The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch

by Philip K. Dick

The mechanism which was the portable extension of Dr. Smile, connected by micro-relay to the computer itself in the basement level of Barney’s own conapt building in New York, the Renown 33, tinnily declared, “Ah, Mr. Bayerson.” “Mayerson,” Barney corrected, smoothing his hair with fingers that shook. “What do you remember about last night?” Now he saw, with intense physical aversion, half-empty bottles of bourbon and sparkling water, lemons, bitters, and ice cube trays on the sideboard in the kitchen. “Who is this girl?” Dr. Smile said, “This girl in the bed is Miss Rondinella Fugate. Roni, as she asked you to call her.” It sounded vaguely familiar, and oddly, in some manner, tied up with his job.

The bathroom door opened a crack; he caught a glimpse of Roni, pink and rubbery and clean, drying herself. “Did you call me, dear?” “No,” he said. “I was talking to my doctor.” “Everyone makes errors,” Dr. Smile said, a trifle vacuously. Barney said, “How’d she and I happen to—” He gestured toward the bedroom. “After so short a time.” “Chemistry,” Dr. Smile said. “Come on.” “Well, you’re both precogs. You previewed that you’d eventually hit it off, become erotically involved. So you both decided—after a few drinks—that why should you wait? ‘Life is short, art is—’” The suitcase ceased speaking, because Roni Fugate had appeared from the bathroom, naked, to pad past it and Barney back once more into the bedroom.

Roni Fugate said, “I meant to ask you last night—why are you consulting a psychiatrist? And my lord, you carry it around everywhere with you; not once did you set it down—and you had it turned on right up until—” She raised an eyebrow and glanced at him searchingly. “At least I did turn it off then,” Barney pointed out. “Do you think I’m pretty?” Rising on her toes she all at once stretched, reached above her head, then, to his amazement, began to do a brisk series of exercises, hopping and leaping, her breasts bobbing. “I certainly do,” he murmured, taken aback. “I’d weigh a ton,” Roni Fugate panted, “if I didn’t do these UN Weapons Wing exercises every morning. Go pour the coffee, will you, dear?”

“Listen. The only reason why you’d be carrying a psychiatrist around with you is that you must have gotten your draft notice. Right?” After a pause he nodded. That he remembered. The familiar elongated blue-green envelope had arrived one week ago; next Wednesday he would be taking his mental at the UN military hospital in the Bronx. “Has it helped? Has he—” She gestured at the suitcase. “—Made you sick enough?” Turning to the portable extension of Dr. Smile, Barney said, “Have you?” The suitcase answered, “Unfortunately you’re still quite viable, Mr. Mayerson; you can handle ten Freuds of stress. Sorry. But we still have several days; we’ve just begun.”

“You can’t handle my job,” he said. “You couldn’t even handle it in People’s China and that’s a relatively simple situation in terms of factoring out pre-elements.” But someday she could; without difficulty he foresaw that. She was young and overflowing with innate talent: all she required to equal him—and he was the best in the trade—was a few years’ experience. Now he became fully awake as awareness of his situation filtered back to him. He stood a good chance of being drafted, and even if he was not, Roni Fugate might well snatch his fine, desirable job from him, a job up to which he had worked by slow stages over a thirteen-year period.

Anyhow, he was not far from New York; obviously if Miss Fugate was a fellow employee at P.P. Layouts he was within commute distance of his job. They could ride in together. Charming. He wondered if their employer Leo Bulero would approve of this if he knew. Was there an official company policy about employees sleeping together? There was about almost everything else . . . although how a man who spent all his time at the resort beaches of Antarctica or in German E Therapy clinics could find time to devise dogma on every topic eluded him. Someday, he said to himself, I’ll live like Leo Bulero; instead of being stuck in New York City in 180 degree heat—

The first bill which caught his eye was the apt’s cooling pro-rated swindle; he owed Conapt 492 exactly ten and a half skins for the last month—a rise of three-fourths of a skin over April. Someday, he said to himself, it’ll be so hot that nothing will keep this place from melting; he recalled the day his l-p record collection had fused together in a lump, back around ’04, due to a momentary failure of the building’s cooling network. Now he owned iron oxide tapes; they did not melt. And at the same moment every parakeet and Venusian ming bird in the building had dropped dead. And his neighbor’s turtle had been boiled dry. Of course this had been during the day and everyone—at least the men—had been at work.

The individual in the seat next to him, a middle-aged man wearing the gray pith helmet, sleeveless shirt, and shorts of bright red popular with the businessman class, remarked, “It’s going to be another hot one.” “Yes.” “What you got there in that great big carton? A picnic lunch for a hovel of Martian colonists?” “Ceramics,” Hnatt said. “I’ll bet you fire them just by sticking them outdoors at high noon.” The businessman chuckled, then picked up his morning ‘pape, opened it to the front page. “Ship from outside the Sol system reported crash-landed on Pluto,” he said. “Team being sent to find it. You suppose it’s things? I can’t stand those things from other star systems.” “It’s more likely one of our own ships reporting back,” Hnatt said.

“Werner handwrought ties are part of the Perky Pat layouts,” the man informed him. “Her boyfriend Walt has a closetful of them.” He beamed. “When P.P. Layouts decided to min our ties—” “It was Barney Mayerson you talked to?” “I didn’t talk to him; it was our regional sales manager. They say Mayerson is difficult. Goes on what seems like impulse and once he’s decided it’s irreversible.” “Is he ever wrong? Declines items that become fash?” “Sure. He may be a precog but he’s only human.

It would probably be better for Terra if this wasn’t Eldritch coming back, he decided. Palmer Eldritch was too wild and dazzling a solo pro; he had accomplished miracles in getting autofac production started on the colony planets, but—as always he had gone too far, schemed too much. Consumer goods had piled up in unlikely places where no colonists existed to make use of them. Mountains of debris, they had become, as the weather corroded them bit by bit, inexorably. Snowstorms, if one could believe that such still existed somewhere . . . there were places which were actually cold. Too cold, in actual fact.

“However,” he said to Richard Hnatt, “in view of the disagreement between myself and Miss Fugate—” He scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Leave this display with me for a few days; I’ll give it further attention.” Obviously, however, he would not. Reaching, Miss Fugate picked up a small, oddly shaped piece and cradled it against her bosom almost tenderly. “This one in particular. I receive very powerful emanations from it. This one will be the most successful of all.” In a quiet voice Barney Mayerson said, “You’re out of your mind, Roni.” He seemed really angry, now; his face was violent and dark. “I’ll vid you,” he said to Richard Hnatt. “When I’ve made my final decision. I see no reason why I should change my mind, so don’t be optimistic. In fact don’t bother to leave them.” He shot a hard, harsh glance toward his assistant, Miss Fugate.

He listened idly, because despite the momentousness of the news he had other matters on his mind. It was idiotic, in view of the fact that P.P. Layouts paid an enormous yearly tribute to the UN for immunity, but idiotic or not a UN Narcotics Control Bureau warship had seized an entire load of Can-D near the north polar cap of Mars, almost a million skins’ worth, on its way from the heavily guarded plantations on Venus. Obviously the squeeze money was not reaching the right people within the complicated UN hierarchy. But there was nothing he could do about it. The UN was a windowless monad over which he had no influence. He could without difficulty perceive the intentions of the Narcotics Control Bureau. It wanted P.P. Layouts to initiate litigation aimed at regaining the shipload. Because this would establish that the illegal drug Can-D, chewed by so many colonists, was grown, processed, and distributed by a hidden subsidiary of P.P. Layouts. So, valuable as the shipload was, better to let it go than to make a stab at claiming it.

Presently he found himself connected with the crafty Indian politician who last year had become UN Secretary. “Ah, Mr. Bulero.” Hepburn-Gilbert smiled slyly. “You wish to complain as to the seizure of that shipment of Can-D which—” “I know nothing about any shipment of Can-D,” Leo said. “This has to do with another matter completely. Do you people realize what Palmer Eldritch is up to? He’s brought non-Sol lichens into our system; it could be the beginning of another plague like we had in ’98.” “We realize this. However, the Eldritch people are claiming it to be a Sol lichen which Mr. Eldritch took with him on his Prox trip and is now bringing back . . . it was a source of protein to him, they claim.” The Indian’s white teeth shone in gleeful superiority; the meager pretext amused him. “You believe that?” “Of course not.” Hepburn-Gilbert’s smile increased. “What interests you in this matter, Mr. Bulero? You have an, ah, special concern for lichens?” “I’m a public-spirited citizen of the Sol system. And I insist that you act.”

Barney Mayerson said, “She’s my assistant; that means she’s supposed to do as I direct.” “Well . . . isn’t sleeping with you a pretty fair move in that direction?” Leo laughed. “However, she should back you up while salesmen are present, then if she has any qualms she should air them privately later on.” “I don’t even go for that.” Barney scowled even more. Acutely, Leo said, “You know because I take that E Therapy I’ve got a huge frontal lobe; I’m practically a precog myself, I’m so advanced. Was it a pot salesman? Ceramics?” With massive reluctance Barney nodded. “They’re your ex-wife’s pots,” Leo said. Her ceramics were selling well; he had seen ads in the homeopapes for them, as retailed by one of New Orleans’ most exclusive art-object shops, and here on the East Coast and in San Francisco. “Will they go over, Barney?” He studied his precog. “Was Miss Fugate right?” “They’ll never go over; that’s God’s truth.” Barney’s tone, however, was leaden. The wrong tone, Leo decided, for what he was saying; it was too lacking in vitality. “That’s what I foresee,” Barney said doggedly.

The UN is really getting to me, Leo thought. He wondered if Barney’s draft notice, coming at this particular moment, was only a coincidence or if this was another probe of his weak points. If it is, he decided, it’s a bad one. And there’s no pressure I can put on the UN to exempt him. And simply because I supply those colonists with their Can-D, he said to himself. I mean, somebody has to; they’ve got to have it. Otherwise what good are the Perky Pat layouts to them? And in addition it was one of the most profitable trading operations in the Sol system. Many truffle skins were involved. The UN knew that, too.

“What I meant,” Miss Jurgens said stiffly, “is that it seems a little odd to me that you’d be so open in front of someone else, someone you don’t hardly know.” She eyed him, and her bosom, already overextended and enticing, became even more so; it expanded with indignation. “Obviously the answer is to know you better,” Leo said, greedily. “Have you ever chewed Can-D?” he asked her, rhetorically. “You should. Despite the fact that it’s habit-forming. It’s a real experience.” He of course kept a supply, grade AA, on hand at Winnie-ther-Pooh Acres; when guests assembled it often was brought out to add color to what otherwise might have passed as dull. “The reason I ask is that you look like the sort of woman who has active imagination, and the reaction you get to Can-D depends—varies with—your imaginative-type creative powers.” “I’d enjoy trying it sometime,” Miss Jurgens said. She glanced about, lowered her voice, and leaned toward him. “But it’s illegal.” “It is?” He stared at her. “You know it is.” The girl looked nettled. “Listen,” Leo said. “I can get you some.”

“That Can-D,” he said to Miss Jurgens, “is great stuff, and no wonder it’s banned. It’s like religion; Can-D is the religion of the colonists.” He chuckled. “One plug of it, wouzzled for fifteen minutes, and—” He made a sweeping gesture. “No more hovel. No more frozen methane. It provides a reason for living. Isn’t that worth the risk and expense?” But what is there of equal value for us? he asked himself, and felt melancholy. He had, by manufacturing the Perky Pat layouts and raising and distributing the lichen-base for the final packaged product Can-D, made life bearable for over one million unwilling expatriates from Terra. But what the hell did he get back? My life, he thought, is dedicated to others, and I’m beginning to kick; it’s not enough. There was his satellite, where Scotty waited; there existed as always the tangled details of his two large business operations, the one legal, the other not . . . but wasn’t there more in life than this?

“I used to think,” Miss Jurgens said, “that when the ships first left our system for another star—remember that?—we’d hear that—” She hesitated. “It’s so silly, but I was only a kid then, when Arnoldson made his first trip to Prox and back; I was a kid when he got back, I mean. I actually thought maybe by going that far he’d—” She ducked her head, not meeting Leo Bulero’s gaze. “He’d find God.” Leo thought, I thought so, too. And I was an adult, then. In my mid-thirties. As I’ve mentioned to Barney on numerous occasions. And, he thought, I still believe that, even now. About the ten-year flight of Palmer Eldritch.

He himself was a believer; he affirmed the miracle of translation—the near-sacred moment in which the miniature artifacts of the layout no longer merely represented Earth but became Earth. And he and the others, joined together in the fusion of doll-inhabitation by means of the Can-D, were transported outside of time and local space. Many of the colonists were as yet unbelievers; to them the layouts were merely symbols of a world which none of them could any longer experience. But, one by one, the unbelievers came around. Even now, so early in the morning, he yearned to go back down below, chew a slice of Can-D from his hoard, and join with his fellows in the most solemn moment of which they were capable.

“You went to the analyst when you were still on Earth,” Helen said to Norm Schein. “What was the charge?” “Well, I mostly went to group therapy,” Norm said. “At the Berkeley State Mental Hygiene Clinic, and they charged according to your ability to pay. And of course Perky Pat and her boyfriend go to a private analyst.” He walked down the length of the garden solemnly deeded to him, between the rows of jagged leaves, all of which were to some extent shredded and devoured by microscopic native pests. If he could find one healthy plant, one untouched—it would be enough to restore his spirits. Insecticides from Earth simply had not done the job, here; the native pests thrived. They had been waiting ten thousand years, biding their time, for someone to appear and make an attempt to raise crops. Tod said, “You better do some watering.” “Yeah,” Norm Schein agreed. He meandered gloomily in the direction of Chicken Pox Prospects’ hydro-pumping system; it was attached to their now partially sand-filled irrigation network which served all the gardens of their hovel. Before watering came sand-removal, he realized.

“I think,” Fran said, “you’re tempting me to do wrong.” As she seated herself she looked sad; her eyes, large and dark, fixed futilely on a spot at the center of the layout, near Perky Pat’s enormous wardrobe. Absently, Fran began to fool with a min sable coat, not speaking. He handed her half of a strip of Can-D, then popped his own portion into his mouth and chewed greedily. Still looking mournful, Fran also chewed. He was Walt. He owned a Jaguar XXB sports ship with a flatout velocity of fifteen thousand miles an hour. His shirts came from Italy and his shoes were made in England. As he opened his eyes he looked for the little G.E. clock TV set by his bed; it would be on automatically, tuned to the morning show of the great newsclown Jim Briskin. In his flaming red wig Briskin was already forming on the screen. Walt sat up, touched a button which swung his bed, altered to support him in a sitting position, and lay back to watch for a moment the program in progress.

In the bathroom he splashed his face with water, then squirted on shave cream, and began to shave. And, while he shaved, staring into the mirror at his familiar features, he saw a note tacked up, in his own hand. THIS IS AN ILLUSION. YOU ARE SAM REGAN, A COLONIST ON MARS. MAKE USE OF YOUR TIME OF TRANSLATION, BUDDY BOY. CALL UP PAT PRONTO! And the note was signed Sam Regan. An illusion, he thought, pausing in his shaving. In what way? He tried to think back; Sam Regan and Mars, a dreary colonists’ hovel . . . yes, he could dimly make the image out, but it seemed remote and vitiated and not convincing. Shrugging, he resumed shaving, puzzled, now, and a little depressed. All right, suppose the note was correct; maybe he did remember that other world, that gloomy quasi-life of involuntary expatriation in an unnatural environment. So what? Why did he have to wreck this? Reaching, he yanked down the note, crumpled it and dropped it into the bathroom disposal chute. As soon as he had finished shaving he vidphoned Pat.

Already Sam Regan could feel the power of the drug wearing off; he felt weak and afraid and bitterly sickened at the realization. So goddam soon, he said to himself. All over; back to the hovel, to the pit in which we twist and cringe like worms in a paper bag, huddled away from the daylight. Pale and white and awful. He shuddered. —Shuddered, and saw, once more, his compartment with its tinny bed, washstand, desk, kitchen stove . . . and, in slumped, inert heaps, the empty husks of Tod and Helen Morris, Fran and Norm Schein, his own wife Mary; their eyes stared emptily and he looked away, appalled. On the floor between them was his layout; he looked down and saw the dolls, Walt and Pat, placed at the edge of the ocean, near the parked Jaguar. Sure enough, Perky Pat had on the near-invisible Swedish swimsuit, and next to them reposed a tiny picnic basket. And, by the layout, a plain brown wrapper that had contained Can-D; the five of them had chewed it out of existence, and even now as he looked—against his will—he saw a thin trickle of shiny brown syrup emerge from each of their slack, will-less mouths. Across from him Fran Schein stirred, opened her eyes, moaned; she focused on him, then wearily sighed. “They got to us,” he said. “We took too long.” She rose unsteadily, stumbled, and almost fell; at once he was up, too, catching hold of her. “You were right; we should have done it right away if we intended to. But—” She let him hold her, briefly. “I like the preliminarie...

Mulling, here and now a bizarre recollection came to him. An organization, emanating from the United Arab Republic; trained assassins for hire. Fat chance they would have against Palmer Eldritch . . . a man like that, once he had made his mind up— And yet Rondinella Fugate’s precognition remained; in the future he would be arraigned for the murder of Palmer Eldritch. Evidently he would find a way despite the obstacles. He had with him a weapon so small, so intangible, that even the most thorough search couldn’t disclose it. Some time ago a surgeon at Washington, D.C., had sewn it into his tongue: a self-guiding, high-velocity poison dart, modeled on Soviet Russian lines . . . but vastly improved, in that once it had reached its victim it obliterated itself, leaving no remains. The poison, too, was original; it did not curtail heart or respiratory action; in fact it was not a poison but a filterable virus which multiplied in the victim’s blood stream, causing death within forty-eight hours. It was carcinomatous, an importation from one of Uranus’s moons, and still generally unknown; it had cost him a great deal. All he needed to do was stand within arm’s length of his intended victim and manually squeeze the base of his tongue, protruding the same simultaneously in the victim’s direction. So if he could see Eldritch—

Because he previewed a number of ‘pape lead articles pertaining to Leo and Palmer Eldritch. Everything of course was blurred, and alternates presented themselves in a chaos of profusion. Leo would meet Eldritch; Leo would not. And—at this he focused intently—Leo arraigned for the murder of Palmer Eldritch; good lord, what did that mean? It meant, he discovered from closer scrutiny, just what it said. And if Leo were arrested, tried, and sentenced, it might mean the termination of P.P. Layouts as a salary-paying enterprise. Hence the end of a career to which he had already sacrificed everything else in his life, his marriage and the woman he—even now!—loved.

What did he find in the Prox system? Does he mention the lichens he brought back?” “He does. He claims they’re a benign form, approved by the UN’s Narcotics Control Bureau, which will replace—” He hesitated. “Certain dangerous, habit-forming derivatives now in wide use. And—” “And,” Leo finished stonily, “he’s going to announce the formation of a company to peddle his narcotic-exempt commodity.” “Yes,” Barney said. “Called Chew-Z, with the slogan: be choosy. Chew Chew-Z.” “Aw frgawdsake!” “It was all set up by intersystem radio-laser long ago, through his daughter with the approval of Santina and Lark at the UN, in fact with Hepburn-Gilbert’s own approval. They see this as a way of putting a finish to the Can-D trade.” There was silence. “Okay,” Leo said hoarsely, after a time. “It seems a shame you couldn’t have previewed this a couple of years ago, but hell—you’re an employee and no one told you to.” Barney shrugged. Grim-faced, Leo Bulero rang off.

“Hell,” Hnatt said vigorously, “that’s what it’s not; it’s an acceleration of the natural evolutionary process that’s going on all the time anyway, only usually it’s so slow we don’t perceive it. I mean, look at our ancestors in caves; they were covered with body-hair and they had no chins and a very limited frontal-area brain-wise. And they had huge fused molars in order to chew uncooked seeds.” “Okay,” Emily said, nodding. “The farther away we can get from them the better. Anyhow, they evolved to meet the Ice Age; we have to evolve to meet the Fire Age, just the opposite. So we need that chitinous-type skin, that rind and the altered metabolism that lets us sleep in midday and also the improved ventilation and the—”

The man’s head reminded Hnatt of a photograph he had once seen in a textbook; the photo had been labeled hydrocephalic. The same enlargement above the browline; it was clearly domelike and oddly fragile-looking and he saw at once why these well-to-do persons who had evolved were popularly called bubbleheads. Looks about to burst, he thought, impressed. And—the massive rind. Hair had given way to the darker, more uniform pattern of chitinous shell. Bubblehead? More like a coconut.

However, Mr. Bulero was gazing at Richard Hnatt. “I’ve heard your name before. Oh, yes. Felix Blau mentioned you.” His supremely intelligent eyes became dark and he said, “Did you recently sign a contract with a Boston firm called—” The elongated face, distorted as if by a permanent optically impaired mirror, twisted. “Chew-Z Manufacturers?” “N-nuts to you,” Hnatt stammered. “Your Pre-Fash consultant turned us down.” Leo Bulero eyed him, then with a shrug turned back to Dr. Denkmal. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

Watching him go, Dr. Denkmal said, “Very evolved, that man. Both physically and spiritually.” He turned to the Hnatts. “Welcome to Eichenwald Clinic.” He beamed. “Thank you,” Emily said nervously. “Does—it hurt?” “Our therapy?” Dr. Denkmal tittered with amusement. “Not in the slightest, although it may shock—in the figurative sense—at first. As you experience a growth of your cortex area. You’ll have many new and exciting concepts occur to you, especially of a religious nature. Oh, if only Luther and Erasmus were alive today; their controversies could be solved so easily now, by means of E Therapy.

Today what you will notice is no growth of chitinous shell or brain-shield or loss of fingernails and toenails—you didn’t know that, I bet!—but only a slight but very, very important change in the frontal lobe . . . it will smart; that is a pun, you know? It smarts and you become, ah, smart.” Again he giggled. Richard Hnatt felt miserable; he waited like some hog-tied animal for whatever they had in store for him. What a way to make business contacts, he said ruefully to himself, and shut his eyes.

“Now höre, Herr Hnatt.” Denkmal bent down beside him, suddenly serious. “I want you to understand; every now and then this therapy—what do you say?—blasts back.” “Backfires,” Hnatt said gratingly. He had been expecting this. “But mostly we have successes. Here, Herr Hnatt, is what the backfires consist of, I am afraid; instead of evoluting the Kresy Gland is very stimulated to—regress.

The ideas were good—but Emily had done them already. Years ago, when she had designed her first professionally adequate pots: she had shown him sketches of them and then the pots themselves, even before the two of them were married. Didn’t she remember this? Obviously not. He wondered why she didn’t remember and what it meant; it made him deeply uneasy. However, he had been continually uneasy since receiving the first E Therapy treatment, first about the state of mankind and the Sol system in general and now about his wife. Maybe it’s merely a sign of what Denkmal calls “highly organized cephalic activity,” he thought to himself. Brain metabolism stimulation. Or—maybe not.

He opened his eyes, and found himself sitting on a grassy bank. Beside him a small girl played with a yo-yo. “That toy,” Leo Bulero said, “is popular in the Prox system.” His arms and legs, he discovered, were untied; he stood up stiffly and moved his limbs. “What’s your name?” he asked. The little girl said, “Monica.” “The Proxers,” Leo said, “the humanoid types anyhow, wear wigs and have false teeth.” He took hold of the bulk of the child’s luminous blonde hair and pulled. “Ouch,” the girl said. “You’re a bad man.” He let go and she retreated, still playing with her yo-yo and glaring at him defiantly. “Sorry,” he murmured. Her hair was real; perhaps he was not in the Prox system. Anyhow, wherever he was Palmer Eldritch was trying to tell him something. “Are you planning to invade Earth?” he asked the child. “I mean, you don’t look as if you are.” Could Eldritch have gotten it wrong? he wondered. Misunderstood the Proxers? After all, to his knowledge Palmer hadn’t evolved, didn’t possess the powerful, expanded comprehension which came with E Therapy.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Monica what? I want to know your full name.” Something about her was familiar. “I’m back,” the suitcase announced suddenly. “Well, Mr. Bulero—” Again the faulty pronunciation. “I’ve discussed your dilemma with Mr. Mayerson and he will contact Felix Blau as you requested. Mr. Mayerson thinks he recalls reading in a homeopape once about a UN camp much as you are experiencing, somewhere in the Saturn region, for retarded children. Perhaps—” “Hell,” Leo said, “this girl isn’t retarded.” If anything she was precocious. It did not make sense. But what did make sense was the realization that Palmer Eldritch wanted something out of him; this was not merely a matter of edifying him: it was a question of intimidation.

“You don’t seem under any sort of alien control; look what you’re telling me.” “But I will be,” the girl said, nodding soberly. “Soon. Just like my father is now. He was given it on Prox; he’s been taking it for years. It’s too late for him and he knows it.” “Prove all this to me,” Leo said. “In fact prove any of it, even one part; give me something actual to go on.” The suitcase, which he still held, now said, “What Monica says is true, Mr. Bulero.” “How do you know?” he demanded, annoyed with it. “Because,” the suitcase replied, “I’m under Prox influence, too; that’s why I—” “You did nothing,” Leo said. He set the suitcase down. “Damn that Chew-Z,” he said, to both of them, the suitcase and the girl. “It’s made everything confused; I don’t know what the hell’s going on. You’re not Zoe—you don’t even know who she is. And you—you’re not Dr. Smile, and you didn’t call Barney, and he wasn’t talking to Roni Fugate; it’s all just a drug-induced hallucination. It’s my own fears about Palmer Eldritch being read back to me, this trash about him being under Prox influence, and you, too. Who ever heard of a suitcase being dominated by minds from an alien star-system?” Highly indignant, he walked away from them.

On the vidscreen the image of Felix Blau said, “I’ve processed the material you gave me, Mr. Mayerson. It adds up to a convincing case that your employer Mr. Bulero—who is also a client of mine—is at present on a small artificial satellite orbiting Earth, legally titled Sigma 14-B. I have consulted the records of ownership and it appears to belong to a rocket-fuel manufacturer in St. George, Utah.” He inspected the papers before him. “Robard Lethane Sales. Lethane is their trade-name for their brand of—” “Okay,” Barney Mayerson said. “I’ll contact them.” How in God’s name had Leo Bulero gotten there? “There is one further item of possible interest. Robard Lethane Sales incorporated the same day, four years ago, as Chew-Z Manufacturers of Boston. It seems more than a coincidence to me.”

Barney cut the circuit. He at once dialed for an outplan line, saying, “Get me Mr. Palmer Eldritch on Luna. It’s an emergency; I’d like you to hurry it up, miss.” As he waited for the call to be put through, Roni Fugate said from the far end of the office, “Apparently we’re not going to have time to sell out to Eldritch.” “It does look that way.” How smoothly it had all been handled; Eldritch had let his adversary do the work. And us, too, he realized, Roni and I; he’ll probably get us the same way. In fact Eldritch could indeed be waiting for our flight to the satellite; that would explain his supplying Leo with Dr. Smile. “I wonder,” Roni said, fooling with the clasp of her blouse, “if we want to work for a man that clever. If it is a man. It looks more and more to me as if it’s not actually Palmer who came back but one of them; I think we’re going to have to accept that. The next thing we can look forward to is Chew-Z flooding the market. With UN sanction.” Her tone was bitter. “And Leo, who at least is one of us and who just wants to make a few skins, will be dead or driven out—” She stared straight ahead in fury.

Can-D is obsolete, because what does it do? Provides a few moments of escape, nothing but fantasy. Who wants it? Who needs that when they can get the genuine thing from me?” He added, “We’re there, now.” “So I assumed. And if you imagine people are going to pay out skins for an experience like this—” Leo gestured at the gluck, which still lurked nearby keeping an eye on both himself and Eldritch. “You’re not just out of your body; you’re out of your mind, too.”

When the little period of escape is over and the colonist returns . . . he’s not fit to resume a normal, daily life. He’s demoralized. But if instead of Can-D he’s chewed—” He broke off. Leo was not listening; he was involved in constructing another artifact in the air before him. A short flight of stairs appeared, leading into a luminous hoop. The far end of the flight of stairs could not be seen. “Where does that go?” Eldritch demanded, an irritated expression on his face. “New York City,” Leo said. “It’ll take me back to P.P. Layouts.” He rose and walked to the flight of stairs. “I have a feeling, Eldritch, that something’s wrong, some aspect of this Chew-Z product. And we won’t discover what it is until too late.” He began climbing the stairs and then he remembered the girl, Monica; he wondered if she was all right, here in Palmer Eldritch’s world. “What about the child?” He stopped his climb. Below him, but seemingly far off, he could make out Eldritch, still seated with his stick on the grass. “The glucks didn’t get her, did they?” Eldritch said, “I was the little girl. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you; that’s why I say it means genuine reincarnation, triumph over death.”

“No,” the child said. “And you better believe me, because if you don’t you won’t get out of this world alive.” “You can’t die in a hallucination,” Leo said. “Any more than you can be born again. I’m going back to P.P. Layouts.” Once more he started toward the stairs. “Go ahead and climb,” the child said from behind him. “See if I care. Wait and see where it gets you.” Leo climbed the stairs, and passed through the luminous hoop. Blinding, ferociously hot sunlight descended on him; he scuttled from the open street to a nearby doorway for shelter. A jet cab, from the towering high buildings, swooped down, spying him. “A ride, sir? Better get indoors; it’s almost noon.” Gasping, almost unable to breathe, Leo said, “Yes, thanks. Take me to P.P. Layouts.” He unsteadily got into the cab, and fell back at once against the seat, panting in the coolness provided by its antithermal shield.

He was busy lighting his pipe when the door opened and Barney Mayerson appeared, looking sheepish and worn. “Well?” Leo said. He puffed energetically on his pipe. Barney said, “I—” He turned to Miss Fugate, who had come in after him; gesturing, he turned again to Leo and said, “Anyhow you’re back.” “Of course I’m back. I built myself a stairway to here. Aren’t you going to answer as to why you didn’t do anything? I guess not. But as you say, you weren’t needed. I’ve now got an idea of what this new Chew-Z substance is like. It’s definitely inferior to Can-D.

The thing from beneath the desk scuttled out, and made for the door. It squeezed under the door and was gone. It was even worse than the glucks. He got one good look at it. Leo said, “Well, that’s that. I’m sorry, Miss Fugate, but you might as well return to your office; there’s no point in our discussing what actions to take toward the imminent appearance of Chew-Z on the market. Because I’m not talking to anyone; I’m sitting here babbling away to myself.” He felt depressed.

Behind him he heard a dry, rasping sound, an intake of breath. And a wavering, shrill voice, like the cry of a frightened bird. “Oh, Mr. Bulero—” I’ve changed my mind, Leo thought. You’re the way you were; I take it back, okay? He turned, and saw Roni Fugate or at least something standing there where she had last stood. A spider web, gray fungoid strands wrapped one around another to form a brittle column that swayed . . . he saw the head, sunken at the cheeks, with eyes like dead spots of soft, inert white slime that leaked out gummy, slow-moving tears, eyes that tried to appeal but could not because they could not make out where he was. “You’re back the way you were,” Leo said harshly, and shut his own eyes. “Tell me when it’s over.” Footsteps. A man’s. Barney, re-entering the office. “Jesus,” Barney said, and halted. Eyes shut, Leo said, “Isn’t she back the way she was yet?” “She? Where’s Roni? What’s this?” Leo opened his eyes.

Hunched over, he was sick; he vomited onto the grass. For a long time—it seemed a long time—that kept up and then he was better; he was able to turn, and walk slowly back toward the seated child with her suitcase. “Terms,” the child said flatly. “We’re going to work out an exact business relationship between my company and yours. We need your superb network of ad satellites and your transportation system of late-model interplan ships and your God-knows-how-extensive plantations on Venus; we want everything, Bulero. We’re going to grow the lichen where you now grow Can-D, ship it in the same ships, reach the colonists with the same well-trained, experienced pushers you use, advertise through pros like Allen and Charlotte Faine. Can-D and Chew-Z won’t be competing because there’ll just be the one product, Chew-Z; you’re about to announce your retirement. Understand me, Leo?” “Sure,” Leo said. “I hear.” “Will you do it?” “Okay,” Leo said. And pounced on the child.

Bending, he snapped on Dr. Smile. “Explain it to me,” he said. Obligingly, Dr. Smile tinnily declared, “He is dead here, Mr. Bulero. But at the demesne on Luna—” “Okay,” Leo said roughly. “Well, tell me how to get out of this place. How do I get back to Luna, to—” He gestured. “You know what I mean. Actuality.” “At this moment,” Dr. Smile explained, “Palmer Eldritch, although considerably upset and angered, is intravenously providing you with a substance which counters the injectable Chew-Z previously administered; you will return shortly.” It added, “That is, shortly, even instantly, in terms of the time-flow in that world. As to this—” It chuckled. “It could seem longer.” “How longer?” “Oh, years,” Dr. Smile said. “But quite possibly less. Days? Months? Time sense is subjective, so let’s see how it feels to you; do you not agree?”

He came up close to them, and studied them intently. “Where’s the hide?” he asked. “To shield you from the sun?” “Aw, that phony hot period’s over,” the one named Alec said, with a gesture of derision. “That was those Proxers, working with the Renegade. You know. Or maybe you don’t.” “Palmer Eldritch,” Leo said. “Yeah,” Alec said, nodding. “But we got him. Right here on this moon, in fact. Now it’s a shrine—not to us but to the Proxers; they sneak in here to worship. Seen any? We’re supposed to arrest any we find; this is Sol system territory, belongs to the UN.” “What planet’s this a moon of?” Leo asked. The two evolved Terrans both grinned. “Terra,” Alec said. “It’s artificial. Called Sigma 14-B, built years ago. Didn’t it exist in your time? It must have; it’s a real old one.” “I think so,” Leo said.

He reached his hand out to the first Terran. “I’d like to shake hands with you,” he said. Alec, the Terran, extended his hand, too, with a smile. Leo’s hand passed through Alec’s and emerged on the far side. “Hey,” Alec said, frowning; he at once, pistonlike, withdrew his hand. “What’s going on?” To his companion he said, “This guy isn’t real; we should have suspected it. He’s a—what did they used to call them? From chewing that diabolical drug that Eldritch picked up in the Prox system. A chooser; that’s what. He’s a phantasm.” He glared at Leo. “I am?” Leo said feebly, and then realized that Alec was right. His actual body was on Luna; he was not really here. But what did that make the two evolved Terrans? Perhaps they were not constructs of Eldritch’s busy mind; perhaps they, alone, were genuinely here.

“Come on,” Alec said to Leo, “and take a look at the marker commemorating the event.” He and his companion led the way; Leo, reluctantly, followed. “The Proxers,” Alec said over his shoulder, “always seek to—you know. Desiccate this.” “Desecrate,” his companion corrected. “Yeah,” Alec said, nodding. “Anyhow, here it is.” He stopped.

Picking up a pebble, Alec chucked it at the dog; the pebble passed through the dog and landed in the grass beyond. It was a chooser dog. As the three of them watched, the dog halted at the monument, seemed to gaze up at the plaque for a brief interval, and then it— “Defecation!” Alec shouted, his face turning bright red with rage. He ran toward the dog, waving his arms and trying to kick it, then reaching for the laser pistol at his belt but missing its handle in his excitement. “Desecration,” his companion corrected. Leo said, “It’s Palmer Eldritch.” Eldritch was showing his contempt for the monument, his lack of fear toward the future. There would never be such a monument. The dog leisurely strolled off, the two evolved Terrans cursing futilely at it as it departed.