Philip K. Dick - The crack in space

PHILIP K. DICK

THE CRACK IN SPACE

Philip K. Dick was born in Chicago in 1928 and lived most of his life in California. He briefly attended the University of California, but dropped out before completing any classes. In 1952, he began writing professionally and proceeded to write numerous novels and short story collections. He won the Hugo Award for the best novel in 1962 for The Man in the High Castle and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best novel of the year in 1974 for Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. Philip K. Dick died on March 2, 1982, in Santa Ana, California, of heart failure following a stroke.

ONE

The young couple, black-haired, dark-skinned, probably Mexican or Puerto Rican, stood nervously at Herb Lackmores counter and the boy, the husband, said in a low voice, Sir, we want to be put to sleep. We want to become bibs.

Rising from his desk, Lackmore walked to the counter and although he did not like Cols - there seemed to be more of them every month, coming into his Oakland branch office of the U.S. Department on Special Public Welfare - he said in a pleasant tone of voice designed to reassure the two of them, Have you thought it over carefully, folks? Its a big step. You might be out for, say, a few hundred years. Have you shopped for any professional advice about this?

The boy, glancing at his wife, swallowed and murmured, No, sir. We just decided between us. Neither of us can get a job and were about to be evicted from our dorm. We dont even own a wheel, and what can you do without a wheel? You cant go anywhere. You cant even look for work. He was not a bad-looking boy, Lackmore noticed. Possibly eighteen, he still wore the coat and trousers which were army-separation issue. The girl had long hair; she was quite small, with black, bright eyes and a delicately-formed almost doll-like face. She never ceased watching her husband.

Im going to have a baby, the girl blurted.

Aw, the heck with both of you, Lackmore said in disgust, drawing his breath in sharply. You both get right out of here.

Ducking their heads guiltily the boy and his wife turned and started from Lackmores office, back outside onto the busy downtown early-morning Oakland, California street.

Go see an abort-consultant! Lackmore called after them irritably. He resented having to help them, but obviously someone had to; look at the spot they had gotten themselves into. Because no doubt they were living on a government military pension, and if the girl was pregnant the pension would automatically be withdrawn.

Plucking hesitantly at the sleeve of his wrinkled coat the Col boy said, Sir, how do we find an abort-consultant?

The ignorance of the dark-skinned strata, despite the governments ceaseless educational campaigns. No wonder their women were often preg. Look in the phone book, Lackmore said. Under abortionists, therapeutic. Then the subsection advisors. Got it?

Yes, sir. Thank you. The boy nodded rapidly.

Can you read?

Yes. I stayed in school until I was thirteen. On the boys face fierce pride showed; his black eyes gleamed.

Lackmore returned to reading his homeopape; he did not have any more time to offer gratis. No wonder they wanted to become bibs. Preserved, unchanged, in a government warehouse, year after year, until - would the labor market ever improve? Lackmore personally doubted it, and he had been around a long time; he was ninety-five years old, a jerry. In his time he had put to sleep thousands of people, almost all of them, like this couple, young. And - dark.

The door of the office shut. The young couple had gone again as quietly as they had come.

Sighing, Lackmore began to read once more the papes article on the divorce trial of Lurton D. Sands, Jr, the most sensational event now taking place; as always, he read every word of it avidly.

This day began for Darius Pethel with vidphone calls from irate customers wanting to know why their Jiffi-scuttlers hadnt been fixed. Any time now, he told them soothingly, and hoped that Erickson was already at work in the service department of Pethel Jiffi-scuttler Sales & Service.

As soon as he was off the vidphone Pethel searched among the litter on his desk for the days copy of U.S. Business Report; he of course kept abreast of all the economic developments on the planet. This alone set him above his employees; this, his wealth, and his advanced age.

Whats it say? his salesman, Stu Hadley, asked, standing in the office doorway, robant magnetic broom in hand, pausing in his activity.

Silently, Pethel read the major headline.

EFFECTS ON THE NATIONS BUSINESS
COMMUNITY OF A NEGRO PRESIDENT

And there, in 3-D, animated, was a pic of James Briskin; the pic came to life, Candidate Briskin smiled in miniature, as Pethel pressed the tab beneath it. The Negros mustache-obscured lips moved and above his head a balloon appeared, filled with the words he was saying.

My first task will be to find an equitable disposition of the tens of millions of sleeping.

And dump every last bib back on the labor market, Pethel murmured, releasing the word tab. If this guy gets in, the nations ruined. But it was inevitable. Sooner or later, there would be a Negro president; after all, since the Event of 1993 there had been more Cols than Caucs.

Gloomily, he turned to page two for the latest on the Lurton Sands scandal; maybe that would cheer him up, the political news being so bad. The famous org-trans surgeon had become involved in a sensational contested divorce suit with his equally famous wife Myra, the abort-consultant. All sorts of juicy details were beginning to filter out, charges on both sides. Dr Sands, according to the homeopapes, had a mistress; that was why Myra had stomped out, and rightly so. Not like the old days, Pethel thought, recalling his youth in the late decades of the twentieth century. Now it was 2080 and public - and private - morality had worsened.

Why would Dr Sands want a mistress anyhow, Pethel wondered, when theres that Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite passing overhead every day? They say therere five thousand girls to choose from.

He, himself, had never visited Thisbe Olts satellite; he did not approve of it, nor did very many jerries - it was too radical a solution to the overpopulation problem, and seniors, by letter and telegram, had fought its passage in Congress back in 72. But the bill had gone through anyhow probably, he reflected, because most Congressmen had the idea of taking a jetab up there themselves. And no doubt regularly did, now.

If we whites stick together Hadley began.

Listen, Pethel said, that time has passed. If Briskin can dispose of the bibs, more power to him; personally, it keeps me awake at night, thinking of all those people, most of them just kids, lying in those gov warehouses year after year. Look at the talent going to waste. Its - bureaucratic! Only a swollen socialist government would have dreamed up a solution like that. He eyed his salesman harshly. If you hadnt gotten this job with me, even you might

Hadley interrupted quietly, But Im white.

Reading on further, Pethel saw that Thisbe Olts satellite had grossed a billion U.S. dollars in 2079. Wow, he said to himself. Thats big business. Before him was a pic of Thisbe; with cadmium-white hair and little high conical breasts she was a superb sight, an aesthetic as well as a sexual treat. The pic showed her serving male guests of her satellite a tequila sour - an added fillip because tequila, being derived from the mescal plant, had long been illegal on Earth proper.

Pethel touched the word tab of Thisbes pic and at once Thisbes eyes sparkled, her head turned, her stable, dense breasts vibrated subtly, and in the balloon above her head the proper words formed.

Embarrassing personal urgency, Mr American businessman? Do as many doctors recommend: visit my Golden Door!