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    Solar Lottery
    Solar Lottery
    Solar Lottery
    Ebook226 pages4 hours

    Solar Lottery

    By Philip K. Dick

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    From the acclaimed author of Ubik—in the future, Earth’s leader is randomly chosen by a computer, but some are unwilling to leave everything to chance.

    In 2203 anyone can become the ruler of the solar system. There are no elections, no interviews, no prerequisites whatsoever—it all comes down to the random turns of a giant wheel. But when a new Quizmaster takes over, the old one still keeps some rights, namely the right to hire an unending stream of assassins to attempt to kill the new leader.

    In the wake of the most recent change in leadership, employees of the former ruler scurry to find an assassin who can get past telepathic guards. But when one employee switches sides, troubling facts about the lottery system come to light, and it just might not be possible for anyone to win.

    “Built up with the detail of a Heinlein and the satire of a Kornbluth.”—Anthony Boucher, author of The Case of the Crumpled Knave
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateAug 14, 2012
    ISBN9780547760407
    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.

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    3.5/5

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    • 3/5
      Another short, thrill-filled ride by Philip K. Dick. The prose is sharp and the action is quick and unpredictable. Everything that most readers like about Dick is here and he keeps the reader entertained throughout the duration of the ride. A good read.
    • 4/5
      My reactions on reading this novel in 1989 -- spoilers are definitely here.Given all of Dick's own statements and complaints about the supposed bad quality of this novel, I was expecting a bad read. I was pleasantly surprised. Dick creates an intriguing society ruled by lottery, social Darwinism, and the economics of conspicous consumption. Dick postulates economic depression eroding people's faith in natural law and a political system based entirely on chance emerging. People also become absurdly superstitious (the omens at the novel's beginning are very Roman-like as is the social feature of patronage mentioned in passing. The application of von Neumann's game theory to society was interesting. Dick's political order is randomness and survival of the fittest incarnate. Even at this state of his career, Dick's ear for dialogue was good though his characterization was not quite as developed as it was to become but it's still good. The book's plot whizzes along enough to qualify for Dick's term of "potboiler". The characters are every bit as mercurial and illrational as ever in Dick's work, a trait that accounts for his very believeable characters. The book's big fault, though, is in the details of his society. There's really only about two pages of social exposition, and Dick leaves many questions unanswered: How do quizzes fit in to the order? Why is the chief official the Quizmaster? How are classifications changed? What is the relation between the classified and unclassified? Under what conditions does the bottle twitch and slect a new leader? How do the p-cards work? Dick leaves a lot unexplained. I was intrigued by the idea of publically sanctioned assassination as an answer to tyranny and incompotence -- though I wouldn't want to live in such a society. I also liked Dick's use of Heisenberg's Uncertainity Principle in political and philosophical terms. The figure of Moore and his contradictary, scheming, pontifical nature reminded me of Joseph Goebbels. And Dick, with the Pellig machine, introduces, in a muted form, his concern with reality's nature and appearance in novel form. Read enough Dick work and material about him and you begin to notice possible personally relevant things in his fiction. Here it is one remark by Ted Benteley, "And I hate fathers.". A possible clue to Dick's own feelings about his father and genesis of his distrust for authority figures. And even in this first published novel, the deceitful neurotic female (of course, there are plenty of neurotic males in Dick's works) -- as characterized by Eleanor Stevens -- makes an appearance. She is a pathetic, startling, always interesting. Her death is poignant.
    • 4/5
      A dying economy and a world population dependent on a lottery is what you will find in the year 2023. The economy is so bad, quizzes helped the many people struggling. But if you had the right p-card and your number came up you could win cars, refrigerators, toys for the kids and any other type of merchandise you wouldn't be able to afford otherwise. The “Bottle” which pumps out numbers randomly, supposedly, could even help a lucky winner gain power and prestige. And if you could get either of those you could possibly become a Quizmaster. This system was created as a method of surviving the Minimax, a way of surviving the 20th century, by a group of mathematicians including John Preston, the creator of this system. This system was put in place instead of having government. Ted Bentley who is now released from his contract with Oiseau-Lyre, sets out to become an 8-8 biochemist for the current Quizmaster, Reese Verrick. As he gets deeper in and his facts are skewed about how the operation is run it's too late to back out. He has already pledged to serve Verrick even after he finds out that Verrick is no longer the Quizmaster. Verrick implements a plan to assassinate the newest Quizmaster Leon Cartwright. As the new Quizmaster, Cartwright is protected by the Corp, a group of telepaths no assassin could get past. In order to achieve his goal, Verrick plans to use Keith Pellig, his species is unique, in that his body is a vessel that can house many minds, in order to manipulate the Corp. The action starts when Ted and Leon cross paths. Together they share an idea to change the current system that could give people a better chance of winning. But with Verrick and his crew on their trail they face the biggest challenge of their lives. Dick has created a riveting futuristic tale that has lots of twists and turns. The cities and system are a brilliant idea. Young readers will love the characters and the adventure. A great fast read for anyone.
    • 4/5
      It's 2203, and the world ruler is chosen at random, according to the rules of a game under the control of the Quizmaster. Currently, the Quizmaster is Reese Verrick, and has been such for the past ten years. However, this story isn't about the Quizmaster. It's about Ted Benteley, who, on a fateful morning, when he signs up to work for Verrick, has no idea that a new Quizmaster is to be chosen; a certain Leon Cartwright. He also has no idea that he's about to become a big player in a scheme to assassinate Leon Cartwright so that Verrick can resume his leadership as Quizmaster. However, nothing is ever as it seems, and the Universe isn't quite as random as it appears.This novella, at just 200 pages long, was quite enjoyable. Despite the brevity of the book, the main characters are quite developed. And perhaps because the story is short, it's fast-paced, except for a few scenes concerning the Prestonian subplot, where Cartwright's fellow 'cultists' go out into the farthest reaches of the solar system, seeking the Flaming Disc, which is said to be the tenth planet of the solar system.Philip K. Dick describes, in this novella, a world which is completely different, yet familiar to our own only by the vocabulary used. This was written in 1955; will humans still be using televisions in two centuries from now? Will cigarette still exist? Who knows?One aspect I also enjoyed was the use of telepaths, although this ability isn't widespread; only a few individuals have this gift, and all of them are in the police service, thus serving the Quizmaster. And when Cartwright's assassin arrives in Batavia to kill him, he manages to completely confuse the Corps, which relies only on telepathy to track him down. So not everything is perfect.Solar Lottery is a good and fun piece of science-fiction, the kind of science-fiction that one could imagine coming to fruition one day. Old and new get combined to create a realistic world which could mirror our own, and evokes familiarity with our own society.4/5
    • 3/5
      I cast about quite a while for a book to fill the "first book by a favourite author" square. I kept thinking of authors whose first works I'd already read, before finally settling on Philip K. Dick. Then it was a matter of finding a copy. I visited several bookstores (in multiple states) before finally giving up and checking this out at the library,

      This is very recognizably a Dick novel, most notably for the giant, all-encompassing system of governance designed to outsmart human failings (most specifically, our grasping for power), but which, in reality, mostly inspires cheating and superstition and does absolutely nothing for the vast majority of humanity. Also, something which may or may not be the presence of a non-human intelligence at the fringes of the solar system, but could also just be the ravings of one deluded crackpot. Perhaps a little bit less "What is reality? What is human?" than the normal Dickian novel.

      The female characters are pretty standard 1950s sci-fi fare, but what can you do?

      Some praise this book for being less prone to the deluded paranoia of Dick's later years, but personally, I have always liked that about him. This book feels more consistent with sci-fi of the time and less uniquely PKD.

      As I was thinking about what I wanted to write about this book, I realized this would be a great choice for a movie adaptation. We all know how much Hollywood loves Dick, and this one comes pre-loaded with action: a robot assassin, flights to the moon, high speed chases, people getting shot in the face, etc., etc. Of course, not I'm going to spend the rest of the day obsessing over who should play Leon Cartwright.

    Book preview

    Solar Lottery - Philip K. Dick

    title page

    Contents

    Title Page

    Contents

    Copyright

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    First Mariner Books edition 2012

    Copyright © 1955 by Philip K. Dick, copyright renewed in 1983 by Laura Coelho, Christopher Dick, and Isa Dick

    All rights reserved

    For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

    hmhbooks.com

    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

    ISBN 978-0-547-57261-1

    eISBN 978-0-547-76040-7

    v2.0620

    1

    THERE HAD BEEN harbingers. Early in May of 2203, news-machines were excited by a flight of white crows over Sweden. A series of unexplained fires demolished half the Oiseau-Lyre Hill, a basic industrial pivot of the system. Small round stones fell near work-camp installations on Mars. At Batavia, the Directorate of the nine-planet Federation, a two-headed Jersey calf was born: a certain sign that something of incredible magnitude was brewing.

    Everybody interpreted these signs according to his own formula; speculation on what the random forces of nature intended was a favorite pastime. Everybody guessed, consulted, and argued about the bottle—the socialized instrument of chance. Directorate fortunetellers were booked up weeks in advance.

    But one man’s harbinger is another man’s event. The first reaction from Oiseau-Lyre Hill to its limited catastrophe was to create total catastrophe for fifty percent of its classified employees. Fealty oaths were dissolved, and a variety of trained research technicians were tossed out. Cut adrift, they became a further symptom of the nearing moment-of-importance for the system. Most of the severed technicians floundered, sank down, and were lost among the unclassified masses. But not all of them.

    Ted Benteley yanked his dismissal notice from the board the moment he spotted it. As he walked down the hall to his office he quietly tore the notice to pieces and dropped the bits down a disposal slot. His reaction to dismissal was intense, overpowering, and immediate. It differed from the reaction of those around him in one significant respect: he was glad to have his oath severed. For thirteen years he had been trying every legal stratagem to break his fealty oath with Oiseau-Lyre.

    Back in his office, he locked the door, snapped off his Inter-Plan Visual Industries screen, and did some rapid thinking. It took only an hour to develop his plan of action, and that plan was refreshingly simple.

    At noon, Oiseau-Lyre’s outworker department returned his power card, obligatory when an oath was severed from above. It was odd seeing the card again after so many years. He stood holding it awkwardly a moment, before he carefully put it away in his wallet. It represented his one chance out of six billion in the great lottery, his fragile possibility of being twitched by the random motion of the bottle to the number One class-position. Politically speaking, he was back thirty-three years; the p-card was coded at the moment of birth.

    At 2:30, he dissolved his remaining fealty connections at Oiseau-Lyre; they were minor and mostly with himself as protector and somebody else as serf. By 4:00 he had collected his assets, liquidated them on an emergency basis (taking a high percentage loss on the fast exchange), and bought a first-class ticket on a public transport. Before nightfall he was on his way out of Europe, heading directly toward the Indonesian Empire and its capital.

    In Batavia he rented a cheap room in a boardinghouse and unpacked his suitcase. The rest of his possessions were still back in France; if he was successful he could get them later, and if he wasn’t they wouldn’t matter. Curiously, his room overlooked the main Directorate building. Swarms of people like eager tropical flies crept in and out of its multiple entrances. All roads and all spacelanes led to Batavia.

    His funds didn’t amount to much; he could stall only so long and then action was obligatory. From the Public Information Library he picked up armloads of tape and a basic scanner. As the days passed he built up an armory of information relating to all phases of biochemistry, the subject on which his original classification had been won. As he scanned and crammed he kept one grim thought in mind: applications for positional-fealty oaths to the Quizmaster were processed only once; if he failed on the first try he was through.

    That first try was going to be something. He was free of the Hill system, and he wasn’t going back.

    During the next five days he smoked endless cigarettes, paced an infinite number of times around his room, and finally got out the yellow section of the ipvic directory to look up the local bed girl agencies. His favorite agency had a nearby office; he made a grateful call, and within an hour most of his psychological problems were in the past. Between the slim blonde sent by the agency and the swank cocktail bar down the street, he was able to last another twenty-four hours. But that was as far as he could string it out. The time to act had come; it was now or never.

    A cold chill lay over him as he got out of bed that morning. Quizmaster Verrick’s hiring was integrated on the basic principle of Minimax: positional oaths were apparently passed out on a random basis. In six days Benteley hadn’t been able to plot a pattern. It was impossible to infer what factor—if any—determined successful application. He perspired, took a quick shower, and perspired again. In spite of his days of cramming he had learned nothing. He was going in blind. He shaved, dressed, paid Lori her wages, and then sent her back to the agency.

    Loneliness and fear hit him hard. He surrendered his room, stored his suitcase, and, for a better margin of safety, bought himself a second good luck charm. In a public washroom he buttoned the charm inside his shirt and dropped a dime in the phenolbarb dispenser. The sedative calmed him a trifle; he emerged and flagged down a robot taxi.

    Main Directorate building, he told the driver. And take your time.

    All right, sir or madam, the MacMillan robot answered, adding, Whatever you say. MacMillans weren’t capable of fine discriminations.

    Warm spring air billowed into the cab as it zipped above the rooftops. Benteley wasn’t interested; his eyes were fixed on the growing syndrome of buildings ahead. The night before his written papers had been shot in. He had waited about the right time; they should be appearing on the desk of the first checker along the unlimited chain of Directorate officials.

    Here we are, sir or madam. The robot taxi settled down and grappled itself to a halt. Benteley paid it and stepped from the open door.

    People hurried everywhere. The air buzzed with a constant murmur of excitement. The tension of the last few weeks had risen to fever pitch. Ramp hawkers were peddling methods, low priced sure-fire theories guaranteed to predict bottle twitches and beat the whole Minimax game. The hawkers were ignored by the hurrying throngs of people; anybody with a genuine system of prediction would be using it, not selling it.

    On a main pedestrian artery Benteley paused to light a cigarette. His hands weren’t shaking, not really. He shoved his briefcase under his arm and put his hands in his pockets as he continued slowly toward the processing lounge. The heavy check-arch passed around him and he was inside. Perhaps by this time next month he would be under fealty to the Directorate . . . he gazed up hopefully at the arch and touched one of the charms inside his shirt.

    Ted, a voice came, small and urgent. Wait.

    He halted. Breasts bobbing, Lori threaded her way through the tight-packed crowd and came quickly up to him. I have something for you, she said breathlessly. I knew I’d catch you here.

    What is it? Benteley demanded tautly. He was conscious that the Directorate’s teep Corps was close by; he didn’t particularly want his intimate thoughts in the hands of eighty bored telepaths.

    Here. Lori reached around his neck and clicked something in place. Passers-by grinned in sympathetic amusement; it was another good luck charm.

    Benteley examined the charm. It looked like an expensive one. You think it’ll do me any good? he asked her. Seeing Lori again wasn’t part of his plans.

    I hope so. She touched his arm briefly. Thanks for being so nice. You hustled me off before I could tell you. She lingered plaintively. You think you have much of a chance? Gee, if you get taken on, you’ll probably stay here in Batavia.

    Irritated, Benteley answered, You’re being teeped while you stand here. Verrick has them planted all over the place.

    I don’t mind, Lori said wistfully. A bed girl has nothing to conceal.

    Benteley wasn’t amused. I don’t like it. I’ve never been teeped in my life. He shrugged. But I guess if I’m going to lock on here, I’ll have to get used to it.

    He moved toward the central desk, his i.d. and power cards ready. The line moved rapidly. A few moments later the MacMillan official accepted them, devoured them, and then addressed him peevishly. All right, Ted Benteley. You may go in now.

    Well, Lori said wanly, I guess I’ll be seeing you. If you get locked on here . . .

    Benteley stubbed out his cigarette and turned toward the entrance of the inner offices. I’ll look you up, he murmured, scarcely aware of the girl. He pushed past the rows of waiting people, swept his briefcase tight against him, and stepped quickly through the door. The door snapped instantly shut behind him.

    He was inside: it had begun.

    A small middle-aged man with steel-rimmed glasses and a tiny waxed mustache was standing by the door watching him intently. You’re Benteley, are you?

    That’s right, Benteley answered. I’m here to see Quizmaster Verrick.

    Why?

    I’m looking for a class 8–8 position.

    A girl pushed abruptly into the office. Ignoring Benteley, she said rapidly, Well, it’s over. She touched her temple. See? Now are you satisfied?

    Don’t blame me, the small man said. It’s the law.

    The law! The girl slid up onto the desk and shrugged her tangle of crimson hair back out of her eyes. She grabbed a package of cigarettes from the desk and lit up with shaky, nervous fingers. Let’s get the hell out of here, Peter. There’s nothing of importance left.

    You know I’m staying, the small man said.

    You’re a fool. The girl half turned as she noticed Benteley for the first time. Her green eyes flickered with surprise and interest. Who are you?

    Maybe you better come back some other time, the small man said to Benteley. This isn’t exactly the—

    I didn’t come this far to get the runaround, Benteley said hoarsely. Where’s Verrick?

    The girl eyed him curiously. You want to see Reese? What are you selling?

    I’m a biochemist, Benteley answered savagely. I’m looking for a class 8–8 position.

    A faint touch of amusement twisted the girl’s red lips. Is that so? Interesting . . . She shrugged her bare shoulders. Swear him on, Peter.

    The small man hesitated. Reluctantly, he stuck out his hand. I’m Peter Wakeman, he said to Benteley. This girl is Eleanor Stevens. She’s Verrick’s private secretary.

    It wasn’t exactly what Benteley had expected. There was a momentary silence as the three of them appraised one another.

    The MacMillan sent him on in, Wakeman said presently. There’s an open call for 8–8 people. But I think Verrick has no need for more biochemists; he’s got enough already.

    What do you know about it? Eleanor Stevens demanded. It’s none of your business; you’re not running personnel.

    I’m using common sense. Wakeman moved very deliberately between the girl and Benteley. I’m sorry, he said to Benteley. You’re wasting your time here. Go to the Hill hiring offices—they’re always buying and selling biochemists.

    I know, Benteley said. I’ve worked for the Hill system since I was sixteen.

    Then what do you want here? Eleanor asked.

    Oiseau-Lyre dropped me.

    Go over to Soong.

    I’m not working for any more Hills! Benteley’s voice lifted harshly. I’m through with the Hills.

    Why? Wakeman asked.

    Benteley grunted angrily. The Hills are corrupt. The whole system’s decaying. It’s up for sale to the highest bidder . . . and bidding’s going on.

    Wakeman pondered. I don’t see what that matters to you. You have your work; that’s what you’re supposed to be thinking about.

    For my time, skill, and loyalty I get money, Benteley agreed. I have a clean white lab and the use of equipment that costs more to build than I’ll earn in a lifetime. I get status-insurance and total protection. But I wonder what the end result of my work is. I wonder what it’s finally put to. I wonder where it goes.

    Where does it go? Eleanor asked.

    Down the rat hole! It doesn’t help anybody.

    Whom should it help?

    Benteley struggled to answer. I don’t know. Somebody, somewhere. Don’t you want your work to do some good? I stood the smell hanging around Oiseau-Lyre as long as possible. The Hills are supposed to be separate and independent economic units; actually they’re shipments and expense padding and doctored tax returns. It goes deeper than that. You know the Hill slogan: SERVICE IS GOOD AND BETTER SERVICE IS BEST. That’s a laugh! You think the Hills care about serving anybody? Instead of existing for the public good, they’re parasites on the public.

    I never imagined the Hills were philanthropic organizations, Wakeman said dryly.

    Benteley moved restlessly away from the two of them; they were watching him as if he were a public entertainer. Why did he get upset about the Hills? Playing classified serf to a Hill paid off; nobody had complained yet. But he was complaining. Maybe it was lack of realism on his part, an anachronistic survival the child-guidance clinic hadn’t been able to shake out of him. Whatever it was, he had taken as much as he could stand.

    How do you know the Directorate is any better? Wakeman asked. You have a lot of illusions about it, I think.

    Let him swear on, Eleanor said indifferently. If that’s what he wants, give it to him.

    Wakeman shook his head. I won’t swear him on.

    I will, then, the girl answered.

    You’ll pardon me, Wakeman said. From the desk drawer he got a fifth of Scotch and poured himself a drink. Anybody care to join me?

    No, thanks, Eleanor said.

    Benteley turned his back irritably. What the hell is all this? Is this the way the Directorate is run?

    Wakeman smiled. You see? Your illusions are being shattered. Stay where you are, Benteley. You don’t know when you’re well off.

    Eleanor slid from the desk and hurried out of the room. She returned in a moment with the customary symbol-representation of the Quizmaster. Come over here, Benteley. I’ll accept your oath. She placed a small plastic flesh-colored bust of Reese Verrick in the center of the desk and turned briskly to Benteley. Come on. As Benteley moved slowly toward the desk, she reached up and touched the cloth bag hanging from a string around his neck, the charm Lori had put there. What kind of charm is that? she asked him. She led him over beside her. Tell me about it.

    Benteley showed her the bit of magnetized steel and white powder. Virgin’s milk, he explained curtly.

    That’s all you carry? Eleanor indicated the array of charms dangling between her bare breasts. I don’t understand how people get by with only one charm. Her green eyes danced. Maybe you don’t get by. Maybe that’s why you have bad luck.

    I have a high positive scale, Benteley began irritably. And I have two other charms. Somebody gave me this.

    Oh? She leaned close and examined it intently. It looks like the kind of charm a woman would buy. Expensive, but a little too flashy.

    Is it true, Benteley asked her, that Verrick doesn’t carry any charms?

    That’s right, Wakeman spoke up. He doesn’t need them. When the bottle twitched him to One he was already class 6–3. Talk about luck—that man has it. He’s risen all the way to the top, exactly as you see on the children’s edutapes. Luck leaks out of his pores.

    "I’ve seen people touch him hoping to get

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