Lies, Inc. by Philip K. Dick
“This book,” the creature intoned, “demonstrates beyond any doubt whatsoever that the plan to colonize the ninth planet of the Fomalhaut system is foolish. No such colony as the projected Newcolonizedland can possibly be established. We owe a great debt to Dr. Bloode for his complete elucidation of this complex topic.” It giggled, then. A wet, slurred, wobbly giggle of delighted mirth.
“But the title,” he said. “It says—”
“Irony,” the creature tittered. “Of course. After all, no such colony exists.” It paused, then, contemplatively. “Or does it?”
He was silent. For some ill-disclosed reason he felt a deep, abiding ominousness in the query.
“I wonder,” the creature said speculatively, “why you don’t speak. Is it so difficult a question? There is, of course, that small group of insane fanatics who allege that such a colony in some weird manner or other actually—” It halted as an ominous shape began—to both its surprise and Rachmael’s—to materialize above its head. “A thing,” the creature said, with resigned weariness. “And the worst style of thing in the known universe. I detest them. Do you not also, Mr. ben Applebaum?”
“Yes,” Rachmael admitted. Because the detested object forming was equally familiar—and loathsome—to him also.
A creditor balloon.
“Oh, there you are!” the balloon piped at the amorphous mass of living tissue confronting Rachmael; it descended, tropic to the eye-eating creature. Obviously, it had located its target.
“Ugh,” the eye-eater mumbled in disgust; with its pseudopodia it batted irritably at the invader.
“You must keep your credit-standing up and in good repute!” the balloon squealed as it bobbed and descended. “Your entire—”
“Get out of here,” the eye-eater muttered angrily.
“Mr. Trent,” the balloon shrilled, “your debts are odious! A great variety of small businessmen will go into bankruptcy immediately unless you honor your obligations! Don’t you have the decency to do so? Everyone took you for a person who honored his obligations, an honorable man who could be trusted. Your assets will be attached through the courts, Mr. Trent; prepare for legal action to be instigated starting immediately! If you don’t make at least a token attempt to pay, the entire net worth of Lies, Incorporated—”
“I don’t own Lies, Incorporated any more,” the eye-eater broke in gloomily. “It belongs to Mrs. Trent, now. Mrs. Silvia Trent. I suggest you go and bother her.”
“There is no such person as ‘Mrs. Silvia Trent,’ ” the creditor balloon said, with wrathful condemnation. “And you know it. Her real name is Freya Holm, and she’s your mistress.”
“A lie,” the eye-eater rumbled ominously; again its pseudopodia whipped viciously, seeking out the agile creditor balloon, which dipped and bobbed barely beyond the flailing reach of the several sucker-impregnated arms. “As a matter of fact, this gentleman here—” It indicated Rachmael. “My understanding is that the lady and this individual are emotionally involved. Miss Holm is—was, whatever—a friend of mine, a very close friend. But hardly my mistress.” The eye-eater looked embarrassed.
Rachmael said to it, “You’re Matson Glazer-Holliday.”
“Yes,” the eye-eater admitted.
“He took this evil manifestation,” the creditor balloon shouted, “to evade us. But as you can see, Mr.—” It regarded Rachmael as it bobbed and drifted. “I believe you are familiar to us, too,” it declared then. “Are you one of those who has shirked his moral and legal duty, who has failed to honor his financial obligations? As a matter of fact . . .” It drifted very slowly toward Rachmael. “I think I personally hounded you not too long ago, sir. You are—” It considered as, within, electronic circuits linked it to its agency’s central computer banks. “ben Applebaum!” it shrilled in triumph. “Zounds! I’ve caught two deadbeats AT THE SAME TIME!”
“I’m getting out of here,” the eye-eater who was—or once had been—Matson Glazer-Holliday declared; it began to flow off, uniped-wise, getting free of the situation as quickly as possible . . . and at Rachmael’s expense.
“Hey,” he protested weakly. “Don’t you go scuttling off, Matson. This is all too damn much; wait, for god’s sake!”
“Your late father,” the creditor balloon boomed at him, its voice now amplified by the background data supplied it by the central computer upon which it depended, “as of Friday, November tenth, 2014, owed four and one-third million poscreds to the noble firm Trails of Hoffman Limited, and as his heir, you, sir, must appear before the Superior Court of Marin County, California, and show just cause as to why you have failed (or if you by a miracle have not failed but possess the due sum in toto) and if by your failure you hope to—”
Its resonant voice ceased. Because, in approaching Rachmael the better to harass him, it had forgotten about the finely probing pseudopodia of the eye-eater.
One of the pseudopodia had whipped about the body of the creditor balloon. And squeezed.
“Gleeb!” the creditor balloon squeaked. “Gak!” it whooshed as its frail structure crumbled. “Glarg!” it sighed, and then wheezed into final silence as the pseudopodium crushed it. Fragments rained down, then. A gentle pat-pat of terminal sound.
And after that—silence.
“Thanks,” Rachmael said, gratefully.
“Don’t thank me,” the eye-eater said in a gloomy voice. “After all, you’ve got a lot more troubles than that pitiful object. For instance, Rachmael, you’ve got the illness. Telpor Syndrome. Right?”
“Right,” he admitted.
“So it’s S.A.T. for you. Good old therapy by Lupov’s psychiatrists, probably some second-string hick we never ought to have voted money to pay for. Some fnigging quab; right?” The eye-eater chuckled, in a philosophic fashion. “Well, so it goes. Anyhow— what’s with you, Rachmael? Lately you’ve been, um, a weevil; part of that class and seeing Paraworld Blue . . . is that correct? Yes, correct.” The eye-eater nodded sagely. “And it’s just ever so much fun . . . right? With that Sheila Quam as the control, these days. And form 47-B hanging around, ready to be utilized as soon as two of you experience the same delusional world. Heh-heh.” It chuckled; or rather, Matson Glazer-Holliday chuckled. Rachmael still found it difficult, if not impossible, to recall that the pulpy, massive heap of organic tissue confronting him was Matson.
And—why this shape? Had the creditor balloon been right? Merely to evade the balloon . . . it seemed an overly extreme ruse to escape. Frankly Rachmael was not convinced; he sensed that more, much more, lay below the surface of apparent meaning.
Below the surface. Did nothing actual lie at hand? Did everything have to turn out, eventually, to consist of something else entirely? He felt weary—and resigned. Evidently this remained so. Whether he liked it or not. Delusional as this might be, obviously it was not acting in conformity to his wishes. Not in the slightest.
“What can you tell me,” he said, “about Freya?” He set himself, braced against the possibility of horrible final news; he waited with cold stoic anticipation.
“Chrissake, she’s fine,” the eye-eater answered. “Nobody got her; it was me they got. Blew me to bits, they did.”
“But,” Rachmael pointed out, “you’re alive.”
“Somewhat.” The eye-eater sounded disenchanted. “You call this being alive? Well, I guess technically it’s being alive; I can move around, eat food, breathe; maybe, for all I know, I can reproduce myself. Okay, I admit it; I’m alive. Are you satisfied?”
Rachmael said hoarsely, “You’re a Mazdast.”
“Hell I am.”
“But my paraworld,” Rachmael said bluntly, “is Paraworld Blue. I’ve seen the Aquatic Horror-shape, Matson; I know from firsthand experience what it looks like.” He plunged on, then, ruthlessly. “And you’re it.”
“Almost.” The eye-eater sounded placid; he had not disturbed its potent calm. “But you yourself noticed crucial differences, son. For example, I possess a multitude of compound eyes; hig
“Wait a moment,” Rachmael said thickly. “I find your appetite offensive; for god’s sake, wait!”
“Anything,” the eye-eater said obligingly, “to please a fellow human being. We both are, you realize. I am, certainly. After all, I’m the quondam owner of Lies, Incorporated; correct? No, I am not a Mazdast; not one of the primordial Ur-inhabitants of Fomalhaut IX. They constitute a low order of organism; I spit on them.” It spat, decisively. In its mind there was no doubt; it detested the Mazdasts. “What I am,” it continued, “is the living embodiment of humanity and not some alien creep-thing that nature was inclined to spawn on this far-flung, rather degenerate crypto-colony planet. Well, when Computer Day arrives, all that will be taken care of. You included, you odd life-form, you. Heh-heh.” It giggled once more. “Now, that book I loaned you. Dr. Bloode’s book. It seems to me that if you want to catch up on the very vital facts pertaining to Newcolonizedland, you really ought to con it thoroughly. What you want to learn undoubtedly lies within. Read it! Go on! Heh-heh.” Its voice trailed off stickily into an indistinct torrent of mumbled amusement, and Rachmael felt a surge of doubt, overwhelming doubt, that this was—at least now—the man he had known as Matson Glazer-Holliday. He sensed its innate alienness. It was, beyond doubt, nonhuman. To say the least.
With dignity, he answered, “I’ll read it when I have time.”
“But you’ll enjoy it, Mr. ben Applebaum. Not only is the volume educational, but also highly amusing. Let me quote one of Dr. Bloode’s quite singular Thingisms.”
“ ‘Thingisms’?” Rachmael felt baffled—and wary. He had a deep intuition that the Thingism, whatever it was, would not be amusing. Not to him, anyhow, or to any human.
“I always enjoyed this one,” the eye-eater intoned, its saliva spilling from its mouth as it writhed with glee. “Consider: since you are about to read the book, here is Thingism Number Twenty, dealing with books.
“Ahem. ‘The book business is hidebound.’ ”
After a pause, Rachmael said, “That’s it?”
“Perhaps you failed to understand. I’ll give you another gem, one more particular favorite of mine. And if that fails to move you . . . Oooohhh! That’s a Thingism! Listen! ‘The representative of the drayage firm failed to move me.’ Oooohhh! How was that?” It waited hopefully.
Baffled, Rachmael said, “I don’t get it.”
“All right.” The eye-eater’s tone was now harsh. “Read the book purely for educational purposes, then. So be it. You want to know the origin of this form which I have taken. Well, everyone will take it, sooner or later. We all do; this is how we become after we die.”
He stared at it.
“While you ponder,” the eye-eater continued, “I’ll delight you with a few more Thingisms of Dr. Bloode’s. This one I always enjoy. ‘The vidphone company let me off the hook.’ How was that? Or this one: ‘The highway construction truck tore up the street at forty miles an hour.’ Or this: ‘I am not in a position to enjoy sexual relations.’ Or—”
Shutting his ears, ignoring the prolix eye-eater, Rachmael examined the book, finding a page at dead-random. The text swam, then set into clear focus for him.
A zygote formed between the indigenous inhabitants of Fomalhaut IX and Homo sapiens gives us evidence of the dominant aspect of the so-called ‘Mazdast’ genetic inheritance. From the twin radically opposing strains arises what nominally appears to be a pure ‘Mazdast,’ with the exceptional reorganization of the organs of sight, the cephalopodic entity otherwise manifesting itself intact and in its customary fashion.
“You mean,” Rachmael said, glancing up from the book, stunned, “that when you say you’re Matson Glazer-Holliday you mean you’re an offspring of his and a—”
“And of a female Mazdast,” the eye-eater said calmly. “Read on, Mr. ben Applebaum. There’s much more there to interest you. You’ll find that each of the paraworlds is explained; the structure of each is displayed so that the logic constituting each is clearly revealed. Look in the index. Select the paraworld which most interests you.”
He turned at once to Paraworld Blue.
“And Freya Holm,” the eye-eater said, as Rachmael leafed shakily through the volume for the cited page. “You wish to find her; this is your primary motive for coming here to Fomalhaut IX. Possibly there’s an entry regarding Miss Holm; had you thought of that, sir?”
Huskily, with disbelief, Rachmael said, “You’re kidding.” It was impossible.
“Merely test out what I say. Look under Holm comma Freya.”
He did so.
The index informed him that there existed two entries regarding Freya. One on page fifty. The second further in, deep into the book: on page two-hundred-and-ten.
He chose the earlier one first.
Freya saw, then, into the grave and screamed; she ran and as she ran, struggled to get away, she knew it for what it was: a refined form of nerve gas that—and then her coherent thoughts ceased and she simply ran.
“It details,” the eye-eater informed him, “Miss Holm’s actions on this side of the Telpor gate. Up to the present. If you want to know what became of her, simply read on. And,” it added sourly, “what became of me.”
His hands shaking, Rachmael read on. He had now swiftly turned to the later citation on page two-hundred-and-ten; before his eyes danced the black bug-like words, details of Freya’s fate here at Newcolonizedland. He held, read, understood what he had come for; this, as the eye-eater said, contained what he wanted.
Facing the deformed entity which she had once known as the human ’wash psychiatrist Dr. Lupov, Freya whispered ashenly, “So the transformation is arranged by means of your techniques and all of those damned gadgets you use to keep people thinking along the exact lines you want. And I thought it was a biological sport; I was so completely convinced.” She shut her eyes in deep, overpowering fatigue. And realized that this was the end; she would go the way of Mat, of Rachmael ben Applebaum, of
“What way?” Rachmael demanded, lifting his eyes from the page and confronting the creature before him. “You mean become like you?” His body cringed; he retreated physically from even the notion of it, let alone its presence here before him.
“All flesh must die,” the eye-eater said, and giggled.
Almost unable to hold onto Dr. Bloode’s volume, Rachmael once more turned to the index. This time he selected the entry:
ben Applebaum, Rachmael
And again read on. Grimly.
To the sharp-featured, intent young man beside him, Lupov said, “I think we can consider Reconstruct Method Three to be successful. At least in its initial phase.”
Jaimé Weiss nodded. “I agree. And you have the alternate versions of the text available? As the other persons are brought in?” He did not take his eyes from the vid screen; he missed nothing of the activity that at slowed-velocity passed before the magnetic scanning-heads of the replay deck for his and Dr. Lupov’s scrutiny.
“Several are ready.” It did not seem urgent to Lupov to have all alternates of the text which Rachmael ben Applebaum now read available at the same time; after all . . . certain changes in the other versions might be indicated, depending on which way ben Applebaum jumped. His reaction to this text—in particular the part dealing with his own “death”—would come in any moment, now.
On the small screen Rachmael ben Applebaum slowly closed the book, stood uncertainly, and then said to the creature facing him, “So that’s how I’m going to get knocked off. Like that. Just like that.”
“More or less,” the eye-eater answered, carelessly.
“It’s a good job,” Jaimé Weiss commented with approval.
“Yes,” Lupov nodded. “It will probably f
A good description of our instrumentalities, Lupov reflected. This Weiss person has ability. His composition, this initial variant of the so-called Dr. Bloode Text—masterful. A powerful weapon in this final vast conflict.
Of most interest would be a later response to one of the versions of the text. The reaction by Theodoric Ferry.
It was this that both Jaimé Weiss and Dr. Lupov looked toward.
And—it would not be long, now. Theodoric Ferry would soon be located where the text could be presented to him. At this moment, Ferry loitered on Terra. But—
At six-thirty, three hours from now, Ferry would make a secret trip to Newcolonizedland, one of many; like Sepp von Einem, he crossed back and forth at will.
This time, however, he would make a one-way crossing.
Theodoric Ferry would never return to Terra.
At least not sane.
THIRTEEN
In the darkness of gathering fright Freya Holm wandered, trying to escape insight, the awareness of absolute nonbeing which the intricate weapon manned by the two veteran police of Lies, Incorporated had thrust onto her—how long ago? She could not tell; her time sense, in the face of the field emanating from the weapon, had like so much else that constituted objective reality totally vanished.
At her waist a delicate detection meter clicked on, registered a measured passage of high-frequency current; she halted, and the gravity of this new configuration slapped her into abrupt alertness. The meter had been built to record one sole subvariety of electrical activity. The flux emanating from—