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    The Penultimate Truth
    The Penultimate Truth
    The Penultimate Truth
    Ebook267 pages5 hours

    The Penultimate Truth

    By Philip K. Dick

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    In this dystopian novel from the author of The Man in the High Castle, humanity is forced to live underground while a great secret hides above them.

    In the future, most of humanity lives in massive underground bunkers, producing weapons for the nuclear war they’ve fled. Constantly bombarded by patriotic propaganda, the citizens of these industrial anthills believe they are waiting for the day when the war will be over and they can return aboveground. But when Nick St. James, president of one anthill, makes an unauthorized trip to the surface, what he finds is more shocking than anything he could imagine.

    “At a time when most 20th-century science fiction writers seem hopelessly dated, Dick gives us a vision of the future that captures the feel of our time.”—Wired
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateJan 24, 2012
    ISBN9780547601359
    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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      The Penultimate Truth - Philip K. Dick

      title page

      Contents

      Title Page

      Contents

      Copyright

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      First Mariner Books edition 2011

      Copyright © 1964 by Philip K. Dick

      Copyright renewed 1992 by Laura Coelho, Christopher Dick, and Isa Hackett

      Originally published by Belmont Books in 1964.

      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

      Dick, Philip K.

      The penultimate truth / Philip K. Dick.—1st Mariner Books ed.

      p. cm.

      ISBN 978-0-547-57247-5

      1. Nuclear warfare—Fiction. 2. Underground areas—Fiction. 3. Regression (Civilization)—Fiction. I. Title.

      PS3554.I3P4 2011

      813'.54—dc22

      2011015942

      eISBN 978-0-547-60135-9

      v2.0620

      1

      A fog can drift in from outside and get you; it can invade. At the long high window of his library—an Ozymandiasian structure built from concrete chunks that had once in another age formed an entrance ramp to the Bayshore Freeway—Joseph Adams pondered, watched the fog, that of the Pacific. And because this was evening and the world was darkening, this fog scared him as much as that other fog, the one inside which did not invade but stretched and stirred and filled the empty portions of the body. Usually the latter fog is called loneliness.

      Fix me a drink, Colleen said plaintively from behind him.

      Your arm, he said, it fell off? You can’t squeeze the lemon? He turned from the window with its view of dead trees, the Pacific beyond and its layer in the sky, darkness hanging and approaching, and for a moment actually considered fixing her the drink. And then he knew what he had to do, where he had to be:

      At the marble-top desk which had been salvaged from a bombed-out house in the Russian Hill section of the former city of San Francisco he seated himself at the rhetorizor, touched its on-tab.

      Groaning, Colleen disappeared to search for a leady to fix her the drink. Joseph Adams, at his desk and rhetorizor, heard her go and was glad. For some reason—but here he did not care to probe his own mind too deeply—he was lonelier with Colleen Hackett than without her, and anyhow late on Sunday night he fixed a dreadful drink; it was always too sweet, as if by mistake one of his leadies had dug up a bottle of Tokay and he had used it, not dry vermouth, in the martinis. Ironically, left to themselves, the leadies never made that error . . . was this an omen? Joe Adams wondered. Are they getting smarter than us?

      At the keyboard of the rhetorizor he typed, carefully, the substantive he wanted. Squirrel. Then, after a good two minutes of sluggish, deep thought, the limiting adjective smart.

      Okay, he said, aloud, and sat back, touched the rerun tab.

      The rhetorizor, as Colleen reentered the library with her tall gin drink, began to construct for him in the auddimension. It is a wise old squirrel, it said tinnily (it possessed only a two-inch speaker), and yet this little fellow’s wisdom is not its own; nature has endowed it—

      Aw god, Joe Adams said savagely, and slapped off the sleek, steel and plastic machine with all its many microcomponents; it became silent. He then noticed Colleen. "Sorry. But I’m tired. Why can’t they, Brose or General Holt or Marshal Harenzany, somebody in a position of responsibility, put Sunday night somewhere between Friday noon and—"

      Dear, Colleen said, and sighed. I heard you type out only two semantic units. Give it more to ogpon.

      I’ll give it plenty to ogpon. He touched the no-tab, typed a whole sentence, as Colleen stood behind him, sipping and watching. Okay?

      I just can never tell about you, Colleen said. If you passionately love your job or hate it. She read the sentence aloud. ‘The well-informed dead rat romped under the tongue-tied pink log.’

      Listen, he said grimly. I want to see what this stupid assist that cost me fifteen thousand Wes-Dem dollars is going to do with that. I’m serious; I’m waiting. He jabbed the rerun tab of the machine.

      When’s the speech due? she asked.

      Tomorrow.

      Get up early.

      Oh no. He thought, I hate it even more when it’s early.

      The rhetorizor, in its cricket’s voice, intoned folksily. We think of rats, of course, as our enemy. But consider their vast value to us in cancer research alone. The lowly rat has done yeoman’s service for huma—

      Again, at his savage instigation, it died into silence.

      —nity, Colleen said distantly; she was inspecting the authentic long-ago dug up Epstein bust in the niche that divided the west wall shelves of books, where Joseph Adams kept his reference texts on TV commercials of the last, past, great twentieth century, in particular the religious and the Mars candy bar inspired creations of Stan Freberg. A miserable metaphor, she murmured. A yeoman rat . . . yeomen were young villagers during the Medieval period, and I bet even though you’re such a pro you didn’t know that. She nodded to a leady which had come to the library door at her request. Get my cloak and have my flapple brought to the main entrance. To Joe she said, I’m flapping back to my own villa. When he didn’t answer she said, Joe, try it, the entire speech, without that assist; write it in your own words. And then you won’t have ‘yeoman rats’ to make you so cross.

      He thought, I don’t think honestly I could do it, in my own words, without this machine; I’m hooked on it now.

      Outside, the fog had managed a complete success; he saw, with one brief sideways glance, that it inhabited the world right to the window of his library. Well, he thought, anyhow we’re spared another one of those brilliant, radioactive-particles-in-suspension-for-all-eternity sunsets.

      Your flapple, Miss Hackett, the leady announced, is at the main entrance and I hear by remote that your type II chauffeur holds the door open for you. And due to the evening vapors one of Mr. Adams’s household servants will shed warm air about you until you are tucked safely inside.

      Jeez, Joseph Adams said, and shook his head.

      Colleen said, You teached it, dear. It got its precious jargony linguistic habits straight out of you.

      Because, he said bitterly, I like style and pomp and ritual. Turning to her, appealing, he said, "Brose told me in a memo, it showed up at the Agency directly from his own bureau in Geneva, that this speech has to use a squirrel as the operational entity. What can you say about them that hasn’t already been said? They save; they’re thrifty. We know that. Do they do anything else good that you know of, that you could hang a goddam moral on?" And he thought, they’re all dead. There just isn’t such a life form any more. But we still extol its virtues . . . after having exterminated it as a race.

      On the keyboard of the rhetorizor he vigorously, with deliberation, punched two new semantic units. Squirrel. And— genocide.

      The machine, presently, declared, The funniest thing happened to me on my way to the bank, yesterday. I happened to pass through Central Park, and you know how—

      Incredulous, staring at the machine, Joe said, "You passed through Central Park yesterday? Central Park’s been gone forty years."

      Joe, it’s just a machine. Cloak on, she returned momentarily to kiss him goodnight.

      But the thing’s insane, he protested. "And it said ‘funny’ when I fed in genocide. Did you—"

      It’s reminiscing, Colleen said, trying to explain it to him; she knelt briefly, touched his face with her fingers and peered at him, eye to eye. I love you, she said, but you’re going to die; you’re going to rupture yourself working. Through my office at the Agency I’ll file a formal petition to Brose, asking if you can take two weeks off. I have something for you, a gift; one of my leadies dug it up near my villa; legally within the boundaries of my demesne, as per that recent little interchange my leadies had with those of my north neighbor’s.

      A book. He felt a flicker within him, the peaked flame of life.

      An especially good book, the real prewar thing, not a Xeroxed copy. Know what of?

      Alice in Wonderland. He had heard so much about that, had always wanted to own it and read it.

      "Better. One of those outrageously funny books from the 1960s—in good shape: both front and back covers intact. A self-help book; How I Tranquilized Myself by Drinking Onion Juice or some such thing. I Made a Million Dollars by Leading Two-and-a-Half Lives for the FBI. Or—"

      He said, Colleen, one day I looked out the window and I saw a squirrel.

      Staring at him she said, No.

      The tail; you can’t mistake the tail. It’s as round and fat and gray as a bottle brush. And they hop like this. He made a wicket-motion with his hand, showing her, trying to recapture it, for himself, too. I squalled; I got four of my leadies out there with— He shrugged. Anyhow they finally came back and said, ‘There’s no such thing out there, dominus,’ or some darn remark. He was silent a moment. It had, of course, been a hypnagogic hallucination, based on too many drinks and too little sleep. He knew it. The leadies knew it. And now Colleen knew it. But just suppose, he said, then.

      Write, in your own words, how you felt. By hand on paper—not dictated into a recorder. What finding a thriving, living squirrel would have meant to you. She gestured scathingly at his fifteen thousand dollar rhetorizor. "Not what it thinks. And—"

      And Brose himself, he said, would strike it. Maybe I could get it through the ’vac, to the sim and then on tape; I think it’d go that far. But never past Geneva. Because I wouldn’t be saying, in effect, ‘Come on, fellas; carry on.’ I’d be saying— He considered feeling peaceful for a moment now. I’ll try, he decided, and rose to his feet, pushing his old-California wicker chair back. Okay, I’ll even do it in longhand; I’ll find a—what do you call them?

      Ballpoint pen. Think of your cousin who was killed in the war: Ken. Then remember you’re both men. Then you have it: pen.

      He nodded. And program the ’vac direct from that. You might be right; it’d be depressing but at least it wouldn’t make me sick stomachwise; I wouldn’t get those pyloric spasms. He began searching around the library for—what had she called it?

      Still on rerun, the rhetorizor squeaked to itself, . . . and that little fellow; inside that head was packed a powerful lot of savvy. Maybe even more than you or I can ever guess. And I think we can learn from him. It droned on. Inside it thousands of microcomponents spun the problem from a dozen drums of info-data; it could go on forever, but Joe Adams was busy; now he had found a pen and all he needed was blank white paper. Hell, he surely had that; he beckoned to the leady waiting to escort Colleen to her flapple.

      Get the staff, he instructed it, to search up paper for me to write on. Go through every room of the villa, including all the bedrooms, even those not currently in use. I distinctly remember seeing a folio or packet of it, however it used to come. It was dug up.

      By direct radio contact the leady passed on his command and he felt the building stir, through the villa’s fifty-odd rooms, his staff moving into activity from the spot where each had halted after its last task. He, the dominus, sensed, with the soles of his feet, the burgeoning life of this his building and some of the inside fog went away, even though they were only what the Czechs had called robots, their crazy word for workers.

      But, outside, the fog scratched at the window.

      And when Colleen left, he knew, it would pluck and scrape, try to get in, more determinedly.

      He wished it were Monday and he were at the Agency, in New York at his office, with other Yance-men around him. And the life there would not be the movement of dead—or rather, to be fair, unliving—things. But the reality itself.

      I can tell you, he said suddenly. I love my work. In fact I’ve got to have it; there’s nothing else. Not this— He gestured at the room in which they stood, then at the murky, clouded-over window.

      Like a drug, Colleen said, perceptively.

      Okay. He nodded. To use the archaic expression, ‘I’ll purchase that.’

      Some linguist, she said gently. "It’s buy. Maybe you ought to use that machine after all."

      No, he said, at once. You were right; I’m going all the way back to trying it direct, on my own. Any moment now one of his staff of leadies would come clanking in with blank white paper; he was sure he possessed it, somewhere. And if he didn’t he could swap some item with a neighbor, make a trip, surrounded and protected, of course, by his entourage of leadies, to the demesne and villa to the south, that of Ferris Granville. Ferris would have paper; he had told them on the open-channel vidline last week, composing his—god forbid—memoirs.

      Whatever in, on or over Earth memoirs were.

      2

      Time for bed. The clock said so, but—suppose the power had been off again, as it had for almost a whole day last week; the clock might be hours wrong. It might in fact, Nicholas St. James thought morbidly, really be time to get up. And the metabolism of his body, even after all these years underground, told him nothing.

      In the shared bathroom of their cubby, 67-B of the Tom Mix, water ran; his wife was taking a shower. So Nicholas searched about her vanity table until he found her wrist watch, read it; both timepieces agreed, therefore that was that. And yet he felt wide-awake. The Maury Souza affair, he realized; it preyed vulturely on him, made a trough of his brain. This is how it must feel, he thought, to contract the Bag Plague, where those virtues get in and cause your head to expand until it pops like a blown-up paper bag. Maybe I’m sick, he thought. Actually. Even more so than Souza. And Maury Souza, the chief mechanic of their ant tank, now in his seventies, was dying.

      I’m out, Rita called from the bathroom. However, the shower still ran; she was not out. I mean, you can come in and brush your teeth or put them in a glass or whatever it is you do.

      What I do, he thought, is get the Bag Plague . . . probably that last damaged leady they sent down hadn’t been ’cided properly. Or I’ve picked up the Stink of Shrink, and from that he physically cringed; imagine, he thought, having your head diminish in size, features included, to the circumference of a marble. Okay, he said, reflexively, and began to unlace his work boots. He felt the need to be clean; he would shower, too, despite the severe water ration currently in force at the Tom Mix, and by his own edict. When you do not feel clean, he realized, you are doomed. Considering exactly what we could be made unclean by, the microscopic things downfalling to us that some careless ambulatory metal hunk of handmade parts had failed to ‘cide out of existence before yanking the drop switch, shooting three hundred pounds of contaminated matter to us, something both hot and dirty at the same time . . . hot with radioactivity and dirty with germs. Great combination, he thought.

      And, in the back part of his mind, again he recalled: Souza is dying. What else matters? Because—how long can we last without that one grumpy old man?

      Approximately two weeks. Because their quota came up for auditing in two weeks. And this time, if he knew his luck and his tank’s, it would be one of the Minister of the Interior Stanton Brose’s agents, not General Holt’s. They rotated. It prevented, the image of Yancy on the big screen had once said, corruption.

      Picking up the audphone he dialed the tank’s clinic.

      How is he?

      On the other end Dr. Carol Tigh, their G.P. in charge of their small clinic, said, No change. He’s conscious. Come on down; he tells me he’d like to talk to you.

      Okay. Nicholas rang off, shouted—through the noise of running water—to Rita that he was going, and left their cubby; outside in the common corridor he bumped past other tankers on their ways from the shops and recreation rooms to their cubbies for bed: the clocks had been right, because he saw numerous bathrobes and standard issue synthetic wubfur-fuzz slippers. This really is bedtime, he decided. But he knew he still could not sleep.

      Three floors down, at the clinic, he passed through empty waiting rooms—the clinic was closed, except for its bed patients—and then passed the nurses’ station; the nurse stood up respectfully to greet him because after all Nicholas was their elected president, and then he found himself at the closed door of Maury Souza’s room with its Quiet—Do Not Disturb! sign on the door. He entered.

      In the wide white bed lay something flat, something so squashed that it could only gaze up, as if it were a reflection, something dimly seen in a pool that absorbed light rather than reflected it. The pool in which the old man lay was a consumer of energy of all kinds, Nicholas realized as he walked to the bed. This is only a husk left here; it has been drained as if a spider got to it; a world-spider or for us, rather, a subworld, underspider. But still a drinker of human existence. Even below this far.

      From his supine immobility the old man moved his lips. Hi.

      Hi, you old knurlheaded frab, Nicholas said, and drew a chair up beside the bed. How do you feel?

      After a time, as if it had taken that long for Nicholas’s words to reach him—that great journey across space—the old mechanic said, Not so good, Nick.

      You don’t know, Nicholas thought, what you’ve got. Unless Carol has told you since I last discussed you with her. He eyed the old mechanic, wondering if there was an instinct. Pancreatitis was fatal in almost one hundred percent of its cases, he knew; Carol had told him. But of course no one had or would tell Souza, because the miracle might happen.

      You’ll pick up, Nicholas said clumsily.

      Listen, Nick. How many leadies we made this month?

      He considered whether to lie or tell the truth. Souza had been here in this bed eight days; surely he had lost contact, could not check and trip him up. So he lied. Fifteen.

      Then— A labored pause; Souza stared upward, never turned his eyes toward Nicholas, as if he were looking away in shame. We could still make our quota.

      What do I care, Nicholas said, if we make our quota? He had known Souza, been shut up with him here at the Tom Mix, for the total war-period: fifteen years. I care whether— God, a misspoken word; impossible to amend, too.

      ‘Whether I get out of here,’ Souza whispered.

      "Naturally I mean when." He felt furious with himself. And, now, he saw Carol at the door, looking professional in her white smock, her low-heeled shoes, carrying her clipboard on which, no doubt, she had Souza’s chart. Without a word Nicholas rose, walked away from the bed and past Carol and out into the corridor.

      She followed. They stood together in the empty corridor and then Carol said, He’ll live one more week and then he’ll die. Whether your tongue wags and says ‘whether’ or if you—

      "I told him our shops had turned out

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