Read Online The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Strories by Philip K. Dick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip K. Dick
Tags: SF
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Utah in the south part near St. George.”
“This is bad news,” Milt said. “May I stop at that amphetamine dispenser and put in my dime? I need a stimulant to cheer me up.”
“Certainly,” Miss Ableseth said, nodding graciously.
Milt Biskle walked to the spaceport’s nearby stimulant dispenser, reached into his pocket, found a dime, and dropped the dime in the slot.
The dime fell completely through the dispenser and bounced onto the pavement.
“Odd,” Biskle said, puzzled.
“I think I can explain that,” Miss Ableseth said. “That dime of yours is a Martian dime, made for a lighter gravity.”
“Hmm,” Milt Biskle said, as he retrieved the dime. As Miss Ableseth had predicted he felt disoriented. He stood by as she put in a dime of her own and obtained the small tube of amphetamine stimulants for him.. Certainly her explanation seemed adequate. But—
“It is now eight P.M. local time,” Miss Ableseth said. “And I haven’t had dinner, although of course you have, aboard your ship. Why not take me to dinner? We can talk over a bottle of Pinot Noir and you can tell me these vague forebodings which have brought you to Terra, that something dire is wrong and that all your marvelous reconstruct work is pointless. I’d adore to hear about it.” She guided him back to the ‘copter and the two of them entered, squeezing into the back seat together. Milt Biskle found her to be warm and yielding, decidedly Terran; he became embarrassed and felt his heart pounding in effort-syndrome. It had been some time since he had been this close to a woman.
“Listen,” he said, as the automatic circuit of the ‘copter caused it to rise from the spaceport parking lot, “I’m married. I’ve got two children and I came here on business. I’m on Terra to prove that the Proxmen really won and that we few remaining Terrans are slaves of the Prox authorities, laboring for—” He gave up; it was hopeless. Miss Ableseth remained pressed against him.
“You really think,” Miss Ableseth said presently, as the ‘copter passed above New York City, “that I’m a Prox agent?”
“N-no,” Milt Biskle said. “I guess not.” It did not seem likely, under the circumstances.
“While you’re on Terra,” Miss Ableseth said, “why stay in an overcrowded, noisy hotel? Why not stay with me at my conapt in New Jersey? There’s plenty of room and you’re more than welcome.”
“Okay,” Biskle agreed, feeling the futility of arguing.
“Good.” Miss Ableseth gave an instruction to the ‘copter; it turned north. “We’ll have dinner there. It’ll save money, and at all the decent restaurants there’s a two-hour line this time of night, so it’s almost impossible to get a table. You’ve probably forgotten. How wonderful it’ll be when half our population can emigrate!”
“Yes,” Biskle said tightly. “And they’ll like Mars; we’ve done a good job.” He felt a measure of enthusiasm returning to him, a sense of pride in the reconstruct work he and his compatriots had done. “Wait until you see it, Miss Ableseth.”
“Call me Mary,” Miss Ableseth said, as she arranged her heavy scarlet wig; it had become dislodged during the last few moments in the cramped quarters of the ‘copter.
“Okay,” Biskle said, and, except for a nagging awareness of disloyalty to Fay, he felt a sense of well-being.
“Things happen fast on Terra,” Mary Ableseth said. “Due to the terrible pressure of over-population.” She pressed her teeth in place; they, too, had become dislodged
“So I see,” Milt Biskle agreed, and straightened his own wig and teeth, too. Could I have been mistaken? he asked himself. After all he could see the lights of New York below; Terra was decidedly not a depopulated ruin and its civilization was intact.
Or was this all an illusion, imposed on his percept-system by Prox psychiatric techniques unfamiliar to him? It was a fact that his dime had fallen completely through the
“This is bad news,” Milt said. “May I stop at that amphetamine dispenser and put in my dime? I need a stimulant to cheer me up.”
“Certainly,” Miss Ableseth said, nodding graciously.
Milt Biskle walked to the spaceport’s nearby stimulant dispenser, reached into his pocket, found a dime, and dropped the dime in the slot.
The dime fell completely through the dispenser and bounced onto the pavement.
“Odd,” Biskle said, puzzled.
“I think I can explain that,” Miss Ableseth said. “That dime of yours is a Martian dime, made for a lighter gravity.”
“Hmm,” Milt Biskle said, as he retrieved the dime. As Miss Ableseth had predicted he felt disoriented. He stood by as she put in a dime of her own and obtained the small tube of amphetamine stimulants for him.. Certainly her explanation seemed adequate. But—
“It is now eight P.M. local time,” Miss Ableseth said. “And I haven’t had dinner, although of course you have, aboard your ship. Why not take me to dinner? We can talk over a bottle of Pinot Noir and you can tell me these vague forebodings which have brought you to Terra, that something dire is wrong and that all your marvelous reconstruct work is pointless. I’d adore to hear about it.” She guided him back to the ‘copter and the two of them entered, squeezing into the back seat together. Milt Biskle found her to be warm and yielding, decidedly Terran; he became embarrassed and felt his heart pounding in effort-syndrome. It had been some time since he had been this close to a woman.
“Listen,” he said, as the automatic circuit of the ‘copter caused it to rise from the spaceport parking lot, “I’m married. I’ve got two children and I came here on business. I’m on Terra to prove that the Proxmen really won and that we few remaining Terrans are slaves of the Prox authorities, laboring for—” He gave up; it was hopeless. Miss Ableseth remained pressed against him.
“You really think,” Miss Ableseth said presently, as the ‘copter passed above New York City, “that I’m a Prox agent?”
“N-no,” Milt Biskle said. “I guess not.” It did not seem likely, under the circumstances.
“While you’re on Terra,” Miss Ableseth said, “why stay in an overcrowded, noisy hotel? Why not stay with me at my conapt in New Jersey? There’s plenty of room and you’re more than welcome.”
“Okay,” Biskle agreed, feeling the futility of arguing.
“Good.” Miss Ableseth gave an instruction to the ‘copter; it turned north. “We’ll have dinner there. It’ll save money, and at all the decent restaurants there’s a two-hour line this time of night, so it’s almost impossible to get a table. You’ve probably forgotten. How wonderful it’ll be when half our population can emigrate!”
“Yes,” Biskle said tightly. “And they’ll like Mars; we’ve done a good job.” He felt a measure of enthusiasm returning to him, a sense of pride in the reconstruct work he and his compatriots had done. “Wait until you see it, Miss Ableseth.”
“Call me Mary,” Miss Ableseth said, as she arranged her heavy scarlet wig; it had become dislodged during the last few moments in the cramped quarters of the ‘copter.
“Okay,” Biskle said, and, except for a nagging awareness of disloyalty to Fay, he felt a sense of well-being.
“Things happen fast on Terra,” Mary Ableseth said. “Due to the terrible pressure of over-population.” She pressed her teeth in place; they, too, had become dislodged
“So I see,” Milt Biskle agreed, and straightened his own wig and teeth, too. Could I have been mistaken? he asked himself. After all he could see the lights of New York below; Terra was decidedly not a depopulated ruin and its civilization was intact.
Or was this all an illusion, imposed on his percept-system by Prox psychiatric techniques unfamiliar to him? It was a fact that his dime had fallen completely through the
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