The Science Fiction Anthology. Филип Дик
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of sound, without using electricity. The writer, as he’s called, employs a black liquid and a pointed stick called a pen. I know about this because one hobby of mine is ancient means of communication.”
Krumbine frowned and shook his head. “Communication is a dangerous business, Potshelter, especially at the personal level. With you and me, it’s all right, because we know what we’re doing.”
He picked up a third blue tranquilizer. “But with most of the hive-folk, person-to-person communication is only a morbid form of advertising, a dangerous travesty of normal newscasting—catharsis without the analyst, recitation without the teacher—a perversion of promotion employed in betraying and subverting.”
The frown deepened as he put the blue pill in his mouth and chewed it. “But about this pen—do you mean the fellow glues the pointed stick to his tongue and then speaks, and the black liquid traces the vibrations on the paper? A primitive non-electrical oscilloscope? Sloppy but conceivable, and producing a record of sorts of the spoken word.”
“No, no, Krumbine.” Potshelter nervously popped a square orange tablet into his mouth. “It’s a hand-written letter.”
Krumbine watched him. “I never mix tranquilizers,” he boasted absently. “Hand-written, eh? You mean that the message was imprinted on a hand? And the skin or the entire hand afterward detached and sent through the mails in the fashion of a Martian reproach? A grisly find indeed, Potshelter.”
“You still don’t quite grasp it, Krumbine. The fingers of the hand move the stick that applies the ink, producing a crude imitation of the printed word.”
“Diabolical!” Krumbine smashed his fist down on the desk so that the four phones and two-score microphones rattled. “I tell you, Potshelter, the SBI is ready to cope with the subtlest modern deceptions, but when fiends search out and revive tricks from the pre-Atomic Cave Era, it’s almost too much. But, Great Scott, I dally while the planets are in danger. What’s the sender’s code on this hellish letter?”
“No code,” Potshelter said darkly, proferring the envelope. “The return address is—hand-written.”
Krumbine blanched as his eyes slowly traced the uneven lines in the upper left-hand corner:
from Richard Rowe
215 West 10th St. (horizontal)
2837 Rocket Court (vertical)
Hive 37, NewNew York 319, N. Y.
Columbia, Terra
“Ugh!” Krumbine said, shivering. “Those crawling characters, those letters, as you call them, those things barely enough like print to be readable—they seem to be on the verge of awakening all sorts of horrid racial memories. I find myself thinking of fur-clad witch-doctors dipping long pointed sticks in bubbling black cauldrons. No wonder Pink Wastebasket couldn’t take it, brave girl.”
Firming himself behind his desk, he pushed a number of buttons and spoke long numbers and meaningful alphabetical syllables into several microphones. Banks of colored lights around the desk began to blink like a theatre marquee sending Morse Code, while phosphorescent arrows crawled purposefully across maps and space-charts and through three-dimensional street diagrams.
“There!” he said at last. “The sender of the letter is being apprehended and will be brought directly here. We’ll see what sort of man this Richard Rowe is—if we can assume he’s human. Seven precautionary cordons are being drawn around his population station: three composed of machines, two of SBI agents, and two consisting of human and mechanical medical-combat teams. Same goes for the intended recipient of the letter. Meanwhile, a destroyer squadron of the Solar Fleet has been detached to orbit over NewNew York.”
“In case it becomes necessary to Z-Bomb?” Potshelter asked grimly.
Krumbine nodded. “With all those villains lurking just outside the Solar System in their invisible black ships, with planeticide in their hearts, we can’t be too careful. One word transmitted from one spy to another and anything may happen. And we must bomb before they do, so as to contain our losses. Better one city destroyed than a traitor on the loose who may destroy many cities. One hundred years ago, three person-to-person postcards went through the mails—just three postcards, Potshelter!—and pft went Schenectady, Hoboken, Cicero, and Walla Walla. Here, as long as you’re mixing them, try one of these oval blues—I find them best for steady swallowing.”
Bells jangled. Krumbine grabbed up two phones, holding one to each ear. Potshelter automatically picked up a third. The ringing continued. Krumbine started to wedge one of his phones under his chin, nodded sharply at Potshelter and then toward a cluster of microphones at the end of the table. Potshelter picked up a fourth phone from behind them. The ringing stopped.
The two men listened, looking doped, Krumbine with an eye fixed on the sweep second hand of the large wall clock. When it had made one revolution, he cradled his phones. Potshelter followed suit.
“I do like the simplicity of the new on-the-hour Puffyloaf phono-commercial,” the latter remarked thoughtfully. “The Bread That’s Lighter Than Air. Nice.”
Krumbine nodded. “I hear they’ve had to add mass to the leadfoil wrapping to keep the loaves from floating off the shelves. Fact.”
He cleared his throat. “Too bad we can’t listen to more phono-commercials, but even when there isn’t a crisis on the agenda, I find I have to budget my listening time. One minute per hour strikes a reasonable balance between duty and self-indulgence.”
The nearest wall began to sing:
Mister J. Augustus Krumbine,
We all think you’re fine, fine, fine, fine.
Now out of the skyey blue
Come some telegrams for you.
The wall opened to a small heart shape toward the center and a sheaf of pale yellow envelopes arced out and plopped on the middle of the desk. Krumbine started to leaf through them, scanning the little transparent windows.
“Hm, Electronic Soap ... Better Homes and Landing Platforms ... Psycho-Blinkers ... Your Girl Next Door ... Poppy-Woppies ... Poopsy-Woopsies....”
He started to open an envelope, then, after a quick look around and an apologetic smile at Potshelter, dumped them all on the disposal hopper, which gargled briefly.
“After all, there is a crisis this morning,” he said in a defensive voice.
Potshelter nodded absently. “I can remember back before personalized delivery and rhyming robots,” he observed. “But how I’d miss them now—so much more distingué than the hives with their non-personalized radio, TV and stereo advertising. For that matter, I believe there are some backward areas on Terra where the great advertising potential of telephones and telegrams hasn’t been fully realized and they are still used in part for personal communication. Now me, I’ve never in my life sent or received a message except on my walky-talky.” He patted his breast pocket.
Krumbine nodded, but he was a trifle shocked and inclined to revise his estimate of Potshelter’s social status. Krumbine conducted his own social correspondence solely by telepathy. He shared with three other SBI officials a private telepath—a charming albino girl named Agnes.
“Yes, and it’s a very handsome walky-talky,” he assured Potshelter a little falsely. “Suits you. I like the upswept antenna.” He drummed on the desk and swallowed another blue tranquilizer. “Dammit, what’s happened to those machines? They ought to have the two spies here by now. Did you notice that the second—the intended recipient of the letter, I mean—seems to be female? Another good Terran name, too, Jane Dough. Hive in Upper Manhattan.” He began to tap the envelope sharply against the desk. “Dammit, where are they?”
“Excuse me,” Potshelter said hesitantly, “but I’m wondering why you haven’t read the message inside the envelope.”
Krumbine