Read Online The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch by Philip K. Dick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip K. Dick
Tags: Fiction
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UN legal division had monitored the call…because Impy White, operating out of Mars, was a top pusher of Can-D.
With great reluctance he called the number.
Small-faced and sharp-eyed, pretty in a short sort of way, Impy White obtained on the vidscreen. He had imagined her as much more brawny; she looked quite bantamlike, but fierce, though. “Mr. Bulero, as soon as I say it—”
“There’s no other way? No channels?” A method existed by which Conner Freeman, chief of the Venusian operation, could contact him. Miss White could have worked through Freeman, her superior.
“I visited a hovel, Mr. Bulero, at the south of Mars this morning with a shipment. The hovelists declined. On the grounds they had spent all their skins for a new product. In the same class as—what we sell. Chew-Z.” She went on, “And—”
Leo Bulero rang off. And sat shakily in silence, thinking.
I’ve got to not get rattled, he told himself. After all, I’m an evolved human variety. So this is it; this is that Boston firm’s new product. Derived from Eldritch’s lichen; I have to assume that. He’s lying there on his hospital bed not a mile from me, giving the orders no doubt through Zoe, and there’s not a fligging thing I can do. The operation is all set up and functioning. I’m already too late. Even this thing in my tongue, he realized. It’s futile, now.
But I’ll think of something, he knew. I always do.
This was not the end of P. P. Layouts, exactly.
The only thing was, what
could
he do? It eluded him, and this did not decrease his sweaty, nervous alarm.
Come to me, artificially accelerated cortical-development idea, he said in prayer. God help me to overcome my enemies, the bastards. Maybe if I make use of my Pre-Fash precogs, Roni Fugate and Barney…maybe they can come up with something. Especially that old pro Barney; he hasn’t been brought in on this at all, as yet.
Once more he placed a vidcall to P. P. Layouts back on Terra. This time he requested Barney Mayerson’s department.
And then he remembered Barney’s problem with the draft, his need of developing an inability to endure stress, in order not to wind up in a hovel on Mars.
Grimly, Leo Bulero thought, I’ll provide that proof; for him the danger of being drafted is already over.
When the call came from Leo Bulero on Ganymede, Barney Mayerson was alone in his office.
The conversation did not last long; when he had hung up he glanced at his watch, and marveled. Five minutes. It had seemed a major interval in his life.
Rising, he touched the button of his intercom and said, “Don’t let anyone in for a while. Not even—especially not even—Miss Fugate.” He walked to the window and stood gazing out at the hot, bright, empty street.
Leo was dumping the entire problem in his lap. It was the first time he had seen his employer collapse; imagine, he thought, Leo Bulero baffled—by the first competition that he had ever experienced. He very simply was not used to it. The new Boston company’s existence had totally, for the time being, disoriented him; the man became the child.
Eventually Leo would snap out of it, but meanwhile—
what can I get from this?
Barney Mayerson asked himself, and did not immediately see any answer. I can help Leo…but exactly what can Leo do for me? That was a question more to his liking. In fact, he had to think of it that way; Leo himself had taught him to, over the years. His employer would not have wanted it any other way.
For a time he sat meditating and then, as Leo had directed, he turned his attention to the future. And while he was at it he poked once more into his own draft situation; he tried to see precisely how that would finally resolve itself.
But the topic of his being drafted was too small, too much an iota, to be recorded in the public annals of the great; he could scan no homeopape headlines, hear no newscasts…in Leo’s case, however, it was something else again. Because he previewed a number of
With great reluctance he called the number.
Small-faced and sharp-eyed, pretty in a short sort of way, Impy White obtained on the vidscreen. He had imagined her as much more brawny; she looked quite bantamlike, but fierce, though. “Mr. Bulero, as soon as I say it—”
“There’s no other way? No channels?” A method existed by which Conner Freeman, chief of the Venusian operation, could contact him. Miss White could have worked through Freeman, her superior.
“I visited a hovel, Mr. Bulero, at the south of Mars this morning with a shipment. The hovelists declined. On the grounds they had spent all their skins for a new product. In the same class as—what we sell. Chew-Z.” She went on, “And—”
Leo Bulero rang off. And sat shakily in silence, thinking.
I’ve got to not get rattled, he told himself. After all, I’m an evolved human variety. So this is it; this is that Boston firm’s new product. Derived from Eldritch’s lichen; I have to assume that. He’s lying there on his hospital bed not a mile from me, giving the orders no doubt through Zoe, and there’s not a fligging thing I can do. The operation is all set up and functioning. I’m already too late. Even this thing in my tongue, he realized. It’s futile, now.
But I’ll think of something, he knew. I always do.
This was not the end of P. P. Layouts, exactly.
The only thing was, what
could
he do? It eluded him, and this did not decrease his sweaty, nervous alarm.
Come to me, artificially accelerated cortical-development idea, he said in prayer. God help me to overcome my enemies, the bastards. Maybe if I make use of my Pre-Fash precogs, Roni Fugate and Barney…maybe they can come up with something. Especially that old pro Barney; he hasn’t been brought in on this at all, as yet.
Once more he placed a vidcall to P. P. Layouts back on Terra. This time he requested Barney Mayerson’s department.
And then he remembered Barney’s problem with the draft, his need of developing an inability to endure stress, in order not to wind up in a hovel on Mars.
Grimly, Leo Bulero thought, I’ll provide that proof; for him the danger of being drafted is already over.
When the call came from Leo Bulero on Ganymede, Barney Mayerson was alone in his office.
The conversation did not last long; when he had hung up he glanced at his watch, and marveled. Five minutes. It had seemed a major interval in his life.
Rising, he touched the button of his intercom and said, “Don’t let anyone in for a while. Not even—especially not even—Miss Fugate.” He walked to the window and stood gazing out at the hot, bright, empty street.
Leo was dumping the entire problem in his lap. It was the first time he had seen his employer collapse; imagine, he thought, Leo Bulero baffled—by the first competition that he had ever experienced. He very simply was not used to it. The new Boston company’s existence had totally, for the time being, disoriented him; the man became the child.
Eventually Leo would snap out of it, but meanwhile—
what can I get from this?
Barney Mayerson asked himself, and did not immediately see any answer. I can help Leo…but exactly what can Leo do for me? That was a question more to his liking. In fact, he had to think of it that way; Leo himself had taught him to, over the years. His employer would not have wanted it any other way.
For a time he sat meditating and then, as Leo had directed, he turned his attention to the future. And while he was at it he poked once more into his own draft situation; he tried to see precisely how that would finally resolve itself.
But the topic of his being drafted was too small, too much an iota, to be recorded in the public annals of the great; he could scan no homeopape headlines, hear no newscasts…in Leo’s case, however, it was something else again. Because he previewed a number of
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