Philip Dick - Humpty Dumpty in Oakland

Crossing the rose garden he slipped and fell backward, sitting down suddenly and wheezing; he got up almost at once, staggering and brushing at himself. His coat was dirty. He went on three more steps and then he slipped again. This time he slid; his feet went in different directions and he floundered forward, reaching with both hands to touch the soil for support. Running a few steps, balancing himself with his fingers, he reached the concrete front porch. Bits of dirt and fertilizer trailed after him, bouncing from the concrete. Trembling with pain he wiped his hands together, standing on the porch by the front door. He wiped his feet. And then, after he had stood for a time and had gotten his breath back, when he felt that he could talk—he would have to be able to talk; he had to wait until he could do that—he reached out and began to knock.

Inside the house someone stirred.

I knocked too soon, he thought. I won’t be able to talk. He could not even get his breath, yet, so how could he talk? He felt panic. It’s too soon, he said to himself. The person was coming to the door. Don’t come yet, he said to himself. If I don’t knock any more you won’t come; okay? He stood without knocking, making no sound except for his breathing. But they were still coming anyhow.

You bastards, he said to himself. You caught me at the wrong time; I’m not ready. But there was nothing he could do. He could not stop them now. The door began to open.

Hello, he said. Hello, can I come in? Is Mr. Harman here? He practiced faster and faster, flying along as the door opened, flying with it. Say, I came to see Mr. Harman, if he isn’t busy. This is really important. He patted his coat, patted the checkbook, patted the pain. We have business, he said. He wheezed on faster to himself, like a thing. His head, like a cuckoo, went back and forth in rhythm with the door. Hello, hello.

Hello, he said. Hello.

The door all the way open. A woman, well-dressed, elegant. Smiling sideways with her hand—ring, fingers—on the door, pale red nails. Carpet in the hall and table; curved arch. Seeing in, seeing past. Fireplace.

Hello, he babbled. I’m sorry. Sorry it happened. Hot around my neck where the new tie is. Reached for heater. The sun came down on him, cracking him, splitting his head wide open. I’ll get it out of there. But I can’t back. Maybe you can back it. Sorry, sorry, he said to the woman. He backed away from her; retreating.

“Yes?” she said.

“Hot,” he said. “Can I sit for a minute?” Have my bottle of pills. Hemo-titic. He laughed; they both laughed and she held the door for him, so he could pass on into the cool dim hallway, with no sound at all; lost in the carpet. White Spanish walls, a thousand years old. He did not even dare to breathe.

“My husband’s here,” she said from ahead of him as she walked. “I think, if you want to wait.”

“Thanks,” he said, finding a chair. Black leather; his hands passed over it, knowing it.

“Just a minute.” Her back to him, at the other wide archway, the far room. Drapes.

“Fll be fine,” he said, seated.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” he said. “Thanks.” He stared at the floor. Then, in his hands, balanced, a china cup of coffee, spoon and all. He stared at it in horror; it flopped and slid and returned. A single black drop, as large as gum, shot down the side of his leg, streaking the pants; he fixed his eyes on it, nodding. Out of sight. What you don’t know. He crossed his leg to hide.

“Don’t you worry,” the woman said.

“Oh hell no,” he said, keeping himself from laughing. “Don’t you worry about me.” He rocked from side to side.

It’s the way I am. Like a boat.

You’ll get used to it.

Al Miller said, “Honor is the thing you must have. Like credit in the financial world. A check goes through twenty hands before any real money is involved. My point is that honor has to be taken for granted the same way we take the check as being good. Otherwise the whole system falls apart.”

Stretched out in his bathrobe, his eyes hidden by his dark glasses, Chris Harman gazed up at the midday sky. He did not respond; he seemed to be meditating.

“You mean within an organization,” Bob Ross said.

“Exactly,” Al said.

Harman, raising his head, said slowly, “But someone can get into an organization, Al. Someone who has other purposes.” Reaching, he located his drink. “You can’t go on blind trust. You have to protect yourself. I don’t think you understand how close they are to us all the time.”

“Pardon?” Al said, not following.

Supporting himself on his elbows, Harman said, “Most of what we net—or should net—has to go back in. Reinvestment; but for this purpose: to protect ourselves. I suppose you read where S.P. has been quietly buying up Western Pacific stock. The first W.P. knew about it was when S.P. suddenly announced they already had ten percent and so help me God, they were applying to the I.C.C. to acquire the remainder. My God, they’d be taking over.

“Really dreadful,” Ross said.

“But that’s not the only way an organization is penetrated,” Harman said. “There are also spies and informers and plants, as in the auto business, where all secrets are swiped.”

“I can testify to that,” Al said. “From my experience.”

“Absolutely,” Harman agreed. “You’re canny. But I’ve seen other things, Al, which you may not know about. Let me give you an example. Keep this to yourself, of course.” He glanced toward Ross. “Bob knows about this.”

“Oh yeah,” Ross said soberly. “That contact.”

Harman said, “We were sounded out.”

“Who by?” Al said, trying to make it sound as if he followed; but in fact he had long ago lost the thread of the discussion. Both Harman and Ross seemed to take the thing for granted.

“By them,” Harman said. “They were—let’s face it—probing for a weak link in us. They didn’t find it. But they’ll keep on trying. They’ve got a lot of money . . . they’re not S.P., of course, but they’re also not the pipe-tobacco shop on the corner. By that I mean they’re not fly-by-night in any sense; they’re here to stay.”

“I see,” Al said.

“You have to know your friends,” Ross said.

“Exactly,” Harman said. “Now, we’re all friends here, the three of us. But you’ll be approached.” Removing his dark glasses he gazed directly at Al. “You will. One of these days.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Al said.

“And you won’t even know it,” Ross said.

“No,” Harman agreed. “Not off the bat.”

“Tell him about the contact,” Ross said.

Harman said, “I knew right off. But only because it’s happened before, and because I’ve made out their line, their logic. Mainly, they operate from out of town, probably from Delaware, through a holding company. Assuming they have a legitimate front at all, they probably control all their own retail outlets.”

“They sell to themselves,” Ross said.

“But what they actually want or do,” Harman said, “we don’t know. They’ve been out here on the West Coast for at least eleven months, I would judge, gathering by the changes in the picture, especially in Marin County. You read, probably, about the enormous new public housing that opened in Marin City; really elaborate structures. The taxpayers are paying. And Berkeley’s ruined by them; they’ve practically taken over the city in toto. It’s taken fifteen years, but it’s done now.” He grimaced at Al.

“Who?” Al said.

“Negroes,” Bob Ross said.

Harman said, “That was what gave their contact away. Even on the phone the voice was recognizable. The Negro intonation.”

Al stared at him.