Ubik

by Philip K. Dick

“I have a twenty-year-old wife in cold-pac,” he said to Joe and Pat. “A beautiful woman who when she talks to me gets pushed out of the way by some weird kid named Jory, and then I’m talking to him, not her. Ella frozen in half-life and dimming out—and that battered crone for my secretary that I have to look at all day long.”

“I’ll sign,” Pat said, and reached for the desk pen.

Why would the previous comment convice pat to sign?

The moving sidewalk carried them forward with shattering slowness; it seemed to Joe that five or more minutes passed before the sidewalk evicted them at the two-stage air-membrane doors.

Can't . . . can't they walk while its moving?

“A brand-new tape recorder, completely worn out. Bought with funny money that the store is willing to accept. Worthless money, worthless article purchased; it has a sort of logic to it.”

Does it?

“Now we’re talking about something other than decay; this is a different matter.

Try asking the person who can change the past.

“How come you know that?” the shop foreman asked. “Nobody knows that any more; that’s the old name for the Brooklyn Dodgers.” He eyed Al suspiciously.

Why do you know that? Why is knowing things about the past suspicious?

It wants to come back, he realized. It intends to come back. We can delay it temporarily: a few hours, probably, at the most.

How?! How do you know that?! What are you basing this on?!

And yet, he thought, we seem able to exert some control over it. We did force the actual contemporary elevator back into being.

Did you? Cause I didn't read any evidence of that.

This can’t be normal death,

Ya think?

“Is it Runciter’s writing?” Al asked. “Do you recognize it?” “Yes,” Joe said, nodding. “It’s Runciter’s writing.” “So now we know the truth,” Al said.

Do we?

The ramp, however, had now reverted to a flight of inert concrete stairs. Twenty flights down, he reflected. Step by step. Impossible; no one could walk down that many stairs.

You taking bets, cause I could do it.

There was no way by which he could get back up—either to his conapt or to the roof field where the taxi waited. Once on the ground floor he would be confined there, maybe forever.

Just walk back up the stairs ya lazy idiot.

“All day she’s been saying she felt terribly cold and tired,” Don Denny said. “It may be that she went back to the hotel; she said something about it earlier, that she wanted to lie down and take a nap right after the services. She’s probably all right.”

She's probably alright? Have you not been paying attention?

After a pause Joe said, “What about Pat Conley?” “Yeah, she’s with you; in half-life, interwired to the rest of the group.”

Why would she agree to something that would kill her?

“Rent a telepath,” Joe said. “Or use G. G. Ashwood. Have him scanned.”

But they suspect Ashwood of helping their enemies?

I mean, they’re all dead; only you and I are left, and the Ubik is going to wear off you in a few hours.

How do you know that?

“But Runciter can’t be doing it; you’re right. He’s on the outside. This originates from within our environment. It has to, because nothing can come in from outside except words.”

I'm guessing it's Ella.

“And you can’t kill me,” Jory said. He still grinned. Joe said, “I’m going downstairs.”

What a casual thing to say to your enemy who has literally just attacked you.