"You can nail up some object by which to recognize it, this cabin. That you can easily remember. Something with color in it." He pushed open the cabin door; hot stinking air blew Out at them. "I think we"ll put you in with the artichokes first," he ruminated. "You"ll have to wear gloves--they"ve got stickers."
"Artichokes," Bruce said.
"h.e.l.l, we"ve got mushrooms here too. Experimental mushroom farms, sealed in, of course--and domestic mushroom growers need to seal in their yield--to keep pathogenic spores from drifting in and contaminating the beds. Fungus spores, of course, are airborne. That"s a hazard to all mushroom growers."
"Mushrooms," Bruce said, entering the dark, hot cabin. The manager watched him enter.
"Yes, Bruce," he said.
"Yes, Bruce," Bruce said.
"Bruce," the manager said. "Wake up."
He nodded, standing in the stale gloom of the cabin, still holding his suitcase. "Okay," he said. They nod off as soon as it"s dark, the manager said to himself. Like chickens. A vegetable among vegetables, he thought. Fungus among fungus. Take your pick. He yanked on the overhead electric light of the cabin, and then began to show Bruce how to operate it. Bruce did not appear to care; he had caught a glimpse of the mountains now, and stood gazing at them fixedly, aware of them for the first time.
"Mountains, Bruce, mountains," the manager said.
"Mountains, Bruce, mountains," Bruce said, and gazed.
"Echolalia, Bruce, echolalia," the manager said.
"Echolalia, Bruce--"
"Okay, Bruce," the manager said, and shut the cabin door behind him, thinking, I believe I"ll put him among the carrots. Or beets. Something simple. Something that won"t puzzle him. And another vegetable in the other cot, there. To keep him company. They can nod their lives away together, in unison. Rows of them. Whole acres. They faced him toward the field, and he saw the corn, like ragged projections. He thought, Garbage growing. They run a garbage farm. He bent down and saw growing near the ground a small flower, blue. Many of them in short tinkly tinky stalks. Like stubble. Chaff. A lot of them, he saw now that he could get his face close enough to make them out. Fields, within the taller rows of corn. Here concealed within, as many farmers planted: one crop inside another, like concentric rings. As, he remembered, the farmers in Mexico plant their marijuana plantations: circled--ringed--by tall plants, so the _federales_ won"t spot them by jeep. But then they"re spotted from the air. And the _federales_, when they locate such a pot plantation down there--they machine-gun the farmer, his wife, their children, even the animals. And then drive off. And their copter search continues, backed by the jeeps. Such lovely little blue flowers.
"You"re seeing the flower of the future," Donald, the Executive Director of New-Path, said. "But not for you."
"Why not for me?" Bruce said.
"You"ve had too much of a good thing already," the Executive Director said. He chuckled. "So get up and stop worshipping--this isn"t your G.o.d any more, your idol, although it was once. A transcendent vision, is that what you see growing here? You look as if it is." He tapped Bruce firmly on the shoulder, and then, reaching down his hand, he cut the sight off from the frozen eyes.
"Gone," Bruce said. "Flowers of spring gone."
"No, you simply can"t see them. That"s a philosophical problem you wouldn"t comprehend. Epistemology--the theory of knowledge."
Bruce saw only the flat of Donald"s hand barring the light, and he stared at it a thousand years. It locked; it had locked; it will lock for him, lock forever for dead eyes outside time, eyes that could not look away and a hand that would not move away. Time ceased as the eyes gazed and the universe jelled along with him, at least for him, froze over with him and his understanding, as its inertness became complete. There was nothing he did not know; there was nothing left to happen.
"Back to work, Bruce," Donald, the Executive Director, said.
"I saw," Bruce said. He thought, I knew. That was it: I saw Substance D growing. I saw death rising from the earth, from the ground itself, in one blue field, in stubbled color. The farm-facility manager and Donald Abrahams glanced at each other and then down at the kneeling figure, the kneeling man and the _Mors ontologica_ planted everywhere, within the concealing corn.
"Back to work, Bruce," the kneeling man said then, and rose to his feet. Donald and the farm-facility manager strolled off toward their parked Lincoln. Talking together; he watched--without turning, without being able to turn--them depart. Stooping down, Bruce picked one of the stubbled blue plants, then placed it in his right shoe, slipping it down out of sight. A present for my friends, he thought, and looked forward inside his mind, where no one could see, to Thanksgiving.
AUTHOR"S NOTE.
This has been a novel about some people who were punished entirely too much for what they did. They wanted to have a good time, but they were like children playing in the street; they could see one after another of them being killed--run over, maimed, destroyed--but they continued to play anyhow. We really all were very happy for a while, sitting around not toiling but just bulls.h.i.tting and playing, but it was for such a terrible brief time, and then the punishment was beyond belief: even when we could see it, we could not believe it. For example, while I was writing this I learned that the person on whom the character Jerry Fabin is based killed himself. My friend on whom I based the character Ernie Luckman died before I began the novel. For a while I myself was one of these children playing in the street; I was, like the rest of them, trying to play instead of being grown up, and I was punished. I am on the list below, which is a list of those to whom this novel is dedicated, and what became of each. Drug misuse is not a disease, it is a decision, like the decision to step out in front of a moving car. You would call that not a disease but an error in judgment. When a bunch of people begin to do it, it is a social error, a life-style. In this particular life-style the motto is "Be happy now because tomorrow you are dying," but the dying begins almost at once, and the happiness is a memory. It is, then, only a speeding up, an intensifying, of the ordinary human existence. It is not different from your life-style, it is only faster. It all takes place in days or weeks or months instead of years. "Take the cash and let the credit go," as Villon said in 1460. But that is a mistake if the cash is a penny and the credit a whole lifetime. There is no moral in this novel; it is not bourgeois; it does not say they were wrong to play when they should have toiled; it just tells what the consequences were. In Greek drama they were beginning, as a society, to discover science, which means causal law. Here in this novel there is Nemesis: not fate, because any one of us could have chosen to stop playing in the street, but, as I narrate from the deepest part of my life and heart, a dreadful Nemesis for those who kept on playing. I myself, I am not a character in this novel; I am the novel. So, though, was our entire nation at this time. This novel is about more people than I knew personally. Some we all read about in the newspapers. It was, this sitting around with our buddies and bulls.h.i.tting while making tape recordings, the bad decision of the decade, the sixties, both in and out of the establishment. And nature cracked down on us. We were forced to stop by things dreadful. If there was any "sin," it was that these people wanted to keep on having a good time forever, and were punished for that, but, as I say, I feel that, if so, the punishment was far too great, and I prefer to think of it only in a Greek or morally neutral way, as mere science, as deterministic impartial cause-and-effect. I loved them all. Here is the list, to whom I dedicate my love: To Gaylene deceased To Ray deceased To Francy permanent psychosis To Kathy permanent brain damage To Jim deceased To Val ma.s.sive permanent brain damage To Nancy permanent psychosis To Joanne permanent brain damage To Maren deceased To Nick deceased To Terry deceased To Dennis deceased To Phil permanent pancreatic damage To Sue permanent vascular damage To Jerri permanent psychosis and vascular damage . . . and so forth. In Memoriam. These were comrades whom I had; there are no better. They remain in my mind, and the enemy will never be forgiven. The "enemy" was their mistake in playing. Let them all play again, in some other way, and let them be happy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR.
PHILIP K. d.i.c.k was born in Chicago in 1928 and lived most of his life in California. He briefly attended the University of California, but dropped out before completing any cla.s.ses. In 1952 he began writing professionally and proceeded to write thirty-six novels and five short story collections. He won the Hugo Award for best novel in 1962 for _The Man in the High Castle_ and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best novel of the year in 1974 for _Flow My Tears the Policeman Said_. Philip K. d.i.c.k died of heart failure following a stroke on March 2, 1982, in Santa Ana, California.