Philip Dick - The Last Of The Masters

Consciousness collected around him. He returned with reluctance; the weight of centuries, an unbearable fatigue, lay over him. The ascent was painful. He would have shrieked if there were anything to shriek with. And anyhow, he was beginning to feel glad.

Eight thousand times he had crept back thus, with ever-increasing difficulty. Someday he wouldnt make it. Someday the black pool would remain. But not this day. He was still alive; above the aching pain and reluctance came joyful triumph.

"Good morning," a bright voice said. "Isn't it a nice day? Ill pull the curtains and you can look out."

He could see and hear. But he couldnt move. He lay quietly and allowed the various sensations of the room to pour in on him. Carpets, wallpaper, tables, lamps, pictures. Desk and vidscreen. Gleaming yellow sunlight streamed through the window. Blue sky. Distant hills. Fields, buildings, roads, factories. Workers and machines.

Peter Green was busily straightening things, his young face wreathed with smiles. "Lots to do today. Lots of people to see you. Bills to sign. Decisions to make. This is Saturday. There will be people coming in from the remote sectors. I hope the maintenance crew has done a good job." He added quickly, "They have, of course. I talked to Fowler on my way over here. Every thing's fixed up fine.

The youths pleasant tenor mixed with the bright sunlight. Sounds and sights, but nothing else. He could feel nothing. He tried to move his arm but nothing happened.

"Dont worry," Green said, catching his terror. "Theyll soon be along with the rest. Youll be all right. You have to be. How could we survive without you?

He relaxed. God knew, it had happened often enough before. Anger surged dully. Why couldnt they coordinate? Get it up all at once, not piecemeal. He'd have to change their schedule. Make them organize better.

Past the bright window a squat metal car chugged to a halt. Uniformed men piled out, gathered up heavy armloads of equipment, and hurried toward the main entrance of the building.

"Here they come, Green exclaimed with relief. "A little late, eh?

"Another traffic tie-up, Fowler snorted, as he entered. "Something wrong with the signal system again. Outside flow got mixed up with the urban stuff; tied up on all sides. I wish youd change the law.

Now there was motion all around him. The shapes of Fowler and McLean loomed, two giant moons abruptly ascendant. Professional faces that peered down at him anxiously. He was turned over on his side. Muffled conferences. Urgent whispers. The clank of tools.

"Here, Fowler muttered. "Now here. No, that's later. Be careful. Now run it up through here.

The work continued in taut silence. He was aware of their closeness. Dim outlines occasionally cut off his light. He was turned this way and that, thrown around like a sack of meal.

"Okay, Fowler said. "Tape it.

A long silence. He gazed dully at the wall, at the slightly-faded blue and pink wallpaper. An old design that showed a woman in hoopskirts, with a little parasol over her dainty shoulder. A frilly white blouse, tiny tips of shoes. An astoundingly clean puppy at her side.

Then he was turned back, to face upward. Five shapes groaned and strained over him. Their fingers flew, their muscles rippled under their shirts. At last they straightened up and retreated, Fowler wiped sweat from his face; they were all tense and bleary-eyed.

"Go ahead," Fowler rasped. "Throw it."

Shock hit him. He gasped. His body arched, then settled slowly down.

His body. He could feel. He moved his arms experimentally. He touched his face, his shoulder, the wall. The wall was real and hard. All at once the world had become three-dimensional again.

Relief showed on Fowler's face. "ThankGod." He sagged wearily. "How do you feel?

After a moment he answered, "All right."

Fowler sent the rest of the crew out. Green began dusting again, off in the corner. Fowler sat down on the edge of the bed and lit his pipe. "Now listen to me, he said. "Ive got bad news. I'll give it to you the way you always want it, straight from the shoulder.

"What is it?" he demanded. He examined his fingers. He already knew.

There were dark circles under Fowler's eyes. He hadnt shaved. His square-jawed face was drawn and unhealthy. "We were up all night. Working on your motor system. Weve got it jury-rigged, but it wont hold. Not more than another few months. The things climbing. The basic units cant be replaced. When they wear theyre gone. We can weld in relays and wiring, but we can't fix the five synapsis-coils. There were only a few men who could make those, and they've been dead two centuries. If the coils burn out

"Is there any deterioration in the synapsis-coils?" he interrupted.

"Not yet. Just motor areas. Arms, in particular. Whats happening to your legs will happen to your arms and finally all your motor system. Youll be paralyzed by the end of the year. Youll be'able to see, hear, and think. And broadcast. But that's all." He added, "Sorry, Bors. We're doing all we can.

"All right, Bors said. "Youre excused. Thanks for telling me straight. Iguessed.

"Ready to go down? A lot of people with problems, today. Theyre stuck until you get there.

"Lets go. He focussed his mind with an effort and turned his attention to the details of the day. "I want the heavy metals research program speeded. Its lagging, as usuaL I may have to pull a number of men from related work and shift them to the generators. The water level will be dropping soon. I want to start feeding power along the lines while theres still power to feed. As soon as I turn my back everything starts falling apart.

Fowler signalled Green and he came quickly over. The two of them bent over Bors and, grunting, hoisted him up and carried him to the door. Down the corridor and outside.

They deposited him in the squat metal car, the new little service truck. Its polished surface was a startling contrast to his pitted, corroded hull, bent and splotched and eaten away. A dull, patina-covered machine of archaic steel and plastic that hummed faintly, rustily, as the men leaped in the front seat and raced the car out onto the main highway.

Edward Tolby perspired, pushed his pack up higher, hunched over, tightened his gun belt, and cursed.

"Daddy, Silvia reproved. "Cut that.

Tolby spat furiously in the grass at the side of the road. He put his arm around his slim daughter. Sorry, Silv. Nothing personal. The damn heat.

Mid-moming sun shimmered down on the dusty road. Clouds of dust rose and billowed around the three as they pushed slowly along. They were dead tired. Tolbys heavy face was flushed and sullen. An unlit cigarette dangled between his. lips. His big, powerfully built body was hunched resentfully forward. His daughters canvas shirt clung moistly to her arms and breasts. Moons of sweat darkened her back. Under her jeans her thigh muscles rippled wearily.

Robert Penn walked a little behind the two Tolbys, hands deep in his pockets, eyes on the road ahead. His mind was blank; he was half asleep from the double shot of hexo- barb he had swallowed at the last League camp. And the heat lulled him. On each side of the road fields stretched out, pastures of grass and weeds, a few trees here and there. A tumbled-down farmhouse. The ancient rusting remains of a bomb shelter, two centuries old. Once, some dirty sheep.

"Sheep, Penn said. "They eat the grass too far down. It wont grow back.

"Now hes a farmer, Tolby said to his daughter.

"Daddy, Silvia snapped. "Stop being nasty."

"Its this heat. This damn heat. Tolby cursed again, loudly and fu- tilely. "Its not worth it. For ten pinks Id go back and tell them it was a lot of pig swill.