Philip K. Dick - The Father Thing (short story)

DINNERS READY, commanded Mrs. Walton. Go get your father and tell him to wash his hands. The same applies to you, young man. She carried a steaming casserole to the neatly set table. Youll find him out in the garage.

Charles hesitated. He was only eight years old, and the problem bothering him would have confounded Hillel. I he began uncertainly.

Whats wrong? June Walton caught the uneasy tone in her sons voice and her matronly bosom fluttered with sudden alarm. Isnt Ted out in the garage? For heavens sake, he was sharpening the hedge shears a minute ago. He didnt go over to the Andersons, did he? I told him dinner was practically on the table.

Hes in the garage, Charles said. But hes talking to himself.

Talking to himself! Mrs. Walton removed her bright plastic apron and hung it over the doorknob. Ted? Why, he never talks to himself. Go tell him to come in here. She poured boiling black coffee in the little blue-and-white china cups and began ladling out creamed corn. Whats wrong with you? Go tell him!

I dont know which of them to tell, Charles blurted out desperately. They both look alike.

June Waltons fingers lost their hold on the aluminum pan; for a moment the creamed corn slushed dangerously. Young man she began angrily, but at that moment Ted Walton came striding into the kitchen, inhaling and sniffing and rubbing his hands together.

Ah, he cried happily. Lamb stew.

Beef stew, June murmured. Ted, what were you doing out there?

Ted threw himself down at his place and unfolded his napkin. I got the shears sharpened like a razor. Oiled and sharpened. Better not touch them theyll cut your hand off. He was a good-looking man in his early thirties; thick blond hair, strong arms, competent hands, square face and flashing brown eyes. Man, this stew looks good. Hard day at the office Friday, you know. Stuff piles up and we have to get all the accounts out by five. Al McKinley claims the department could handle 20 per cent more stuff if we organized our lunch hours; staggered them so somebody was there all the time. He beckoned Charles over. Sit down and lets go.

Mrs. Walton served the frozen peas. Ted, she said, as she slowly took her seat, is there anything on your mind?

On my mind? He blinked. No, nothing unusual. Just the regular stuff. Why?

Uneasily, June Walton glanced over at her son. Charles was sitting bolt-upright at his place, face expressionless, white as chalk. He hadnt moved, hadnt unfolded his napkin or even touched his milk. A tension was in the air; she could feel it. Charles had pulled his chair away from his fathers; he was huddled in a tense little bundle as far from his father as possible. His lips were moving, but she couldnt catch what he was saying.

What is it? she demanded, leaning toward him.

The other one, Charles was muttering under his breath. The other one came in.

What do you mean, dear? June Walton asked out loud. What other one?

Ted jerked. A strange expression flitted across his face. It vanished at once; but in the brief instant Ted Waltons face lost all familiarity. Something alien and cold gleamed out, a twisting, wriggling mass. The eyes blurred and receded, as an archaic sheen filmed over them. The ordinary look of a tired, middle-aged husband was gone.

And then it was back or nearly back. Ted grinned and began to wolf down his stew and frozen peas and creamed corn. He laughed, stirred his coffee, kidded and ate. But something terrible was wrong.

The other one, Charles muttered, face white, hands beginning to tremble. Suddenly he leaped up and backed away from the table. Get away! he shouted. Get out of here!

Hey, Ted rumbled ominously. Whats got into you? He pointed sternly at the boys chair. You sit down there and eat your dinner, young man. Your mother didnt fix it for nothing.

Charles turned and ran out of the kitchen, upstairs to his room. June Walton gasped and fluttered in dismay. What in the world

Ted went on eating. His face was grim; his eyes were hard and dark. That kid, he grated, is going to have to learn a few things. Maybe he and I need to have a little private conference together.