The Skull by Philip K. Dick
air.
The crystal cage appeared and settled slowly down. Conger sighed. It wasgood to see it again. After all, it was his only way back.
He walked up on the ridge. He looked around with some satisfaction, hishands on his hips. Hudson's field was spread out, all the way to thebeginning of town. It was bare and flat, covered with a thin layer ofsnow.
Here, the Founder would come. Here, he would speak to them. And here theauthorities would take him.
Only he would be dead before they came. He would be dead before he evenspoke.
Conger returned to the crystal globe. He pushed through the door andstepped inside. He took the Slem-gun from the shelf and screwed the boltinto place. It was ready to go, ready to fire. For a moment heconsidered. Should he have it with him?
No. It might be hours before the Founder came, and suppose someoneapproached him in the meantime? When he saw the Founder coming towardthe field, then he could go and get the gun.
Conger looked toward the shelf. There was the neat plastic package. Hetook it down and unwrapped it.
He held the skull in his hands, turning it over. In spite of himself, acold feeling rushed through him. This was the man's skull, the skull ofthe Founder, who was still alive, who would come here, this day, whowould stand on the field not fifty yards away.
What if _he_ could see this, his own skull, yellow and eroded? Twocenturies old. Would he still speak? Would he speak, if he could see it,the grinning, aged skull? What would there be for him to say, to tellthe people? What message could he bring?
What action would not be futile, when a man could look upon his ownaged, yellowed skull? Better they should enjoy their temporary lives,while they still had them to enjoy.
A man who could hold his own skull in his hands would believe in fewcauses, few movements. Rather, he would preach the opposite--
A sound. Conger dropped the skull back on the shelf and took up the gun.Outside something was moving. He went quickly to the door, his heartbeating. Was it _he_? Was it the Founder, wandering by himself in thecold, looking for a place to speak? Was he meditating over his words,choosing his sentences?
What if he could see what Conger had held!
He pushed the door open, the gun raised.
Lora!
He stared at her. She was dressed in a wool jacket and boots, her handsin her pockets. A cloud of steam came from her mouth and nostrils. Herbreast was rising and falling.
Silently, they looked at each other. At last Conger lowered the gun.
"What is it?" he said. "What are you doing here?"
She pointed. She did not seem able to speak. He frowned; what was wrongwith her?
"What is it?" he said. "What do you want?" He looked in the directionshe had pointed. "I don't see anything."
"They're coming."
"They? Who? Who are coming?"
"They are. The police. During the night the Sheriff had the state policesend cars. All around, everywhere. Blocking the roads. There's aboutsixty of them coming. Some from town, some around behind." She stopped,gasping. "They said--they said--"
"What?"
"They said you were some kind of a Communist. They said--"
* * * * *
Conger went into the cage. He put the gun down on the shelf and cameback out. He leaped down and went to the girl.
"Thanks. You came here to tell me? You don't believe it?"
"I don't know."
"Did you come alone?"
"No. Joe brought me in his truck. From town."
"Joe? Who's he?"
"Joe French. The plumber. He's a friend of Dad's."
"Let's go." They crossed the snow, up the ridge and onto the field. Thelittle panel truck was parked half way across the field. A heavy shortman was sitting behind the wheel, smoking his pipe. He sat up as he sawthe two of them coming toward him.
"Are you the one?" he said to Conger.
"Yes. Thanks for warning me."
The plumber shrugged. "I don't know anything about this. Lora saysyou're all right." He turned around. "It might interest you to know somemore of them are coming. Not to warn you--just curious."
"More of them?" Conger looked toward the town. Black shapes were pickingtheir way across the snow.
"People from the town. You can't keep this sort of thing quiet, not in asmall town. We all listen to the police radio; they heard the same wayLora did. Someone tuned in, spread it around--"
The shapes were getting closer. Conger could, make out a couple of them.Bill Willet was there, with some boys from the high school. TheAppletons were along, hanging back in the rear.
"Even Ed Davies," Conger murmured.
The storekeeper was toiling onto the field, with three or four other menfrom the town.
"All curious as hell," French said. "Well, I guess I'm going back totown. I don't want my truck shot full of holes. Come on, Lora."
She was looking up at Conger, wide-eyed.
"Come on," French said again. "Let's go. You sure as hell can't stayhere, you know."
"Why?"
"There may be shooting. That's what they all came to see. You know thatdon't you, Conger?"
"Yes."
"You have a gun? Or don't you care?" French smiled a little. "They'vepicked up a lot of people in their time, you know. You won't be lonely."
He cared, all right! He had to stay here, on the field. He couldn'tafford to let them take him away. Any minute the Founder would appear,would step onto the field. Would he be one of the townsmen, standingsilently at the foot of the field, waiting, watching?
Or maybe he was Joe French. Or maybe one of the cops. Anyone of themmight find himself moved to speak. And the few words spoken this daywere going to be important for a long time.
And Conger had to be there, ready when the first word was uttered!
"I care," he said. "You go on back to town. Take the girl with you."
Lora got stiffly in beside Joe French. The plumber started up the motor."Look at them, standing there," he said. "Like vultures. Waiting to seesomeone get killed."
* * * * *
The truck drove away, Lora sitting stiff and silent, frightened now.Conger watched for a moment. Then he dashed back into the woods, betweenthe trees, toward the ridge.
He could get away, of course. Anytime he wanted to he could get away.All he had to do was to leap into the crystal cage and turn the handles.But he had a job, an important job. He had to be here, here at thisplace, at this time.
He reached the cage and opened the door. He went inside and picked upthe gun from the shelf. The Slem-gun would take care of them. He notchedit up to full count. The chain reaction from it would flatten them all,the police, the curious, sadistic people--
They wouldn't take him! Before they got him, all of them would be dead._He_ would get away. He would escape. By the end of the day they wouldall be dead, if that was what they wanted, and he--
He saw the skull.
Suddenly he put the gun down. He picked up the skull. He turned theskull over. He looked at the teeth. Then he went to the mirror.
He held the skull up, looking in the mirror. He pressed the skullagainst his cheek. Beside his own face the grinning skull leered back athim, beside _his_ skull, against his living flesh.
He bared his teeth. And he knew.
It was his own skull that he held. He was the one who would die. He wasthe Founder.
After a time he put the skull down. For a few minutes he stood at thecontrols, playing with them idly. He could hear the sound of motorsoutside, the muffled noise of men. Should he go back to the present,where the Speaker waited? He could escape, of course--
Escape?
He turned toward the skull. There it was, his skull, yellow with age.Escape? Escape, when he had held it in his own hands?
What did it matter if he put it off a month, a year, ten years, evenfifty? Time was nothing. He had sipped chocolate with a girl born ahundred and fifty years before his ti
me. Escape? For a little while,perhaps.
But he could not _really_ escape, no more so than anyone else had everescaped, or ever would.
Only, he had held it in his hands, his own bones, his own death's-head.
_They_ had not.
He went out the door and across the field, empty handed. There were alot of them standing around, gathered together, waiting. They expected agood fight; they knew he had something. They had heard about theincident at the fountain.
And there were plenty of police--police with guns and tear gas, creepingacross the hills and ridges, between the trees, closer and closer. Itwas an old story, in this century.
One of the men tossed something at him. It fell in the snow by hisfeet, and he looked down. It was a rock. He smiled.
"Come on!" one of them called. "Don't
The crystal cage appeared and settled slowly down. Conger sighed. It wasgood to see it again. After all, it was his only way back.
He walked up on the ridge. He looked around with some satisfaction, hishands on his hips. Hudson's field was spread out, all the way to thebeginning of town. It was bare and flat, covered with a thin layer ofsnow.
Here, the Founder would come. Here, he would speak to them. And here theauthorities would take him.
Only he would be dead before they came. He would be dead before he evenspoke.
Conger returned to the crystal globe. He pushed through the door andstepped inside. He took the Slem-gun from the shelf and screwed the boltinto place. It was ready to go, ready to fire. For a moment heconsidered. Should he have it with him?
No. It might be hours before the Founder came, and suppose someoneapproached him in the meantime? When he saw the Founder coming towardthe field, then he could go and get the gun.
Conger looked toward the shelf. There was the neat plastic package. Hetook it down and unwrapped it.
He held the skull in his hands, turning it over. In spite of himself, acold feeling rushed through him. This was the man's skull, the skull ofthe Founder, who was still alive, who would come here, this day, whowould stand on the field not fifty yards away.
What if _he_ could see this, his own skull, yellow and eroded? Twocenturies old. Would he still speak? Would he speak, if he could see it,the grinning, aged skull? What would there be for him to say, to tellthe people? What message could he bring?
What action would not be futile, when a man could look upon his ownaged, yellowed skull? Better they should enjoy their temporary lives,while they still had them to enjoy.
A man who could hold his own skull in his hands would believe in fewcauses, few movements. Rather, he would preach the opposite--
A sound. Conger dropped the skull back on the shelf and took up the gun.Outside something was moving. He went quickly to the door, his heartbeating. Was it _he_? Was it the Founder, wandering by himself in thecold, looking for a place to speak? Was he meditating over his words,choosing his sentences?
What if he could see what Conger had held!
He pushed the door open, the gun raised.
Lora!
He stared at her. She was dressed in a wool jacket and boots, her handsin her pockets. A cloud of steam came from her mouth and nostrils. Herbreast was rising and falling.
Silently, they looked at each other. At last Conger lowered the gun.
"What is it?" he said. "What are you doing here?"
She pointed. She did not seem able to speak. He frowned; what was wrongwith her?
"What is it?" he said. "What do you want?" He looked in the directionshe had pointed. "I don't see anything."
"They're coming."
"They? Who? Who are coming?"
"They are. The police. During the night the Sheriff had the state policesend cars. All around, everywhere. Blocking the roads. There's aboutsixty of them coming. Some from town, some around behind." She stopped,gasping. "They said--they said--"
"What?"
"They said you were some kind of a Communist. They said--"
* * * * *
Conger went into the cage. He put the gun down on the shelf and cameback out. He leaped down and went to the girl.
"Thanks. You came here to tell me? You don't believe it?"
"I don't know."
"Did you come alone?"
"No. Joe brought me in his truck. From town."
"Joe? Who's he?"
"Joe French. The plumber. He's a friend of Dad's."
"Let's go." They crossed the snow, up the ridge and onto the field. Thelittle panel truck was parked half way across the field. A heavy shortman was sitting behind the wheel, smoking his pipe. He sat up as he sawthe two of them coming toward him.
"Are you the one?" he said to Conger.
"Yes. Thanks for warning me."
The plumber shrugged. "I don't know anything about this. Lora saysyou're all right." He turned around. "It might interest you to know somemore of them are coming. Not to warn you--just curious."
"More of them?" Conger looked toward the town. Black shapes were pickingtheir way across the snow.
"People from the town. You can't keep this sort of thing quiet, not in asmall town. We all listen to the police radio; they heard the same wayLora did. Someone tuned in, spread it around--"
The shapes were getting closer. Conger could, make out a couple of them.Bill Willet was there, with some boys from the high school. TheAppletons were along, hanging back in the rear.
"Even Ed Davies," Conger murmured.
The storekeeper was toiling onto the field, with three or four other menfrom the town.
"All curious as hell," French said. "Well, I guess I'm going back totown. I don't want my truck shot full of holes. Come on, Lora."
She was looking up at Conger, wide-eyed.
"Come on," French said again. "Let's go. You sure as hell can't stayhere, you know."
"Why?"
"There may be shooting. That's what they all came to see. You know thatdon't you, Conger?"
"Yes."
"You have a gun? Or don't you care?" French smiled a little. "They'vepicked up a lot of people in their time, you know. You won't be lonely."
He cared, all right! He had to stay here, on the field. He couldn'tafford to let them take him away. Any minute the Founder would appear,would step onto the field. Would he be one of the townsmen, standingsilently at the foot of the field, waiting, watching?
Or maybe he was Joe French. Or maybe one of the cops. Anyone of themmight find himself moved to speak. And the few words spoken this daywere going to be important for a long time.
And Conger had to be there, ready when the first word was uttered!
"I care," he said. "You go on back to town. Take the girl with you."
Lora got stiffly in beside Joe French. The plumber started up the motor."Look at them, standing there," he said. "Like vultures. Waiting to seesomeone get killed."
* * * * *
The truck drove away, Lora sitting stiff and silent, frightened now.Conger watched for a moment. Then he dashed back into the woods, betweenthe trees, toward the ridge.
He could get away, of course. Anytime he wanted to he could get away.All he had to do was to leap into the crystal cage and turn the handles.But he had a job, an important job. He had to be here, here at thisplace, at this time.
He reached the cage and opened the door. He went inside and picked upthe gun from the shelf. The Slem-gun would take care of them. He notchedit up to full count. The chain reaction from it would flatten them all,the police, the curious, sadistic people--
They wouldn't take him! Before they got him, all of them would be dead._He_ would get away. He would escape. By the end of the day they wouldall be dead, if that was what they wanted, and he--
He saw the skull.
Suddenly he put the gun down. He picked up the skull. He turned theskull over. He looked at the teeth. Then he went to the mirror.
He held the skull up, looking in the mirror. He pressed the skullagainst his cheek. Beside his own face the grinning skull leered back athim, beside _his_ skull, against his living flesh.
He bared his teeth. And he knew.
It was his own skull that he held. He was the one who would die. He wasthe Founder.
After a time he put the skull down. For a few minutes he stood at thecontrols, playing with them idly. He could hear the sound of motorsoutside, the muffled noise of men. Should he go back to the present,where the Speaker waited? He could escape, of course--
Escape?
He turned toward the skull. There it was, his skull, yellow with age.Escape? Escape, when he had held it in his own hands?
What did it matter if he put it off a month, a year, ten years, evenfifty? Time was nothing. He had sipped chocolate with a girl born ahundred and fifty years before his ti
But he could not _really_ escape, no more so than anyone else had everescaped, or ever would.
Only, he had held it in his hands, his own bones, his own death's-head.
_They_ had not.
He went out the door and across the field, empty handed. There were alot of them standing around, gathered together, waiting. They expected agood fight; they knew he had something. They had heard about theincident at the fountain.
And there were plenty of police--police with guns and tear gas, creepingacross the hills and ridges, between the trees, closer and closer. Itwas an old story, in this century.
One of the men tossed something at him. It fell in the snow by hisfeet, and he looked down. It was a rock. He smiled.
"Come on!" one of them called. "Don't