Vulcan's Hammer by Philip K. Dick Read Free Book Online Page B

Reveal themselves.
    They must be in our midst, he thought frantically. To be able to get in here—
they’ve subverted Unity.
    He felt horror, and, in addition, a deep personal loss. This old machine had been a companion of his for many years. When he had questions simple enough for it to answer he always came here; this visit was part of his life.
    Reluctantly, he moved away from the ruins. No more coming here, he realized. The creaking old machine is gone; I’ll never be using the manual punch again, laboriously making out the questions in terms that Vulcan 2 can assimilate.
    He tapped his coat. They were still there, the answers that Vulcan 2 had given him, answers that he had puzzled over, again and again. He wanted clarification; his last visit had been to rephrase his queries, to get amplification. But the blast had ended that.
    Deep in thought, Jason Dill left the chamber and made his way up the corridor, back to the elevator. This is a bad day for us, he thought to himself. We’ll remember this for a long time.
    Back in his own office he took time to examine the DQ forms that had come in. Larson, the leader of the data-feed team, showed him the rejects.
    “Look at these.” His young face stern with an ever-present awareness of duty, Larson carefully laid out a handful of forms. “This one here—maybe you had better turn it back personally, so there won’t be any trouble.”
    “Why do I have to attend to it?” Jason Dill said with irritation. “Can’t you handle it? If you’re overworked, hire a couple more clerks up here, from the pool. There’s always plenty of clerks; you know that as well as I. We must have two million of them on the payrolls. And yet you still have to bother me.” His wrath and anxiety swept up involuntarily, directed at his subordinate; he knew that he was taking it out on Larson, but he felt too depressed to worry about it.
    Larson, with no change of expression, said in a firm voice, “This particular form was sent in by a Director. That’s why I feel—”
    “Give it to me, then,” Jason Dill said, accepting it.
    The form was from the North American Director, William Barris. Jason Dill had met the man any number of times; in his mind he retained an impression of a somewhat tall individual, with a high forehead . . . in his middle thirties, as Dill recalled. A hard worker. The man had not gotten up to the level of Director in the usual manner—by means of personal social contacts, by knowing the right persons—but by constant accurate and valuable work.
    “This is interesting,” Jason Dill said aloud to Larson; he put the form aside for a moment. “We ought to be sure we’re publicizing this particular Director. Of course, he probably does a full public-relations job in his own district; we shouldn’t worry.”
    Larson said, “I understand he made it up the hard way. His parents weren’t anybody.”
    “We can show,” Jason Dill said, “that the ordinary individual, with no pull, knowing no one in the organization, can come in and take a regular low-grade job, such as clerk or even maintenance man, and in time, if he’s got the ability and drive, he can rise all the way up to the top. In fact, he might get to be Managing Director.” Not, he thought to himself wryly, that it was such a wonderful job to have.
    “He won’t be Managing Director for a while,” Larson said, in a tone of certitude.
    “Hell,” Jason Dill said wearily. “He can have my job right now, if that’s what he’s after. I presume he is.” Lifting the form he glanced at it. The form asked two questions.
    ARE THE HEALERS OF REAL SIGNIFICANCE?
    WHY DON’T YOU RESPOND TO THEIR EXISTENCE?
    Holding the form in his hands, Jason Dill thought, One of the eternal bright young men, climbing rapidly up the Unity ladder. Barris, Taubmann, Reynolds, Henderson—they were all making their way confidently, efficiently, never missing a trick, never failing to exploit the slightest wedge. Give them an