The Penultimate Truth

by Philip K. Dick

All it would take would be one who got away, wasn’t picked up by Brose’s agents or Footemen, made his way back to his own ant tank. Then, from it, contacted a neighboring tank, then from that tank to—” “Yeah,” Lindblom agreed, stolidly. “Sure. Why not? Except would his fellow tankers let him back into his tank? Wouldn’t they think he was hot or had—what name did we make up to call it?—the Bag Plague. They’d massacre him on sight. Because they believe the reading matter we give them on TV every damn day of the week and twice on Saturday night, just in case; they’d think he was a living missile. And anyhow, there’s more you don’t know. You ought to hand over a few bucks to the Foote organization now and then; pick up a little inside news. These tankers that had been tipped off about conditions up here—they weren’t tipped off by anybody they knew; it wasn’t one of their own members coming back.” “Okay, the tanker couldn’t reach his own tank; so instead—” “They got it,” Lindblom said, “over the coax.” For a moment Adams failed to understand; he stared at Lindblom. “That’s right,” Lindblom said. “On their TV set. For about one minute, and very feeble. But enough.”