Dr. Bloodmoney by Philip K. Dick Read Free Book Online

Fine Foods.”
    Fergesson eyed him, pausing in his work.
    “He had a fit,” Stuart said. “He went nuts.”
    “No kidding.” Fergesson looked displeased.
    “He passed out because—he had a beer. And he saw beyond the grave. He saw me eating a dead rat. And it was raw. So he said.”
    Fergesson laughed.
    “It’s not funny.”
    “Sure it is. He’s razzing you back for all the razzing you dish out and you’re so dumb you get taken in.”
    “He really saw it,” Stuart said stubbornly.
    “Did he see me?”
    “He didn’t say. He does that up there all the time; they give him beers and he goes into his trance and they ask questions. About what it’s like. I just happened to be there, eating lunch. I didn’t even see him leave the store; I didn’t know he would be there.”
    For a moment Fergesson sat frowning and pondering, and then he reached out and pressed the button of the intercom which connected the office with the repair department. “Hoppy, wheel up here to the office; I want to talk to you.”
    “It wasn’t my intention to get him into trouble,” Stuart said.
    “Sure it was,” Fergesson said. “But I still ought to know; I’ve got a right to know what my employees are doing when they’re in a public place acting in a fashion that might throw discredit on the store.”
    They waited, and after a time they heard the labored sound of the cart rolling up the stairs to the office.
    As soon as he appeared, Hoppy said, “What I do on my lunch hour is my own business, Mr. Fergesson. That’s how I feel.”
    “You’re wrong,” Fergesson said. “It’s my business, too. Did you see me beyond the grave, like you did Stuart? What was I doing? I want to know, and you better give me a good answer or you’re through here, the same day you were hired.”
    The phoce, in a low, steady voice, said, “I didn’t see you, Mr. Fergesson, because your soul perished and won’t be reborn.”
    For a while Fergesson studied the phoce. “Why is that?” he asked finally.
    “It’s your fate,” Hoppy said.
    “I haven’t done anything criminal or immoral.”
    The phoce said, “It’s the cosmic process, Mr. Fergesson. Don’t blame me.” He became silent, then.
    Turning to Stuart, Fergesson said, “Christ. Well, ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.” Returning to the phoce he said, “Did you see anybody else I know, like my wife? No, you never met my wife. What about Lightheiser? What’s going to become of him?”
    “I didn’t see him,” the phoce said.
    Fergesson said, “How did you fix that changer? How did you really do that? It looked like—you healed it. It looked like instead of replacing that broken spring you made the spring whole again. How did you do that? Is that one of those extra-sensory powers or whatever they are?”
    “I repaired it,” the phoce said in a stony voice.
    To Stuart, Fergesson said, “He won’t say. But I saw him. He was concentrating on it in some peculiar way. Maybe you were right, McConchie; maybe it was a mistake to hire him. Still, it’s the results that count. Listen, Hoppy, I don’t want you messing around with trances out in public anywhere along this street now that you’re working for me; that was okay before, but not now. Have your trances in the privacy of your own home, is that clear?” He once more picked up his stack of tags. “That’s all. Both you guys, go down and do some work instead of standing around.”
    The phoce at once spun his cart around and wheeled off, toward the stairs. Stuart, his hands in his pockets, slowly followed.
    When he got downstairs and back to the TV set and the people standing around it he heard the announcer say excitedly that the first three stages of the rocket appeared to have fired successfully.
    That’s good news, Stuart thought. A bright chapter in the history of the human race. He felt a little better, now, and he parked himself by the counter, where he could obtain a good view of the screen.
    Why would I