Counter-Clock World by Philip K. Dick Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Philip K. Dick
George Gore’s office he shot off in his squad car for the Flask of Hermes Vitarium.
The frail old wooden building always amused him; it seemed perpetually about to fall, and yet it never had. What a variety of enterprises had been transacted, over the decades, on these faded premises. Before becoming a vitarium, Sebastian had told him, the building had housed a small cheese factory, employing nine girls. And before that, Sebastian believed, it had housed a television-repair establishment.
He landed his squad car, walked through the doorway. There at the typewriter, behind the counter, sat Cheryl Vale, the obliging, thirtyish receptionist and bookkeeper of the firm; at the moment she was on the phone, and so he passed on through the back doorway, into the employees’ portion of the premises. There he found their sole salesman, R.C. Buckley, reading a dog-eared copy of
Playboy,
the eternal salesman’s choice and obsession.
“Hi, Officer,” R.C. greeted him, with a toothy smile. “Out fixing tickets as usual?” He laughed a salesman’s laugh.
Tinbane said, “Is Father Faine here?” He looked around, but did not see him.
“Out with the rest of them,” R.C. said. “They zeroed in on another live one at Cedar Hills Cemetery in San Fernando. Should be back in a half an hour. Want some sogum?” He indicated a nearly full sogum tank, the establishment’s pastime when there was nothing else to do.
“Do you think,” Officer Tinbane said earnestly, seating himself on one of Bob Lindy’s tall workbench stools, “that it’s what you do, or is it what you think? I mean ideas that come to you that you mull over but never put into action . . . do they count, too?”
R.C.’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t get you.”
“Look at it this way.” Tinbane gestured, trying to convey what he had on his mind; it was difficult, and R.C. was not the person he would have picked. But at least it was better than mulling. “Like what you dream,” he said; a way of conveying it had come to him. “Suppose you’re married. You are, aren’t you?”
“Oh sure, yeah,” R.C. said.
“Okay, so am I. Now, for instance, say you love your wife. I’m assuming you do; I love mine. Now, suppose you have a dream, you dream you’re making out with another woman.”
“What other woman?”
“Any. Just another woman. You’re frankly in bed with her. In your dream, I mean. Okay. Is this a sin?”
“It is,” R.C. decided, “if after you wake up you think back to it, the dream, and you enjoy thinking about it.”
Tinbane continued, “Okay, suppose the idea comes into your head as to how you could hurt another person, take advantage of him; and you don’t do it, naturally, because he’s your friend, you see what I mean? I mean, you don’t do that to someone you like; that’s axiomatic. But isn’t there something wrong if you have the idea, just the idea?”
“You’ve got the wrong man to talk to,” R.C. said. “Wait until Father Faine gets back; ask him.”
“Yeah, but you’re here and he’s not.” And he felt the urgency of the problem; it probed at him, making him move and talk, forcing him to follow—not his own logic—but its logic.
“Everybody,” R.C. said, “has hostile impulses, toward everybody, at some time or another. Like sometimes I feel like taking a swing at Seb, or more often Bob Lindy; Lindy really gets my goat. And then even sometimes—” R.C. lowered his voice. “You know, Seb’s wife, Lotta; she comes in here a lot of times. Not for any reason but just to—you know; sort of hang around and talk. She’s sweet, but goddam it, sometimes she drives me nuts. Sometimes she can be a real pest.”
Tinbane said, “She’s nice.”
“Sure she’s nice. They don’t come any nicer. But isn’t that the point you were trying to make? Okay; a nice person like that and I feel like bouncing an ashtray off her head because she’s so—” He gesticulated. “Dependent. Hanging on Seb all the
The frail old wooden building always amused him; it seemed perpetually about to fall, and yet it never had. What a variety of enterprises had been transacted, over the decades, on these faded premises. Before becoming a vitarium, Sebastian had told him, the building had housed a small cheese factory, employing nine girls. And before that, Sebastian believed, it had housed a television-repair establishment.
He landed his squad car, walked through the doorway. There at the typewriter, behind the counter, sat Cheryl Vale, the obliging, thirtyish receptionist and bookkeeper of the firm; at the moment she was on the phone, and so he passed on through the back doorway, into the employees’ portion of the premises. There he found their sole salesman, R.C. Buckley, reading a dog-eared copy of
Playboy,
the eternal salesman’s choice and obsession.
“Hi, Officer,” R.C. greeted him, with a toothy smile. “Out fixing tickets as usual?” He laughed a salesman’s laugh.
Tinbane said, “Is Father Faine here?” He looked around, but did not see him.
“Out with the rest of them,” R.C. said. “They zeroed in on another live one at Cedar Hills Cemetery in San Fernando. Should be back in a half an hour. Want some sogum?” He indicated a nearly full sogum tank, the establishment’s pastime when there was nothing else to do.
“Do you think,” Officer Tinbane said earnestly, seating himself on one of Bob Lindy’s tall workbench stools, “that it’s what you do, or is it what you think? I mean ideas that come to you that you mull over but never put into action . . . do they count, too?”
R.C.’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t get you.”
“Look at it this way.” Tinbane gestured, trying to convey what he had on his mind; it was difficult, and R.C. was not the person he would have picked. But at least it was better than mulling. “Like what you dream,” he said; a way of conveying it had come to him. “Suppose you’re married. You are, aren’t you?”
“Oh sure, yeah,” R.C. said.
“Okay, so am I. Now, for instance, say you love your wife. I’m assuming you do; I love mine. Now, suppose you have a dream, you dream you’re making out with another woman.”
“What other woman?”
“Any. Just another woman. You’re frankly in bed with her. In your dream, I mean. Okay. Is this a sin?”
“It is,” R.C. decided, “if after you wake up you think back to it, the dream, and you enjoy thinking about it.”
Tinbane continued, “Okay, suppose the idea comes into your head as to how you could hurt another person, take advantage of him; and you don’t do it, naturally, because he’s your friend, you see what I mean? I mean, you don’t do that to someone you like; that’s axiomatic. But isn’t there something wrong if you have the idea, just the idea?”
“You’ve got the wrong man to talk to,” R.C. said. “Wait until Father Faine gets back; ask him.”
“Yeah, but you’re here and he’s not.” And he felt the urgency of the problem; it probed at him, making him move and talk, forcing him to follow—not his own logic—but its logic.
“Everybody,” R.C. said, “has hostile impulses, toward everybody, at some time or another. Like sometimes I feel like taking a swing at Seb, or more often Bob Lindy; Lindy really gets my goat. And then even sometimes—” R.C. lowered his voice. “You know, Seb’s wife, Lotta; she comes in here a lot of times. Not for any reason but just to—you know; sort of hang around and talk. She’s sweet, but goddam it, sometimes she drives me nuts. Sometimes she can be a real pest.”
Tinbane said, “She’s nice.”
“Sure she’s nice. They don’t come any nicer. But isn’t that the point you were trying to make? Okay; a nice person like that and I feel like bouncing an ashtray off her head because she’s so—” He gesticulated. “Dependent. Hanging on Seb all the