The Penultimate Truth

by Philip K. Dick

Jorgenson said, “We’ve already notified Carol by intercom that it is you; she ought to be here any second. Be patient. Souza’s deep in the freeze; he can wait another hour. She’ll graft in the pancreas sometime around midday. Meanwhile we’re all supposed to take off all our clothes, pile them up, then outside the door there’s this chamber we built down in the shops; we’ll pass through it, naked, one by one, and jets of ‘cide of different types will—” To Nicholas, Adams said, “I never, I just never realized. How completely they accept it. It’s incredible.” He seemed dazed. “We thought of it I guess as an intellectual acceptance. But this.” He gestured. “All the way,” Nicholas said, nodding. “In every emotional level. Down to the basic phobic animal level; to the very deepest layer.” He began to remove his clothes, resignedly. Until the time arrived to tell them, there was no choice; the ritual had to be gone through. At last, as if prodded by a remote reflex of some dim, uncertain source, Adams, too, began unbuttoning his shirt.