The Skull by Philip K. Dick Read Free Book Online Page A

after—the person that we are sending you to find—is known only
by certain objects here. They are the only traces, the only means of
identification. Without them—"
    "What are they?"
    He came toward the Speaker. The Speaker moved to one side. "Look," he
said. He drew a sliding wall away, showing a dark square hole. "In
there."
    Conger squatted down, staring in. He frowned. "A skull! A skeleton!"
    "The man you are after has been dead for two centuries," the Speaker
said. "This is all that remains of him. And this is all you have with
which to find him."
    For a long time Conger said nothing. He stared down at the bones, dimly
visible in the recess of the wall. How could a man dead centuries be
killed? How could he be stalked, brought down?
    Conger was a hunter, a man who had lived as he pleased, where he
pleased. He had kept himself alive by trading, bringing furs and pelts
in from the Provinces on his own ship, riding at high speed, slipping
through the customs line around Earth.
    He had hunted in the great mountains of the moon. He had stalked through
empty Martian cities. He had explored—
    The Speaker said, "Soldier, take these objects and have them carried to
the car. Don't lose any part of them."
    The soldier went into the cupboard, reaching gingerly, squatting on his
heels.
    "It is my hope," the Speaker continued softly, to Conger, "that you will
demonstrate your loyalty to us, now. There are always ways for citizens
to restore themselves, to show their devotion to their society. For you
I think this would be a very good chance. I seriously doubt that a
better one will come. And for your efforts there will be quite a
restitution, of course."
    The two men looked at each other; Conger, thin, unkempt, the Speaker
immaculate in his uniform.
    "I understand you," Conger said. "I mean, I understand this part, about
the chance. But how can a man who has been dead two centuries be—"
    "I'll explain later," the Speaker said. "Right now we have to hurry!"
The soldier had gone out with the bones, wrapped in a blanket held
carefully in his arms. The Speaker walked to the door. "Come. They've
already discovered that we've broken in here, and they'll be coming at
any moment."
    They hurried down the damp steps to the waiting car. A second later the
driver lifted the car up into the air, above the house-tops.
*
    The Speaker settled back in the seat.
    "The First Church has an interesting past," he said. "I suppose you are
familiar with it, but I'd like to speak of a few points that are of
relevancy to us.
    "It was in the twentieth century that the Movement began—during one of
the periodic wars. The Movement developed rapidly, feeding on the
general sense of futility, the realization that each war was breeding
greater war, with no end in sight. The Movement posed a simple answer to
the problem: Without military preparations—weapons—there could be no
war. And without machinery and complex scientific technocracy there
could be no weapons.
    "The Movement preached that you couldn't stop war by planning for it.
They preached that man was losing to his machinery and science, that it
was getting away from him, pushing him into greater and greater wars.
Down with society, they shouted. Down with factories and science! A few
more wars and there wouldn't be much left of the world.
    "The Founder was an obscure person from a small town in the American
Middle West. We don't even know his name. All we know is that one day he
appeared, preaching a doctrine of non-violence, non-resistance; no
fighting, no paying taxes for guns, no research except for medicine.
Live out your life quietly, tending your garden, staying out of public
affairs; mind your own business. Be obscure, unknown, poor. Give away
most of your possessions, leave the city. At least that was what
developed from what he told the people."
    The car dropped down and landed on a roof.
    "The Founder preached this doctrine, or the germ of it; there's no
telling how much the faithful