Philip K. Dick Super Pack. Philip K. Dick
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“Come over here,” he said to Peterson. “Get up and come here.”
There was silence.
“Go ahead,” the wub said. “It doesn’t matter.”
Peterson stood up. “What for?”
“It’s an order.”
Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.
“What’s going on?” Peterson wrenched loose. “What’s the matter with you?”
Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall.
“It is interesting,” the wub said, “that you are obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why.”
“Get up,” Franco said.
“If you wish.” The wub rose, grunting. “Be patient. It is difficult for me.” It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.
“Shoot it now,” French said.
“For God’s sake!” Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray with fear.
“You didn’t see him—like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn’t come down, he’d still be there.”
“Who? The Captain?” Peterson stared around. “But he’s all right now.”
They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling.
“Come on,” Franco said. “Out of the way.”
The men pulled aside toward the door.
“You are quite afraid, aren’t you?” the wub said. “Have I done anything to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn about you. I suggested to the native—”
The gun jerked.
“See,” Franco said. “I thought so.”
The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it.
“It is very warm,” the wub said. “I understand that we are close to the jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with it—technically. Apparently, your scientific hierarchy is not equipped to solve moral, ethical—”
Franco turned to the men, crowding behind him, wide-eyed, silent.
“I’ll do it. You can watch.”
French nodded. “Try to hit the brain. It’s no good for eating. Don’t hit the chest. If the rib cage shatters, we’ll have to pick bones out.”
“Listen,” Peterson said, licking his lips. “Has it done anything? What harm has it done? I’m asking you. And anyhow, it’s still mine. You have no right to shoot it. It doesn’t belong to you.”
Franco raised his gun.
“I’m going out,” Jones said, his face white and sick. “I don’t want to see it.”
“Me, too,” French said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson lingered at the door.
“It was talking to me about myths,” he said. “It wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
He went outside.
Franco walked toward the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.
“A very foolish thing,” it said. “I am sorry that you want to do it. There was a parable that your Saviour related—”
It stopped, staring at the gun.
“Can you look me in the eye and do it?” the wub said. “Can you do that?”
The Captain gazed down. “I can look you in the eye,” he said. “Back on the farm we had hogs, dirty razor-back hogs. I can do it.”
Staring down at the wub, into the gleaming, moist eyes, he pressed the trigger.
The taste was excellent.
They sat glumly around the table, some of them hardly eating at all. The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Captain Franco.
“More?” he said, looking around. “More? And some wine, perhaps.”
“Not me,” French said. “I think I’ll go back to the chart room.”
“Me, too.” Jones stood up, pushing his chair back. “I’ll see you later.”
The Captain watched them go. Some of the others excused themselves.
“What do you suppose the matter is?” the Captain said. He turned to Peterson. Peterson sat staring down at his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat.
He opened his mouth. No sound came.
The Captain put his hand on Peterson’s shoulder.
“It is only organic matter, now,” he said. “The life essence is gone.” He ate, spooning up the gravy with some bread. “I, myself, love to eat. It is one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy. Eating, resting, meditation, discussing things.”
Peterson nodded. Two more men got up and went out. The Captain drank some water and sighed.
“Well,” he said. “I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All the reports I had heard were quite true—the taste of wub. Very fine. But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past.”
He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Peterson stared dejectedly at the table.
The Captain watched him intently. He leaned over.
“Come, come,” he said. “Cheer up! Let’s discuss things.”
He smiled.
“As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the myths—”
Peterson jerked up, staring.
“To go on,” the Captain said. “Odysseus, as I understand him—”
Mr. Spaceship
A brain in liquid with a trail coming out of it leading to a spaceship. Left side image Right side image
Kramer leaned back. “You can see the situation. How can we deal with a factor like this? The perfect variable.”
“Perfect? Prediction should still be possible. A living thing still acts from necessity, the same as inanimate material. But the cause-effect chain is more subtle; there are more factors to be considered. The difference is quantitative, I think. The reaction of the living organism parallels natural causation, but with greater complexity.”
Gross and Kramer looked up at the board plates, suspended on the wall, still dripping, the images hardening into place. Kramer traced a line with his pencil.
“See that? It’s a pseudopodium. They’re alive, and so far, a weapon we can’t beat. No mechanical system can compete with that, simple or intricate. We’ll have to scrap the Johnson Control and find something else.”
“Meanwhile the war continues as it is. Stalemate. Checkmate. They can’t get to us, and we can’t get through their living minefield.”
Kramer nodded. “It’s a perfect defense, for them. But there still might be one answer.”
“What’s that?”
“Wait a minute.” Kramer turned to his rocket expert, sitting with the charts and files. “The heavy cruiser that returned this week. It didn’t actually touch, did it? It came close but there was no contact.”