried-up old women, but Williamson was the oldest man. And he couldn’t have been over thirty.

“The fighting,” Williamson replied, with an expressive gesture.

“Fighting?”

“Clan wars between families are a major part of our culture.” Williamson nodded toward the long table. “We don’t live long.”

Rogers was stunned. “Clan wars? But—”

“We have pennants, and emblems—like the old Scottish tribes.”

He touched a bright ribbon on his sleeve, the representation of a bird. “There are emblems and colors for each family and we fight over them. The Williamson family no longer controls this planet. There is no central agency, now. For a major issue we have the plebiscite—a vote by all of the clans. Each family on the planet has a vote.”

“Like the American Indians." Williamson nodded. “It’s a tribal system. In time we’ll be distinct tribes, I suppose. We still retain a common language, but we’re breaking up—decentralizing. And each family to its own ways, its own customs and manners.”

“Just what do you fight for?” Williamson shrugged. “Some real things like land and women. Some imaginary. Prestige for instance. When honor is at stake we have an official semi-annual public battle. A man from each family takes part. The best warrior and his weapons.”

“Like the medieval joust.” “We’ve drawn from all traditions. Human tradition as a whole.”

“Does each family have its separate deity?”

Williamson laughed. “No. We worship in common a vague animism. A sense of the general positive vitality of the universal process.” He held up a loaf of bread. “Thanks for all this.”

“Which you grew yourselves.” “On a planet provided for us.” Williamson ate his bread thoughtfully. “The old records say the ship was almost finished. Fuel just about gone—one dead, arid waste after another. If this planet hadn’t turned up, the whole expedition would have perished.”

“Cigar?” Williamson said, when the empty bowls had been pushed back.

“Thanks.” Rogers accepted a cigar noncommittally. Williamson lit his own, and settled back against the wall.

“How long are you staying?” he asked presently.

“Not long,” Rogers answered.

“There’s a bed fixed up for you,” Williamson said. “We retire early, but there’ll be some kind of dancing, also singing and dramatic acts. We devote a lot of time to staging, and producing drama.” “You place an emphasis on psychological release?”

“We enjoy making and doing things, if that’s what you mean.” Rogers stared about him. The walls were covered with murals painted directly on the rough wood. “So I see,” he said. “You grind your own colors from clay and berries?”

“Not quite,” Williamson replied. “We have a big pigment industry. Tomorrow I’ll show you our kiln where we fire our own things. Some of our best work is with fabrics and screen processes.” “Interesting. A decentralized society, moving gradually back into primitive tribalism. A society that voluntarily rejects the advanced technocratic and cultural products of the Galaxy, and thus deliberately withdraws from contact with the rest of mankind.” “From the uniform Relay-controlled society only,” Williamson insisted.

“Do you know why Relay maintains a uniform level for all worlds?” Rogers asked. “I’ll tell you. There are two reasons. First, the body of knowledge which men have amassed doesn’t permit duplication of experiment. There’s no time.”

“When a discovery has been made it’s absurd to repeat it on countless planets throughout the universe. Information gained on any of the thousand worlds is flashed to Relay Center and then out again to the whole Galaxy. Relay studies and selects experiences and co-ordinates them into a rational, functional system without contradictions. Relay orders the total experience of mankind into a coherent structure.” “And the second reason?”

“If uniform culture is maintained, controlled from a central source,- there won’t be war.”

“True,” Williamson admitted.

“We’ve abolished war. It’s as simple as that. We have a homogenous culture like that of ancient Rome—a common culture for all mankind which we maintain throughout the Galaxy. Each planet is as involved in it as any ether. There are no backwaters of culture to breed envy and hatred.”

“Such as this.”

Rogers let out his breath slowly. “Yes—you’ve confronted us with a strange situation. We’ve searched for Williamson’s World for three centuries. We’ve wanted it, dreamed of finding it. It has seemed like Prester John’s Empire —a fabulous world, cut off from the rest of humanity. Maybe not real at all. Frank Williamson might have crashed.”

“But he didn’t.”

“He didn’t, and Williamson’s World is alive with a culture of its own. Deliberately set apart, with its own way of life, its own standards. Now contact has been made, and our dream has come true. The people of the Galaxy will soon be informed that Williamson’s World has been found. We can now restore the first colony outside the Solar system to its rightful place in the Galactic culture.”

Rogers reached into his coat, and brought out a metal packet. He unfastened the packet and laid a clean, crisp document on the table.

“What’s this?” Williamson asked.

“The Articles of Incorporation. For you to sign, so that Williamson’s World can become a part of the Galactic culture.”

Williamson and the rest of the people in the room fell silent. They gazed down at the document, none of them speaking.

“Well?” Rogers said. He was tense. He pushed the document toward Williamson. “Here it is.” Wiliiamson shook his head. “Sorry.” He pushed the document firmly back toward Rogers. “We’ve already taken a plebiscite. I hate to disappoint you, but we’ve already decided not to join. That’s our final decision.”