Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $9.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The Early Stories of Philip K. Dick
    The Early Stories of Philip K. Dick
    The Early Stories of Philip K. Dick
    Ebook414 pages6 hours

    The Early Stories of Philip K. Dick

    By Philip K. Dick

    ()

    Switch to audiobook
    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Every legend has a beginning. Dreamscape Media presents a collection of thirteen early short stories penned by Philip K. Dick. Exploring themes of authoritarianism, alternate universes, and altered consciousness, the stories (including The Variable Man, Second Variety, and The Defenders) first appeared in American science fiction magazines of the 1950s and earned him the respect of such peers as Robert Heinlein and Ursula LeGuin, as well as the adulation of a voracious readership.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDreamscape Media
    Release dateMay 22, 2018
    ISBN9781974998494
    Author

    Philip K. Dick

    Over a writing career that spanned three decades, PHILIP K. DICK (1928–1982) published 36 science fiction novels and 121 short stories in which he explored the essence of what makes man human and the dangers of centralized power. Toward the end of his life, his work turned to deeply personal, metaphysical questions concerning the nature of God. Eleven novels and short stories have been adapted to film, notably Blade Runner (based on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?), Total Recall, Minority Report, and A Scanner Darkly, as well as television's The Man in the High Castle. The recipient of critical acclaim and numerous awards throughout his career, including the Hugo and John W. Campbell awards, Dick was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame in 2005, and between 2007 and 2009, the Library of America published a selection of his novels in three volumes. His work has been translated into more than twenty-five languages.

    Read more from Philip K. Dick

    Related to The Early Stories of Philip K. Dick

    Related ebooks

    Science Fiction For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      The Book No One Read: Why Stanislaw Lem’s futurism deserves attention.

      Oct 2, 2014

      I remember well the first time my certainty of a bright future evaporated, when my confidence in the panacea of technological progress was shaken. It was in 2007, on a warm September evening in San Francisco, where I was relaxing in a cheap motel roo

      11 min read

    • Article

      The Immortal Mel Brooks

      Jun 9, 2023

      The Immortal Mel Brooks
      21 min read

    • Article

      May The Fort Be With You

      Nov 2, 2023

      May The Fort Be With You
      14 min read

    • Article

      Life Always Wins. Follow Me

      Jul 28, 2021

      Japanese cuisine is so varied and refined that it’s hard to happen upon something unpleasant to the palate. My personal procedure in Japan is to take a seat at the counter and start pointing, completely at random, to a series of dishes chosen on the

      8 min read

    • Article

      Life Always Wins. Follow Me

      Dec 24, 2021

      Happy Holidays. In this special issue we are reprinting our top stories of the past year. This article first appeared online in our “Harmony” issue in July, 2021. Japanese cuisine is so varied and refined that it’s hard to happen upon something unple

      8 min read

    • Article

      The Memento

      Jan 16, 2022

      In the middle of the night, after a particularly tough day of interrogations in a Beijing security facility, the artist and dissident Ai Weiwei began to write what would become 1000 Years of Joys and Sorrow: A memoir. His tough, implacable interrogat

      4 min read

    • Article

      Dual Roles

      May 17, 2021

      Dual Roles
      4 min read

    • Article

      Dual Roles

      May 17, 2021

      Dual Roles
      4 min read

    • Article

      BOOKS & MUSIC

      Aug 14, 2020

      How far will a conservationist go to prove a link between southern Africa and the trade in rhino horn in Vietnam? Ask Grant Fowlds, who once “smuggled” rhino horn back to South Africa… His book Saving the Last Rhinos, written with Graham Spence, tel

      6 min read

    • Article

      Bubble & trouble

      Dec 11, 2020

      Bubble & trouble
      3 min read

    • Article

      BOOKS & MUSIC

      Oct 21, 2019

      Don Pinnock is a respected South African author, photographer and investigative journalist. Along with Colin Bell, he compiled The Last Elephants, which features 42 chapters by some of Africa’s top experts, conservationists and other interested parti

      6 min read

    • Article

      The Growing And Weeding Of Dandelions

      Dec 10, 2021

      The boardroom looked like it belonged in an office building, not a spaceship. The chairs had rolling wheels, there was a cup full of pens on the table, and the floor was carpeted. Spin gravity wasn’t a luxury on the Dandelion, it was a given. Faux wi

      10 min read

    • Article

      Loving Crafted

      Aug 12, 2020

      Loving Crafted
      4 min read

    • Article

      A LIFE OF WANDER & WONDER

      Jul 27, 2018

      A LIFE OF WANDER & WONDER
      10 min read

    • Article

      Frank’s Fable

      Mar 18, 2021

      Frank’s Fable
      4 min read

    • Article

      “Beware The Moon, Lads!”

      Dec 27, 2019

      “Beware The Moon, Lads!”
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Weirdest Ghosts Of All?

      Feb 25, 2021

      The Weirdest Ghosts Of All?
      4 min read

    • Article

      A Marine At Guadalcanal

      Nov 6, 2018

      A Marine At Guadalcanal
      8 min read

    • Article

      Witnessed

      Dec 3, 2020

      I work for a government body in electronic engineering, specifically concerning equipment like fax machines. In 1989 I was paged over the building public address to go to my office as there was a call waiting. The conversation went as follows: “Mr Ha

      44 min read

    • Article

      I, Spy

      Aug 7, 2018

      Many things happened to me for the first time on a night in April 1944. I rode in a Black Maria; I jumped from a bomber with a tangled parachute; and I began my mission in wartime France as a British secret agent. We drove in the Black Maria from Int

      17 min read

    • Article

      Leviathan

      Aug 10, 2022

      After we killed the passengers, we put the bodies in one of the low-pressure, unheated storage compartments. Some people had wanted to have some kind of solemn burial-in-space thing; that was too ghoulish for most of us, though. Mostly the ones we ki

      25 min read

    • Article

      Readers’ Letters

      Jun 2, 2021

      SIR: John Sutherland’s piece ‘Larkin’s bare cheek’ (May issue) reminded me of Philip Larkin officially opening the new Library at Leicester University on 27th September 1975. As sub-librarian for administrative matters, I had to organise the occasion

      5 min read

    • Article

      A Rear Old Time

      May 9, 2021

      A Rear Old Time
      7 min read

    • Article

      Have You Hugged A Rhino Today?

      Jul 29, 2022

      Have You Hugged A Rhino Today?
      5 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The Early Stories of Philip K. Dick

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      The Early Stories of Philip K. Dick - Philip K. Dick

      Beyond Lies The Wub

      The wub, sir, Peterson said. It spoke!

      The slovenly wub might well have said: Many men

      talk like philosophers and live like fools.

      THEY had almost finished with the loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning.

      What's the matter? he said. You're getting paid for all this.

      The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his robes. The Captain put his boot on the hem of the robe.

      Just a minute. Don't go off. I'm not finished.

      Oh? The Optus turned with dignity. I am going back to the village. He looked toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. I must organize new hunts.

      Franco lit a cigarette. Why not? You people can go out into the veldt and track it all down again. But when we run out halfway between Mars and Earth—

      The Optus went off, wordless. Franco joined the first mate at the bottom of the gangplank.

      How's it coming? he said. He looked at his watch. We got a good bargain here.

      The mate glanced at him sourly. How do you explain that?

      What's the matter with you? We need it more than they do.

      I'll see you later, Captain. The mate threaded his way up the plank, between the long-legged Martian go-birds, into the ship. Franco watched him disappear. He was just starting up after him, up the plank toward the port, when he saw it.

      My God! He stood staring, his hands on his hips. Peterson was walking along the path, his face red, leading it by a string.

      I'm sorry, Captain, he said, tugging at the string. Franco walked toward him.

      What is it?

      The wub stood sagging, its great body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed about its flank, and it switched its tail.

      It sat. There was silence.

      It's a wub, Peterson said. I got it from a native for fifty cents. He said it was a very unusual animal. Very respected.

      This? Franco poked the great sloping side of the wub. It's a pig! A huge dirty pig!

      Yes sir, it's a pig. The natives call it a wub.

      A huge pig. It must weigh four hundred pounds. Franco grabbed a tuft of the rough hair. The wub gasped. Its eyes opened, small and moist. Then its great mouth twitched.

      A tear rolled down the wub's cheek and splashed on the floor.

      Maybe it's good to eat, Peterson said nervously.

      We'll soon find out, Franco said.

      THE wub survived the take-off, sound asleep in the hold of the ship. When they were out in space and everything was running smoothly, Captain Franco bade his men fetch the wub upstairs so that he might perceive what manner of beast it was.

      The wub grunted and wheezed, squeezing up the passageway.

      Come on, Jones grated, pulling at the rope. The wub twisted, rubbing its skin off on the smooth chrome walls. It burst into the ante-room, tumbling down in a heap. The men leaped up.

      Good Lord, French said. What is it?

      Peterson says it's a wub, Jones said. It belongs to him. He kicked at the wub. The wub stood up unsteadily, panting.

      What's the matter with it? French came over. Is it going to be sick?

      They watched. The wub rolled its eyes mournfully. It gazed around at the men.

      I think it's thirsty, Peterson said. He went to get some water. French shook his head.

      No wonder we had so much trouble taking off. I had to reset all my ballast calculations.

      Peterson came back with the water. The wub began to lap gratefully, splashing the men.

      Captain Franco appeared at the door.

      Let's have a look at it. He advanced, squinting critically. You got this for fifty cents?

      Yes, sir, Peterson said. It eats almost anything. I fed it on grain and it liked that. And then potatoes, and mash, and scraps from the table, and milk. It seems to enjoy eating. After it eats it lies down and goes to sleep.

      I see, Captain Franco said. Now, as to its taste. That's the real question. I doubt if there's much point in fattening it up any more. It seems fat enough to me already. Where's the cook? I want him here. I want to find out—

      The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the Captain.

      Really, Captain, the wub said. I suggest we talk of other matters.

      The room was silent.

      What was that? Franco said. Just now.

      The wub, sir, Peterson said. It spoke.

      They all looked at the wub.

      What did it say? What did it say?

      It suggested we talk about other things.

      Franco walked toward the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men.

      I wonder if there's a native inside it, he said thoughtfully. Maybe we should open it up and have a look.

      Oh, goodness! the wub cried. Is that all you people can think of, killing and cutting?

      Franco clenched his fists. Come out of there! Whoever you are, come out!

      Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly.

      I beg your pardon, the wub said.

      I don't think there's anyone in there, Jones said in a low voice. They all looked at each other.

      The cook came in.

      You wanted me, Captain? he said. What's this thing?

      This is a wub, Franco said. It's to be eaten. Will you measure it and figure out—

      I think we should have a talk, the wub said. I'd like to discuss this with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on some basic issues.

      The Captain took a long time to answer. The wub waited good-naturedly, licking the water from its jowls.

      Come into my office, the Captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it go out. They heard it climbing the stairs.

      I wonder what the outcome will be, the cook said. Well, I'll be in the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear.

      Sure, Jones said. Sure.

      THE wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. You must forgive me, it said. I'm afraid I'm addicted to various forms of relaxation. When one is as large as I—

      The Captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.

      All right, he said. Let's get started. You're a wub? Is that correct?

      The wub shrugged. I suppose so. That's what they call us, the natives, I mean. We have our own term.

      And you speak English? You've been in contact with Earthmen before?

      No.

      Then how do you do it?

      Speak English? Am I speaking English? I'm not conscious of speaking anything in particular. I examined your mind—

      My mind?

      I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it—

      I see, the Captain said. Telepathy. Of course.

      We are a very old race, the wub said. Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game—

      How do you live?

      Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We're very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've gotten along.

      The wub eyed the Captain.

      And that's why I so violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could see the image in your mind—most of me in the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat—

      So you read minds? the Captain said. How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what else can you do along those lines?

      A few odds and ends, the wub said absently, staring around the room. A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They throw things out of their nests and sweep them—

      Indeed. The Captain nodded. But to get back to the problem—

      Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes? Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the arts—

      The Captain stood up. Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage—

      I know. The wub nodded. But wouldn't it be more in accord with your principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote—

      The Captain walked to the door.

      Nuts to you, he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.

      He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on the knob.

      The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.

      THE room was quiet.

      So you see, the wub said, we have a common myth. Your mind contains many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus—

      Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.

      Go on, he said. Please go on.

      I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country. The process of individuation.

      But Odysseus returns to his home. Peterson looked out the port window, at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe. Finally he goes home.

      As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period, a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to land and race....

      The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.

      Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at the door.

      Are you all right? French said.

      Do you mean me? Peterson said, surprised. Why me?

      Franco lowered his gun. Come over here, he said to Peterson. Get up and come here.

      There was silence.

      Go ahead, the wub said. It doesn't matter.

      Peterson stood up. What for?

      It's an order.

      Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.

      What's going on? Peterson wrenched loose. What's the matter with you?

      Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall.

      It is interesting, the wub said, that you are obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why.

      Get up, Franco said.

      If you wish. The wub rose, grunting. Be patient. It is difficult for me. It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.

      Shoot it now, French said.

      For God's sake! Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray with fear.

      You didn't see him—like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn't come down, he'd still be there.

      Who? The Captain? Peterson stared around. But he's all right now.

      They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling.

      Come on, Franco said. Out of the way.

      The men pulled aside toward the door.

      You are quite afraid, aren't you? the wub said. Have I done anything to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn about you. I suggested to the native—

      The gun jerked.

      See, Franco said. I thought so.

      The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it.

      It is very warm, the wub said. I understand that we are close to the jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with it—technically. Apparently, your scientific hierarchy is not equipped to solve moral, ethical—

      Franco turned to the men, crowding behind him, wide-eyed, silent.

      I'll do it. You can watch.

      French nodded. Try to hit the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit the chest. If the rib cage shatters, we'll have to pick bones out.

      Listen, Peterson said, licking his lips. Has it done anything? What harm has it done? I'm asking you. And anyhow, it's still mine. You have no right to shoot it. It doesn't belong to you.

      Franco raised his gun.

      I'm going out, Jones said, his face white and sick. I don't want to see it.

      Me, too, French said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson lingered at the door.

      It was talking to me about myths, he said. It wouldn't hurt anyone.

      He went outside.

      Franco walked toward the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.

      A very foolish thing, it said. I am sorry that you want to do it. There was a parable that your Saviour related—

      It stopped, staring at the gun.

      Can you look me in the eye and do it? the wub said. Can you do that?

      The Captain gazed down. I can look you in the eye, he said. Back on the farm we had hogs, dirty razor-back hogs. I can do it.

      Staring down at the wub, into the gleaming, moist eyes, he pressed the trigger.

      THE taste was excellent.

      They sat glumly around the table, some of them hardly eating at all. The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Captain Franco.

      More? he said, looking around. More? And some wine, perhaps.

      Not me, French said. I think I'll go back to the chart room.

      Me, too. Jones stood up, pushing his chair back. I'll see you later.

      The Captain watched them go. Some of the others excused themselves.

      What do you suppose the matter is? the Captain said. He turned to Peterson. Peterson sat staring down at his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat.

      He opened his mouth. No sound came.

      The Captain put his hand on Peterson's shoulder.

      It is only organic matter, now, he said. The life essence is gone. He ate, spooning up the gravy with some bread. I, myself, love to eat. It is one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy. Eating, resting, meditation, discussing things.

      Peterson nodded. Two more men got up and went out. The Captain drank some water and sighed.

      Well, he said. I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All the reports I had heard were quite true—the taste of wub. Very fine. But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past.

      He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Peterson stared dejectedly at the table.

      The Captain watched him intently. He leaned over.

      Come, come, he said. Cheer up! Let's discuss things.

      He smiled.

      As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the myths—

      Peterson jerked up, staring.

      To go on, the Captain said. Odysseus, as I understand him—

      Beyond the Door

      Larry Thomas bought a cuckoo clock for his wife—

      without knowing the price he would have to pay.

      THAT NIGHT at the dinner table he brought it out and set it down beside her plate. Doris stared at it, her hand to her mouth. My God, what is it? She looked up at him, bright-eyed.

      Well, open it.

      Doris tore the ribbon and paper from the square package with her sharp nails, her bosom rising and falling. Larry stood watching her as she lifted the lid. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall.

      A cuckoo clock! Doris cried. A real old cuckoo clock like my mother had. She turned the clock over and over. Just like my mother had, when Pete was still alive. Her eyes sparkled with tears.

      It's made in Germany, Larry said. After a moment he added, Carl got it for me wholesale. He knows some guy in the clock business. Otherwise I wouldn't have— He stopped.

      Doris made a funny little sound.

      I mean, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to afford it. He scowled. What's the matter with you? You've got your clock, haven't you? Isn't that what you want?

      Doris sat holding onto the clock, her fingers pressed against the brown wood.

      Well, Larry said, what's the matter?

      He watched in amazement as she leaped up and ran from the room, still clutching the clock. He shook his head. Never satisfied. They're all that way. Never get enough.

      He sat down at the table and finished his meal.

      The cuckoo clock was not very large. It was hand-made, however, and there were countless frets on it, little indentations and ornaments scored in the soft wood. Doris sat on the bed drying her eyes and winding the clock. She set the hands by her wristwatch. Presently she carefully moved the hands to two minutes of ten. She carried the clock over to the dresser and propped it up.

      Then she sat waiting, her hands twisted together in her lap—waiting for the cuckoo to come out, for the hour to strike.

      As she sat she thought about Larry and what he had said. And what she had said, too, for that matter—not that she could be blamed for any of it. After all, she couldn't keep listening to him forever without defending herself; you had to blow your own trumpet in the world.

      She touched her handkerchief to her eyes suddenly. Why did he have to say that, about getting it wholesale? Why did he have to spoil it all? If he felt that way he needn't have got it in the first place. She clenched her fists. He was so mean, so damn mean.

      But she was glad of the little clock sitting there ticking to itself, with its funny grilled edges and the door. Inside the door was the cuckoo, waiting to come out. Was he listening, his head cocked on one side, listening to hear the clock strike so that he would know to come out?

      Did he sleep between hours? Well, she would soon see him: she could ask him. And she would show the clock to Bob. He would love it; Bob loved old things, even old stamps and buttons. He liked to go with her to the stores. Of course, it was a little awkward, but Larry had been staying at the office so much, and that helped. If only Larry didn't call up sometimes to—

      There was a whirr. The clock shuddered and all at once the door opened. The cuckoo came out, sliding swiftly. He paused and looked around solemnly, scrutinizing her, the room, the furniture.

      It was the first time he had seen her, she realized, smiling to herself in pleasure. She stood up, coming toward him shyly. Go on, she said. I'm waiting.

      The cuckoo opened his bill. He whirred and chirped, quickly, rhythmically. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he retired. And the door snapped shut.

      She was delighted. She clapped her hands and spun in a little circle. He was marvelous, perfect! And the way he had looked around, studying her, sizing her up. He liked her; she was certain of it. And she, of course, loved him at once, completely. He was just what she had hoped would come out of the little door.

      Doris went to the clock. She bent over the little door, her lips close to the wood. Do you hear me? she whispered. I think you're the most wonderful cuckoo in the world. She paused, embarrassed. I hope you'll like it here.

      Then she went downstairs again, slowly, her head high.

      Larry and the cuckoo clock really never got along well from the start. Doris said it was because he didn't wind it right, and it didn't like being only half-wound all the time. Larry turned the job of winding over to her; the cuckoo came out every quarter hour and ran the spring down without remorse, and someone had to be ever after it, winding it up again.

      Doris did her best, but she forgot a good deal of the time. Then Larry would throw his newspaper down with an elaborate weary motion and stand up. He would go into the dining-room where the clock was mounted on the wall over the fireplace. He would take the clock down and making sure that he had his thumb over the little door, he would wind it up.

      Why do you put your thumb over the door? Doris asked once.

      You're supposed to.

      She raised an eyebrow. Are you sure? I wonder if it isn't that you don't want him to come out while you're standing so close.

      Why not?

      Maybe you're afraid of him.

      Larry laughed. He put the clock back on the wall and gingerly removed his thumb. When Doris wasn't looking he examined his thumb.

      There was still a trace of the nick cut out of the soft part of it. Who—or what—had pecked at him?

      ONE Saturday morning, when Larry was down at the office working over some important special accounts, Bob Chambers came to the front porch and rang the bell.

      Doris was taking a quick shower. She dried herself and slipped into her robe. When she opened the door Bob stepped inside, grinning.

      Hi, he said, looking around.

      It's all right. Larry's at the office.

      Fine. Bob gazed at her slim legs below the hem of the robe. How nice you look today.

      She laughed. Be careful! Maybe I shouldn't let you in after all.

      They looked at one another, half amused half frightened. Presently Bob said, If you want, I'll—

      No, for God's sake. She caught hold of his sleeve. Just get out of the doorway so I can close it. Mrs. Peters across the street, you know.

      She closed the door. And I want to show you something, she said. You haven't seen it.

      He was interested. An antique? Or what?

      She took his arm, leading him toward the dining-room. You'll love it, Bobby. She stopped, wide-eyed. "I hope you will. You must; you must love it. It means so much to me—he means so much."

      He? Bob frowned. Who is he?

      Doris laughed. You're jealous! Come on. A moment later they stood before the clock, looking up at it. He'll come out in a few minutes. Wait until you see him. I know you two will get along just fine.

      What does Larry think of him?

      They don't like each other. Sometimes when Larry's here he won't come out. Larry gets mad if he doesn't come out on time. He says—

      Says what?

      Doris looked down. He always says he's been robbed, even if he did get it wholesale. She brightened. But I know he won't come out because he doesn't like Larry. When I'm here alone he comes right out for me, every fifteen minutes, even though he really only has to come out on the hour.

      She gazed up at the clock. He comes out for me because he wants to. We talk; I tell him things. Of course, I'd like to have him upstairs in my room, but it wouldn't be right.

      There was the sound of footsteps on the front porch. They looked at each other, horrified.

      Larry pushed the front door open, grunting. He set his briefcase down and took off his hat. Then he saw Bob for the first time.

      Chambers. I'll be damned. His eyes narrowed. What are you doing here? He came into the dining-room. Doris drew her robe about her helplessly, backing away.

      I— Bob began. That is, we— He broke off, glancing at Doris. Suddenly the clock began to whirr. The cuckoo came rushing out, bursting into sound. Larry moved toward him.

      Shut that din off, he said. He raised his fist toward the clock. The cuckoo snapped into silence and retreated. The door closed. That's better. Larry studied Doris and Bob, standing mutely together.

      I came over to look at the clock, Bob said. Doris told me that it's a rare antique and that—

      Nuts. I bought it myself. Larry walked up to him. Get out of here. He turned to Doris. You too. And take that damn clock with you.

      He paused, rubbing his chin. No. Leave the clock here. It's mine; I bought it and paid for it.

      In the weeks that followed after Doris left, Larry and the cuckoo clock got along even worse than before. For one thing, the cuckoo stayed inside most of the time, sometimes even at twelve o'clock when he should have been busiest. And if he did come out at all he usually spoke only once or twice, never the correct number of times. And there was a sullen, uncooperative note in his voice, a jarring sound that made Larry uneasy and a little angry.

      But he kept the clock wound, because the house was very still and quiet and it got on his nerves not to hear someone running around, talking and dropping things. And even the whirring of a clock sounded good to him.

      But he didn't like the cuckoo at all. And sometimes he spoke to him.

      Listen, he said late one night to the closed little door. I know you can hear me. I ought to give you back to the Germans—back to the Black Forest. He paced back and forth. I wonder what they're doing now, the two of them. That young punk with his books and his antiques. A man shouldn't be interested in antiques; that's for women.

      He set his jaw. Isn't that right?

      The clock said nothing. Larry walked up in front of it. Isn't that right? he demanded. Don't you have anything to say?

      He looked at the face of the clock. It was almost eleven, just a few seconds before the hour. All right. I'll wait until eleven. Then I want to hear what you have to say. You've been pretty quiet the last few weeks since she left.

      He grinned wryly. Maybe you don't like it here since she's gone. He scowled. Well, I paid for you, and you're coming out whether you like it or not. You hear me?

      Eleven o'clock came. Far off, at the end of town, the great tower clock boomed sleepily to itself. But the little door remained shut. Nothing moved. The minute hand passed on and the cuckoo did not stir. He was someplace inside the clock, beyond the door, silent and remote.

      All right, if that's the way you feel, Larry murmured, his lips twisting. But it isn't fair. It's your job to come out. We all have to do things we don't like.

      He went unhappily into the kitchen and opened the great gleaming refrigerator. As he poured himself a drink he thought about the clock.

      There was no doubt about it—the cuckoo should come out, Doris or no Doris. He had always liked her, from the very start. They had got along well, the two of them. Probably he liked Bob too—probably he had seen enough of Bob to get to know him. They would be quite happy together, Bob and Doris and the cuckoo.

      Larry finished his drink. He opened the drawer at the sink and took out the hammer. He carried it carefully into the dining-room. The clock was ticking gently to itself on the wall.

      Look, he said, waving the hammer. You know what I have here? You know what I'm going to do with it? I'm going to start on you—first. He smiled. Birds of a feather, that's what you are—the three of you.

      The room was silent.

      Are you coming out? Or do I have to come in and get you?

      The clock whirred a little.

      I hear you in there. You've got a lot of talking to do, enough for the last three weeks. As I figure it, you owe me—

      The door opened. The cuckoo came out fast, straight at him. Larry was looking down, his brow wrinkled in thought. He glanced up, and the cuckoo caught him squarely in the eye.

      Down he went, hammer and chair and everything, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment the cuckoo paused, its small body poised rigidly. Then it went back inside its house. The door snapped tight-shut after it.

      The man lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely, his head bent over to one side. Nothing moved or stirred. The room was completely silent, except, of course, for the ticking of the clock.

      I SEE, Doris said, her face tight. Bob put his arm around her, steadying her.

      Doctor, Bob said, can I ask you something?

      Of course, the doctor said.

      Is it very easy to break your neck, falling from so low a chair? It wasn't very far to fall. I wonder if it might not have been an accident. Is there any chance it might have been—

      Suicide? the doctor rubbed his jaw. I never heard of anyone committing suicide that way. It was an accident; I'm positive.

      I don't mean suicide, Bob murmured under his breath, looking up at the clock on the wall. "I meant something else."

      But no one heard him.

      Mr. Spaceship

      KRAMER leaned back. You can see the situation. How can we deal with a factor like this? The perfect variable.

      Perfect? Prediction should still be possible. A living thing still acts from necessity, the same as inanimate material. But the cause-effect chain is more subtle; there are more factors to be considered. The difference is quantitative, I think. The reaction of the living organism parallels natural causation, but with greater complexity.

      Gross and Kramer looked up at the

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1