We Can Build You by Philip K. Dick Read Free Book Online Page A

declining.”
    She smiled her informal, warm smile at me.
    “What do you know about this Stanton electronic simulacrum?” I asked her.
    “I know that one has been built. Miss Frauenzimmer mentioned that in her communications both by mail and over the phone to Mr. Barrows. I believe Mr. Barrows also told me that Miss Frauenzimmer wanted to put the Stanton electronic simulacrum onto a Greyhound bus and have it ride unaccompanied to Seattle, where Mr. Barrows is currently. That would be her way of demonstrating graphically its ability to merge with humans and be unnoticed.”
    “Except for its funny split beard and old-fashioned vest.”
    “I was unaware of those factors.”
    “Possibly the simulacrum could argue with a cab driver as to the shortest route from the bus terminal to Mr. Barrows’ office,” I said. “That would be an additional proof of its humanness.”
    Colleen Nild said, “I’ll mention that to Mr. Barrows.”
    “Do you know the Rosen electronic organ, or possibly our spinet pianos?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “The Rosen factory at Boise produces the finest electronic chord organ in existence. Far superior to the Hammerstein Mood Organ, which emits a noise nothing more adequate than a modified flute-sound.”
    “I was unaware of that, too,” Miss or Mrs. Nild said. “I’ll mention that to Mr. Barrows. He has always been a music lover.”
    I was still involved in reading Barrows’ letter when my partner returned from his midday coffee break. I showed it to him.
    “Barrows writing to Pris,” he said, seating himself to pore over it. “Maybe we’re in, Louis. Could it be? I guess it isn’t a figment of Pris’s mind after all. Gosh, the man’s hard to follow; is he saying he is or he isn’t interested in the Stanton?”
    “Barrows seems to say he’s completely tied up right now with a pet project of his own, that housing tract called Green Peach Hat.”
    “I lived there,” Maury said. “In the late ‘fifties.”
    “What’s it like?”
    “Louis, it’s hell. The dump ought to be burned to the ground; only a match—nothing else—would help that place.”
    “Some do-gooders agree with you.”
    Maury said in a low, tense voice, “If they want someone to burn it down I’ll do it personally for them. You can quote me, too. Sam Barrows owns that place.”
    “Ah,” I said.
    “He’s making a fortune in rentals off it. Slum rentals is one of the biggest rackets in the world today; you get back like five to six hundred percent return on your investment. Well, I suppose we can’t let personal opinion enter into business. Barrows is still a shrewd businessman and the best person to back the simulacra, even if he is a rich fink. But you say this letter is a rejection of the idea?”
    “You could phone him and find out. Pris seems to have phoned him.”
    Picking up the phone, Maury dialed.
    “Wait,” I said.
    He glared at me.
    “I’ve got an intuition,” I said, “of doom.”
    Into the phone, Maury said, “Mr. Barrows.”
    I grabbed the phone from him and hung it up.
    “You—” He quivered with anger. “What a coward.” Lifting the receiver he once more dialed. “Operator, I was cut off.” He looked around for the letter; it had Barrows’ number on it. I picked up the letter and crumpled it into a ball and tossed it across the room.
    Cursing at me he slammed down the receiver.
    We faced each other, breathing heavily.
    “What’s wrong with you?” Maury said.
    “I don’t think we should get tangled up with a man like that.”
    “Like what?”
    I said, “Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad!”
    That shook him. “What do you mean?” he mumbled, tipping his head and regarding me bird-like. “You think I’m batty to call, do you? Ought to be at the funny clinic. Maybe so. But anyhow I intend to.” Going past me he fished up the crumpled ball of paper, smoothed it, memorized the number, and returned to the phone. Again he placed the call.
    “It’s the