Philip Dick - A Maze of Death

The theology in this novel is not an analog of any known religion. It stems from an attempt made by William Sarill and myself to develop an abstract, logical system of religious thought, based on the arbitrary postulate that God exists. I should say, too, that the late Bishop James A. Pike, in discussions with me, brought forth a wealth of theological material for my inspection, none of which I was previously acquainted with.

In the novel, Maggie Walshs experiences after death are based on an L.S.D. experience of my own. In exact detail.

The approach in this novel is highly subjective; by that I mean that at any given time, reality is seennot directlybut indirectly, i.e., through the mind of one of the characters. This viewpoint mind differs from section to section, although most of the events are seen through Seth Morleys psyche.

All material concerning Wotan and the death of the gods is based on Richard Wagners version of Der Ring des Nibelungen, rather than on the original body of myths.

Answers to questions put to the tench were derived from the I Ching, the Chinese Book of Changes.

Tekel upharsin is Aramaic for He has weighed and now they divide. Aramaic was the tongue that Christ spoke. There should be more like him.

His job, as always, bored him. So he had during the previous week gone to the ships transmitter and attached conduits to the permanent electrodes extending from his pineal gland. The conduits had carried his prayer to the transmitter, and from there the prayer had gone into the nearest relay network; his prayer, during these days, had bounced throughout the galaxy, winding uphe hopedat one of the godworlds.

His prayer had been simple. This damn inventory-control job bores me, he had prayed. Routine workthis ship is too large and in addition its overstaffed. Im a useless standby module. Could you help me find something more creative and stimulating? He had addressed the prayer, as a matter of course, to the Intercessor. Had it failed he would have presently readdressed the prayer, this time to the Mentufacturer.

But the prayer had not failed.

Mr. Tallchief, his supervisor said, entering Bens work cubicle. Youre being transferred. How about that?

Ill transmit a thankyou prayer, Ben said, and felt good inside. It always felt good when ones prayers were listened to and answered. When do I transfer? Soon? He had never concealed his dissatisfaction from his supervisor; there was now even less reason to do so.

Ben Tallchief, his supervisor said. The praying mantis.

Dont you pray? Ben asked, amazed.

Only when theres no other alternative. Im in favor of a person solving his problems on his own, without outside help. Anyhow, your transfer is valid. His supervisor dropped a document on the desk before Ben. A small colony on a planet named Delmak-O. I dont know anything about it, but I suppose youll find it all out when you get there. He eyed Ben thoughtfully. Youre entitled to use one of the ships nosers. For a payment of three silver dollars.

Done, Ben said, and stood up, clutching the document.

He ascended by express elevator to the ships transmitter, which he found hard at work transacting official ship business. Will you be having any empty periods later today? he asked the chief radio operator. I have another prayer, but I dont want to tie up your equipment if youll be needing it.

Busy all day, the chief radio operator said. Look, Macwe put one prayer through for you last week; isnt that enough?

Anyhow I tried, Ben Tallchief mused as he left the transmitter with its hardworking crew and returned to his own quarters. If the matter ever comes up, he thought, I can say I did my best. But, as usual, the channels were tied up by nonpersonal communications.

He felt his anticipation grow; a creative job at last, and just when he needed it most. Another few weeks here, he said to himself, and I would have been pizzling away at the bottle again as in lamented former times. And of course thats why they granted it, he realized. They knew I was nearing a break. Id probably have wound up in the ships brig, along withhow many were there in the brig now?well, however many there were in There. Ten, maybe. Not much for a ship this size. And with such stringent rules.

From the top drawer of his dresser he got out an unopened fifth of Peter Dawson scotch, broke the seal, unscrewed the lid. Little libation, he told himself as he poured scotch into a Dixie cup. And celebration. The gods appreciate ceremony. He drank the scotch, then refilled the small paper cup.

To further enlarge the ceremony he got downa bit reluctantlyhis copy of The Book: A. J. Specktowskys How I Rose From the Dead in My Spare Time and So Can You, a cheap copy with soft covers, but the only copy he had ever owned; hence he had a sentimental attitude toward it. Opening at random (a highly approved method) he read over a few familiar paragraphs of the great twenty-first century Communist theologians apologia pro vita sua.

God is not supernatural. His existence was the first and most natural mode of being to form itself.

True, Ben Tallchief said to himself. As later theological investigation had proved. Specktowsky had been a prophet as well as a logician; all that he had predicted had turned up sooner or later. There remained, of course, a good deal to know for example, the cause of the Mentufacturers coming into being (unless one was satisfied to believe, with Specktowsky, that beings of that order were self-creating, and existing outside of time, hence outside of causality). But in the main it was all there on the many-times-printed pages.

With each greater circle the power, good and knowledge on the part of God weakened, so that at the periphery of the greatest circle his good was weak, his knowledge was weaktoo weak for him to observe the Form Destroyer, which was called into being by Gods acts of form creation. The origin of the Form Destroyer is unclear; it is, for instance, not possible to declare whether (one) he was a separate entity from God from the start, uncreated by God but also selfcreating, as is God, or (two) whether the Form Destroyer is an aspect of God, there being nothing

He ceased reading, sat sipping scotch and rubbing his forehead semi-wearily. He was forty-two years old and had read The Book many times. His life, although long, had not added up to much, at least until now. He had held a variety of jobs, doing a modicum of service to his employers, but never ever really excelling. Maybe I can begin to excel, he said to himself. On this new assignment. Maybe this is my big chance.

Forty-two. His age had astounded him for years, and each time that he had sat so astounded, trying to figure out what had become of the young, slim man in his twenties, a whole additional year slipped by and had to be recorded, a continually growing sum which he could not reconcile with his selfimage. He still saw himself, in his minds eye, as youthful, and when he caught sight of himself in photographs he usually collapsed. For example, he shaved now with an electric razor, unwilling to gaze at himself in his bathroom mirror. Somebody took my actual physical presence away and substituted this, he had thought from time to time. Oh well, so it went. He sighed.

Of all his many meager jobs he had enjoyed one alone, and he still meditated about it now and then. In 2105 he had operated the background music system aboard a huge colonizing ship on its way to one of the Deneb worlds. In the tape vault he had found all of the Beethoven symphonies mixed haphazardly in with string versions of Carmen and of Delibes and he had played the Fifth, his favorite, a thousand times throughout the speaker complex that crept everywhere within the ship, reaching each cubicle and work area. Oddly enough no one had complained and he had kept on, finally shifting his loyalty to the Seventh and at last, in a fit of excitement during the final months of the ships voyage, to the Ninthfrom which his loyalty never waned.