Philip Dick - The Science Fiction Anthology

Sorensen looked crestfallen. “Then we’re no better off than before.”

“We’re a lot better off,” Drake said. “We have a chance now.”

“What makes you think so?”

“He controls the animals by radio,” Drake said. “We know the frequency he operates on. We can broadcast on the same frequency. We can jam his signal.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Am I sure ? Of course not. But I do know that two stations in the same area can’t broadcast over the same frequency. If we tuned in to the frequency the Quedak uses, made enough noise to override his signal—”

“I see,” Sorensen said. “Maybe it would work! If we could interfere with his signal, he wouldn’t be able to control the animals. And then we could hunt him down with the RDFs.”

“That’s the idea,” Drake said. “It has only one small flaw—our transmitter isn’t working. With no transmitter, we can’t do any broadcasting. No broadcasting, no jamming.”

“Can you fix it?” Sorensen asked.

“I’ll try,” Drake said. “But we’d better not hope for too much. Eakins was the radio man on this expedition.”

“We’ve got all the spare parts,” Sorensen said. “Tubes, manual, everything.”

“I know. Give me enough time and I’ll figure out what’s wrong. The question is, how much time is the Quedak going to give us?”

The bright copper disk of the sun was half submerged in the sea. Sunset colors touched the massing thunderheads and faded into the brief tropical twilight. The men began to barricade the copra shed for the night.

VI

Drake removed the back from the transmitter and scowled at the compact mass of tubes and wiring. Those metal boxlike things were probably condensers, and the waxy cylindrical gadgets might or might not be resistors. It all looked hopelessly complicated, ridiculously dense and delicate. Where should he begin?

He turned on the set and waited a few minutes. All the tubes appeared to go on, some dim, some bright. He couldn’t detect any loose wires. The mike was still dead.

So much for visual inspection. Next question: was the set getting enough juice?

He turned it off and checked the battery cells with a voltmeter. The batteries were up to charge. He removed the leads, scraped them and put them back on, making sure they fit snugly. He checked all connections, murmured a propitiatory prayer, and turned the set on.

It still didn’t work.

Cursing, he turned it off again. He decided to replace all the tubes, starting with the dim ones. If that didn’t work, he could try replacing condensers and resistors. If that didn’t work, he could always shoot himself. With this cheerful thought, he opened the parts kit and went to work.

The men were all inside the copra shed, finishing the job of barricading it for the night. The door was wedged shut and locked. The two windows had to be kept open for ventilation; otherwise everyone would suffocate in the heat. But a double layer of heavy mosquito netting was nailed over each window, and a guard was posted beside it.

Nothing could get through the flat galvanized-iron roof. The floor was of pounded earth, a possible danger point. All they could do was keep watch over it.

The treasure-hunters settled down for a long night. Drake, with a handkerchief tied around his forehead to keep the perspiration out of his eyes, continued working on the transmitter.

An hour later, there was a buzz on the walkie-talkie. Sorensen picked it up and said, “What do you want?”

“I want you to end this senseless resistance,” said the Quedak, speaking with Eakins’ voice. “You’ve had enough time to think over the situation. I want you to join me. Surely you can see there’s no other way.”

“We don’t want to join you,” Sorensen said.

“You must,” the Quedak told him.

“Are you going to make us?”

“That poses problems,” the Quedak said. “My animal parts are not suitable for coercion. Eakins is an excellent mechanism, but there is only one of him. And I must not expose myself to unnecessary danger. By doing so I would endanger the Quedak Mission.”

“So it’s a stalemate,” Sorensen said.

“No. I am faced with difficulty only in taking you over. There is no problem in killing you.”

The men shifted uneasily. Drake, working on the transmitter, didn’t look up.

“I would rather not kill you,” the Quedak said. “But the Quedak Mission is of primary importance. It would be endangered if you didn’t join. It would be seriously compromised if you left the island. So you must either join or be killed.”

“That’s not the way I see it,” Sorensen said. “If you killed us—assuming that you can—you’d never get off this island. Eakins can’t handle that ketch.”

“There would be no need to leave in the ketch,” the Quedak said. “In six months, the inter-island schooner will return. Eakins and I will leave then. The rest of you will have died.”

“You’re bluffing,” Sorensen said. “What makes you think you could kill us? You didn’t do so well today.” He caught Drake’s attention and gestured at the radio. Drake shrugged his shoulders and went back to work.

“I wasn’t trying,” the Quedak said. “The time for that was at night. This night, before you have a chance to work out a better system of defense. You must join me tonight or I will kill one of you.”

“One of us?”

“Yes. One man an hour. In that way, perhaps the survivors will change their minds about joining. But if they don’t, all of you will be dead by morning.”

Drake leaned over and whispered to Sorensen, “Stall him. Give me another ten minutes. I think I’ve found the trouble.”

Sorensen said into the walkie-talkie, “We’d like to know a little more about the Quedak Cooperation.”

“You can find out best by joining.”

“We’d rather have a little more information on it first.”

“It is an indescribable state,” the Quedak said in an urgent, earnest, eager voice. “Can you imagine yourself as yourself and yet experiencing an entirely new series of sensory networks? You would, for example, experience the world through the perceptors of a dog as he goes through the forest following an odor which to him—and to you—is as clear and vivid as a painted line. A hermit crab senses things differently. From him you experience the slow interaction of life at the margin of sea and land. His time-sense is very slow, unlike that of a bird of paradise, whose viewpoint is spatial, rapid, cursory. And there are many others, above and below the earth and water, who furnish their own specialized viewpoints of reality. Their outlooks, I have found, are not essentially different from those of the animals that once inhabited Mars.”

“What happened on Mars?” Sorensen asked.

“All life died,” the Quedak mourned. “All except the Quedak. It happened a long time ago. For centuries there was peace and prosperity on the planet. Everything and everyone was part of the Quedak Cooperation. But the dominant race was basically weak. Their breeding rate went down; catastrophes happened. And finally there was no more life except the Quedak.”

“Sounds great,” Sorensen said ironically.

“It was the fault of the race,” the Quedak protested. “With sturdier stock—such as you have on this planet—the will to live will remain intact. The peace and prosperity will continue indefinitely.”

“I don’t believe it. What happened on Mars will happen again on Earth if you take over. After a while, slaves just don’t care very strongly about living.”

“You wouldn’t be slaves. You would be functional parts of the Quedak Cooperation.”

“Which would be run by you,” Sorensen said. “Any way you slice it, it’s the same old pie.”