Philip Dick: Souvenir

by Philip K. Dick

“Here we go, sir” the robot pilot said. The words startled Rogers and made him look up sharply. He tensed his body and adjusted the trace web inside his coat as the bubble ship started dropping, swiftly and silently, toward the planet’s surface.

This—his heart caught—was Williamson’s World. The legendary lost planet—found, after three centuries. By accident, of course. This blue and green planet, the holy grail of the Galactic System, had been almost miraculously discovered by a routine charting mission.

Frank Williamson had been the first Terran to develop an outer- space drive—the first to hop off from the Solar System toward the universe beyond. He had never come back. He—his world, his colony—had never been found. There had been endless rumors, false leads, fake legends—and nothing more.'

“I’m receiving field clearance."’ The robot pilot raised the gain on the control speaker, and clicked to attention.

“Field ready,” came a ghostly voice from below. “Remember, your drive mechanism is unfamiliar to us. How much run is required? Emergency brake-walls are up.”

Rogers smiled. He could hear the pilot telling them that no run would be required. Not with this ship. The brake-walls could be lowered with perfect safety.

Three hundred years! It had taken a long time to find Williamson’s World. Many authorities had given him up. Some believed he had never landed, had died out in space. Perhaps there was no Williamson’s World. Certainly there had been no real clues, nothing tangible to go on. Frank Williamson and three families had utterly disappeared in the trackless void, never to be heard from again.

Until now . . .

The young man met him at the field. He was thin and red-haired and dressed in a colorful suit of bright material. “You’re from the Galactic Relay Center?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Rogers said huskily. “I’m Edward Rogers.”

The young man held out his hand. Rogers shook it awkwardly. “My name is Williamson,” the young man said. “Gene Williamson.”

The name thundered in Rogers’ ears. “Are you—”

The young man nodded, his gaze enigmatical. “I’m his great-great-great-great-grandson. His tomb is here. You may see it, if you wish.”

“I almost expected to see him. He’s —well, almost a god-figure to us. The first man to break out of the Solar System.”

“He means a lot to us, too,” the young man said. “He brought us here. They searched a long time before they found a planet that was habitable.” Williamson waved at the city stretched out beyond the field. “This one proved satisfactory. It’s the System’s tenth planet.”

Rogers’ eyes began to shine. Williamson’s World. Under his feet. He stamped hard as they walked down the ramp together, away from the field. How many men in the Galaxy had dreamed of striding down a landing ramp onto. Williamson’s World with a young descendant of Frank Williamson beside them?

“They’ll all want to come here,” Rogers said, as if aware of his thoughts. “Throw rubbish around and break off the flowers. Pick up handfuls of dirt to take back.” He laughed a little nervously. “The Relay will control them, of course.”

“Of course,” Rogers assured him.

At the ramp-end Rogers stopped short. For the first time he saw the city.

“What’s wrong?” Gene Williamson asked, with a faint trace of amusement.

They had been cut off, of course. Isolated—so perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. It was a wonder they weren’t living in caves, eating raw meat. But Williamson had always symbolized progress—development. He had been a man ahead of other men.

True, his space-drive by modern standards had been primitive, a curiosity. But the concept remained unaltered; Williamson the pioneer, and inventor. The man who built.

Yet the city was nothing more than a village, with a few dozen houses, and some public buildings and industrial units at its perimeter. Beyond the city stretched green fields, hills, and broad prairies. Surface vehicles crawled leisurely along the narrow streets and most of the citizens walked on foot. An incredible anachronism it seemed, dragged up from the past.

“I’m accustomed to the uniform Galactic culture,” Rogers said. “Relay keeps the technocratic and ideological level constant throughout. It’s hard to adjust to such a radically different social stage. But you’ve been cut off.”

“Cut off?” asked Williamson.

“From Relay. You’ve had to develop without help.”

In front of them a surface vehicle crept to a halt. The driver opened the doors manually.

“Now that I recall these factors, I can adjust,” Rogers assured him.

“On the contrary,” Williamson said, entering the vehicle. “We’ve been receiving your Relay coordinates for over a century.” He motioned Rogers to get in beside him.

Rogers was puzzled. “I don’t understand. You mean you hooked onto the web and yet made no attempt to—”

“We receive your coordinates,” Gene Wiiliamson said, “but our citizens are not interested in using them.”

The surface vehicle hurried along the highway, past the rim of an immense red hill. Soon the city lay behind them—a faintly glowing plate reflecting the rays of the setting sun. Bushes and plants appeared along the highway. The sheer side of the cliff rose, a towering wall of deep red sandstone; ragged, untouched.

“Nice evening,” Williamson said.

Rogers nodded in disturbed agreement.

Williamson rolled down the window. Cool air blew into the car. A few gnatlike insects followed. Far off, two tiny figures were plowing a field—a man and a huge lumbering beast.

“When will we be there?” Rogers asked.

“Soon. Most of us live away from the cities. We live in the country—in isolated self-sufficient farm units. They’re modeled on the manors of the Middle Ages.”

“Then you maintain only the most rudimentary subsistence level. How many people live on each farm?”

“Perhaps a hundred men and women.”

“A hundred people can’t manage anything more complex than weaving and dyeing and paper pressing.”

“We have special industrial units—manufacturing systems. This vehicle is a good example of what we can turn out. We have communication and sewage and medical agencies. We have technological advantages equal to Terra’s.”

“Terra of the twenty-first century,” Rogers protested. “But that was three hundred years ago. You’re purposely maintaining an archaic culture in the face of the Relay coordinates. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe we prefer it.”

“But you’re not free to prefer an inferior cultural stage. Every culture has to keep pace with the general trend. Relay makes actual a uniformity of development. It integrates the valid factors and rejects the rest.”

They were approaching the farm, Gene Williamson’s “manor.” It consisted of a few simple buildings clustered together in a valley, to the side of the highway, surrounded by fields and pastures. The surface vehicle turned down a narrow side road and spiralled cautiously toward the floor of the valley. The air became darker. Cold wind blew into the car, and the driver clicked his headlights on.

“No robots?” Rogers asked. “No,” Williamson replied. “We do all our own work.”

“You’re making a purely arbitrary distinction,” Rogers pointed out. “A robot is a machine. You don’t dispense with machines as such. This car is a machine.” “True,” Williamson acknowledged.

“The machine is a development of the tool,” Rogers went on. “The axe is a simple machine. A stick becomes a tool, a simple machine, in the hands of a man reaching for something. A machine is merely a multi-element tool that increases the power ratio. Man is the tool-making animal. The history of man is the history of tools into machines, greater and more efficient functioning elements. If you reject machinery you reject man’s essential key.” “Here we are,” Williamson said. The vehicle came to a halt and the driver opened the doors for them.