It
was bright morning. The sun shone down on the damp lawns and
sidewalks,
reflecting off the sparkling parked cars. The Clerk came walking
hurriedly,
leafing through his instructions, flipping pages and frowning. He
stopped in front of the small green stucco house for a moment, and
then
turned up the walk, entering the backyard. * Original title: "Adjustment Team".
The dog was asleep
inside his shed, his back turned to the world. Only his thick tail
showed.
"For
heaven's sake" the Clerk exclaimed, hands on his hips. He tapped
his
mechanical pencil noisily against his clipboard. "Wake up, you
in there."
The
dog stirred. He came slowly out of his shed, head first, blinking
and
yawning in the morning sunlight. "Oh, it’s you. Already?"
He yawned again.
"Big
doings." The Clerk ran his expert finger down the
traffic-control sheet.
"They're adjusting Sector T137 this morning. Starting at exactly
nine o'clock."
He glanced at his pocket watch. "Three-hour alteration. Will
finish by noon.”
"T137? That's not
far from here."
The
Clerk's thin lips twisted with contempt. "Indeed. You're showing
astonishing
perspicacity, my black-haired friend. Maybe you can divine why
I’m here."
"We overlap with
T137."
"Exactly.
Elements from this Sector are involved. We must make sure they're
properly placed when the adjustment begins." The Clerk glanced
toward the small green stucco house. "Your particular task
concerns a man
in there. He is employed by a business establishment lying within
Sector
T137. It's essential that he be there before nine o'clock."
The
dog studied the house. The shades had been let up. The kitchen light
was on. Beyond the lace curtains dim shapes could be seen, stirring
around
the table. A man and woman. They were drinking coffee.
"There
they are" the dog murmured. "The man, you say? He's not
going
to be harmed, is he?"
"Of
course not. But he must be at his office early. Usually he doesn’t
leave
until after nine. Today he must leave at eight-thirty. He must be
within
Sector T137 before the process begins, or he won’t be altered
to coincide
with the new adjustment."
The dog sighed. "That
means I have to summon."
"Correct."
The Clerk checked his instruction sheet. "You're to summon at
precisely eight-fifteen. You’e got that? Eight-fifteen. No
later."
"What
will an eight-fifteen summons bring?"
The
Clerk flipped open his instruction book, examining the code columns.
"It will bring A Friend with a Car. To drive him to work early."
He closed
the book and folded his arms, preparing to wait. "That way he'll
get to
his office almost an hour ahead of time. Which is vital."
"Vital,"
the dog murmured. He lay down, half inside his shed. His eyes closed.
"Vital."
"Wake
up! This must be done exactly on time. If you summon too soon
or too late—"
The
dog nodded sleepily. "I know. I’ll do it right. I always
do it right."
Ed
Fletcher poured more cream in his coffee. He sighed, leaning back in
his chair. Behind him the oven hissed softly, filling the kitchen
with warm
fumes. The yellow overhead light beamed down.
"Another roll?"
Ruth asked.
“I’m full."
Ed sipped his coffee. "You can have it."
“Have
to go." Ruth got to her feet, unfastening her robe. "Time
to go to work."
"Already?"
"Sure.
You lucky bum! Wish I could sit around." Ruth moved toward the
bathroom, running her fingers through her long black hair. "When
you work for the Government you start early."
"But
you get off early" Ed pointed out. He unfolded the Chronide,
examining
the sporting green. "Well, have a good time today. Don’t
type any
wrong words, any double entendres."
The bathroom door
closed, as Ruth shed her robe and began dressing.
Ed
yawned and glanced up at the clock over the sink. Plenty of time. Not
even eight. He sipped more coffee and then rubbed his stubbled chin.
He
would have to shave. He shrugged lazily. Ten minutes, maybe.
Ruth
carne bustling out in her nylon slip, hurrying into the bedroom. “I’m
late." She rushed rapidly around, getting into her blouse and
skirt, her stockings,
her little white shoes. Finally she bent over and kissed him.
"Good-bye,
honey. I’ll do the shopping tonight."
"Good-bye."
Ed lowered his newspaper and put his arm around his wife's
trim waist, hugging her affectionately. "You smell nice. Don’t
flirt with
the boss."
Ruth
ran out the front door, clattering down the steps. He heard the click
of her heels diminish down the sidewalk.
She was gone. The house
was silent. He was alone.
Ed
got to his feet, pushing his chair back. He wandered lazily into the
bathroom, and got his razor down. Eight-ten. He washed his face,
rubbing it down with shaving cream, and began to shave. He shaved
leisurely. He had
plenty of time.
The
Clerk bent over his round pocket watch, licking his lips nervously.
Sweat
stood out on his forehead. The second hand ticked on. Eight-fourteen.
Almost time.
"Get
ready!" the Clerk snapped. He tensed, his small body rigid. "Ten
seconds
to go!
"Time!"
the
Clerk cried.
Nothing happened.
The
Clerk turned, eyes wide with horror. From the little shed a thick
black
tail showed. The dog had gone back to sleep.
"TIME!"
the Clerk shrieked. He kicked wildly at the furry rump. "In the
name of God—"
The
dog stirred. He thumped around hastily, backing out of the shed. "My
goodness." Embarrassed, he made his way quickly to the fence.
Standing
up on his hind paws, he opened his mouth wide. "Woof!" he
summoned.
He glanced apologetically at the Clerk. "I beg your pardon. I
can't understand how —
The Clerk gazed fixedly
down at his watch. Cold terror knotted bis stomach. The hands showed
eight-sixteen. "You failed," he grated. "You failed!
You miserable flea-bitten rag-bag of a worn-out old mutt! You
failed!"
The
dog dropped and came anxiously back. "I failed, you say? You
mean the summons time was —
?"
"You summoned too
late.” The Clerk put his watch away slowly, a glazed expression
on his face. "You summoned too late. We won't get A Friend with
a Car. There's no telling what will come instead. I’m afraid to
see what eight-sixteen brings."
“I
hope he'll be in Sector T137
in
time."
"He won't"
the Clerk wailed. "He won't be there. We've made a mistake.
We’ve made things go wrong!"
Ed was rinsing the
shaving cream from his face when the muffled sound of the dog's bark
echoed through the silent house.
"Damn," Ed
muttered. "Wake up the whole block." He dried his face,
listening. Was somebody coming? A
vibration. Then—
The doorbell rang. Ed came out of the
bathroom. Who could it be? Had Ruth forgotten something? He tossed on
a white shirt and opened the front door.
A
bright young man, face bland and eager, beamed happily at him. "Good
morning, sir." He tipped his hat. “I'm
sorry to bother you so early—"
"What do you
want?" “
I’m
from the Federal Life Insurance Company. I’m here to see you
about—"
Ed pushed the door
closed. "Don't want any. I'm in a rush. Have to get to work.
"Your wife said
this was the only time I could catch you." The young man picked
up his briefcase, easing the door open again. "She especially
asked me to come this early. We don't usually begin our work at this
time, but since she asked me, I made a special note about it."
"OK."
Sighing wearily, Ed admitted the young man. "You can explain
your policy while I get dressed."
The
young man opened his briefcase on the couch, laying out heaps of
pamphlets and illustrated folders. “I’d
like to show you some of these figures, if I may. It's of great
importance to you and your family to—"
Ed
found himself sitting down,
going over the pamphlets. He purchased a ten-thousand-dollar policy
on his own life and then eased the young man out. He looked at the
clock. Practically nine-thirty! "Damn." He'd
be late to work. He finished fastening his tie, grabbed his coat,
turned off the oven and the lights, dumped the dishes in the sink,
and ran out on the porch.
As he hurried toward
the bus stop he was cursing inwardly. Life insurance salesmen. Why
did the jerk have to come just as he was getting ready to leave? Ed groaned. No telling
what the consequences would be, getting to the office late. He
wouldn't get there until almost ten. He set himself in anticipation.
A sixth sense told him he was in for it. Something bad. It was the
wrong day to be late. If only the salesman
hadn't come.
Ed hopped off the bus
a block from his office. He began walking rapidly.. The huge clock in
front of Stein's Jewelry Store told him it was almost ten. His heart sank. Old
Douglas would give him hell for sure. He could see it now. Douglas
puffing and blowing, red-faced, waving his thick finger at him; Miss
Evans, smiling behind her typewriter; Jackie, the office boy,
grinning and snickering; Earl Hendricks; Joe and Tom; Mary,
dark-eyed, full bosom and long lashes. All of them, kidding him the
whole rest of the day.
He
came to the corner and stopped for the light. On the other side of
the street rose a big white concrete building, the towering column of
steel and cement, girders and glass Windows - the
office building. Ed flinched. Maybe he could say the elevator got
stuck. Somewhere between the second and third floor.
The
streetlight changed. Nobody else was crossing. Ed crossed alone. He
hopped up on the curb on the far side. And
stopped, rigid.
The
Sun had winked off. One moment it was beaming down. Then it was gone.
Ed looked up sharply. Gray
clouds swirled above him. Huge, formless clouds. Nothing more. An
ominous, thick haze that made everything waver and dim. Uneasy chills
plucked at him. What
was it?
He advanced
cautiously, feeling his way through the mist. Everything was silent.
No sounds—not even the traffic sounds. Ed peered frantically
around, trying to see through the rolling haze. No people. No cars.
No sun. Nothing.
The office building
loomed up ahead, ghostly. It was an indistinct gray. He put out his
hand uncertainly—
A
section of the building fell away. It rained down, a torrent of
particles. Like sand. Ed gaped foolishly. A cascade of gray debris,
spilling around his feet. And where he had touched the building, a
jagged cavity yawned—
an
ugly pit marring the concrete.
Dazed, he made his way
to the front steps. He mounted them. The steps gave way underfoot.
His feet sank down. He was wading through shifting sand, weak, rotted
stuff that broke under his weight.
He got into the lobby.
The lobby was dim and obscure. The overhead lights flickered feebly
in the gloom. An unearthly pall hung over everything. He
spied the cigar stand. The seller leaned silently, resting on the
counter, toothpick between his teeth, his face vacant. And
gray. He
was gray all over.
"Hey" Ed
croaked. "What’s going on?"
The
seller did not answer. Ed reached out toward him. His hand touched
the seller's gray arm and
passed right through.
"Good God,”
Ed said.
The seller's arm came
loose. It fell to the lobby floor, disintegrating into fragments.
Bits of gray fiber. Like dust. Ed's senses reeled.
"Help!" he
shouted, finding his voice.
No answer. He peered
around. A few shapes stood here and there: a man reading a newspaper,
two women waiting at the elevator.
Ed made his way over
to the man. He reached out and touched him. The man slowly
collapsed. He settled into a heap, a loose pile of gray ash. Dust.
Particles. The two women dissolved when he touched them. Silently.
They made no sound as they broke apart.
Ed
found the stairs. He grabbed hold of the banister and climbed. The
stairs collapsed under him. He hurried faster. Behind him lay a
broken path—his
footprints clearly visible in the concrete. Clouds of ash blew around
him as he reached the second floor. He
gazed down the silent corridor. He saw more clouds of ash. He heard
no sound. There was just darkness—rolling
darkness.
He climbed unsteadily
to the third floor. Once, his shoe broke completely through the
stair. For a sickening second he hung, poised over a yawning hole
that looked down into a bottomless nothing.
Then
he climbed on, and emerged in front of his own office: douglas
and blake,
real estate.
The hall was dim,
gloomy with clouds of ash. The overhead lights flickered fitfully. He
reached for the door handle. The handle came off in his hand. He
dropped it and dug his fingernails into the door. The plate glass
crashed past him, breaking into bits. He tore the door open and
stepped over it, into the office.
Miss Evans sat at her
typewriter, fingers resting quietly on the keys. She did not move.
She was gray, her hair, her skin, her clothing. She was without
color. Ed touched her. His fingers went through her shoulder, into
dry flakiness.
He drew back,
sickened. Miss Evans did not stir.
He
moved on. He pushed against a desk. The desk collapsed into rotting
dust. Earl Hendricks stood by the water cooler, a cup in his hand. He
was a gray statue, unmoving. Nothing stirred. No sound. No life. The
whole office was gray dust without
life or motion.
Ed
found himself out in the corridor again. He shook his head, dazed.
What did it mean? Was he going out of his mind? Was he—?
A sound.
Ed
turned, peering into the gray mist. A creature was coming, hurrying
rapidly. A man—a
man in a white robe. Behind him others came. Men in white, with
equipment. They were lugging complex machinery.
"Hey—"
Ed gasped weakly.
The men stopped. Their
mouths opened. Their eyes popped. "Look!"
"Something's gone
wrong!
"One's still
charged.”
"Get the
de-energizer."
"We
can't proceed until—"
The men came toward
Ed, moving around him. One lugged a long hose with some sort of
nozzle. A portable cart came wheeling up. Instructions were rapidly
shouted.
Ed broke out of his
paralysis. Fear swept over him. Panic. Something hideous was
happening. He had to get out. Warn people. Get away. He turned and ran, back
down the stairs. The stairs collapsed under him. He fell half a
flight, rolling in heaps of dry ash. He got to his feet and hurried
on, down to the ground floor.
The lobby was lost in
the clouds of gray ash. He pushed blindly through, toward the door.
Behind him, the white-clad men were coming, dragging their equipment
and shouting to each other, hurrying quickly after him.
He reached the
sidewalk. Behind him the office building wavered and sagged, sinking
to one side, torrents of ash raining down in heaps. He raced toward
the corner, the men just behind him. Gray clouds swirled around him.
He groped his way across the street, hands outstretched. He gained
the opposite curb—
The
sun winked on. Warm yellow sunlight streamed down on him. Cars
honked. Traffic lights changed. On all sides men and women in bright
spring clothes hurried and pushed: shoppers, a blue-clad cop,
salesmen with briefcases. Stores, windows, signs ... noisy cars
moving up and down the street. And overhead was the
bright sun and familiar blue sky.
Ed
halted, gasping for breath. He turned and looked back the way he had
come. Across the street was the office building—as
it had always been. Firm and distinct. Concrete and glass and steel. He stepped back a pace
and collided with a hurrying citizen. "Hey," the man
grunted. "Watch it." "Sorry." Ed
shook his head, trying to clear it. From where he stood, the office
building looked like always, big and solemn and substantial, rising
up imposingly on the other side of the street. But
a minute ago—
Maybe
he was out of his mind. He had seen the building crumbling into dust.
Building—and
people. They had fallen into gray clouds of dust. And the men in
white—they had chased him. Men in white robes, shouting
orders, wheeling complex equipment.
He was out of his
mind. There was no other explanation. Weakly, Ed turned and stumbled
along the sidewalk, his mind reeling. He moved blindly, without
purpose, lost in a haze of confusion and terror.
The
Clerk was brought into the top-level Administrative chambers and told
to wait. He paced back and
forth nervously, clasping and wringing his hands in an agony of
apprehension. He took off his glasses and wiped them shakily.
Lord.
All the trouble and grief. And it wasn't his fault. But he would have
to take the rap. It was his responsibility to get the Summoners
routed out and their instructions followed. The miserable
flea-infested Summoner had gone back to sleep—and
he
would
have to answer for it.
The doors opened. "All
right," a voice murmured, preoccupied. It was a tired, care-worn
voice. The Clerk trembled and entered slowly, sweat dripping down his
neck into his celluloid collar.
The Old Man glanced
up, laying aside his book. He studied the Clerk calmly, his faded
blue eyes mild—a deep, ancient mildness that made the Clerk
tremble even more. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. "I understand
there was a mistake," the Old Man murmured. "In connection
with Sector T137. Something to do with an element from an adjoining
area."
"That’s
right" The Clerk's voice was faint and husky. "Very
unfortunate."
"What exactly
occurred?"
"I started out
this morning with my instruction sheets. The material relating to
T137 had top priority, of course. I served notice on the Summoner in
my area that an eight-fifteen summons was required."
"Did the Summoner
understand the urgency?"
"Yes,
sir." The Clerk hesitated. "But"-
"But what?"
The
Clerk twisted miserably. "While my back was turned the Summoner
crawled back in his shed and went to sleep. I
was occupied, checking the exact time with my watch. I called the
moment — but there was no response."
"You called at
eight-fifteen exactly?" "Yes, sir!
Exactly eight-fifteen. But the Summoner was asleep. By the time I
managed to arouse him it was eight-sixteen. He summoned, but instead
of A Friend with a Car we got — A Life Insurance Salesman."
The Clerk's face screwed up with disgust. "The Salesman kept the
element there until almost nine-thirty. Therefore he was late to work
instead of early."
For a moment the Old
Man was silent. "Then the element was not within T137 when the
adjustment began."
"No. He arrived
about ten o'clock."
"During the
middle of the adjustment." The Old Man got to his feet
and paced slowly back and forth, face grim, hands behind his back.
His long robe flowed out behind him. "A serious matter. During a
Sector Adjustment all related elements from other Sectors must be
included. Otherwise, their orientations remain out of phase. When
this element entered T137 the adjustment had been in progress fifty
minutes. The element encountered the Sector at its most de-energized
stage. He wandered about until one of the adjustment teams met him."
"Did they catch
him?"
"Unfortunately,
no. He fled, out of the Sector. Into a nearby fully energized area."
"What—
what
then?"
The Old Man stopped
pacing, his lined face grim. He ran a heavy hand through his long
white hair. "We do not know. We lost contact with him. We will
reestablish contact soon, of course. But for the moment he is out of
control."
"What are you
going to do?"
"He must be
contacted and contained. He must be brought up here. There's no other
solution."
"Up
here!”
"It is too late
to de-energize him. By the time he is regained he will have told
others. To wipe his mind clean would only complicate matters. Usual
methods will not suffice. I must deal with this problem myself."
"I hope he's
located quickly," the Clerk said.
"He will be.
Every Watcher is alerted. Every Watcher and every Summoner." The
Old Man's eyes twinkled. "Even the Clerks, although we hesitate
to count on them."
The Clerk flushed. I’ll be glad when this thing is over," he muttered.
Ruth came tripping
down the stairs and out of the building, into the hot noonday sun.
She lit a cigarette and hurried along the walk, her small bosom
rising and falling as she breathed in the spring air.
"Ruth." Ed
stepped up behind her. "Ed!"
She spun, gasping in astonishment. "What are you doing away
from—?"
"Come on."
Ed grabbed her arm, pulling her along. "Let’s keep
moving."
"But
what—?"
“I’ll
tell you later." Ed's face was pale and grim. "Let’s
go where we can talk. In private."
"I
was going down to have lunch at Louie's. We can talk there."
Ruth hurried along breathlessly. "What is it? What's happened?
You look so strange. And why aren't you at work? Did you—did
you get fired?"
They crossed the
street and entered a small restaurant. Men and women milled around,
getting their lunch. Ed found a table in the back, secluded in a
corner. "Here." He sat down abruptly. "This will do."
She slid into the other chair.
Ed ordered a cup of
coffee. Ruth had salad and creamed tuna on toast, coffee and peach
pie. Silently, Ed watched her as she ate, his face dark and moody.
"Please tell me,"
Ruth begged him.
"You really want
to know?"
"Of
course I want to know!" Ruth put her small hand anxiously on
his.
I’m
your wife."
"Something
happened today. This morning. I was late to work. A damn insurance
man came by and held me up. I was half an hour late."
Ruth caught her
breath. "Douglas fired you."
"No."
Ed ripped a paper napkin slowly into bits. He stuffed the bits in the
half-empty water glass. "I was worried as hell. I got off the
bus and hurried
down the street. I noticed it when I stepped up on the curb in front
of the office."
"Noticed what?"
Ed told her. The whole
works. Everything.
When
he had finished, Ruth sat back, her face white, hands trembling. "I
see," she murmured. "No wonder you're upset" She drank
a little cold coffee, the cup rattling against the saucer. "What
a terrible thing."
Ed
leaned intently toward his wife. "Ruth. Do you think I'm going
crazy?"
Ruth's red lips
twisted. "I don't know what to say. It's so strange...." “Yeah.
Strange is hardly the word for it. I poked my hands right through
them. Like they were clay. Old dry clay. Dust. Dust figures." Ed
lit a cigarette from Ruth's pack. "When I got out I looked back
and there it was. The office building. Like always."
"You were afraid
Mr. Douglas would bawl you out, weren't you?"
“Sure.
I was afraid—and
guilty." Ed's eyes flickered. "I know what you're thinking.
I was late and I couldn't face him. So I had some sort of protective
psychotic fit. Retreat from reality." He stubbed the cigarette
out savagely. "Ruth, I’ve been wandering around town
since. Two and a half hours. Sure, I'm afraid. I'm afraid like hell
to go back."
"Of Douglas?"
"No!
The men in white." Ed shuddered. "God. Chasing me. With
their damn hoses and—and
equipment."
Ruth was silent.
Finally she looked up at her husband, her dark eyes bright. "You
have to go back, Ed."
"Back? Why?"
"To prove
something."
"Prove what?"
"Prove
it's all right." Ruth's hand pressed against his. "You have
to,
Ed. You have to go back and face it. To show yourself there's nothing
to be afraid of."
"The
hell with it! After what I saw? Listen, Ruth. I saw the fabric of
reality split open. I sawbehind.
Underneath.
I saw what was really there. And I don't want to go back. I don't
want to see dust people again. Ever."
Ruth's eyes were fixed
intently on him. "I'll go back with you," she said.
"For God's sake."
"For
your sake.
For your sanity. So you'll know." Ruth got abruptly to her feet,
pulling her coat around her. "Come on, Ed. I’ll go with
you. We'll go up there together. To the office of Douglas and Blake,
Real Estate. I’ll even go in with you to see Mr. Douglas."
Ed got up slowly,
staring hard at his wife. "You think I blacked out. Cold feet.
Couldn't face the boss." His voice was low and strained. "Don't
you?"
Ruth was already
threading her way toward the cashier. "Come on. You'll see. It'll all be there.
Just like it always was."
"OK,"
Ed said. He followed her slowly. "We'll go back there and
see which of us is right."
They
crossed the street together, Ruth holding on tight to Ed's arm. Ahead
of them was the building, the towering structure of concrete and
metal and glass.
"There it is,"
Ruth said. "See?"
There it was, all
right. The big building rose up, firm and solid, glittering in the
early afternoon sun, its Windows sparkling brightly. Ed
and Ruth stepped up onto the curb. Ed tensed himself, his body rigid.
He winced as his foot touched the pavement—
But
nothing happened: the street noises continued; cars, people hurrying
past; a kid selling papers. There were sounds, smells, the noise of a
city in the middle of the day. And overhead was the sun and the
bright blue sky. . "See?" Ruth said. "I was right."
They
walked up the front steps, into the lobby. Behind the cigar stand the
seller stood, arms folded, listening to the ball game. "Hi, Mr.
Fletcher," he called to Ed. His face lit up good-naturedly.
"Who's the dame? Your wife know about this?"
Ed
laughed unsteadily. They passed on toward the elevator. Four or five
businessmen stood waiting. They were middle-aged men, well dressed,
waiting impatiently in a bunch. "Hey, Fletcher," one said.
"Where you been all day? Douglas is yelling his head off.""Hello, Earl,"
Ed muttered. He gripped Ruth's arm. "Been a little sick."
The
elevator came. They got in. The elevator rose. "Hi, Ed,"
the elevator operator said. "Who's the good-looking gal? Why
don't you introduce her around?"
Ed grinned
mechanically. "My wife."
The
elevator let them off at the third floor. Ed and Ruth got out,
heading toward the glass door of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate. Ed
halted, breathing shallowly. "Wait." He licked his lips.
"I—"
Ruth
waited calmly as Ed wiped his forehead and neck with his
handkerchief. "All right now?"
"Yeah." Ed
moved forward. He pulled open the glass door.
Miss Evans glanced up,
ceasing her typing. "Ed Fletcher! Where on earth have you been?"
I’ve been sick.
Hello, Tom."
Tom
glanced up from his work. "Hi, Ed. Say, Douglas is yelling for
your scalp. Where have you been?"
"I
know." Ed turned wearily to Ruth. "I guess I better go in
and face the music."
Ruth
squeezed his arm. "You'll be all right. I know." She
smiled, a relieved flash of white teeth and red lips. "OK? Call
me if you need me."
"Sure."
Ed kissed her briefly on the mouth. "Thanks, honey. Thanks a
lot. I don't know what the hell went wrong with me. I guess it's
over."
"Forget
it. So long." Ruth skipped back out of the office, the door
closing after her. Ed listened to her race down the hall to the
elevator.
"Nice little gal"
Jackie said appreciatively.
"Yeah." Ed nodded, straightening his necktie. He moved
unhappily toward the inner office, steeling himself. Well, he had to
face it. Ruth was right. But he was going to have a hell of a time
explaining it to the boss. He could see Douglas now, thick red
wattles, big bull roar, face distorted with rage—
Ed stopped abruptly at the entrance to the inner office. He froze
rigid. The inner office —
it
was changed.
The hackles of his neck rose. Cold fear gripped him, clutching at his
windpipe. The inner office was different. He turned his head slowly,
taking in the sight: the desks, chairs, fixtures, file cabinets,
pictures. Changes. Little changes. Subtle. Ed closed his eyes and opened them
slowly. He was alert, breathing rapidly, his pulse racing. It was
changed, all right. No doubt about it.
"What’s the matter, Ed?" Tom asked. The staff watched
him curiously, pausing in their work.
Ed said nothing. He advanced slowly into the inner office. The office
had been gone
over. He
could tell. Things had been altered. Rearranged. Nothing
obvious—nothing he could put his finger on. But he could tell.
Joe Kent greeted him uneasily. "What's the matter, Ed? You look
like a wild dog. Is something—?"
Ed studied Joe. He was
different. Not the same. What was it?
Joe's face. It was a little fuller. His shirt was blue-striped. Joe
never wore blue stripes. Ed examined Joe's desk. He saw papers and
accounts. The desk, it
was too far to the right. And it was bigger. It wasn't the same desk.
The picture on the wall. It wasn’t the same. It was a different
picture entirely. And the things on top of the file cabinet—some
were new, others were gone.
He
looked back through the door. Now that he thought about it, Miss
Evans's hair was different, done a different way. And it was lighter.
In here, Mary, filing her nails, over by the window—she
was taller, fuller. Her purse, lying on the desk in front of her—a
red purse, red knit.
"You always ...
have that purse?" Ed demanded.
Mary glanced up.
"What?"
"That purse. You
always have that?"
Mary laughed. She smoothed her skirt coyly around her shapely thighs,
her long lashes blinking modestly. "Why, Mr. Fletcher. What
do you mean?"
Ed turned away. He
knew. Even
if she didn't. She had been redone—changed:
her purse, her clothes, her figure, everything about her. None of
them knew—but him. His mind spun dizzily. They were all
changed. All of them were different. They had all been remolded,
recast. Subtly—but it was there.
The
wastebasket. It was smaller, not the same. The window shades—white,
not ivory. The wallpaper was not the same pattern. The lighting
fixtures...Endless, subtle
changes.
Ed made his way back to the inner office. He lifted his hand and
knocked on Douglas's door.
"Come in."
Ed
pushed the door open. Nathan Douglas looked up impatiently.
"Mr.
Douglas—"Ed began. He came into the room unsteadily—and
stopped.
Douglas was not the same. Not at all. His whole office was changed:
the rugs, the drapes. The desk was oak, not mahogany. And Douglas
himself....
Douglas was younger, thinner. His hair, brown. His skin not so red.
His face smoother. No wrinkles. Chin reshaped. Eyes green, not black.
He was a different man. But still Douglas—a
different Douglas. A different version!
"What is it?"
Douglas demanded impatiently. "Oh, it's you, Fletcher. Where
were you this morning?"
Ed backed out. Fast.
He slammed the door and hurried back through the inner office. Tom
and Miss Evans glanced up, startled. Ed passed them by, grabbing the
hall door open."Hey!"
Tom called. "What—?"
Ed hurried down the hall. Terror leaped through him. He had to
hurry. He had seen.
There
wasn't much time. He came to the elevator and stabbed the button.
No time. He ran to the stairs
and started down. He reached the second floor. His terror grew. It
was a matter of seconds. Seconds!
The public phone. Ed ran into the phone booth. He dragged the door
shut after him. Wildly, he dropped a dime in the slot and dialed. He
had to call the police. He held the receiver to his ear, his heart
pounding.
Warn them. Changes.
Somebody tampering with reality. Altering it. He had been right. The
white-clad men ... their equipment... going through the building.
"Hello!" Ed
shouted hoarsely. There was no answer. No hum. Nothing.
Ed peered frantically
out the door. And he sagged,
defeated. Slowly he hung up the telephone receiver.
He was no longer on the second floor. The phone booth was rising,
leaving the second floor behind, carrying him up, faster and faster.
It rose floor by floor, moving silently, swiftly.
The phone booth passed through the ceiling of the building and out
into the bright sunlight. It
gained speed. The ground fell away below. Buildings and streets were getting smaller each moment. Tiny specks
hurried along, far below, cars and people, dwindling rapidly. Clouds drifted between him and the earth. Ed shut his eyes, dizzy with fright. He held on desperately to the door handles of the phone
booth. Faster and faster the phone booth climbed. The earth was rapidly
being left behind, far below.
Ed peered up wildly. Where?
Where
was he going? Where was it taking him? He stood gripping the door
handles, waiting.
The Clerk nodded
curtly. "That’s him, all right. The element in question."
Ed
Fletcher looked around him. He was in a huge chamber. The edges fell
away into indistinct shadows. In front of him stood a man with notes
and ledgers under his arm, peering at him through steel-rimmed
glasses. He was a nervous little man, sharp-eyed, with celluloid
collar, blue-serge suit, vest, watch chain. He wore black shiny
shoes.
And
beyond him— An old man sat quietly, in an immense modern chair. He watched
Fletcher calmly, his blue eyes mild and tired. A strange thrill shot
through Fletcher. It was not fear. Rather it was a vibration,
rattling his bones—a deep sense of awe, tinged with
fascination.
"Where—what
is this place?" he asked faintly. He was still dazed from his
quick ascent.
"Don't ask questions!" the nervous little man snapped
angrily, tapping his pencil against his ledgers. "You're here to
answer, not ask."
The Old Man moved a little. He raised his hand. "I will speak to
the element alone" he murmured. His voice was low. It
vibrated and rumbled through the chamber. Again the waver of
fascinated awe swept Ed.
"Alone?" The little fellow backed away, gathering his
books and papers in his arms. "Of course." He glanced
hostilely at Ed Fletcher. I’m glad he's finally in custody. All
the work and trouble just for—"
He disappeared through a door. The door closed softly behind him. Ed
and the Old Man were alone.
"Please
sit down," the Old Man said.
Ed found a seat. He sat down awkwardly, nervously. He got out bis
cigarettes and then put them away again.
"What's
wrong?" the Old Man asked.
I’m just
beginning to understand."
"Understand what?"
"That I’m
dead."
The Old Man smiled briefly. "Dead? No, you're not dead.
You're...visiting. An unusual event, but necessitated by
circumstances." He leaned toward Ed. "Mr. Fletcher, you
have got yourself involved with something."
"Yeah, " Ed
agreed. "I wish I knew what it was. Or how it happened."
"It was not your fault. You were a victim of a clerical
error. A mistake was made—not
by you. But involving you."
"What mistake?" Ed rubbed his forehead wearily. "I—I
got in on something. I saw >through.
I
saw something I wasn't supposed to see."
The Old Man nodded. "That's right. You saw something you were
not supposed to see—something few elements have been aware of,
let alone witnessed.""Elements?"
"An official term. Let it pass. A mistake was made, but we
hope to rectify it. It is my hope that—"
"Those people," Ed interrupted. "Heaps of dry ash.
And gray. Like they were dead. Only it was everything: the stairs and
walls and floor. No color or life."
"That Sector had been temporarily de-energized. So the
adjustment team could enter and effect changes.
"Changes." Ed
nodded. "That’s right. When I went back later, everything
was alive again. But not the same. It was all different."
"The
adjustment was complete by noon. The team finished its work and
re-energized the Sector.""I see," Ed
muttered.
"You were supposed to have been in the Sector when the
adjustment began. Because of an error you were not. You carne into
the Sector late—during the adjustment itself. You fled, and
when you returned it was over. You saw, and you should not have seen.
Instead of a witness you should have been part of the adjustment.
Like the others, you should have undergone changes."
Sweat
came out on Ed Fletcher's head. He wiped it away. His stomach turned
over. Weakly, he cleared his throat. "I get the picture."
His voice was almost inaudible. A chilling premonition moved through
him. "I was supposed to be changed like the others. But I guess
something went wrong."
"Something went wrong. An error occurred. And now a serious
problem exists. You have seen these things. You know a great deal.
And you are not coordinated with the new configuration.""Gosh"
Ed muttered. "Well, I won't tell anybody." Cold sweat
poured off him. "You can count on that. I'm as good as changed."
"You
have already told someone," the Old Man said coldly.
"Me?"Ed
blinked."Who?"
"Your wife."
Ed trembled. The color drained from his face, leaving it sickly
white. "That's right I did."
"Your wife knows." The Old Man's face twisted angrily.
"A woman. Of all the things to tell—"
"I didn't know." Ed retreated, panic leaping through
him. "But I know now.
You
can count on me. Consider me changed."
The ancient blue eyes bored keenly into him, peering far into his
depths. "And you were going to call the police. You wanted to
inform the authorities."
"But I didn't know
who was doing the changing."
"Now you know. The natural process must be
supplemented—adjusted
here and there. Corrections must be made. We are fully licensed to
make such corrections. Our adjustment teams perform vital work."
Ed plucked up a measure of courage. "This particular
adjustment. Douglas. The office. What was it for? I'm sure it was
some worthwhile purpose."
The Old Man waved his hand. Behind him in the shadows an immense
map glowed into existence. Ed caught his breath. The edges of the map
faded off in obscurity. He saw an infinite web of detailed sections,
a network of squares and ruled lines. Each square was marked. Some
glowed with a blue light. The lights altered constantly.
"The Sector Board," the Old Man said. He sighed
wearily. "A staggering job. Sometimes we wonder how we can go on
another period. But it must be done. For the good of all. For
your good."
"The
change. In our—our
Sector."
"Your
office deals in real estate. The old Douglas was a shrewd man, but
rapidly becoming infirm. His physical health was waning. In a few
days Douglas will be offered a chance to purchase a large unimproved
forest area in western Canada. It will require most of his assets.
The older, less virile Douglas would have hesitated. It is imperative
he not hesitate. He must purchase the area and clear the land at
once. Only a younger man—a younger Douglas—would
undertake this.
"When
the land is cleared, certain anthropological remains will be
discovered. They have already been placed there. Douglas will lease
his land to the Canadian Government for scientific study. The remains
found there will cause international excitement in learned circles. A
chain of events will be set in motion. Men from numerous countries
will come to Canada to
examine the remains. Soviet, Polish, and Czech scientists will make
the journey. The
chain of events will draw these scientists together for the first
time in years. National research will be temporarily forgotten in the
excitement of these non-national discoveries. One of the leading
Soviet scientists will make friends with a Belgian scientist. Before
they depart they will agree to correspond—without
the knowledge of their governments, of course.
"The
circle will widen. Other scientists on both sides will be drawn in. A
society will be founded. More and more educated men will transfer an
increasing amount of time to this international society. Purely
national research will suffer a slight but extremely critical
eclipse. The war tension will somewhat wane.
"This
alteration is vital. And it is dependent on the purchase and clearing
of the section of wilderness in Canada. The old Douglas would
not have dared take the risk. But the altered Douglas, and his
altered, more youthful staff, will pursue this work with wholehearted
enthusiasm. And from this, the vital chain of widening events will
come about. The beneficiaries will be you.
Our
methods may seem strange and indirect. Even incomprehensible. But I
assure you we know what we're doing."
"I know that
now," Ed said.
"So
you do. You know a great deal. Much too much. No element should
possess such knowledge. I
should perhaps call an adjustment team in here...."
A picture formed in Ed's mind: swirling gray clouds, gray men and
women. He shuddered. "Look" he croaked. "I’ll do
anything. Anything at all. Only don't de-energize me." Sweat ran
down his face. “OK?"
The Old Man pondered. "Perhaps some alternative could be
found. There is another possibility...."
"What?"
Ed asked eagerly. "What is it?"
The Old Man spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "If I allow you to
return, you will swear never to speak of the matter? Will you swear
not to reveal to anyone the things you saw? The things you know?"
"Sure!"
Ed gasped eagerly, blinding relief flooding over him. “l
swear!"
"Your wife. She must know nothing more. She must think it was
only a passing psychological fit—retreat
from reality."
"She thinks
that already."
"She must continue to."
Ed set his jaw firmly. “I’ll see that she continues to
think it was a mental aberration. She'll never know what really
happened."
"You are
certain you can keep the truth from her?"
"Sure," Ed
said confidently. "I know I can."
"All right." The Old Man nodded slowly. "I will send
you back. But you must tell no one." He swelled visibly.
"Remember: you will eventually come back to me—everyone
does, in the end—and your fate will not be enviable."
"I won't tell
her" Ed said, sweating. "I promise. You have my word on
that. I can handle Ruth. Don't give it a second thought."
Ed arrived home at
sunset.
He blinked, dazed
from the rapid descent. For a moment he stood on the pavement,
regaining his balance and catching his breath. Then he walked quickly
up the path. He
pushed the door open and entered the little green stucco house.
"Ed!" Ruth came flying, face distorted with tears. She
threw her arms around him, hugging him tight. "Where the hell
have you been?"
"Been?" Ed
murmured. "At the office, of course."
Ruth pulled back
abruptly. "No, you haven't."
Vague tendrils of alarm plucked at Ed. "Of course I have. Where
else—?"
"I called Douglas about three. He said you left. You walked
out, practically as soon as I turned my back. Eddie—"
Ed patted her
nervously. "Take it easy, honey." He began unbuttoning his
coat. "Everything's OK. Understand? Things are perfectly all
right"
Ruth sat down on the arm of the couch. She blew her nose, dabbing at
her eyes. "If you knew how much I’ve worried." She
put her handkerchief away and folded her arras. "I want to know
where you were."
Uneasily, Ed hung his coat in the closet. He came over and kissed
her. Her lips were ice cold. “I’ll tell you all about it.
But what do you say we have something to eat? I'm starved."
Ruth studied him intently. She got down from the arm of the couch.
“I’ll
change and fix dinner."
She hurried into the bedroom and slipped off her shoes and nylons.
Ed followed her. "I didn't mean to worry you," he said
carefully. "After you left me today I realized you were right."
"Oh?" Ruth unfastened her blouse and skirt, arranging them
over a hanger. "Right
about what?"
"About me." He manufactured a grin and
made it glow across his face. "About... what happened."
Ruth hung her slip
over the hanger. She studied her husband intently as she struggled
into her tight-fitting jeans. "Go on."
The moment had come. It was now or never. Ed Fletcher braced himself
and chose his words carefully. "I realized" he stated,
"that the whole darn thing was in my mind. You were right, Ruth.
Completely right. And I even realize what caused it."
Ruth rolled her
cotton T-shirt down and tucked it in her jeans. "What was the
cause?"
"Overwork."
"Overwork?"
"I need a vacation. I haven't had a vacation in years. My mind
isn’t on the job. I’ve been daydreaming." He said it
firmly, but his heart was in his mouth. "I need to get away. To
the mountains. Bass fishing. Or— "
He searched his mind frantically. "Or—"
Ruth came toward him
ominously. "Ed!" she said sharply. "Look at me!"
"What's the matter?" Panic shot through him. "Why are
you looking at me like that?"
"Where were you this afternoon?"
Ed's grin faded. "I told you. I went for a walk. Didn't I tell
you? A walk. To think things over."
"Don t lie to me, Eddie Fletcher! I can tell when you're
lying!" Fresh tears welled up in Ruth's eyes. Her breasts rose
and fell excitedly under her cotton shirt. "Admit it! You didn't
go for a walk!"
Ed stammered weakly.
Sweat poured off him. He sagged helplessly against the door. "What
do you mean?"
Ruth's black eyes flashed with anger. "Come on! I want to know
where you were! Tell me! I have a right to know. What really
happened?"
Ed retreated in terror, his resolve melting like wax. It was going
all wrong. "Honest. I went out for a—"
"Tell me!" Ruth's sharp fingernails dug into his arm. "I
want to know where you were—and
who you were with!"
Ed opened his mouth. He tried to grin, but his face failed to
respond. "I don't know what you mean."
"You know what I mean. Who were you with? Where did you go?
Tell me! I’ll find out sooner or later."
There was no way out. He was licked—and
he knew it. He couldn't keep it from her. Desperately he stalled,
praying for time. If he could only distract her, get her mind on
something else. If she would only let up, even for a second. He could
invent something—a better story. Time—he needed more
time. "Ruth, you've got to—"
Suddenly there was a sound: the bark of a dog, echoing through the
dark house.
Ruth let go, cocking
her head alertly. "That was Dobbie. I think somebody's coming."
The doorbell rang.
"You stay here. I'll be right back." Ruth ran out of the
room, to the front door. "Darn it." She pulled the front
door open.
"Good evening!" The young man stepped quickly inside,
loaded down with objects, grinning broadly at Ruth. “I’m
from the Sweep-Rite Vacuum Cleaner Company."
Ruth scowled
impatiently. "Really, we're about to sit down at the table."
"Oh, this will only take a moment." The young man set down
the vacuum cleaner and its attachments with a metallic crash.
Rapidly, he unrolled a long illustrated banner, showing the vacuum
cleaner in action. "Now, if you'll just hold this while I plug
in the cleaner—"
He bustled happily about, unplugging the TV set, plugging in the
cleaner, pushing the chairs out of his way.
"I’ll show you the drape scraper first." He attached
a hose and nozzle to the big gleaming tank. "Now, if you'll just
sit down I’ll demonstrate each of these easy-to-use
attachments." His happy voice rose over the roar of the cleaner.
"You'll notice—"
Ed Fletcher sat down on the bed. He groped in his pocket until he
found his cigarettes. Shakily he lit one and leaned back against the
wall, weak with relief.
He
gazed up, a look of gratitude on his face. "Thanks," he
said softly. "I think we'll make it—after
all. Thanks
a lot."
Philip Kindred Dick (December 16, 1928 – March 2, 1982) was an American novelist, short story writer and essayist whose published work is almost entirely in the science fiction genre. Dick explored sociological, political and metaphysical themes in novels dominated by monopolistic corporations, authoritarian governments and altered states. In his later works Dick's thematic focus strongly reflected his personal interest in metaphysics and theology. He often drew upon his own life experiences in addressing the nature of drug abuse, paranoia and schizophrenia, and transcendental experiences in novels such as A Scanner Darkly and VALIS.
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