Eye in the Sky by Philip K. Dick
“God approved of your prayer,” Silky said. “After all, it’s up to Him; He has to decide how He feels about it”
“That’s terrible.”
Silky shrugged. “Maybe so.”
“How can you live with that? You never know what’s going to happen—there’s no order, no logic.” It infuriated him that she did not object, that it seemed natural to her. “We’re helpless; we have to depend on whim. It keeps us from being people—were like animals waiting to be fed. Rewarded or punished.”
Silky studied him. “You’re a funny boy.”
“I’m thirty-two years old; I’m not a boy. And I’m married.”
Fondly, the girl tugged at his arm, half-pulling him from his precarious stool. “Come on, baby. Let’s go where we can worship in private. I have a few rituals you might like to try.”
“Will I go to Hell for it?”
“Not if you know the right people.”
“My new boss has an intercom to Heaven. Will that do?”
Silky continued to urge him from his stool. “Well talk about it later. Let’s go, before that ape of an Irishman notices.”
Raising his head, McFeyffe eyed Hamilton. In a strained, hesitant voice he said, “Are—are you leaving?”
“Sure,” Hamilton said, getting unsteadily from his stool.
“Wait” McFeyffe followed after him. “Don’t leave.”
“Take care of your own soul,” Hamilton said. But he caught in McFeyffe’s face the element of basic uncertainty. “What’s the matter?” he asked, sobered.
McFeyffe said, “I want to show you something.”
“Show me what?”
Striding past Hamilton and Silky, McFeyffe picked up an immense black umbrella; he turned back to them, waiting. Hamilton followed, and Silky tagged along. Pushing the doors open, McFeyffe carefully raised the vast, tent-like umbrella over their heads. The light sprinkle had become a shower; cold autumn rain beat down on the shiny sidewalks, on the silent stores and streets.
Silky shivered. “It’s dismal. Where’re we going?”
Locating Hamilton’s coupe in the gloom, McFeyffe was saying to himself, in a monotone. “It must still exist.”
“Why do you suppose he shuffles?” Hamilton asked morbidly, as the car raced along the endless wet highway. “He never shuffled before.”
Behind the wheel, McFeyffe drove reflexively, his body hunched, sunk down so that he seemed almost asleep. “Like I said,” he muttered, rousing himself. “They’re that way.”
“It means something,” Hamilton persisted. The swish-swish of the windshield wipers lulled him; he lay sleepily against Silky and closed his eyes. The girl smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and perfume. A good smell … he enjoyed it. Against his cheek her hair was dry, light, scratchy. Like certain weed spores.
McFeyffe said, “You know this Second Bab stuff?” His voice lifted, desperate and harsh. “It’s a lot of hot air. A nut cult; a bunch of crackpots. It’s nothing but a bunch of Arabs coming over here with their ideas. Isn’t that right?”
Neither Hamilton nor Silky answered.
“It won’t last,” McFeyffe said.
Peevishly, Silky said, “I want to know where we’re going.” Squeezing closer to Hamilton, she said, “Are you really married?”
Ignoring her, Hamilton said to McFeyffe, I know what you’re afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” McFeyffe said.
“You sure are,” Hamilton said. And he, too, in spite of himself, was uneasy.
Ahead of them San Francisco grew larger and closer, until the car was passing between houses and along streets which showed no sign of life, no motion or sound or light. McFeyffe seemed to know exactly where he wished to go; he made turn after turn, until the car was moving along narrow side streets. Suddenly he slowed the car. Raising himself, up, he peered through the windshield. His face was stiff with apprehension.
“This is awful,” Silky complained, burying her head in Hamilton’s coat. “What is this slum? I don’t get it.”
Stopping the car, McFeyffe pushed the door open and stepped out onto the empty street. Hamilton followed him, and the two of them stood together. Silky stayed behind, listening to insipid dinner music on the car radio. The tinny sound drifted out into the darkness, mixing with the fog that drifted among the closed-up stores and hulking, shabby buildings.
“Is that it?” Hamilton asked, at last
“Yeah.” McFeyffe nodded. Now, faced with the reality of it, he showed no emotion.
The two men faced a dingy, run-down store, a decrepit board structure whose yellow paint had peeled away, exposing the rain-soaked wood beneath. Heaps of trash and newspapers littered the entrance. By the light of the street lamp, Hamilton made out the notices pasted on the windows. Tracts, yellow and fly-specked, were smeared and arranged haphazardly. Beyond was a dingy curtain and, past that, rows of ugly metal chairs. Behind the chairs, the interior of the store was in darkness. Erected above the entrance of the store was a hand-lettered sign, aged and tattered. It read:
Non-Babiist Church
All Welcome
With a ragged groan, McFeyffe pulled himself together and started toward the sidewalk.
“Better let it go,” Hamilton said, following.
“No.” McFeyffe shook his head. “I’m going in.” Raising his black umbrella, he stepped up to the entrance of the store; in a moment he was hammering methodically on the door with the umbrella handle. The sound echoed up and down the empty street, a hollow, vacant noise. Somewhere in an alley, an animal stirred among the ash cans, startled.
The man who eventually opened the door a crack was a tiny, bent figure. Timidly, he peeped out through a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. His cuffs were threadbare and unclean; his yellow, watery eyes darted warily. Trembling, he gazed without recognition at McFeyffe.
“What do you want?” he quavered in a thin, whining voice.
“Don’t you know me?” McFeyffe said. “What’s happened, Father? Where’s the church?”
Fumbling, muttering, the dried-up old man began to tug the door shut “Get away from here. A couple of good-for-nothing drunks. Get away or I’ll call the police.”
As the door swung shut, McFeyffe stuck his umbrella into the opening, jamming it. “Father,” he implored, “this is terrible. I can’t understand it. They stole your church. And you’re—small. It isn’t possible.” His voice ebbed, broken with disbelief. “You used to be …” He turned helplessly to Hamilton. “He used to be big. Bigger than me.”
“Get away,” the little creature buzzed warningly.
“Can’t we come in?” McFeyffe asked, making no move to take away his umbrella. “Please let us in. Where else can we go? I have a heretic here … he wants to be converted.”
The little man hesitated. Grimacing anxiously, he peered out at Hamilton. “You? What’s the matter? Can’t you come back tomorrow? It’s after midnight; I was sound asleep.” Releasing the door, he stepped reluctantly aside.
“This is all there is,” McFeyffe said to Hamilton, as the two of them entered. “Did you ever see it before? It was made of stone, big as—” He gestured futilely. “The biggest of them all.”
“It’ll cost you ten dollars,” the little man said, ahead of them. Bending down, he lugged a clay urn from under the counter. On the counter were heaps of tracts and pamphlets; several slid to the floor, but he didn’t notice. “In advance,” he added.
Fumbling in his pockets, McFeyffe gazed about him. “Where’s the organ? And the candles? Don’t you even have candles?”
“Can’t afford that sort of business,” the little man said, scurrying toward the rear. “Now, just what is it you want? You want me to convert this heretic?” He caught hold of Hamilton’s arm and scrutinized him. “I’m Father O’Farrel. You’ll have to kneel down, young man. And bow your head.”
Hamilton said, “Has it always been like this?”
Momentarily pausing, Father O’Farrel said, “Like w
A wave of compassion touched Hamilton. “Let it go,” he said.
“Our organization is very old,” Father O’Farrel told him hesitantly. “Is that what you mean? It goes back centuries.” His tone wavered. “Back before even the First Bab. I’m not positive of the exact date of origin. They say it’s—” He faltered. “We don’t have much authority. The First Bab, of course, that was 1844. But even before that—”
“I want to talk to God,” Hamilton said.
“Yes, yes,” Father O’Farrel agreed. “So do I, young man.” He patted Hamilton’s arm; the pressure was light, almost unfelt. “So does everybody.”
“Can’t you help me?” Hamilton said. “It’s very difficult,” Father O’Farrel said. He disappeared into a back closet, a chaotic storeroom. Wheezing and groping, he reappeared carrying a wicker basket of assorted bones, fragments, bits of dried hair and skin. “This is everything we’ve got,” he gasped, setting the basket down. “Maybe you can get some use out of these. You’re welcome to help yourself.”
As Hamilton gingerly lifted a few pieces out, McFeyffe said in a shattered voice, “Look at them. Phonies. Junk—curios.”
“We do what we can,” Father O’Farrel said, pressing his hands together.
Hamilton said, “Is there any way we can get up there?”
For the first time, Father O’Farrel smiled. “You’d have to be dead, young man.”
Gathering up his umbrella, McFeyffe moved toward the door. “Let’s go,” he said heavily to Hamilton. “Let’s get out of here; I’ve had enough.”
“Wait,” Hamilton said.
Halting, McFeyffe asked, “Why do you want to talk to God? What good will it do? You can see the situation. Look around.”
Hamilton said, “He’s the only one who can tell us what’s happened.”
After a pause, McFeyffe said, “I don’t care what’s happened. I’m leaving.”
Working rapidly, Hamilton laid out a circle of bones and teeth, a ring of relics. “Give me a hand,” he said to McFeyffe. “You’re in this, too.”
“What you’re after,” McFeyffe said, “is a miracle.”
“I know,” Hamilton said.
McFeyffe walked back. “It won’t do any good. It’s hopeless.” He stood gripping his great black umbrella. Father O’Farrel paced about restlessly, bewildered by what was happening.
“I want to know how this business got started,” Hamilton said. “This Second Bab, this whole mess. If I can’t find out there—” Reaching, he seized the great black umbrella from McFeyffe, and, taking a deep breath, raised it. Like the spread of a leathery vulture, the struts and fabric of the umbrella opened above him; a few drops of stagnant moisture dripped down.
“What’s this?” McFeyffe demanded, stepping past the circle of relics to grope for his umbrella.
“Grab on.” Holding tightly to the handle of the umbrella, Hamilton said to Father O’Farrel, “Is there water in that jug?”
“Y-yes,” Father O’Farrel said, peering into an earthenware urn. “Some, at the bottom.”
“As you toss the water,” Hamilton said, “recite that up-going part.”
“Up-going?” Perplexed, Father O’Farrel retreated. “I—”
“Et resurrexit. You remember.”
“Oh,” Father O’Farrel said. “Yes, I believe so.” Nodding, he dubiously dipped his hand into the urn of holy water and began sprinkling it onto the umbrella. “I sincerely doubt if this will work.”
“Recite,” Hamilton ordered.
Uncertainly, Father O’Farrel murmured, “‘Et resurrexit tertia die secundum scripturas, et ascendit in coelum, sedet ad dexteram partis, et iterum venurus est cum gloria judicare vinos et mortuos, cujas regni non erit finis …’”
In Hamilton’s hands the umbrella quivered. Gradually, laboriously, it began to ascend. McFeyffe gave a terrified bleat and hung on for his life. In a moment the tip of the umbrella was bumping against the low ceiling of the store; Hamilton and McFeyffe dangled absurdly, their feet waving in the dusty shadows.
“The skylight,” Hamilton gasped. “Open it.”
“Rushing to get the pole, Father O’Farrel scurried about like a disturbed mouse. The skylight was pushed aside; wet night air billowed in, displacing the staleness of years. Released, the umbrella shot upward; the tumble-down wooden building disappeared below. Cold fog plucked at Hamilton and McFeyffe as they rose higher and higher. Now they were level with Twin Peaks. Now they were above the great city of San Francisco, suspended by the handle of the umbrella over a dish of winking yellow lights. “What—” McFeyffe shouted, “what if we let go?”
“Pray for strength!” Hamilton shouted back, closing his eyes and clutching frantically at the shaft of the umbrella. Up and up the umbrella shot, gaining velocity each instant. For a brief interval, Hamilton dared to open his eyes and peer upward.
Above lay a limitless expanse of ominous black clouds. What existed beyond? Was He waiting?
Up and up rose the umbrella, into the dark night. It was too late to back out, now.
VII
As they ascended, the chaotic darkness began to fade. The layer of clouds dribbled moistly past them; with a wet slither the umbrella burst through. Instead of the chill black of night, they were rising in a dull medium of indiscriminate gray, an unformed expanse of colorless, shapeless nothing.
Below lay the Earth.
It was the best view Hamilton had ever had of the Earth. In many ways it met his expectations. It was round and quite clearly a globe. Suspended in its medium, the globe hung quietly, a somber but impressive object
Especially impressive because it was unique. Shocked, Hamilton realized that no other planets were heaving into view. He peered up apprehensively, gazed around him, gradually and reluctantly absorbing what his eyes made out.
The Earth was alone in the firmament. Around it wheeled a blazing orb, much smaller, a gnat buzzing and flickering around a giant, inert bulb of matter. That, he realized with a thrill of dismay, was the sun. It was tiny. And—it moved!
Si muove. But not Terra. Si muove—the sun! Fortunately, the glowing, burning bit of phosphorescence was on the far side of the mighty Terra. It moved slowly; its total revolution was a twenty-four hour period. On this side came a smaller, almost unnoticed speck. A corroded wad of waste material that dully plodded along, trivial and dispensable. The moon.
It wasn’t far off; the umbrella was going to carry him almost within touching distance. Incredulous, he gazed at it, until it fell away into the gray medium. Was science, then, in error? Was the whole scheme of the universe mistaken? The vast and overwhelming structure of the Copernican heliocentric system all wrong?
He was seeing the ancient, outmoded, geocentric universe, with a giant, unmoving Earth the only planet. Now he could make out Mars and Venus, bits of material so tiny as to be virtually nonexistent. And the stars. They, too, were incredibly tiny … a canopy of insignificance. In an instant, the entire fabric of his cosmology had come tottering down into ludicrous ruin.
But it was only here. This was the ancient Ptolemaic universe. Not his world. Tiny sun, tiny stars, the great obese blob of an Earth, swollen and bloated, occupying dead center. That was true here—that was the way this universe was run.
But that meant nothing concerning his own universe … thank God.
Having accepted this, he was not particularly surprised to observe a deep underlayer far below the grayness, a reddish film beneath the Earth. It looked as if down at the very bottom of this universe, a primitive mining operation was going on. Forges, blast furnaces and, further into the distance, a kind of crude volcanic simmering sent vague flashes of sinister red to color the nondescript medium of gray.
It was Hell.
And above him … he craned his neck. Now it was clearly visible. Heaven. This was the other end of the’ phone system: this was the station to which the electronics men, the semanticists, the experts on communication, the psychologists,
Above the umbrella, the drifting grayness faded out. For an interval there was nothing, not even the chill night wind that had frozen his bones. McFeyffe, clutching the umbrella, watched in growing awe as the abode of God grew closer. Not much of it was visible. An infinite wall of dense substance stretched out, a protective layer that blocked off any real view.
Above the wall drifted a few luminous specks. The specks darted and leaped like charged ions. As if they were alive.
Probably, they were angels. It was too soon to see.
The umbrella rose, and so did Hamilton’s curiosity. Amazingly, he was quite calm. Under the circumstances it was impossible to feel emotion; either he was totally self-controlled or he was overwhelmed. It was one or the other; there was no in-between. Soon, in another five minutes, he would be carried above the wall. He and McFeyffe would be looking into Heaven.
A long way, he thought. A long way from the moment when they had stood in the hall of the Bevatron building, facing each other. Arguing over some petty trifle…
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the ascent of the umbrella diminished. Now it was barely rising. This was the limit. Above this, there was no up. Idly, Hamilton wondered what would happen. Would the umbrella begin to descend, as patiently as it had climbed? Or would it collapse and deposit them in the middle of Heaven?
Something was coming into view. They were parallel with the expanse of protective material. An inane thought crept into his mind: the material was there—not to keep passersby from seeing in—but to keep inhabitants from tumbling out. To keep them from tumbling back down to the world from which over the centuries, they had come.
“We’re—” McFeyffe wheezed. “We’re almost there.”
“Yeah,” Hamilton said.
“This—has—quite an effect on a—man’s outlook.”
“It really does,” he admitted. Almost, he could see. Another second … half-second … a vague glimpse of landscape was already coming into view. A confusing vision; some kind of circular continuum, a sort of vaguely misty place. Was it a pond, an ocean? A vast lake; swirling waters. Mountains at the far end; an endless range of forest shrubbery.