The Short Stories Of Phillip K. Dick - Volume 1: "Reality is whatever refuses to go away when I stop believing in it."

The Short Stories of Phillip K Dick. Volume 1

Philip Kindred Dick was born in 1928.  Widely considered one of the greatest science fiction writers, his talents were immense but he lived almost his whole life on the edge of poverty. Born prematurely on December 16, 1928 his twin sister died which caused a shadow over the rest of his life.  Many of his works would refer to the ‘phantom twin’.  Bizarrely her tiny body was buried in Colorado where her parents also had Phillips name inscribed on the tombstone. Eventually upon his death in 1982 he too was interred in the same plot. Phillip sold his first short story in 1951 and then became a full time writer selling his first novel in 1955.  He wrote continually and whilst considered a genius of the science fiction genre he was ignored by the mainstream.  Now of course much of his work is turned into films and he is rightly lauded.  All his work is at times visionary, and haunting dealing with many themes. Dick wrote of his work. In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real. In this collection we publish short stories he wrote for various science fiction magazines. 

Index Of Contents

The Eyes Have It

Second Variety

Beyond the Door

The Variable Man

Beyond Lies the Wub

Tony And The Beetles

The Eyes Have It

A little whimsy, now and then, makes for good balance.    

Theoretically, you could find this type of humor anywhere.

But only a topflight science-fictionist, we thought, could have    

Written this story, in just this way....

It was quite by accident I discovered this incredible invasion of Earth by lifeforms from another planet. As yet, I haven't done anything about it; I can't think of anything to do. I wrote to the Government, and they sent back a pamphlet on the repair and maintenance of frame houses. Anyhow, the whole thing is known; I'm not the first to discover it. Maybe it's even under control.

I was sitting in my easy-chair, idly turning the pages of a paperbacked book someone had left on the bus, when I came across the reference that first put me on the trail. For a moment I didn't respond. It took some time for the full import to sink in. After I'd comprehended, it seemed odd I hadn't noticed it right away.

The reference was clearly to a nonhuman species of incredible properties, not indigenous to Earth. A species, I hasten to point out, customarily masquerading as ordinary human beings. Their disguise, however, became transparent in the face of the following observations by the author. It was at once obvious the author knew everything. Knew everything, and was taking it in his stride. The line (and I tremble remembering it even now) read:

... his eyes slowly roved about the room.

Vague chills assailed me. I tried to picture the eyes. Did they roll like dimes? The passage indicated not; they seemed to move through the air, not over the surface. Rather rapidly, apparently. No one in the story was surprised. That's what tipped me off. No sign of amazement at such an outrageous thing. Later the matter was amplified.

... his eyes moved from person to person.

There it was in a nutshell. The eyes had clearly come apart from the rest of him and were on their own. My heart pounded and my breath choked in my windpipe. I had stumbled on an accidental mention of a totally unfamiliar race. Obviously non-Terrestrial. Yet, to the characters in the book, it was perfectly natural, which suggested they belonged to the same species.

And the author? A slow suspicion burned in my mind. The author was taking it rather too easily in his stride. Evidently, he felt this was quite a usual thing. He made absolutely no attempt to conceal this knowledge. The story continued:

... presently his eyes fastened on Julia.

Julia, being a lady, had at least the breeding to feel indignant. She is described as blushing and knitting her brows angrily. At this, I sighed with relief. They weren't all non-Terrestrials. The narrative continues:

... slowly, calmly, his eyes examined every inch of her.

Great Scott! But here the girl turned and stomped off and the matter ended. I lay back in my chair gasping with horror. My wife and family regarded me in wonder.

What's wrong, dear? my wife asked.

I couldn't tell her. Knowledge like this was too much for the ordinary run-of-the-mill person. I had to keep it to myself. Nothing, I gasped. I leaped up, snatched the book, and hurried out of the room.

In the garage, I continued reading. There was more. Trembling, I read the next revealing passage:

... he put his arm around Julia. Presently she asked him if he would remove his arm. He immediately did so, with a smile.

It's not said what was done with the arm after the fellow had removed it. Maybe it was left standing upright in the corner. Maybe it was thrown away. I don't care. In any case, the full meaning was there, staring me right in the face.

Here was a race of creatures capable of removing portions of their anatomy at will. Eyes, arms and maybe more. Without batting an eyelash. My knowledge of biology came in handy, at this point. Obviously they were simple beings, uni-cellular, some sort of primitive single-celled things. Beings no more developed than starfish. Starfish can do the same thing, you know.

I read on. And came to this incredible revelation, tossed off coolly by the author without the faintest tremor:

... outside the movie theater we split up. Part of us went inside, part over to the cafe for dinner.

Binary fission, obviously. Splitting in half and forming two entities. Probably each lower half went to the cafe, it being farther, and the upper halves to the movies. I read on, hands shaking. I had really stumbled onto something here. My mind reeled as I made out this passage:

... I'm afraid there's no doubt about it. Poor Bibney has lost his head again.

Which was followed by:

... and Bob says he has utterly no guts.

Yet Bibney got around as well as the next person. The next person, however, was just as strange. He was soon described as:

... totally lacking in brains.

There was no doubt of the thing in the next passage. Julia, whom I had thought to be the one normal person, reveals herself as also being an alien life form, similar to the rest:

... quite deliberately, Julia had given her heart to the young man.

It didn't relate what the final disposition of the organ was, but I didn't really care. It was evident Julia had gone right on living in her usual manner, like all the others in the book. Without heart, arms, eyes, brains, viscera, dividing up in two when the occasion demanded. Without a qualm.

... thereupon she gave him her hand.

I sickened. The rascal now had her hand, as well as her heart. I shudder to think what he's done with them, by this time.

... he took her arm.

Not content to wait, he had to start dismantling her on his own. Flushing crimson, I slammed the book shut and leaped to my feet. But not in time to escape one last reference to those carefree bits of anatomy whose travels had originally thrown me on the track:

... her eyes followed him all the way down the road and across the meadow.

I rushed from the garage and back inside the warm house, as if the accursed things were following me. My wife and children were playing Monopoly in the kitchen. I joined them and played with frantic fervor, brow feverish, teeth chattering.

I had had enough of the thing. I want to hear no more about it. Let them come on. Let them invade Earth. I don't want to get mixed up in it.

I have absolutely no stomach for it.

Second Variety

The claws were bad enough in the first place, nasty, crawling    

little death-robots. But when they began to imitate their    

creators, it was time for the human race to make peace if it could!

The Russian soldier made his way nervously up the ragged side of the hill, holding his gun ready. He glanced around him, licking his dry lips, his face set. From time to time he reached up a gloved hand and wiped perspiration from his neck, pushing down his coat collar.

Eric turned to Corporal Leone. Want him? Or can I have him? He adjusted the view sight so the Russian's features squarely filled the glass, the lines cutting across his hard, somber features.

Leone considered. The Russian was close, moving rapidly, almost running. Don't fire. Wait. Leone tensed. I don't think we're needed.

The Russian increased his pace, kicking ash and piles of debris out of his way. He reached the top of the hill and stopped, panting, staring around him. The sky was overcast, drifting clouds of gray particles. Bare trunks of trees jutted up occasionally; the ground was level and bare, rubble-strewn, with the ruins of buildings standing out here and there like yellowing skulls.

The Russian was uneasy. He knew something was wrong. He started down the hill. Now he was only a few paces from the bunker. Eric was getting fidgety. He played with his pistol, glancing at Leone.

Don't worry, Leone said. He won't get here. They'll take care of him.

Are you sure? He's got damn far.

They hang around close to the bunker. He's getting into the bad part. Get set!

The Russian began to hurry, sliding down the hill, his boots sinking into the heaps of gray ash, trying to keep his gun up. He stopped for a moment, lifting his fieldglasses to his face.

He's looking right at us, Eric said.

The Russian came on. They could see his eyes, like two blue stones. His mouth was open a little. He needed a shave; his chin was stubbled. On one bony cheek was a square of tape, showing blue at the edge. A fungoid spot. His coat was muddy and torn. One glove was missing. As he ran his belt counter bounced up and down against him.

Leone touched Eric's arm. Here one comes.

Across the ground something small and metallic came, flashing in the dull sunlight of mid-day. A metal sphere. It raced up the hill after the Russian, its treads flying. It was small, one of the baby ones. Its claws were out, two razor projections spinning in a blur of white steel. The Russian heard it. He turned instantly, firing. The sphere dissolved into particles. But already a second had emerged and was following the first. The Russian fired again.

A third sphere leaped up the Russian's leg, clicking and whirring. It jumped to the shoulder. The spinning blades disappeared into the Russian's throat.

Eric relaxed. Well, that's that. God, those damn things give me the creeps. Sometimes I think we were better off before.

If we hadn't invented them, they would have. Leone lit a cigarette shakily. I wonder why a Russian would come all this way alone. I didn't see anyone covering him.

Lt. Scott came slipping up the tunnel, into the bunker. What happened? Something entered the screen.

An Ivan.

Just one?

Eric brought the view screen around. Scott peered into it. Now there were numerous metal spheres crawling over the prostrate body, dull metal globes clicking and whirring, sawing up the Russian into small parts to be carried away.

What a lot of claws, Scott murmured.

They come like flies. Not much game for them any more.

Scott pushed the sight away, disgusted. Like flies. I wonder why he was out there. They know we have claws all around.

A larger robot had joined the smaller spheres. It was directing operations, a long blunt tube with projecting eyepieces. There was not much left of the soldier. What remained was being brought down the hillside by the host of claws.

Sir, Leone said. If it's all right, I'd like to go out there and take a look at him.

Why?

Maybe he came with something.

Scott considered. He shrugged. All right. But be careful.

I have my tab. Leone patted the metal band at his wrist. I'll be out of bounds.

He picked up his rifle and stepped carefully up to the mouth of the bunker, making his way between blocks of concrete and steel prongs, twisted and bent. The air was cold at the top. He crossed over the ground toward the remains of the soldier, striding across the soft ash. A wind blew around him, swirling gray particles up in his face. He squinted and pushed on.

The claws retreated as he came close, some of them stiffening into immobility. He touched his tab. The Ivan would have given something for that! Short hard radiation emitted from the tab neutralized the claws, put them out of commission. Even the big robot with its two waving eyestalks retreated respectfully as he approached.

He bent down over the remains of the soldier. The gloved hand was closed tightly. There was something in it. Leone pried the fingers apart. A sealed container, aluminum. Still shiny.

He put it in his pocket and made his way back to the bunker. Behind him the claws came back to life, moving into operation again. The procession resumed, metal spheres moving through the gray ash with their loads. He could hear their treads scrabbling against the ground. He shuddered.

Scott watched intently as he brought the shiny tube out of his pocket. He had that?

In his hand. Leone unscrewed the top. Maybe you should look at it, sir.

Scott took it. He emptied the contents out in the palm of his hand. A small piece of silk paper, carefully folded. He sat down by the light and unfolded it.

What's it say, sir? Eric said. Several officers came up the tunnel. Major Hendricks appeared.

Major, Scott said. Look at this.

Hendricks read the slip. This just come?

A single runner. Just now.

Where is he? Hendricks asked sharply.

The claws got him.

Major Hendricks grunted. Here. He passed it to his companions. I think this is what we've been waiting for. They certainly took their time about it.

So they want to talk terms, Scott said. Are we going along with them?

That's not for us to decide. Hendricks sat down. Where's the communications officer? I want the Moon Base.

Leone pondered as the communications officer raised the outside antenna cautiously, scanning the sky above the bunker for any sign of a watching Russian ship.

Sir, Scott said to Hendricks. It's sure strange they suddenly came around. We've been using the claws for almost a year. Now all of a sudden they start to fold.

Maybe claws have been getting down in their bunkers.

One of the big ones, the kind with stalks, got into an Ivan bunker last week, Eric said. It got a whole platoon of them before they got their lid shut.

How do you know?

A buddy told me. The thing came back with, with remains.

Moon Base, sir, the communications