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Nothing depressed him more than the moments in which he contrasted his current mental powers with what he had formerly possessed. Every day he declined in sagacity and vigor.
But something about Buster Friendly irritated John Isidore, one specific thing. In subtle, almost inconspicuous ways, Buster ridiculed the empathy boxes. Not once but many times. He was, in fact, doing it right now.
And the American and Soviet police had publicly stated that Mercerism reduced crime by making citizens more concerned about the plight of their neighbors.
Our minds, Isidore decided. They’re fighting for control of our psychic selves; the empathy box on one hand, Buster’s guffaws and off-the-cuff jibes on the other.
He cursed then, a string of abuse lasting what seemed to Isidore a full minute. “This cat,” Sloat said finally, “isn’t false.
“This cat,” Sloat said finally, “isn’t false. I knew sometime this would happen. And it’s dead.” He stared down at the corpse of the cat. And cursed again.
“I don’t think Isidore can tell the difference,” Milt said mildly. “To him they’re all alive, false animals included. He probably tried to save it.”
“Polokov is mimicking a special, an anthead. Very deteriorated—or so he pretends to be. That’s what suckered Dave; Polokov apparently looks and acts so much like an anthead that Dave forgot.
Having stuffed the onionskin carbons in his briefcase, Rick left his superior’s office and ascended once more to the roof and his parked hovercar. And now let’s visit Mr. Polokov, he said to himself. He patted his laser tube.
As is wont to happen in Sci fi, amazing tech lives side by side with the now obsolete carbon paper
The deep-pile carpets, the expensive genuine wood desks, reminded him that garbage collecting and trash disposal had, since the war, become one of Earth’s important industries.
Setting down his weapons kit he fumbled it open, got out a nondirectional Penfield wave transmitter; he punched the key for catalepsy, himself protected against the mood emanation by means of a counterwave broadcast through the transmitter’s metal hull directed to him alone.
They’re now all frozen stiff, he said to himself as he shut off the transmitter. Everyone, human and andy alike, in the vicinity. No risk to me; all I have to do is walk in and laser him.
Using an infinity key, which analyzed and opened all forms of locks known, he entered Polokov’s apartment, laser beam in hand.
All tech in the service of power
In my personal collection I have tapes by such old-time greats as Elisabeth Schwarzkopf and Lotte Lehmann and Lisa Della Casa;
“You don’t really mean it,” Rachael said. “You’ll never call me. You don’t realize how agile an illegal escaped Nexus-6 is, how impossible it’ll be for you.
“You’re not Polokov, you’re Kadalyi,” Rick said. “Don’t you mean that the other way around? You’re a bit confused.” “I mean you’re Polokov, the android; you’re not from the Soviet police.” Rick, with his toe, pressed the emergency button on the floor of his car.
“What happened to the 594 I dialed for you before I left? Pleased acknowledgment of—” “I redialed. As soon as you left. What do you want?”
She doesn’t care whether we own an ostrich or not; nothing penetrates. I wish I had gotten rid of her two years ago when we were considering splitting up.
Könnte jeder brave Mann solche Glöckchen finden, seine Feinde würden dann ohne Mühe schwinden.
If every good man
Could find little bells like these,
His enemies would then
Fade effortlessly away,
finally the name “Mozart” will vanish, the dust will have won. If not on this planet then another. We can evade it awhile.
On the stage Luba Luft sang, and he found himself surprised at the quality of her voice; it rated with that of the best, even that of notables in his collection of historic tapes. The Rosen Association built her well, he had to admit.
“An android,” he said, “doesn’t care what happens to another android. That’s one of the indications we look for.” “Then,” Miss Luft said, “you must be an android.”
Ah, the famous Decker as android theory!
“Pardon?” She cupped her ear. “I don’t ever hear that term.”
As all tests, culture, knowledge and other factors can alter the results
“You can look at my identification.” He reached toward his coat pocket. His hand, he saw, had again begun to shake, as it had with Polokov.
Yet it seemed strange to him that Luba had decided to do this; why didn’t she simply kill him? Once the patrolman arrived, her chance would disappear and it all would go his way. She must think she’s human, he decided. Obviously she doesn’t know.
“Call Inspector Bryant,” Rick said. “There isn’t any Inspector Bryant,” the harness bull said. It came to Rick what was going on. “You’re an android,” he said to the harness bull. “Like Miss Luft.” Going to the vidphone, he picked up the receiver himself. “I’m going to call the department.” He wondered how far he would get before the two androids stopped him.
Something, Rick noticed, was not as it should be. Officer Crams had steered the car in the wrong direction. “The Hall of Justice,” Rick said, “is north, on Lombard.” “That’s the old Hall of Justice,” Officer Crams said. “The new one is on Mission. That old building, it’s disintegrating; it’s a ruin. Nobody’s used that for years. Has it been that long since you last got booked?”
Is this an elaborate pantomime from the androids, or is Deckard's perception and memories a product of his programming?
The police hovercar landed. And, a few minutes later, he found himself being booked.
Who are these people? If this place has always existed, why didn’t we know about it? And why don’t they know about us? Two parallel police agencies, he said to himself; ours and this one. But never coming in contact—as far as I know—until now.
Rick said, “I’m not an android. You can administer the Voigt-Kampff test to me; I’ve taken it before and I don’t mind taking it again. But I know what the results will be. Can I phone my wife?” “You’re allowed one call. Would you rather phone her than a lawyer?” “I’ll phone my wife,” Rick said. “She can get a lawyer for me.”
“Those smudged carbon flimsies,” Garland continued, “that you have there in your briefcase. Polokov, Miss Luft…your assignments. The next one is me.”
He employs a test we’ve never heard of. The list he carries around isn’t of androids; it’s a list of human beings. He’s already killed once—at least once. And if Miss Luft hadn’t gotten to a phone, he probably would have killed her and then eventually he would have come sniffing around after me.” “Hmm,” Phil Resch said.
“The bone marrow test,” Miss French said, “shows that Mr. Polokov was a humanoid robot.
An interval of silence passed and then Rick said, “You can test me out. I’m ready. Of course I’d like to test you, too. If you’re willing.”
“What will tests on the three of us show?” Rick asked. Garland said, “That damn fool Resch.” “He actually doesn’t know?” “He doesn’t know; he doesn’t suspect; he doesn’t have the slightest idea. Otherwise he couldn’t live out a life as a bounty hunter, a human occupation—hardly an android occupation.”
Who isn't an android here?
“When I phoned my apartment,” Rick said, “why didn’t I get my wife?” “All our vidphone lines here are trapped. They recirculate the call to other offices within the building. This is a homeostatic enterprise we’re operating here, Deckard. We’re a closed loop, cut off from the rest of San Francisco. We know about them but they don’t know about us.
“That he—it—was an android. And you—” Rick broke off, the conduits of his brain humming, calculating, and selecting; he altered what he had started to say. “—would detect it,” he finished. “In a few more minutes.” “Anything else?” “This building is android-infested.”
I’ve got to tell him, he said to himself. It’s unethical and cruel not to. Mr. Resch, you’re an android, he thought to himself.
place. It has a wheel in its cage; ever seen a squirrel running inside a wheel? It runs and runs, the wheel spins, but the squirrel stays in the same spot. Buffy seems to like it, though.” “I guess squirrels aren’t too bright,” Rick said.
“Would a squirrel need that? An atmosphere of love? Because Buffy is doing fine, as sleek as an otter. I groom and comb him every other day.”
She wouldn’t even have had time to look through that book you got her. And I still think you shouldn’t have destroyed it; that’s a waste. I can’t follow your reasoning; it isn’t rational, that’s why.”
“But someone has to do this,” Phil Resch pointed out. “They can use androids. Much better if andys do it. I can’t anymore; I’ve had enough. She was a wonderful singer. The planet could have used her. This is insane.”
“How’ll you kill yourself without it?” Rick asked. “If you fail the test?” “I’ll hold my breath.” “Chrissake,” Rick said. “It can’t be done.” “There’s no automatic cut-in of the vagus nerve,” Phil Resch said, “in an android. As there is in a human. Weren’t you taught that when they trained you? I got taught that years ago.”
Rick said, “There is a defect in your empathic, role-taking ability. One which we don’t test for. Your feelings toward androids.” “Of course we don’t test for that.”
There’s nothing unnatural or unhuman about Phil Resch’s reactions; it’s me. I wonder, he wondered, if any human has ever felt this way before about an android. Of course, he reflected, this may never come up again in my work; it could be an anomaly, something for instance to do with my feelings for The Magic Flute. And for Luba’s voice,
Don’t you know, Deckard, that in the colonies they have android mistresses?” “It’s illegal,” Rick said, knowing the law about that. “Sure it’s illegal. But most variations in sex are illegal. But people do it anyhow.” “What about—not sex—but love?” “Love is another name for sex.”
The smell of peaches and cheese eddied about the car, filling his nose with pleasure. All rarities, for which he had squandered two weeks’ salary—borrowed in advance from Mr. Sloat. And, in addition, under the car seat where it could not roll and break, a bottle of Chablis wine knocked back and forth: the greatest rarity of all. He had been keeping it in a safety deposit box at the Bank of America, hanging onto it and not selling it no matter how much they offered,
“What’s a bounty hunter?” “That’s right. You people aren’t supposed to know.
anybody; the police don’t patrol—you’re expected
Pris said, “That’s very nice of you, J. R. Isidore. But if bounty hunters got the others, got Max Polokov and Garland and Luba and Hasking and Roy Baty—” She broke off.
