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Tema: Philip Kindred Dick ~ Filip Kindred Dik  (Pročitano 60969 puta)
06. Sep 2005, 03:46:13
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Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

Philip Kindred Dick


Bladerunner

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Apple iPhone 6s
Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
by Philip K. Dick

   To Maren Augusta Bergrud
   August 10, 1923—June 14, 1967




   And still i dream he treads the lawn,
   Walking ghostly in the dew,
   Pierced by my glad singing through.

Yeats



   Auckland
   A turtle which explorer captain Cook gave to the king of Tonga in 1777 died yesterday.
   It was nearly 200 years old. The animal, called Tu’imalila, died at the Royal Palace Ground in the Tongan capital of Nuku, Alofa.
   The people of Tonga regarded the animal as a chief and special keepers were appointed to look after it. It was blinded in a bush fire a few years ago.
   Tonga radio said Tu’imalila’s carcass would be sent to the Auckland museum in New Zealand.

Reuters, 1966
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1

   A merry little surge of electricity piped by automatic alarm from the mood organ beside his bed awakened Rick Deckard. Surprised—it always surprised him to find himself awake without prior notice—he rose from the bed, stood up in his multicolored pajamas, and stretched. Now, in her bed, his wife Iran opened her gray, unmerry eyes, blinked, then groaned and shut her eyes again.
   “You set your Penfield too weak,” he said to her. “I’ll reset it and you’ll be awake and—”
   “Keep your hand off my settings.” Her voice held bitter sharpness. “I don’t want to be awake.”
   He seated himself beside her, bent over her, and explained softly. “If you set the surge up high enough, you’ll be glad you’re awake; that’s the whole point. At setting C it overcomes the threshold barring consciousness, as it does for me.” Friendlily, because he felt well-disposed toward the world —his setting had been at D–he patted her bare, pale shoulder.
   “Get your crude cop’s hand away,” Iran said.
   “I’m not a cop—” He felt irritable, now, although he hadn’t dialed for it.
   “You’re worse,” his wife said, her eyes still shut. “You’re a murderer hired by the cops.
   “I’ve never killed a human being in my life.” His irritability had risen, now; had become outright hostility.
   Iran said, “Just those poor andys.”
   “I notice you’ve never had any hesitation as to spending the bounty money I bring home on whatever momentarily attracts your attention.” He rose, strode to the console of his mood organ. “Instead of saving,” he said, “so we could buy a real sheep, to replace that fake electric one upstairs. A mere electric animal, and me earning all that I’ve worked my way up to through the years.” At his console he hesitated between dialing for a thalamic suppressant (which would abolish his mood of rage) or a thalamic stimulant (which would make him irked enough to win the argument).
   “If you dial,” Iran said, eyes open and watching, “for greater venom, then I’ll dial the same. I’ll dial the maximum and you’ll see a fight that makes every argument we’ve had up to now seem like nothing. Dial and see; just try me.” She rose swiftly, loped to the console of her own mood organ, stood glaring at him, waiting.
   He sighed, defeated by her threat. “I’ll dial what’s on my schedule for today.” Examining the schedule for January 3, 1992, he saw that a businesslike professional attitude was called for. “If I dial by schedule,” he said warily, “will you agree to also?” He waited, canny enough not to commit himself until his wife had agreed to follow suit.
   “My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression,” Iran said.
   “What? Why did you schedule that?” It defeated the whole purpose of the mood organ. “I didn’t even know you could set it for that,” he said gloomily.
   “I was sitting here one afternoon,” Iran said, “and naturally I had turned on Buster Friendly and His Friendly Friends and he was talking about a big news item he’s about to break and then that awful commercial came on, the one I hate; you know, for Mountibank Lead Codpieces. And so for a minute I shut off the sound. And I heard the building, this building; I heard the—” She gestured.
   “Empty apartments,” Rick said. Sometimes he heard them at night when he was supposed to be asleep. And yet, for this day and age a one-half occupied conapt building rated high in the scheme of population density; out in what had been before the war the suburbs one could find buildings entirely empty … or so he had heard. He had let the information remain secondhand; like most people he did not care to experience it directly.
   “At that moment,” Iran said, “when I had the TV sound off, I was in a 382 mood; I had just dialed it. So although I heard the emptiness intellectually, I didn’t feel it. My first reaction consisted of being grateful that we could afford a Penfield mood organ. But then I read how unhealthy it was, sensing the absence of life, not just in this building but everywhere, and not reacting—do you see? I guess you don’t. But that used to be considered a sign of mental illness; they called it ‘absence of appropriate affect.’ So I left the TV sound off and I sat down at my mood organ and I experimented. And I finally found a setting for despair.” Her dark, pert face showed satisfaction, as if she had achieved something of worth. “So I put it on my schedule for twice a month; I think that’s a reasonable amount of time to feel hopeless about everything, about staying here on Earth after everybody who’s small has emigrated, don’t you think?”
   “But a mood like that,” Rick said, “you’re apt to stay in it, not dial your way out. Despair like that, about total reality, is self-perpetuating.”
   “I program an automatic resetting for three hours later,” his wife said sleekly. “A 481. Awareness of the manifold possibilities open to me in the future; new hope that—”
   “I know 481,” he interrupted. He had dialed out the combination many times; he relied on it greatly. “Listen,” he said, seating himself on his bed and taking hold of her hands to draw her down beside him, “even with an automatic cutoff it’s dangerous to undergo a depression, any kind. Forget what you’ve scheduled and I’ll forget what I’ve scheduled; we’ll dial a 104 together and both experience it, and then you stay in it while I reset mine for my usual businesslike attitude. That way I’ll want to hop up to the roof and check out the sheep and then head for the office; meanwhile I’ll know you’re not sitting here brooding with no TV.” He released her slim, long fingers, passed through the spacious apartment to the living room, which smelled faintly of last night’s cigarettes. There he bent to turn on the TV.
   From the bedroom Iran’s voice came. “I can’t stand TV before breakfast.”
   “Dial 888,” Rick said as the set warmed. “The desire to watch TV, no matter what’s on it.”
   “I don’t feel like dialing anything at all now,” Iran said.
   “Then dial 3,” he said.
   “I can’t dial a setting that stimulates my cerebral cortex into wanting to dial! If I don’t want to dial, I don’t want to dial that most of all, because then I will want to dial, and wanting to dial is right now the most alien drive I can imagine; I just want to sit here on the bed and stare at the floor.” Her voice had become sharp with overtones of bleakness as her soul congealed and she ceased to move, as the instinctive, omnipresent film of great weight, of an almost absolute inertia, settled over her.
   He turned up the TV sound, and the voice of Buster Friendly boomed out and filled the room. “—ho ho, folks. Time now for a brief note on today’s weather. The Mongoose satellite reports that fallout will be especially pronounced toward noon and will then taper off, so all you folks who’ll be venturing out—”
   Appearing beside him, her long nightgown trailing wispily, Iran shut off the TV set. “Okay, I give up; I’ll dial. Anything you want me to be; ecstatic sexual bliss—I feel so bad I’ll even endure that. What the hell. What difference does it make?”
   “I’ll dial for both of us, Rick said, and led her back into the bedroom. There, at her console, he dialed 594: pleased acknowledgment of husband’s superior wisdom in all matters. On his own console he dialed for a creative and fresh attitude toward his job, although this he hardly needed; such was his habitual, innate approach without recourse to Penfield artificial brain stimulation.

   After a hurried breakfast—he had lost time due to the discussion with his wife—he ascended clad for venturing out, including his Ajax model Mountibank Lead Codpiece, to the covered roof pasture whereon his electric sheep “grazed.” Whereon it, sophisticated piece of hardware that it was, chomped away in simulated contentment, bamboozling the other tenants of the building.
   Of course, some of their animals undoubtedly consisted of electronic circuitry fakes, too; he had of course never nosed into the matter, any more than they, his neighbors, had pried into the real workings of his sheep. Nothing could be more impolite. To say, “Is your sheep genuine?” would be a worse breach of manners than to inquire whether a citizen’s teeth, hair, or internal organs would test out authentic.
   The morning air, spilling over with radioactive motes, gray and sun—beclouding, belched about him, haunting his nose; fie sniffed involuntarily the taint of death. Well, that was too strong a description for it, he decided as he made his way to the particular plot of sod which he owned along with the unduly large apartment below. The legacy of World War Terminus had diminished in potency; those who could not survive the dust had passed into oblivion years ago, and the dust, weaker now and confronting the strong survivors, only deranged minds and genetic properties. Despite his lead codpiece the dust—undoubtedly—filtered in and at him, brought him daily, so long as he failed to emigrate, its little load of befouling filth. So far, medical checkups taken monthly confirmed him as a regular: a man who could reproduce within the tolerances set by law. Any month, however, the exam by the San Francisco Police Department doctors could reveal otherwise. Continually, new specials came into existence, created out of regulars by the omnipresent dust. The saying currently blabbed by posters, TV ads, and government junk mail, ran: “Emigrate or degenerate! The choice is yours! “ Very true, Rick thought as he opened the gate to his little pasture and approached his electric sheep. But I can’t emigrate, he said to himself. Because of my job.
   The owner of the adjoining pasture, his conapt neighbor Bill Barbour, hailed him; he, like Rick, had dressed for work but had stopped off on the way to check his animal, too.
   “My horse,” Barbour declared beamingly, “is pregnant.” He indicated the big Percheron, which stood staring off in an empty fashion into space. “What do you say to that?”
   “I say pretty soon you’ll have two horses,” Rick said. He had reached his sheep, now; it lay ruminating, its alert eyes fixed on him in case he had brought any rolled oats with him. The alleged sheep contained an oat-tropic circuit; at the sight of such cereals it would scramble up convincingly and amble over. “What’s she pregnant by?” he asked Barbour. “The wind?”
   “I bought some of the highest quality fertilizing plasma available in California,” Barbour informed him. “Through inside contacts I have with the State Animal Husbandry Board. Don’t you remember last week when their inspector was out here examining Judy? They’re eager to have her foal; she’s an unmatched superior.” Barbour thumped his horse fondly on the neck and she inclined her head toward him.
   “Ever thought of selling your horse?” Rick asked. He wished to god he had a horse, in fact any animal. Owning and maintaining a fraud had a way of gradually demoralizing one. And yet from a social standpoint it had to be done, given the absence of the real article. He had therefore no choice except to continue. Even were he not to care himself, there remained his wife, and Iran did care. Very much.
   Barbour said, “It would be immoral to sell my horse.”
   “Sell the colt, then. Having two animals is more immoral than not having any.”
   Puzzled, Barbour said, “How do you mean? A lot of people have two animals, even three, four, and like in the case of Fred Washborne, who owns the algae-processing plant my brother works at, even five. Didn’t you see that article about his duck in yesterday’s Chronicle? It’s supposed to be the heaviest, largest Moscovy on the West Coast.” The man’s eyes glazed over, imagining such possessions; he drifted by degrees into a trance.
   Exploring about in his coat pockets, Rick found his creased, much-studied copy of Sidney’s Animal & Fowl Catalogue January supplement. He looked in the index, found colts (vide horses, offsp.) and presently had the prevailing national price. “I can buy a Percheron colt from Sidney’s for five thousand dollars,” he said aloud.
   “No you can’t,” Barbour said. “Look at the listing again; it’s in italics. That means they don’t have any in stock, but that would be the price if they did have.”
   “Suppose,” Rick said, “I pay you five hundred dollars a month for ten months. Full catalogue value.”
   Pityingly, Barbour said, “Deckard, you don’t understand about horses; there’s a reason why Sidney’s doesn’t have any Percheron colts in stock. Percheron colts just don’t change hands—at catalogue value, even. They’re too scarce, even relatively inferior ones.” He leaned across their common fence, gesticulating. “I’ve had Judy for three years and not in all that time have I seen a Percheron mare of her quality. To acquire her I had to fly to Canada, and I personally drove her back here myself to make sure she wasn’t stolen. You bring an animal like this anywhere around Colorado or Wyoming and they’ll knock you off to get hold of it. You know why? Because back before W.W.T. there existed literally hundreds—”
   “But,” Rick interrupted, “for you to have two horses and me none, that violates the whole basic theological and moral structure of Mercerism.”
   “You have your sheep; hell, you can follow the Ascent in your individual life, and when you grasp the two handles of empathy you approach honorably. Now if you didn’t have that old sheep, there, I’d see some logic in your position. Sure, if I had two animals and you didn’t have any, I’d be helping deprive you of true fusion with Mercer. But every family in this building—let’s see; around fifty: one to every three apts, as I compute it—every one of us has an animal of some sort. Graveson has that chicken over there.” He gestured north. “Oakes and his wife have that big red dog that barks in the night.” He pondered. “I think Ed Smith has a cat down in his apt; —at least he says so, but no one’s ever seen it. Possibly he’s just pretending.”
   Going over to his sheep, Rick bent down, searching in the thick white wool—the fleece at least was genuine—until he found what he was looking for: the concealed control panel of the mechanism. As Barbour watched he snapped open the panel covering, revealing it. “See?” he said to Barbour. “You understand now why I want your colt so badly?”
   After an interval Barbour said, “You poor guy. Has it always been this way?”
   “No,” Rick said, once again closing the panel covering of his electric sheep; he straightened up, turned, and faced his neighbor. “I had a real sheep, originally. My wife’s father gave it to us outright when he emigrated. Then, about a year ago, remember that time I took it to the vet—you were up here that morning when I came out and found it lying on its side and it couldn’t get up.”
   “You got it to its feet,” Barbour said, remembering and nodding. “Yeah, you managed to lift it up but then after a minute or two of walking around it fell over again.”
   Rick said, “Sheep get strange diseases. Or put another way, sheep get a lot of diseases but the symptoms are always the same; the sheep can’t get up and there’s no way to tell how serious it is, whether it’s a sprained leg or the animal’s dying of tetanus. That’s what mine died of; tetanus.”
   “Up here?” Barbour said. “On the roof?”
   “The hay,” Rick explained. “That one time I didn’t get all the wire off the bale; I left a piece and Groucho—that’s what I called him, then—got a scratch and in that way contracted tetanus. I took him to the vet’s and he died, and I thought about it, and finally I called one of those shops that manufacture artificial animals and I showed them a photograph of Groucho. They made this.” He indicated the reclining ersatz animal, which continued to ruminate attentively, still watching alertly for any indication of oats. “It’s a premium job. And I’ve put as much time and attention into caring for it as I did when it was real. But—” He shrugged.
   “It’s not the same,” Barbour finished.
   “But almost. You feel the same doing it; you have to keep your eye on it exactly as you did when it was really alive. Because they break down and then everyone in the building knows. I’ve had it at the repair shop six times, mostly little malfunctions, but if anyone saw them—for instance one time the voice tape broke or anyhow got fouled and it wouldn’t stop baaing—they’d recognize it as a mechanical breakdown.” He added, “The repair outfit’s truck is of course marked ‘animal hospital something.’ And the driver dresses like a vet, completely in white.” He glanced suddenly at his watch, remembering the time. “I have to get to work,” he said to Barbour. “I’ll see you this evening.”
   As he started toward his car Barbour called after him hurriedly, “Um, I won’t say anything to anybody here in the building.”
   Pausing, Rick started to say thanks. But then something of the despair that Iran had been talking about tapped him on the shoulder and he said, “I don’t know; maybe it doesn’t make any difference.”
   “But they’ll look down on you. Not all of them, but some. You know how people are about not taking care of an animal; they consider it immoral and anti-empathic. I mean, technically it’s not a crime like it was right after W.W.T. but the feeling’s still there.”
   “God,” Rick said futilely, and gestured empty-handed. “I want to have an animal; I keep trying to buy one. But on my salary, on what a city employee makes—” If, he thought, I could get lucky in my work again. As I did two years ago when I managed to bag four andys during one month. If I had known then, he thought, that Groucho was going to die … but that had been before the tetanus. Before the two-inch piece of broken, hypodermic-like baling wire.
   “You could buy a cat,” Barbour offered. “Cats are cheap; look in your Sidney’s catalogue.”
   Rick said quietly, “I don’t want a domestic pet. I want what I originally had, a large animal. A sheep or if I can get the money a cow or a steer or what you have; a horse.” The bounty from retiring five andys would do it, he realized. A thousand dollars apiece, over and above my salary. Then somewhere I could find, from someone, what I want. Even if the listing in Sidney’s Animal & Fowl is in italics. Five thousand dollars—but, he thought, the five andys first have to make their way to Earth from one of the colony planets; I can’t control that, I can’t make five of them come here, and even if I could there are other bounty hunters with other police agencies throughout the world. The andys would specifically have to take up residence in Northern California, and the senior bounty hunter in this area, Dave Holden, would have to die or retire.
   “Buy a cricket,” Barbour suggested wittily. “Or a mouse. Hey, for twenty-five bucks you can buy a full-grown mouse.”
   Rick said, “Your horse could die, like Groucho died, without warning. When you get home from work this evening you could find her laid out on her back, her feet in the air, like a bug. Like what you said, a cricket.” He strode off, car key in his hand.
   “Sorry if I offended you,” Barbour said nervously.
   In silence Rick Deckard plucked open the door of his hovercar. He had nothing further to say to his neighbor; his mind was on his work, on the day ahead.
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Apple iPhone 6s
2

   In a giant, empty, decaying building which had once housed thousands, a single TV set hawked its wares to an uninhabited room.
   This ownerless ruin had, before World War Terminus, been tended and maintained. Here had been the suburbs of San Francisco, a short ride by monorail rapid transit; the entire peninsula had chattered like a bird tree with life and opinions and complaints, and now the watchful owners had either died or migrated to a colony world. Mostly the former; it had been a costly war despite the valiant predictions of the Pentagon and its smug scientific vassel, the Rand Corporation—which had, in fact, existed not far from this spot. Like the apartment owners, the corporation had departed, evidently for good. No one missed it.
   In addition, no one today remembered why the war had come about or who, if anyone, had won. The dust which had contaminated most of the planet’s surface had originated in no country and no one, even the wartime enemy, had planned on it. First, strangely, the owls had died. At the time it had seemed almost funny, the fat, fluffy white birds lying here and there, in yards and on streets; coming out no earlier than twilight as they had while alive the owls escaped notice. Medieval plagues had manifested themselves in a similar way, in the form of many dead rats. This plague, however, had descended from above.
   After the owls, of course, the other birds followed, but by then the mystery had been grasped and understood. A meager colonization program had been underway before the war but now that the sun had ceased to shine on Earth the colonization entered an entirely new phase. In connection with this a weapon of war, the Synthetic Freedom Fighter, had been modified; able to function on an alien world the humanoid robot—strictly speaking, the organic android—had become the mobile donkey engine of the colonization program. Under U.N. law each emigrant automatically received possession of an android subtype of his choice, and, by 1990, the variety of subtypes passed all understanding, in the manner of American automobiles of the ig6os.
   That had been the ultimate incentive of emigration: the android servant as carrot, the radioactive fallout as stick. The U.N. had made it easy to emigrate, difficult if not impossible to stay. Loitering on Earth potentially meant finding oneself abruptly classed as biologically unacceptable, a menace to the pristine heredity of the race. Once pegged as special, a citizen, even if accepting sterilization, dropped out of history. He ceased, in effect, to be part of mankind. And yet persons here and there declined to migrate; that, even to those involved, constituted a perplexing irrationality. Logically, every regular should have emigrated already. Perhaps, deformed as it was, Earth remained familiar, to be clung to. Or possibly the non-emigrant imagined that the tent of dust would deplete itself finally. In any case thousands of individuals remained, most of them constellated in urban areas where they could physically see one another, take heart at their mutual presence. Those appeared to be the relatively sane ones. And, in dubious addition to them, occasional peculiar entities remained in the virtually abandoned suburbs.
   John Isidore, being yammered at by the television set in his living room as he shaved in the bathroom, was one of these.
   He simply had wandered to this spot in the early days following the war. In those evil times no one had known, really, what they were doing. Populations, detached by the war, had roamed, squatted temporarily at first one region and then another. Back then the fallout had been sporadic and highly variable; some states had been nearly free of it, others became saturated. The displaced populations moved as the dust moved. The peninsula south of San Francisco had been at first dust-free, and a great body of persons had responded by taking up residence there; when the dust arrived, some had died and the rest had departed. J. R. Isidore remained.
   The TV set shouted, “—duplicates the halcyon days of the pre-Civil War Southern states! Either as body servants or tireless field hands, the custom-tailored humanoid robot designed specifically for YOUR UNIQUE NEEDS, FOR YOU AND YOU ALONE—given to you on your arrival absolutely free, equipped fully, as specified by you before your departure from Earth; this loyal, trouble-free companion in the greatest, boldest adventure contrived by man in modern history will provide—” It continued on and on.
   I wonder if I’m late for work, Isidore wondered as he scraped. He did not own a working clock; generally he depended on the TV for time signals, but today was Interspace Horizons Day, evidently. Anyhow the TV claimed this to be the fifth (or sixth?) anniversary of the founding of New America, the chief U.S. settlement on Mars. And his TV set, being partly broken, picked up only the channel which had been nationalized during the war and still remained so; the government in Washington, with its colonization program, constituted the sole sponsor which Isidore found himself forced to listen to.
   “Let’s hear from Mrs. Maggie Klugman,” the TV announcer suggested to John Isidore, who wanted only to know the time. “A recent immigrant to Mars, Mrs. Klugman in an interview taped live in New New York had this to say. Mrs. Klugman, how would you contrast your life back on contaminated Earth with your new life here in a world rich with every imaginable possibility?” A pause, and then a tired, dry, middle-aged, female voice said, “I think what I and my family of three noticed most was the dignity.” “The dignity, Mrs. Klugman? “ the announcer asked. “Yes,” Mrs. Klugman, now of New New York, Mars, said. “It’s a hard thing to explain. Having a servant you can depend on in these troubled times … I find it reassuring.”
   “Back on Earth, Mrs. Klugman, in the old days, did you also worry about finding yourself classified, ahem, as a special?”
   “Oh, my husband and myself worried ourselves nearly to death. Of course, once we emigrated that worry vanished, fortunately forever.”
   To himself John Isidore thought acidly, And it’s gone away for me, too, without my having to emigrate. He had been a special now for over a year, and not merely in regard to the distorted genes which he carried. Worse still, he had failed to pass the minimum mental faculties test, which made him in popular parlance a chickenhead. Upon him the contempt of three planets descended. However, despite this, he survived. He had his job, driving a pickup and delivery truck for a false-animal repair firm; the Van Ness Pet Hospital and his gloomy, gothic boss Hannibal Sloat accepted him as human and this he appreciated. Mors certa, vita incerta, as Mr. Sloat occasionally declared. Isidore, although he had heard the expression a number of times, retained only a dim notion as to its meaning. After all, if a chickenhead could fathom Latin he would cease to be a chickenhead. Mr. Sloat, when this was pointed out to him, acknowledged its truth. And there existed chickenheads infinitely stupider than Isidore, who could hold no jobs at all, who remained in custodial institutions quaintly called “Institute of Special Trade Skills of America,” the word “special” having to get in there somehow, as always.
   “—your husband felt no protection,” the TV announcer was saying, “in owning and continually wearing an expensive and clumsy radiation-proof lead codpiece, Mrs. Klugman?”
   “My husband,” Mrs. Klugman began, but at that point, having finished shaving, Isidore strode into the living room and shut off the TV set.
   Silence. It flashed from the woodwork and the walls; it smote him with an awful, total power, as if generated by a vast mill. It rose from the floor, up out of the tattered gray wall-to-wall carpeting. It unleashed itself from the broken and semi-broken appliances in the kitchen, the dead machines which hadn’t worked in all the time Isidore had lived here. From the useless pole lamp in the living room it oozed out, meshing with the empty and wordless descent of itself from the fly-specked ceiling. It managed in fact to emerge from every object within his range of vision, as if it—the silence meant to supplant all things tangible. Hence it assailed not only his ears but his eyes; as he stood by the inert TV set he experienced the silence as visible and, in its own way, alive. Alive! He had often felt its austere approach before; when it came it burst in without subtlety, evidently unable to wait. The silence of the world could not rein back its greed. Not any longer. Not when it had virtually won.
   He wondered, then, if the others who had remained on Earth experienced the void this way. Or was it peculiar to his peculiar biological identity, a freak generated by his inept sensory apparatus? Interesting question, Isidore thought. But whom could he compare notes with? He lived alone in this deteriorating, blind building of a thousand uninhabited apartments, which like all its counterparts, fell, day by day, into greater entropic ruin. Eventually everything within the building would merge, would be faceless and identical, mere pudding-like kipple piled to the ceiling of each apartment. And, after that, the uncared-for building itself would settle into shapelessness, buried under the ubiquity of the dust. By then, naturally, he himself would be dead, another interesting event to anticipate as he stood here in his stricken living room atone with the lungless, all-penetrating, masterful world-silence.
   Better, perhaps, to turn the TV back on. But the ads, directed at the remaining regulars, frightened him. They informed him in a countless procession of ways that he, a special, wasn’t wanted. Had no use. Could not, even if he wanted to, emigrate. So why listen to that? He asked himself irritably. Fork them and their colonization, I hope a war gets started there—after all, it theoretically could—and they wind up like Earth. And everybody who emigrated turns out to be special.
   Okay, he thought; I’m off to work. He reached for the doorknob that opened the way out into the unlit hall, then shrank back as he glimpsed the vacuity of the rest of the building. It lay in wait for him, out here, the force which he had felt busily penetrating his specific apartment. God, he thought, and reshut the door. He was not ready for the trip up those clanging stairs to the empty roof where he had no animal. The echo of himself ascending: the echo of nothing. Time to grasp the handles, he said to himself, and crossed the living room to the black empathy box.
   When he turned it on the usual faint smell of negative ions surged from the power supply; he breathed in eagerly, already buoyed up. Then the cathode-ray tube glowed like an imitation, feeble TV image; a collage formed, made of apparently random colors, trails, and configurations which, until the handles were grasped, amounted to nothing. So, taking a deep breath to steady himself, he grasped the twin handles.
   The visual image congealed; he saw at once a famous landscape, the old, brown, barren ascent, with tufts of dried-out bonelike weeds poking slantedly into a dim and sunless sky. One single figure, more or less human in form, toiled its way up the hillside: an elderly man wearing a dull, featureless robe, covering as meager as if it had been snatched from the hostile emptiness of the sky. The man, Wilbur Mercer, plodded ahead, and, as he clutched the handles, John Isidore gradually experienced a waning of the living room in which he stood; the dilapidated furniture and walls ebbed out and he ceased to experience them at all. He found himself, instead, as always before, entering into the landscape of drab hill, drab sky. And at the same time he no longer witnessed the climb of the elderly man. His own feet now scraped, sought purchase, among the familiar loose stones; he felt the same old painful, irregular roughness beneath his feet and once again smelled the acrid haze of the sky—not Earth’s sky but that of some place alien, distant, and yet, by means of the empathy box, instantly available.
   He had crossed over in the usual perplexing fashion; physical merging—accompanied by mental and spiritual identification—with Wilbur Mercer had reoccurred. As it did for everyone who at this moment clutched the handles, either here on Earth or on one of the colony planets. He experienced them, the others, incorporated the babble of their thoughts, heard in his own brain the noise of their many individual existences. They—and he—cared about one thing; this fusion of their mentalities oriented their attention on the hill, the climb, the need to ascend. Step by step it evolved, so slowly as to be nearly imperceptible. But it was there. Higher, he thought as stones rattled downward under his feet. Today we are higher than yesterday, and tomorrow—he, the compound figure of Wilbur Mercer, glanced up to view the ascent ahead. Impossible to make out the end. Too far. But it would come.
   A rock, hurled at him, struck his arm. He felt the pain. He half turned and another rock sailed past him, missing him; it collided with the earth and the sound startled him. Who? he wondered, peering to see his tormentor. The old antagonists, manifesting themselves at the periphery of his vision; it, or they, had followed him all the way up the hill and they would remain until at the top—
   He remembered the top, the sudden leveling of the hill, when the climb ceased and the other part of it began. How many times had he done this? The several times blurred; future and past blurred; what he had already experienced and what he would eventually experience blended so that nothing remained but the moment, the standing still and resting during which he rubbed the cut on his arm which the stone had left. God, he thought in weariness. In what way is this fair? Why am I up here alone like this, being tormented by something I can’t even see? And then, within him, the mutual babble of everyone else in fusion broke the illusion of aloneness.
   You felt it, too, he thought. Yes, the voices answered. We got hit, on the left arm; it hurts like hell. Okay, he said. We better get started moving again. He resumed walking, and all of them accompanied him immediately.
   Once, he remembered, it had been different. Back before the curse had come, an earlier, happier part of life. They, his foster parents Frank and Cora Mercer, had found him floating on an inflated rubber air-rescue raft, off the coast of New England … or had it been Mexico, near the port of Tampico? He did not now remember the circumstances. Childhood had been nice; he had loved all life, especially the animals, had in fact been able for a time to bring dead animals back as they had been. He lived with rabbits and bugs, wherever it was, either on Earth or a colony world; now he had forgotten that, too. But he recalled the killers, because they had arrested him as a freak, more special than any of the other specials. And due to that everything had changed.
   Local law prohibited the time-reversal faculty by which the dead returned to life; they had spelled it out to him during his sixteenth year. He continued for another year to do it secret , in the still remaining woods, but an old woman whom he had never seen or heard of had told. Without his parents’ consent they—the killers—had bombarded the unique nodule which had formed in his brain, had attacked it with radioactive cobalt, and this had plunged him into a different world, one whose existence he had never suspected. It had been a pit of corpses and dead bones and he had struggled for years to get up from it. The donkey and especially the toad, the creatures most important to him, had vanished, had become extinct; only rotting fragments, an eyeless head here, part of a hand there, remained. At last a bird which had come there to die told him where he was. He had sunk down into the tomb world. He could not get out until the bones strewn around him grew back into living creatures; he had become joined to the metabolism of other lives and until they rose he could not rise either.
   How long that part of the cycle had lasted he did not now know; nothing had happened, generally, so it had been measureless. But at last the bones had regained flesh; the empty eyepits had filled up and the new eyes had seen, while meantime the restored beaks and mouths had cackled, barked, and caterwauled. Possibly he had done it; perhaps the extrasensory node of his brain had finally grown back. Or maybe he hadn’t accomplished it; very likely it could have been a natural process. Anyhow he was no longer sinking; he had begun to ascend, along with the others. Long ago he had lost sight of them. He found himself evidently climbing alone. But they were there. They still accompanied him; he felt them, strangely, inside him.
   Isidore stood holding the two handles, experiencing himself as encompassing every other living thing, and then, reluctantly, he let go. It had to end, as always, and anyhow his arm ached and bled where the rock had struck it.
   Releasing the handles he examined his arm, then made his way unsteadily to the bathroom of his apartment to wash the cut off was not the first wound he had received while in fusion with Mercer and it probably would not be the last. People, especially elderly ones, had died, particularly later on at the top of the hill alien the torment began in earnest. I wonder if I can go through that part again, he said to himself as he swabbed the injury. Chance of cardiac arrest; he better, he reflected, if I lived in town where those buildings have a doctor standing by with those electro-spark machines. Here, alone in this place, it’s too risky.
   But he knew he’d take the risk. He always had before. As did most people, even oldsters who were physically fragile.
   Using a Kleenex he dried his damaged arm.
   And heard, muffled and far off, a TV set.
   It’s someone else in this building, he thought wildly, unable to believe it. Not my TV; that’s off, and I can feel the floor resonance. It’s below, on another level entirely!
   I’m not alone here any more, he realized. Another resident has moved in, taken one of the abandoned apartments, and close enough for me to hear him. Must be level two or level three, certainly no deeper. Let’s see, he thought rapidly. What do you do when a new resident moves in? Drop by and borrow something, is that how it’s done? He could not remember; this had never happened to him before, here or anywhere else: people moved out, people emigrated, but nobody ever moved in. You take them something, he decided. Like a cup of water or rather milk; yes, it’s milk or flour or maybe an egg—or, specifically, their ersatz substitutes.
   Looking in his refrigerator—the compressor had long since ceased working—he found a dubious cube of margarine. And, with it, set off excitedly, his heart laboring, for the level below. I have to keep calm, he realized. Not let him know I’m a chickenhead. If he finds out I’m a cliickenhead he won’t talk to me; that’s always the way it is for some reason. I wonder why?
   He hurried down the hall.
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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
3

   On his way to work Rick Deckard, as lord knew how many other people, stopped briefly to skulk about in front of one of San Francisco’s larger pet shops, along animal row. In the center of the block-long display window an ostrich, in a heated clear-plastic cage, returned his stare. The bird, according to the info plaque attached to the cage, had just arrived from a zoo in Cleveland. It was the only ostrich on the West Coast. After staring at it, Rick spent a few more minutes staring grimly at the price tag. He then continued on to the Hall of justice on Lombard Street and found himself a quarter of an hour late to work.
   As he unlocked his office door his superior Police Inspector Harry Bryant, jug-eared and redheaded, sloppily dressed but wise-eyed and conscious of nearly everything of any importance, hailed him. “Meet me at nine-thirty in Dave Holden’s office.” Inspector Bryant, as he spoke, flicked briefly through a clipboard of onionskin typed sheets. “Holden,” he continued as he started off, “is in Mount Zion Hospital with a laser track through his spine. He’ll be there for a month at least. Until they can get one of those new organic plastic spinal sections to take hold.”
   “What happened?” Rick asked, chilled. The department’s chief bounty hunter had been all right yesterday; at the end of the day he had as usual zipped off in his hovercar to his apartment in the crowded high-prestige Nob Hill area of the City.
   Bryant muttered over his shoulder something about nine-thirty in Dave’s office and departed, leaving Rick standing alone.
   As he entered his own office Rick heard the voice of his secretary, Ann Marsten, behind him. “Mr. Deckard, you know what happened to Mr. Holden? He got shot.” She followed after him into the stuffy, closed-up office and set the air-filtering unit into motion.
   “Yeah,” he responded absently.
   “It must have been one of those new, extra-clever andys the Rosen Association is turning out,” Miss Marsten said. “Did you read over the company’s brochure and the spec sheets? The Nexus-6 brain unit they’re using now is capable of selecting within a field of two trillion constituents, or ten million separate neural pathways.” She lowered her voice. “You missed the vidcall this morning. Miss Wild told me; it came through the switchboard exactly at nine.”
   “A call in?” Rick asked.
   Miss Marsten said, “A call out by Mr. Bryant to the W.P.O. in Russia. Asking them if they would be willing to file a formal written complaint with the Rosen Association’s factory representative East.”
   “Harry still wants the Nexus-6 brain unit withdrawn from the market?” He felt no surprise. Since the initial release of its specifications and performance charts back in August of 1991 most police agencies which dealt with escaped andys had been protesting. “The Soviet police can’t do any more than we can,” he said. Legally, the manufacturers of the Nexus-6 brain unit operated under colonial law, their parent auto-factory being on Mars. “We had better just accept the new unit as a fact of life,” he said. “It’s always been this way, with every improved brain unit that’s come along. I remember the howls of pain when the Sudermann people showed their old T-14 back in ‘89. Every police agency in the Western Hemisphere clamored that no test would detect its presence, in an instance of illegal entry here. As a matter of fact, for a while they were right.” Over fifty of the T-14 android as he recalled had made their way by one means or another to Earth, and had not been detected for a period in some cases up to an entire year. But then the Voigt Empathy Test had been devised by the Pavlov Institute working in the Soviet Union. And no T-14 android—insofar, at least, as was known —had managed to pass that particular test.
   “Want to know what the Russian police said?” Miss Marsten asked. “I know that, too.” Her freckled, orange face glowed.
   Rick said, “I’ll find out from Harry Bryant.” He felt irritable; office gossip annoyed him because it always proved better than the truth. Seating himself at his desk he pointedly fished about in a drawer until Miss Marsten, perceiving the hint, departed.
   From the drawer he produced an ancient, creased manila envelope. Leaning back, tilting his important—style chair, he rummaged among the contents of the envelope until he came across what he wanted: the collected, extant data on the Nexus-6.
   A moment’s reading vindicated Miss Marsten’s statement; the Nexus-6 did have two trillion constituents plus a choice within a range of ten million possible combinations of cerebral activity. In .45 of a second an android equipped with such a brain structure could assume any one of fourteen basic reaction-postures. Well, no intelligence test would trap such an andy. But then, intelligence tests hadn’t trapped an andy in years, not since the primordial, crude varieties of the ‘70s—
   The Nexus-6 android types, Rick reflected, surpassed several classes of human specials in terms of intelligence. In other words, androids equipped with the new Nexus-6 brain unit had from a sort of rough, pragmatic, no-nonsense standpoint evolved beyond a major—but inferior—segment of mankind. For better or worse. The servant had in some cases become more adroit than its master. But new scales of achievement, for example the Voigt-Kampff Empathy Test, had emerged as criteria by which to judge. An android, no matter how gifted as to pure intellectual capacity, could make no sense out of the fusion which took place routinely among the followers of Mercerism—an experience which he, and virtually everyone else, including subnormal chickenheads, managed with no difficulty.
   He had wondered as had most people at one time or another precisely why an android bounced helplessly about when confronted by an empathy-measuring test. Empathy, evidently, existed only within the human community, whereas intelligence to some degree could be found throughout every phylum and order including the arachnids. For one thing, the emphatic faculty probably required an unimpaired group instinct; a solitary organism, such as a spider, would have no use for it; in fact it would tend to abort a spider’s ability to survive. It would make him conscious of the desire to live on the part of his prey. Hence all predators, even highly developed mammals such as cats, would starve.
   Empathy, he once had decided, must be limited to herbivores or anyhow omnivores who could depart from a meat diet. Because, ultimatley, the emphatic gift blurred the boundaries between hunter and victim, between the successful and the defeated. As in the fusion with Mercer, everyone ascended together or, when the cycle had come to an end, fell together into the trough of the tomb world. Oddly, it resembled a sort of biological insurance, but double-edged. As long as some creature experienced joy, then the condition for all other creatures included a fragment of joy. However, if any living being suffered, then for all the rest the shadow could not be entirely cast off. A herd animal such as man would acquire a higher survival factor through this; an owl or a cobra would be destroyed.
   Evidently the humanoid robot constituted a solitary predator.
   Rick liked to think of them that way; it made his job palatable. In retiring—i.e. killing—an andy he did not violate the rule of life laid down by Mercer. You shall kill only the killers, Mercer had told them the year empathy boxes first appeared on Earth. And in Mercerism, as it evolved into a full theology, the concept of The Killers had grown insidiously. In Mercerism, an absolute evil plucked at the threadbare cloak of the tottering, ascending old man, but it was never clear who or what this evil presence was. A Mercerite sensed evil without understanding it. Put another way, a Mercerite was free to locate the nebulous presence of The Killers wherever he saw fit. For Rick Deckard an escaped humanoid robot, which had killed its master, which had been equipped with an intelligence greater than that of many human beings, which had no regard for animals, which possessed no ability to feel emphatic joy for another life form’s success or grief at its defeat—that, for him, epitomized The Killers.
   Thinking about animals reminded him of the ostrich he had seen in the pet store. Temporarily he pushed away the specs on the Nexus-6 brain unit, took a pinch of Mrs. Siddons’ No. 3 & 4 snuff and cogitated. Then he examined his watch, saw that he had time; he picked up his desk vidphone and said to Miss Marsten, “Get me the Happy Dog Pet Shop on Sutter Street.”
   “Yes sir,” Miss Marsten said, and opened her phone book.
   They can’t really want that much for the ostrich, Rick said to himself. They expect you to car-trade, like in the old days.
   “Happy Dog Pet Shop,” a man’s voice declared, and on Rick’s vidscreen a minute happy face appeared. Animals could be heard bawling.
   “That ostrich you have in your display window,” Rich said; he toyed with a ceramic ashtray before him on the desk. “What sort of a down payment would I need for that?”
   “Let’s see,” the animal salesman said, groping for a pen and pad of paper. “One-third down.” He figured. “May I ask, sit, if you’re going to trade something in?
   Guardedly, Rick said, “I haven’t decided.”
   “Let’s say we put the ostrich on a thirty-month contract,” the salesman said. “At a low, low interest rate of six percent a month. That would make your monthly payment, after a reasonable down—”
   “You’ll have to lower the price you’re asking,” Rick said. Knock off two thousand and I won’t trade anything in; I’ll come up with cash.” Dave Holden, he reflected, is out of action. That could mean a great deal … depending on how many assignments show up during the coming month.
   “Sir,” the animal salesman said, “our asking price is already a thousand dollars under book. Check your Sidney’s; I’ll hang on. I want you to see for yourself, sir, that our price is fair.”
   Christ, Rick thought. They’re standing firm. However, just for the heck of it, he wiggled his bent Sidney’s out of his coat pocket, thumbed to ostrich comma male-female, old-young, sick-well, mint-used, and inspected the prices.
   “Mint, male, young, well,” the salesman informed him. “Thirty thousand dollars.” He, too, had his Sidney’s out. “We’re exactly one thousand under book. Now, your down payment—”
   “I’ll think it over,” Rick said, “and call you back.” He started to hang up.
   “Your name, sir?” the salesman asked alertly.
   “Frank Merriwell,” Rick said.
   “And your address, Mr. Merriwell? In case I’m not here when you call back.”
   He made up an address and put the vidphone receiver back on its cradle. All that money, he thought. And yet, people buy them; some people have that kind of money. Picking up the receiver again he said harshly, “Give me an outside line, Miss Marsten. And don’t listen in on the conversation; it’s confidential.” He glared at her.
   “Yes, sir,” Miss Marsten said. “Go ahead and dial.” She then cut herself out of the circuit, leaving him to face the outside world.
   He dialed—by memory—the number of the false-animal shop at which he had gotten his ersatz sheep. On the small vidscreen a man dressed like a vet appeared. “Dr. McRae,” the man declared.
   “This is Deckard. How much is an electric ostrich?”
   “Oh, I’d say we could fix you up for less than eight hundred dollars. How soon did you want delivery? We would have to make it up for you; there’s not that much call for—”
   “I’ll talk to you later,” Rick interrupted; glancing at his watch he saw that nine-thirty had arrived. “Good-by.” He hurriedly hung up, rose, and shortly thereafter stood before Inspector Bryant’s office door. He passed by Bryant’s receptionist—attractive, with waist-length braided silver hair—and then the inspector’s secretary, an ancient monster from the Jurassic swamp, frozen and sly, like some archaic apparition fixated in the tomb world. Neither woman spoke to him nor he to them. Opening the inner door he nodded to his superior, who was busy on the phone; seating himself he got out the specs on Nexus-6, which he had brought with him, and once more read them over as Inspector Bryant talked away—
   He felt depressed. And yet, logically, because of Dave’s sudden disappearance from the work scene, he should be at least guardedly pleased.

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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
4

   Maybe I’m worried, Rick Deckard conjectured, that what happened to Dave will happen to me. An andy smart enough to laser him could probably take me, too. But that didn’t seem to be it.
   “I see you brought the poop sheet on that new brain unit,” Inspector Bryant said, hanging up the vidphone.
   Rick said, “Yeah, I heard about it on the grapevine. How many andys are involved and how far did Dave get?”
   “Eight to start with,” Bryant said, consulting his clipboard. “Dave got the first two.”
   “And the remaining six are here in Northern California?”
   “As far as we know. Dave thinks so. That was him I was talking to. I have his notes; they were in his desk. He says all he knows is here.” Bryant tapped the bundle of notepaper. So far he did not seem inclined to pass the notes on to Rick; for some reason he continued to leaf through them himself, frowning and working his tongue in and around the fringes of his mouth.
   “I have nothing on I my agenda,” Rick offered. “I’m ready to take over in Dave’s place.”
   Bryant said thoughtfully, “Dave used the Voigt-Kampff Altered Scale in testing out the individuals he suspected. You realize—you ought to, anyhow—that this test isn’t specific for the new brain units. No test is; the Voigt scale, altered three years ago by Kampff, is all we have.” He paused, pondering. “Dave considered it accurate. Maybe it is. But I would suggest this, before you take out after these six.” Again he tapped the pile of notes. “Fly to Seattle and talk with the Rosen people. Have them supply you a representative sampling of types employing the new Nexus-6 unit.”
   “And put them through the Voigt-Kampff,” Rick said.
   “It sounds so easy,” Bryant said, half to himself.
   “Pardon?”
   Bryant said, “I think I’ll talk to the Rosen organization myself, while you’re on your way.” He eyed Rick, then, silently. Finally he grunted, gnawed on a fingernail, and eventually decided on what he wanted to say. “I’m going to discuss with them the possibility of including several humans, as well as their new androids. But you won’t know. It’ll be my decision, in conjunction with the manufacturers. It should be set up by the time you get there.” He abruptly pointed at Rick, his face severe. “This is the first time you’ll be acting as senior bounty bunter. Dave knows a lot; he’s got years of experience behind him.”
   “So have I,” Rick said tensely.
   “You’ve handled assignments devolving to you from Dave’s schedule; he’s always decided exactly which ones to turn over to you and which not to. But now you’ve got six that he intended to retire himself—one of which managed to get him first. This one.” Bryant turned the notes around so that Rick could see. “Max Polokov,” Bryant said. “That’s what it calls itself, anyhow. Assuming Dave was right. Everything is based on that assumption, this entire list. And yet the Voigt-Kampff Altered Scale has only been administered to the first three, the two Dave retired and then Polokov. It was while Dave was administering the test; that’s when Polokov lasered him.”
   “Which proves that Dave was right,” Rick said. Otherwise he would not have been lasered; Polokov would have no motive.
   “You get started for Seattle,” Bryant said. “Don’t tell them first; I’ll handle it. Listen.” He rose to his feet, soberly confronted Rick. “When you run the Voigt-Kampff scale up there, if one of the humans fails to pass it—”
   “That can’t happen,” Rick said.
   “One day, a few weeks ago, I talked with Dave about exactly that. He had been thinking along the same lines. I had a memo from the Soviet police, W.P.O. itself, circulated throughout Earth plus the colonies. A group of psychiatrists in Leningrad have approached W.P.O. with the following proposition. They want the latest and most accurate personality profile analytical tools used in determining the presence of an android—in other words the Voigt-Kampff scaleapplied to a carefully selected group of schizoid and schizophrenic human patients. Those, specifically, which reveal what’s called a ‘flattening of affect.’ You’ve heard of that.”
   Rick said, “That’s specifically what the scale measures.”
   “Then you understand what they’re worried about.”
   “This problem has always existed. Since we first encountered androids posing as humans. The consensus of police opinion is known to you in Lurie Kampff s article, written eight years ago. Role-taking Blockage in the Undeteriorated Schizophrenic. Kampff compared the diminished emphatic faculty found in human mental patients and a superficially similar but basically—”
   “The Leningrad psychiatrists,” Bryant broke in brusquely, “think that a small class of human beings could not pass the Voigt-Kampff scale. If you tested them in line with police work you’d assess them as humanoid robots. You’d be wrong, but by then they’d be dead.” He was silent, now, waiting for Rick’s answer.
   “But these individuals,” Rick said, “would all be—”
   “They’d be in institutions,” Bryant agreed. “They couldn’t conceivably function in the outside world; they certainly couldn’t go undetected as advanced psychotics—unless of course their breakdown had come recently and suddenly and no one had gotten around to noticing. But this could happen.”
   “A million to one odds,” Rick said. But he saw the point.
   “What worried Dave,” Bryant continued, “is this appearance of the new Nexus-6 advance type. The Rosen organization assured us, as you know, that a Nexus-6 could be delineated by standard profile tests. We took their word for it. Now we’re forced, as we knew we would be, to determine it on our own. That’s what you’ll be doing in Seattle. You understand, don’t you that this could go wrong either way. If you can’t pick out all the humanoid robots, then we have no reliable analytical tool and we’ll never find the ones who’re already escaping. If your scale factors out a human subject, identifies him as android—” Bryant beamed at him icily. “It would be awkward, although no one, absolutely not the Rosen people, will make the news public. Actually we’ll be able to sit on it indefinitely, although of course we’ll have to inform W.P.O. and they in turn will notify Leningrad. Eventually it’ll pop out of the ‘papes at us. But by then we may have developed a better scale.” He picked the phone up. “You want to get started? Use a department car and fuel yourself at our pumps.”
   Standing, Rick said, “Can I take Dave Holden’s notes with me? I want to read them along the way.”
   Bryant said, “Let’s wait until you’ve tried out your scale in Seattle.” His tone was interestingly merciless, and Rick Deckard noted it.

   When he landed the police department hovercar on the roof of the Rosen Association Building in Seattle he found a young woman waiting for him. Black-haired and slender, wearing the new huge dust-filtering glasses, she approached his car, her hands deep in the pockets of her brightly striped long coat. She had, on her sharply defined small face, an expression of sullen distaste.
   “What’s the matter?” Rick said as he stepped from the parked car.
   The girl said, obliquely, “Oh, I don’t know. Something about the way we got talked to on the phone. It doesn’t matter.” Abruptly she held out her hand; he reflexively took it. “I’m Rachael Rosen. I guess you’re Mr. Deckard.”
   “This is not my idea,” he said.
   “Yes, Inspector Bryant told us that. But you’re officially the San Francisco Police Department, and it doesn’t believe our unit is to the public benefit.” She eyed him from beneath long black lashes, probably artificial.
   Rick said, “A humanoid robot is like any other machine; it can fluctuate between being a benefit and a hazard very rapidly. As a benefit it’s not our problem.”
   “But as a hazard,” Rachael Rosen said, “then you come in. Is it true, Mr. Deckard, that you’re a bounty hunter?”
   He shrugged, with reluctance, nodded.
   “You have no difficulty viewing an android as inert,” the girl said. “So you can ‘retire’ it, as they say.”
   “Do you have the group selected out for me?” he said. “I’d like to—” He broke off. Because, all at once, he had seen their animals.
   A powerful corporation, he realized, would of course be able to afford this. In the back of his mind, evidently, he had anticipated such a collection; it was not surprise that he felt but more a sort of yearning. He quietly walked away from the girl, toward the closest pen. Already he could smell them, the several scents of the creatures standing or sitting, or, in the case of what appeared to be a raccoon, asleep.
   Never in his life had he personally seen a raccoon. He knew the animal only from 3-D films shown on television. For some reason the dust had struck that species almost as hard as it had the birds—of which almost none survived, now. In an automatic response he brought out his much—thumbed Sidney’s and looked up raccoon with all the sublistings. The list prices, naturally, appeared in italics; like Percheron horses, none existed on the market for sale at any figure. Sidney’s catalogue simply listed the price at which the last transaction involving a raccoon had taken place. It was astronomical.
   “His name is Bill,” the girl said from behind him. “Bill the raccoon. We acquired him just last year from a subsidiary corporation.” She pointed past him and he then perceived the armed company guards, standing with their machine guns, the rapid-fire little light Skoda issue; the eyes of the guards had been fastened on him since his car landed. And, he thought, my car is clearly marked as a police vehicle.
   “A major manufacturer of androids,” he said thoughtfully, “invests its surplus capital on living animals.”
   “Look at the owl,” Rachael Rosen said. “Here, I’ll wake it up for you.” She started toward a small, distant cage, in the center of which jutted up a branching dead tree.
   There are no owls, he started to say. Or so we’ve been told. Sidney’s, he thought; they list it in their catalogue as extinct: the tiny, precise type, the E, again and again throughout the catalogue. As the girl walked ahead of him he checked to see, and he was right. Sidney’s never makes a mistake, he said to himself. We know that, too. What else can we depend on?
   “It’s artificial,” he said, with sudden realization; his disappointment welled up keen and intense.
   “No.” She smiled and he saw that she had small even teeth, as white as her eyes and hair were black.
   “But Sidney’s listing,” he said, trying to show her the catalogue. To prove it to her.
   The girl said, “We don’t buy from Sidney’s or from any animal dealer. All our purchases are from private parties and the prices we pay aren’t reported.” She added, “Also we have our own naturalists; they’re now working up in Canada. There’s still a good deal of forest left, comparatively speaking, anyhow. Enough for small animals and once in a while a bird.”
   For a long time he stood gazing at the owl, who dozed on its perch. A thousand thoughts came into his mind, thoughts about the war, about the days when owls had fallen from the sky; he remembered how in his childhood it had been discovered that species upon species had become extinct and how the ‘papes had reported it each day—foxes one morning, badgers the next, until people had stopped reading the perpetual animal obits.
   He thought, too, about his need for a real animal; within him an actual hatred once more manifested itself toward his electric sheep, which he had to tend, had to care about, as if it lived. The tyranny of an object, he thought. It doesn’t know I exist. Like the androids, it had no ability to appreciate the existence of another. He had never thought of this before, the similarity between an electric animal and an andy. The electric animal, he pondered, could be considered a subform of the other, a kind of vastly inferior robot. Or, conversely, the android could be regarded as a highly developed, evolved version of the ersatz animal. Both viewpoints repelled him.
   “If you sold your owl,” he said to the girl Rachael Rosen, “how much would you want for it, and how much of that down?”
   “We would never sell our owl.” She scrutinized him with a mixture of pleasure and pity; or so he read her expression. “And even if we sold it, you couldn’t possibly pay the price. What kind of animal do you have at home?”
   “A sheep,” he said. “A black-faced Suffolk ewe.”
   “Well, then you should be happy.”
   “I’m happy,” he answered. “It’s just that I always wanted an owl, even back before they all dropped dead.” He corrected himself. “All but yours.”
   Rachael said, “Our present crash program and overall planning call for us to obtain an additional owl which can nate with Scrappy.” She indicated the owl dozing on its perch; it had briefly opened both eyes, yellow slits which healed over as the owl settled back down to resume its slumber. Its chest rose conspicuously and fell, as if the owl, in its hypnagogic state, had sighed.
   Breaking away from the sight—k made absolute bitterness blend throughout his prior reaction of awe and yearninghe said, “I’d like to test out the selection, now. Can we go downstairs? “
   “My uncle took the call from your superior and by now he probably has—”
   “You’re a family?” Rick broke in. “A corporation this large is a family affair?”
   Continuing her sentence, Rachael said, “Uncle Eldon should have an android group and a control group set up by now. So let’s go.” She strode toward the elevator, hands again thrust violently in the pockets of her coat; she did not look back, and he hesitated for a moment, feeling annoyance, before he at last trailed after her.
   “What have you got against me?” he asked her as together they descended.
   She reflected, as if up to now she hadn’t known. “Well,” she said, “you, a little police department employee, are in a unique position. Know what I mean?” She gave him a malice-filled sidelong glance.
   “How much of your current output,” he asked, “consists of types equipped with the Nexus-6?”
   “All,” Rachael said.
   “I’m sure the Voigt-Kampff scale will work with them.”
   “And if it doesn’t we’ll have to withdraw all Nexus-6 types from the market.” Her black eyes flamed up; she glowered at him as the elevator ceased descending and its doors slid back. “Because you police departments can’t do an adequate job in the simple matter of detecting the minuscule number of Nexus-6s who balk—”
   A man, dapper and lean and elderly, approached them, hand extended; on his face a harried expression showed, as if everything recently had begun happening too fast. “I’m Eldon Rosen,” he explained to Rick as they shook hands. “Listen, Deckard; you realize we don’t manufacture anything here on Earth, right? We can’t just phone down to production and ask for a diverse flock of items; it’s not that we don’t want or intend to cooperate with you. Anyhow I’ve done the best I can.” His left hand, shakily, roved through his thinning hair.
   Indicating his department briefcase, Rick said, “I’m ready to start. The senior Rosen’s nervousness buoyed up his own confidence. They’re afraid of me, he realized with a start. Rachael Rosen included. I can probably force them to abandon manufacture of their Nexus-6 types; what I do during the next hour will affect the structure of their operation. It could conceivably determine the future of the Rosen Association, here in the United States, in Russia, and on Mars.
   The two members of the Rosen family studied him apprehensively and he felt the hollowness of their manner; by coming here he had brought the void to them, had ushered in emptiness and the hush of economic death. They control inordinate power, he thought. This enterprise is considered one of the system’s industrial pivots; the manufacture of androids, in fact, has become so linked to the colonization effort that if one dropped into ruin, so would the other in time. The Rosen Association, naturally, understood this perfectly. Eldon Rosen had obviously been conscious of it since Harry Bryant’s call.
   “I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” Rick said as the two Rosens led him down a highly illuminated wide corridor. He himself felt quietly content. This moment, more than any other which he could remember, pleased him. Well, they would all soon know what his testing apparatus could accomplish—and could not. “If you have no confidence in the Voigt-Kampff scale,” he pointed out, “possibly your organization should have researched an alternate test. It can be argued that the responsibility rests partly on you. Oh, thanks.” The Rosens had steered him from the corridor and into a chic, living roomish cubicle furnished with carpeting, lamps, couch, and modern little end—tables on which rested recent magazines … including, he noticed, the February supplement to the Sidney’s catalogue, which he personally had not seen. In fact, the February supplement wouldn’t be out for another three days. Obviously the Rosen Association had a special relationship with Sidney’s.
   Annoyed, he picked up the supplement. “This is a violation of public trust. Nobody should get advance news of price changes.” As a matter of fact this might violate a federal statute; he tried to remember the relevant law, found he could not. “I’m taking this with me,” he said, and, opening his briefcase, dropped the supplement within.
   After an interval of silence, Eldon Rosen said wearily, “Look, officer, it hasn’t been our policy to solicit advance—”
   “I’m not a peace officer,” Rick said. “I’m a bounty hunter.” From his opened briefcase he fished out the Voigt-Kampff apparatus, seated himself at a nearby rosewood coffee table, and began to assemble the rather simple polygraphic instruments. “You may send the first testee in,” he informed Eldon Rosen, who now looked more haggard than ever.
   “I’d like to watch,” Rachael said, also seating herself. “I’ve never seen an empathy test being administered. What do those things you have there measure?”
   Rick said, “This”—he held up the flat adhesive disk with its trailing wires—”measures capillary dilation in the facial area. We know this to be a primary autonomic response, the so—called ‘shame’ or ‘blushing’ reaction to a morally shocking stimulus. It can’t be controlled voluntarily, as can skin conductivity, respiration, and cardiac rate.” He showed her the other instrument, a pencil-beam light. “This records fluctuations of tension within the eye muscles. Simultaneous with the blush phenomenon there generally can be found a small but detectable movement of—”
   “And these can’t be found in androids,” Rachael said.
   “They’re not engendered by the stimuli-questions; no. Although biologically they exist. Potentially.”
   Rachael said, “Give me the test.”
   “Why?” Rick said, puzzled.
   Speaking up, Eldon Rosen said hoarsely, “We selected her as your first subject. She may be an android. We’re hoping you can tell.” He seated himself in a series of clumsy motions, got out a cigarette, lit it and fixedly watched.
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   The small beam of white light shone steadily into the left eye of Rachael Rosen, and against her cheek the wire-mesh disk adhered. She seemed calm.
   Seated where he could catch the readings on the two gauges of the Voigt-Kampff testing apparatus, Rick Deckard said, “I’m going to outline a number of social situations. You are to express your reaction to each as quickly as possible. You will be timed, of course.”
   “And of course,” Rachael said distantly, “my verbal responses won’t count. It’s solely the eye-muscle and capillary reaction that you’ll use as indices. But I’ll answer; I want to go through this and—” She broke off. “Go ahead, Mr. Deckard.”
   Rick, selecting question three, said, “You are given a calfskin wallet on your birthday.” Both gauges immediately registered past the green and onto the red; the needles swung violently and then subsided.
   “I wouldn’t accept it,” Rachael said. “Also I’d report the person who gave it to me to the police.”
   After making a jot of notation Rick continued, turning to the eighth question of the Voigt-Kampff profile scale. “You have a little boy and he shows you his butterfly collection, including his killing jar.”
   “I’d take him to the doctor.” Rachael’s voice was low but firm. Again the twin gauges registered, but this time not so far. He made a note of that, too.
   “You’re sitting watching TV,” he continued, “and suddenly you discover a wasp crawling on your wrist.”
   Rachael said, “I’d kill it.” The gauges, this time, registered almost nothing: only a feeble and momentary tremor. He noted that and hunted cautiously for the next question.
   “In a magazine you come across a full-page color picture of a nude girl.” He paused.
   “Is this testing whether I’m an android,” Rachael asked tartly, “or whether I’m homosexual?” The gauges did not register.
   He continued, “Your husband likes the picture.” Still the gauges failed to indicate a reaction. “The girl,” he added, “is lying face down on a large and beautiful bearskin rug.” The gauges remained inert, and he said to himself, An android response. Failing to detect the major element, the dead animal pelt. Her—its—mind is concentrating on other factors. “Your husband hangs the picture up on the wall of his study,” he finished, and this time the needles moved.
   “I certainly wouldn’t let him,” Rachael said.
   “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Now consider this. You’re reading a novel written in the old days before the war. The characters are visiting Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. They become hungry and enter a seafood restaurant. One of them orders lobster, and the chef drops the lobster into the tub of boiling water while the characters watch.”
   “Oh god,” Rachael said. “That’s awful! Did they really do that? It’s depraved! You mean a live lobster?” The gauges, however, did not respond. Formally, a correct response. But simulated.
   “You rent a mountain cabin,” he said, “in an area still verdant. It’s rustic knotty pine with a huge fireplace.”
   “Yes,” Rachael said, nodding impatiently.
   “On the walls someone has hung old maps, Currier and Ives prints, and above the fireplace a deer’s head has been mounted, a full stag with developed horns. The people with you admire the decor of the cabin and you all decide—”
   “Not with the deer head,” Rachael said. The gauges, however, showed an amplitude within the green only.
   “You become pregnant,” Rick continued, “by a man who has promised to marry you. The man goes off with another woman, your best friend; you get an abortion and—”
   “I would never get an abortion,” Rachael said. “Anyhow you can’t. It’s a life sentence and the police are always watching.” This time both needles swung violently into the red.
   “How do you know that?” Rick asked her, curiously. “About the difficulty of obtaining an abortion?”
   “Everybody knows that,” Rachael answered.
   “It sounded like you spoke from personal experience.”‘ He watched the needles intently; they still swept out a wide path across the dials. “One more. You’re dating a man and he asks you to visit his apartment. While you’re there he offers you a drink. As you stand holding your glass you see into the bedroom; it’s attractively decorated with bullfight posters, and you wander in to look closer. He follows after you, closing the door. Putting his arm around you, he says—”
   Rachael interrupted, “What’s a bullfight poster?”
   “Drawings, usually in color and very large, showing a matador with his cape, a bull trying to gore him.” He was puzzled. “How old are you?” he asked; that might be a factor.
   “I’m eighteen,” Rachael said. “Okay; so this man closes the door and puts his arm around me. What does he say?”
   Rick said, “Do you know how bullfights ended;”
   “I suppose somebody got hurt.”
   “The bull at the end, was always killed.” He waited, watching the two needles. They palpitated restlessly, nothing more. No real reading at all. “A final question,” he said. “Two-part. You are watching an old movie on TV, a movie from before the war. It shows a banquet in progress; the guests are enjoying raw oysters.”
   “Ugh,” Rachael said; the needles swung swiftly.
   “The entree,” he continued, “consists of boiled dog, stuffed with rice.” The needles moved less this time, less than they had for the raw oysters. “Are raw oysters more acceptable to you than a dish of boiled dog? Evidently not.” He put his pencil down, shut off the beam of light, removed the adhesive patch from her check. “You’re an android,” he said. “That’s the conclusion of the testing,” he informed her—or rather it—and Eldon Rosen, who regarded him with writhing worry; the elderly man’s face contorted, shifted plastically with angry concern. “I’m right, aren’t I?” Rick said. There was no answer, from either of the Rosens. “Look,” he said reasonably. “We have no conflict of interest; it’s important to me that the Voigt-Kampff test functions, almost as important as it is to you.”
   The elder Rosen said, “She’s not an android.”
   “I don’t believe it,” Rick said.
   “Why would he lie?” Rachael said to Rick fiercely. “If anything, we’d lie the other way.”
   “I want a bone marrow analysis made of you,” Rick said to her. “It can eventually be organically determined whether you’re android or not; it’s slow and painful, admittedly, but—”
   “Legally,” Rachael said, “I can’t be forced to undergo a bone marrow test. That’s been established in the courts; self-incrimination. And anyhow on a live person—not the corpse of a retired android—it takes a long time. You can give that damn Voigt-Kampff profile test because of the specials; they have to be tested for constantly, and while the government was doing that you police agencies slipped the Voigt-Kampff through. But what you said is true; that’s the end of the testing.” She rose to her feet, paced away from him, and stood with her hands on her hips, her back to him.
   “The issue is not the legality of the bone marrow analysis,” Eldon Rosen said huskily. “The issue is that your empathy delineation test failed in response to my niece. I can explain why she scored as an android might. Rachael grew up aboard Salander 3. She was born on it; she spent fourteen of her eighteen years living off its tape library and what the nine other crew members, all adults, knew about Earth. Then, as you know, the ship turned back a sixth of the way to Proxima. Otherwise Rachael would never have seen Earth—anyhow not until her later life.”
   “You would have retired me,” Rachael said over her shoulder. “In a police dragnet I would have been killed. I’ve known that since I got here four years ago; this isn’t the first time the Voigt-Kampff test has been given to me. In fact I rarely leave this building; the risk is enormous, because of those roadblocks you police set up, those flying wedge spot checks to pick up unclassified specials.”
   “And androids,” Eldon Rosen added. “Although naturally the public isn’t told that; they’re not supposed to know that androids are on Earth, in our midst.”
   “I don’t think they are,” Rick said. “I think the various police agencies here and in the Soviet Union have gotten them all. The population is small enough now; everyone, sooner or later, runs into a random checkpoint.” That, anyhow, was the idea.
   “What were your instructions,” Eldon Rosen asked, “if you wound up designating a human as android?”
   “That’s a departmental matter.” He began restoring his testing gear to his briefcase; the two Rosens watched silently. “Obviously,” he added, “I was told to cancel further testing, as I’m now doing. If it failed once there’s no point in going on.” He snapped the briefcase shut.
   “We could have defrauded you,” Rachael said. “Nothing forced us to admit you mistested me. And the same for the other nine subjects we’ve selected.” She gestured vigorously. “All we had to do was simply go along with your test results, either way.”
   Rick said, “I would have insisted on a list in advance. A sealed-envelope breakdown. And compared my own test results for congruity. There would have had to be congruity.” And I can see now, he realized, that I wouldn’t have gotten it. Bryant was right. Thank god I didn’t go out bounty hunting on the basis of this test.
   “Yes, I suppose you would have done that,” Eldon Rosen said. He glanced at Rachael, who nodded. “We discussed that possibility,” Eldon said, then, with reluctance.
   “This problem,” Rick said, “stems entirely from your method of operation, Mr. Rosen. Nobody forced your organization to evolve the production of humanoid robots to a point where—”
   “We produced what the colonists wanted,” Eldon Rosen said. “We followed the time-honored principle underlying every commercial venture. If our firm hadn’t made these progressively more human types, other firms in the field would have. We knew the risk we were taking when we developed the Nexus-6 brain unit. But your Voigt-Kampff test was a failure before we released that type of android. If you had failed to classify a Nexus-6 android as an android, if you had checked it out as human—but that’s not what happened.” His voice had become hard and bitingly penetrating. “Your police department—others as well—may have retired, very probably have retired, authentic humans with underdeveloped empathic ability, such as my innocent niece here. Your position, Mr. Deckard, is extremely bad morally. Ours isn’t.”
   “In other words,” Rick said with acuity, “I’m not going to be given a chance to check out a single Nexus-6. You people dropped this schizoid girl on me beforehand.” And my test, he realized, is wiped out. I shouldn’t have gone for it, he said to himself. However, it’s too late now.
   “We have you, Mr. Deckard,” Rachael Rosen agreed in a quiet, reasonable voice; she turned toward him, then, and smiled.

   He could not make out, even now, how the Rosen Association had managed to snare him, and so easily. Experts, he realized. A mammoth corporation like this—it embodies too much experience. It possesses in fact a sort of group mind. And Eldon and Rachael Rosen consisted of spokesmen for that corporate entity. His mistake, evidently, had been in viewing them as individuals. It was a mistake he would not make again.
   “Your superior Mr. Bryant,” Eldon Rosen said, “will have difficulty understanding how you happened to let us void your testing apparatus before the test began.” He pointed toward the ceiling, and Rick saw the camera lens. His massive error in dealing with the Rosens had been recorded. “I think the right thing for us all to do,” Eldon said, “is sit down and—” He gestured affably. “We can work something out, Mr. Deckard. There’s no need for anxiety. The Nexus-6 variety of android is a fact; we here at the Rosen Association recognize it and I think now you do, too.”
   Rachael, leaning toward Rick, said, ‘How would you like to own an owl?
   “I doubt if I’ll ever own an owl.” But he knew what she meant; he understood the business the Rosen Association wanted to transact. Tension of a kind he had never felt before manifested itself inside him; it exploded, leisurely, in every part of his body. He felt the tension, the consciousness of what was happening, take over completely.
   “But an owl,” Eldon Rosen said, “is the thing you want.” He glanced at his niece inquiringly. “I don’t think he has any idea—”
   “Of course he does,” Rachael contradicted. “He knows exactly where this is heading. Don’t you, Mr. Deckard?” Again she leaned toward him, and this time closer; he could smell a mild perfume about her, almost a warmth. “You’re practically there, Mr. Deckard. You practically have your owl.” To Eldon Rosen she said, “He’s a bounty hunter; remember? So he lives off the bounty he makes, not his salary. Isn’t that so, Mr. Deckard?”
   He nodded.
   “How many androids escaped this time?” Rachael inquired.
   Presently he said, “Eight. Originally. Two have already been retired, by someone else; not me.”
   “You get how much for each android?” Rachael asked.
   Shrugging, he said, “It varies.”
   Rachael said, “If you have no test you can administer, then there is no way you can identify an android. And if there’s no way you can identify an android there’s no way you can collect your bounty. So if the Voigt-Kampff scale has to be abandoned—”
   “A new scale,” Rick said, “will replace it. This has happened before.” Three times, to be exact. But the new scale, the more modern analytical device, had been there already; no lag had existed. This time was different.
   “Eventually, of course, the Voigt-Kampff scale will become obsolete,” Rachael agreed. “But not now. We’re satisfied ourselves that it will delineate the Nexus-6 types and we’d like you to proceed on that basis in your own particular, peculiar work.” Rocking back and forth, her arms tightly folded, she regarded him with intensity. Trying to fathom his reaction.
   “Tell him he can have his owl,” Eldon Rosen grated.
   “You can have the owl,” Rachael said, still eyeing him. “The one up on the roof. Scrappy. But we will want to mate it if we can get our hands on a male. And any offspring will be ours; that has to be absolutely understood.”
   Rick said, “I’ll divide the brood.”
   “No,” Rachael said instantly; behind her Eldon Rosen shook his head, backing her up. “That way you’d have claim to the sole bloodline of owls for the rest of eternity. And there’s another condition. You can’t will your owl to anybody; at your death it reverts back to the association.”
   “That sounds,” Rick said, “like an invitation for you to come in and kill me. To get your owl back immediately. I won’t agree to that; it’s too dangerous.”
   “You’re a bounty hunter,” Rachael said. “You can handle a laser gun—in fact you’re carrying one right now. If you can’t protect yourself, how are you going to retire the six remaining Nexus-6 andys? They’re a good deal smarter than the Grozzi Corporation’s old W-4.”
   “But I hunt them,” he said. “This way, with a reversion clause on the owl, someone would be hunting me.” And he did not like the idea of being stalked; he had seen the effect on androids. It brought about certain notable changes, even in them.
   Rachael said, “All right; we’ll yield on that. You can will the owl to your heirs. But we insist on getting the complete brood. If you can’t agree to that, go on back to San Francisco and admit to your superiors in the department that the Voigt-Kampff scale, at least as administered by you, can’t distinguish an andy from a human being. And then look for another job.”
   “Give me some time,” Rick said.
   “Okay,” Rachael said. “We’ll leave you in here, where it’s comfortable.” She examined her wristwatch.
   “Half an hour,” Eldon Rosen said. He and Rachael filed toward the door of the room, silently. They had said what they intended to say, he realized; the rest lay in his lap.
   As Rachael started to close the door after herself and her uncle, Rick said starkly, “You managed to set me up perfectly. You have it on tape that I missed on you; you know that my job depends on the use of the Voigt-Kampff scale; and you own that goddamn owl.”
   “Your owl, dear,” Rachael said. “Remember? We’ll tie your home address around its leg and have it fly down to San Francisco; it’ll meet you there when you get off work.”
   It, he thought. She keeps calling the owl it. Not her. “Just a second,” he said.
   Pausing at the door, Rachael said, “You’ve decided?”
   “I want,” he said, opening his briefcase, “to ask you one more question from the Voigt-Kampff scale. Sit down again.”
   Rachael glanced at her uncle; he nodded and she grudgingly returned, seating herself as before. “What’s this for?” she demanded, her eyebrows lifted in distaste—and wariness. He perceived her skeletal tension, noted it professionally.
   Presently he had the pencil of light trained on her right eye and the adhesive patch again in contact with her check. Rachael stared into the light rigidly, the expression of extreme distaste still manifest.
   “My briefcase,” Rick said as he rummaged for the Voigt-Kampff forms. “Nice, isn’t it? Department issue.”
   “Well, well,” Rachael said remotely.
   “Babyhide,” Rick said. He stroked the black leather surface of the briefcase. “One hundred percent genuine human babyhide.” He saw the two dial indicators gyrate frantically. But only after a pause. The reaction had come, but too late. He knew the reaction period down to a fraction of a second, the correct reaction period; there should have been none. “Thanks, Miss Rosen,” he said, and gathered together the equipment again; he had concluded his retesting. “That’s all.”
   “You’re leaving?” Rachael asked.
   “Yes,” he said. “I’m satisfied.”
   Cautiously, Rachael said, “What about the other nine subjects?”
   “The scale has been adequate in your case,” he answered. “I can extrapolate from that; it’s clearly still effective.” To Eldon Rosen, who slumped morosely by the door of the room, he said, “Does she know?” Sometimes they didn’t; false memories had been tried various times, generally in the mistaken idea that through them reactions to testing would be altered.
   Eldon Rosen said, “No. We programmed her completely.
   But I think toward the end she suspected.” To the girl he said, “You guessed when he asked for one more try.”
   Pale, Rachael nodded fixedly.
   “Don’t be afraid of him,” Eldon Rosen told her. “You’re not an escaped android on Earth illegally; you’re the property of the Rosen Association, used as a sales device for prospective emigrants.” He walked to the girl, put his hand comfortingly on her shoulder; at the touch the girl flinched.
   “He’s right,” Rick said. “I’m not going to retire you, Miss Rosen. Good day.” He started toward the door, then halted briefly. To the two of them he said, “is the owl genuine?”
   Rachael glanced swiftly at the elder Rosen.
   “He’s leaving anyhow,” Eldon Rosen said. “It doesn’t matter; the owl is artificial. There are no owls.”
   “Hmm,” Rick muttered, and stepped numbly out into the corridor. The two of them watched him go. Neither said anything. Nothing remained to say. So that’s how the largest manufacturer of androids operates, Rick said to himself. Devious, and in a manner he had never encountered before. A weird and convoluted new personality type; no wonder law enforcement agencies were having trouble with the Nexus-6.
   The Nexus-6. He had now come up against it. Rachael, he realized; she must be a Nexus-6. I’m seeing one of them for the first time. And they damn near did it; they came awfully damn close to undermining the Voigt-Kampff scale, the only method we have for detecting them. The Rosen Association does a good job—makes a good try, anyhow—at protecting its products.
   And I have to face six more of them, he reflected. Before I’m finished.
   He would earn the bounty money. Every cent.
   Assuming he made it through alive.
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Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
6

   The TV set boomed; descending the great empty apartment building’s dust-stricken stairs to the level below, John Isidore made out now the familiar voice of Buster Friendly, burbling happily to his system-wide vast audience.
   “—ho ho, folks! Zip click zip! Time for a brief note on tomorrow’s weather; first the Eastern seaboard of the U.S.A. Mongoose satellite reports that fallout will be especially pronounced toward noon and then will taper off. So all you dear folks who’ll be venturing out ought to wait until afternoon, eh? And speaking of waiting, it’s now only ten hours ‘til that big piece of news, my special exposé! Tell your friends to watch! I’m revealing something that’ll amaze you. Now, you might guess that it’s just the usual—”
   As Isidore knocked on the apartment door the television died immediately into nonbeing. It had not merely become silent; it had stopped existing, scared into its grave by his knock.
   He sensed, behind the closed door, the presence of life, beyond that of the TV. His straining faculties manufactured or else picked up a haunted, tongueless fear, by someone retreating from him, someone blown back to the farthest wall of the apartment in an attempt to evade him.
   “Hey,” he called. “I live upstairs. I heard your TV. Let’s meet; okay?” He waited, listening. No sound and no motion; his words had not pried the person loose. “I brought you a cube of margarine,” he said, standing close to the door in an effort to speak through its thickness. “My name’s J. R. Isidore and I work for the well-known animal vet Mr. Hannibal Sloat; you’ve heard of him. I’m reputable; I have a job. I drive Mr. Sloat’s truck.”
   The door, meagerly, opened and he saw within the apartment a fragmented and misaligned shrinking figure, a girl who cringed and slunk away and yet held onto the door, as if for physical support. Fear made her seem ill; it distorted her body lines, made her appear as if someone had broken her and then, with malice, patched her together badly. Her eyes, enormous, glazed over fixedly as she attempted to smile.
   He said, with sudden understanding, “You thought no one lived in this building. You thought it was abandoned.”
   Nodding, the girl whispered, “Yes.”
   “But,” Isidore said, “it’s good to have neighbors. Heck, until you came along I didn’t have any.” And that was no fun, god knew.
   “You’re the only one?” the girl asked. “In this building besides me?” She seemed less timid, now; her body straightened and with her hand she smoothed her dark hair. Now he saw that she had a nice figure, although small, and nice eyes markedly established by long black lashes. Caught by surprise, the girl wore pajama bottoms and nothing more. And as he looked past her he perceived a room in disorder. Suitcases lay here and there, opened, their contents half spilled onto the littered floor. But this was natural; she had barely arrived.
   “I’m the only one besides you,” Isidore said. “And I won’t bother you.” He felt glum; his offering, possessing the quality of an authentic old pre-war ritual, had not been accepted. In fact the girl did even seem aware of it. Or maybe she did not understand what a cube of margarine was for. He had that intuition; the girl seemed more bewildered than anything else. Out of her depth and helplessly floating in now-receding circles of fear. “Good old Buster,” he said, trying to reduce her rigid postural stance. “You like him? I watch him every morning and then again at night when I get home; I watch him while I’m eating dinner and then his late late show until I go to bed. At least until my TV set broke.”
   “Who—” the girl began and then broke off; she bit her lip as if savagely angry. Evidently at herself.
   “Buster Friendly,” he explained. It seemed odd to him that this girl had never heard of Earth’s most knee-slapping TV comic. “Where did you come here from? “ he asked curiously.
   “I don’t see that it matters.” She shot a swift glance upward at him. Something that she saw seemed to ease her concern; her body noticeably relaxed. “I’ll be glad to receive company,” she said, “later on when I’m more moved in. Right now, of course, it’s out of the question.”
   “Why out of the question?” He was puzzled; everything about her puzzled him. Maybe, he thought, I’ve been living here alone too long. I’ve become strange. They say chickenheads are like that. The thought made him feel even more glum. “I could help you unpack,” he ventured; the door, now, had virtually shut in his face. “And your furniture.”
   The girl said, “I have no furniture. All these things”—she indicated the room behind her—”they were here.”
   “They won’t do,” Isidore said. He could tell that at a glance. The chairs, the carpet, the tables—all had rotted away; they sagged in mutual ruin, victims of the despotic force of time. And of abandonment. No one had lived in this apartment for years; the ruin had become almost complete. He couldn’t imagine how she figured on living in such surroundings. “Listen,” he said earnestly. “If we go all over the building looking we can probably find you things that aren’t so tattered. A lamp from one apartment, a table from another.”
   “I’ll do it,” the girl said. “Myself, thanks.”
   “You’d go into those apartments alone?” He could not believe it.
   “Why not?” Again she shuddered nervously, grimacing in awareness of saying something wrong.
   Isidore said, “I’ve tried it. Once. After that I just come home and go in my own place and I don’t think about the rest. The apartments in which no one lives—hundreds of them and all full of the possessions people had, like family photographs and clothes. Those that died couldn’t take anything and those who emigrated didn’t want to. This building, except for my apartment, is completely kipple-ized.”
   “Kipple-ized’?” She did not comprehend.
   “Kipple is useless objects, like junk mail or match folders after you use the last match or gum wrappers or yesterday’s homeopape. When nobody’s around, kipple reproduces itself. For instance, if you go to bed leaving any kipple around your apartment, when you wake up the next morning there’s twice as much of it. It always gets more and more.”
   “I see.” The girl regarded him uncertainly, not knowing whether to believe him. Not sure if he meant it seriously.
   “There’s the First Law of Kipple,” he said. “‘Kipple drives out nonkipple.’ Like Gresham’s law about bad money. And in these apartments there’s been nobody there to fight the kipple.”
   “So it has taken over completely,” the girl finished. She nodded. “Now I understand.”
   “Your place, here,” he said, “this apartment you’ve picked—it’s too kipple-ized to live in. We can roll the kipple-factor back; we can do like I said, raid the other apts. But—” He broke off.
   “But what?”
   Isidore said, “We can’t win.”
   “Why not? The girl stepped into the hall, closing the door behind her; arms folded self-consciously before her small high breasts she faced him, eager to understand. Or so it appeared to him, anyhow. She was at least listening.
   “No one can win against kipple,” he said, “except temporarily and maybe in one spot, like in my apartment I’ve sort of created a stasis between the pressure of kipple and nonkipple, for the time being. But eventually I’ll die or go away, and then the kipple will again take over. It’s a universal principle operating throughout the universe; the entire universe is moving toward a final state of total, absolute kippleization.” He added, “Except of course for the upward climb of Wilbur Mercer.”
   The girl eyed him. “I don’t see any relation.”
   “That’s what Mercerism is all about.” Again he found himself puzzled. “Don’t you participate in fusion? Don’t you own an empathy box?”
   After a pause the girl said carefully, “I didn’t bring mine with me. I assumed I’d find one here.”
   “But an empathy box,” he said, stammering in his excitement, “is the most personal possession you have! It’s an extension of your body; it’s the way you touch other humans, it’s the way you stop being alone. But you know that. Everybody knows that. Mercer even lets people like me—” He broke off. But too late; he had already told her and he could see by her face, by the flicker of sudden aversion, that she knew. “I almost passed the IQ test,” he said in a low, shaky voice. “I’m not very special, only moderately; not like some you see. But that’s what Mercer doesn’t care about.”
   “As far as I’m concerned,” the girl said, “you can count that as a major objection to Mercerism.” Her voice was clean and neutral; she intended only to state a fact, he realized. The fact of her attitude toward chickenheads.
   “I guess I’ll go back upstairs,” he said, and started away from her, his cube of margarine clutched; it had become plastic and damp from the squeeze of his hand.
   The girl watched him go, still with the neutral expression on her face. And then she called, “Wait.”
   Turning, he said, “Why?”
   “I’ll need you. For getting myself adequate furniture. From other apartments, as you said.” She strolled toward him, her bare upper body sleek and trim, without an excess gram of far. “What time do you get home from work? You can help me then.”
   Isidore said, “Could you maybe fix dinner for us? If I brought home the ingredients?”
   “No, I have too much to do.” The girl shook off the request effortlessly and he noticed that, perceived it without understanding it. Now that her initial fear had diminished, something else had begun to emerge from her. Something more strange. And, he thought, deplorable. A coldness. Like, he thought, a breath from the vacuum between inhabited worlds, in fact from nowhere: it was not what she did or said but what she did not do and say. “Some other time,” the girl said, and moved back toward her apartment door.
   “Did you get my name?” he said eagerly, “John Isidore, and I work for—”
   “You told me who you work for.” She had stopped briefly at her door; pushing it open she said, “Some incredible person named Hannibal Sloat, who I’m sure doesn’t exist outside your imagination. My name is—” She gave him one last warmthless glance as she returned to her apartment, hesitated, and said, “I’m Rachael Rosen.
   “Of the Rosen Association?” he asked. “The system’s largest manufacturer of humanoid robots used in our colonization program?
   A complicated expression instantly crossed her face, fleetingly, gone at once. “No,” she said. “I never heard of them; I don’t know anything about it. More of your chickenbead imagination, I suppose. John Isidore and his personal, private empathy box. Poor Mr. Isidore.”
   “But your name suggests—”
   “My name,” the girt said, “is Pris Stratton. That’s my married name; I always use it. I never use any other name but Pris. You can call me Pris.” She reflected, then said, “No, you’d better address me as Miss Stratton. Because we don’t really know each other. At least I don’t know you.” The door shut after her and he found himself alone in the dust-strewn dim hall
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Underpromise; overdeliver.

Zodijak Gemini
Pol Muškarac
Poruke Odustao od brojanja
Zastava 44°49′N - 20°29′E
mob
Apple iPhone 6s
7

   Well, so it goes, J. R. Isidore thought as he stood clutching his soft cube of margarine. Maybe she’ll change her mind about letting me call her Pris. And possibly, if I can pick up a can of pre-war vegetables, about dinner, too.
   But maybe she doesn’t know how to cook, he thought suddenly. Okay, I can do it; I’ll fix dinner for both of us. And I’ll show her how so she can do it in the future if she wants. She’ll probably want to, once I show her how; as near as I can make out, most women, even young ones like her, like to cook: it’s an instinct.
   Ascending the darkened stairs he returned to his own apartment.
   She’s really out of touch, he thought as he donned his white work uniform; even if he hurried he’d be late to work and Mr. Sloat would be angry but so what? For instance, she’s never beard of Buster Friendly. And that’s impossible; Buster is the most important human being alive, except of course for Wilbur Mercer … but Mercer, he reflected, isn’t a human being; he evidently is an archetypal entity from the stars, superimposed on our culture by a cosmic template. At least that’s what I’ve heard people say; that’s what Mr. Sloat says, for instance. And Hannibal Sloat would know.
   Odd that she isn’t consistent about her own name, he pondered. She may need help. Can I give her any help? he asked himself. A special, a chickenhead; what do I know? I can’t marry and I can’t emigrate and the dust will eventually kill me. I have nothing to offer.
   Dressed and ready to go he left his apartment, ascended to the roof where his battered used hovercar lay parked.

   An hour later, in the company track, he had picked up the first malfunctioning animal for the day. An electric cat: it lay in the plastic dust-proof carrying cage in the rear of the truck and panted erratically. You’d almost think it was real,
   Isidore observed as he headed back to the Van Ness Pet Hospital—that carefully misnamed little enterprise which barely existed in the tough, competitive field of false-animal repair.
   The cat, in its travail, groaned.
   Wow, Isidore said to himself. It really sounds as if it’s dying. Maybe its ten-year battery has shorted, and all its circuits are systematically burning out. A major job; Milt Borogrove, Van Ness Pet Hospital’s repairman, would have his bands full. And I didn’t give the owner an estimate, Isidore realized gloomily. The guy simply thrust the cat at me, said it had begun failing during the night, and then I guess he took off for work. Anyhow all of a sudden the momentary verbal exchange had ceased; the cat’s owner had gone roaring up into the sky in his custom new-model handsome hovercar. And the man constituted a new customer.
   To the cat, Isidore said, “Can you hang on until we reach the shop?” The cat continued to wheeze. “I’ll recharge you while we’re en route,” Isidore decided; he dropped the truck toward the nearest available roof and there, temporarily parked with the motor running, crawled into the back of the truck and opened the plastic dust-proof carrying cage, which, in conjunction with his own white suit and the name on the truck, created a total impression of a true animal vet picking up a true animal.
   The electric mechanism, within its compellingly authentic style gray pelt, gurgled and blew bubbles, its vid-lenses glassy, its metal jaws locked together. This had always amazed him, these “disease” circuits built into false animals; the construct which he now held on his lap had been put together in such a fashion that when a primary component misfired, the whole thing appeared—not broken—but organically ill. It would have fooled me, Isidore said to himself as he groped within the ersatz stomach fur for the concealed control panel (quite small on this variety of false animal) plus the quick-charge battery terminals, He could find neither. Nor could he search very long; the mechanism had almost failed. If it does consist of a short, he reflected, which is busy burning out circuits, then maybe I should try to detach one of the battery cables; the mechanism will shut down, but no more harm will be done. And then, in the shop, Milt can charge it back up.
   Deftly, he ran his fingers along the pseudo bony spine. The cables should be about here. Damn expert workmanship; so absolutely perfect an imitation. Cables not apparent even under close scrutiny. Must be a Wheelright & Carpenter product—they cost more, but look what good work they do.
   He gave up; the false cat had ceased functioning, so evidently the short—if that was what ailed the thing—had finished off the power supply and basic drive-train. That’ll run into money, he thought pessimistically. Well, the guy evidently hadn’t been getting the three-times-yearly preventive cleaning and lubricating, which made all the difference. Maybe this would teach the owner—the hard way.
   Crawling back in the driver’s seat he put the wheel into climb position, buzzed up into the air once I more, and resumed his flight back to the repair shop.
   Anyhow he no longer had to listen to the nerve-wracking wheezing of the construct; he could relax. Funny, he thought; even though I know rationally it’s faked the sound of a false animal burning out its drive-train and power supply ties my stomach in knots. I wish, he thought painfully, that I could get another job. If I hadn’t failed that IQ test I wouldn’t be reduced to this ignominious task with its attendant emotional by-products. On the other hand, the synthetic sufferings of false animals didn’t bother Milt Borogrove or their boss Hannibal Sloat. So maybe it’s I, John Isidore said to himself. Maybe when you deteriorate back down the ladder of evolution —as I have, when you sink into the tomb world slough of being a special—well, best to abandon that line of inquiry. Nothing depressed him more than the moments in which he contrasted his current mental powers with what he had formerly possessed. Every day he declined in sagacity and vigor. He and the thousands of other specials throughout Terra, all of them moving toward the ash heap. Turning into living Ripple.
   For company he clicked on the truck’s radio and tuned for Buster Friendly’s aud show, which, Eke the TV version, continued twenty-three unbroken warm hours a day … the additional one hour being a religious sign-off, ten minutes of silence, and then a religious sign-on.
   “—glad to have you on the show again,” Buster Friendly was saying. “Let’s see, Amanda; it’s been two whole days since we’ve visited with you. Starting on any new pics, dear?”
   “Veil, I vuz goink to do a pic yestooday baht vell, dey vanted me to staht ad seven—”
   “Seven A.M.?” Buster Friendly broke in.
   “Yess, dot’s right, Booster; it vuz seven hey hem!” Amanda Werner laughed her famous laugh, nearly as imitated as Buster’s. Amanda Werner and several other beautiful, elegant, conically breasted foreign ladies, from unspecified vaguely defined countries, plus a few bucolic so-called humorists, comprised Buster’s perpetual core of repeats. Women like Amanda Werner never made movies, never appeared in plays; they lived out their queer, beautiful lives as guests on Buster’s unending show, appearing, Isidore had once calculated, as much as seventy hours a week.
   How did Buster Friendly find the time to tape both his aud and vid shows? Isidore wondered. And how did Amanda Werner find time to be a guest every other day, month after month, year after year? How did they keep talking? They never repeated themselves—not so far as he could determine. Their remarks, always witty, always new, weren’t rehearsed. Amanda’s hair glowed, her eyes glinted, her teeth shone; she never ran down, never became tired, never found herself at a loss as to a clever retort to Buster’s bang-bang string of quips, jokes, and sharp observations. The Buster Friendly Show, telecast and broadcast over all Earth via satellite, also poured down on the emigrants of the colony planets. Practice transmissions beamed to Proxima had been attempted, in case human colonization extended that far. Had the Salander 3 reached its destination the travelers aboard would have found the Buster Friendly Show awaiting them. And they would have been glad.
   But something about Buster Friendly irritated John Isidore, one specific thing. In subtle, almost inconspicuous ways, Buster ridiculed the empathy boxes. Not once but many times. He was, in fact, doing it right now.
   “—no rock nicks on me,” Buster prattled away to Amanda Werner. “And if I’m going up the side of a mountain I want a couple of bottles of Budweiser beer along!” The studio audience laughed, and Isidore heard a sprinkling of handclaps. “And I’ll reveal my carefully documented exposé from up there–that exposé coming exactly ten hours from now!”
   “Ent me, too, dahiink! “ Amanda gushed. “Tek me wit you! I go alonk en ven dey trow a rock et us I protek you! “ Again the audience howled, and John Isidore felt baffled and impotent rage seep up into the back of his neck. Why did Buster Friendly always chip away at Mercerism? No one else seemed bothered by it; even the U.N. approved. And the American and Soviet police had publicly stated that Mercerism reduced crime by making citizens more concerned about the plight of their neighbors. Mankind needs more empathy, Titus Corning, the U. N. Secretary General, had declared several times. Maybe Buster is jealous, Isidore conjectured. Sure, that would explain it; he and Wilbur Mercer are in competition. But for what?
   Our minds, Isidore decided. They’re fighting for control of our psychic selves; the empathy box on one hand, Buster’s guffaws and off-the-cuff jibes on the other. I’ll have to tell Hannibal Sloat that, he decided. Ask him if it’s true; he’ll know.

   When he had parked his truck on the roof of the Van Ness Pet Hospital he quickly carried the plastic cage containing the inert false cat downstairs to Hannibal Sloat’s office. As he entered, Mr. Sloat glanced up from a parts-inventory page, his gray, seamed face rippling like troubled water. Too old to emigrate, Hannibal Sloat, although not a special, was doomed to creep out his remaining life on Earth. The dust, over the years, had eroded him; it had left his features gray, his thoughts gray; it had shrunk him and made his legs spindly and his gait unsteady. He saw the world through glasses literally dense with dust. For some reason Sloat never cleaned his glasses. It was as if he had given up; he had accepted the radioactive dirt and it had begun its job, long ago, of burying him. Already it obscured his sight. In the few years he had remaining it would corrupt his other senses until at last only his bird-screech voice would remain, and then that would expire, too.
   “What do you have there?” Mr. Sloat asked.
   “A cat with a short in its power supply.” Isidore set the cage down on the document-littered desk of his boss.
   “Why show it to me?” Sloat demanded. “Take it down in the shop to Milt.” However, reflexively, he opened the cage and tugged the false animal out. Once, he had been a repairman. A very good one.
   Isidore said, “I think Buster Friendly and Mercerism are fighting for control of our psychic souls.”
   “If so,” Sloat said, examining the cat, “Buster is winning.”
   “He’s winning now,” Isidore said, “but ultimately he’ll lose.”
   Sloat lifted his bead, peered at him. “Why?”
   “Because Wilbur Mercer is always renewed. He’s eternal. At the top of the hill he’s struck down; he sinks into the tomb world but then he rises inevitably. And us with him. So we’re eternal, too.” He felt good, speaking so well; usually around Mr. Sloat he stammered.
   Sloat said, “Buster is immortal, like Mercer. There’s no difference.”
   “How can he he? He’s a man.”
   “I don’t know,” Sloat said. “But it’s true. They’ve never admitted it, of course.”
   “Is that how come Buster Friendly can do forty-six hours of show a day?”
   “That’s right,” Sloat said.
   “What about Amanda Werner and those other women?”
   “They’re immortal, too.”
   “Are they a superior life form from another system?”
   “I’ve never been able to determine that for sure,” Mr. Sloat said, still examining the cat. He now removed his dust-filmed glasses, peered without them at the half-open mouth. “As I have conclusively in the case of Wilbur Mercer,” he finished almost inaudibly. He cursed, then, a string of abuse lasting what seemed to Isidore a full minute. “This cat,” Sloat said finally, “isn’t false. I knew sometime this would happen. And it’s dead.” He stared down at the corpse of the cat. And cursed again.
   Wearing his grimy blue sailcloth apron, burly pebble-skinned Milt Borogrove appeared at the office door. “What’s the matter?” he said. Seeing the cat he entered the office and picked up the animal.
   “The chickenhead,” Sloat said, “brought it in.” Never before had he used that term in front of Isidore.
   “If it was still alive,” Milt said, “we could take it to a real animal vet. I wonder what it’s worth. Anybody got a copy of Sidney’s? “
   “D-doesn’t y-y-your insurance c-c-cover this?” Isidore asked Mr. Sloat. Under him his legs wavered and he felt the room begin to turn dark maroon cast over with specks of green.
   “Yes,” Sloat said finally, half snarling. “But it’s the waste that gets me. The loss of one more living creature. Couldn’t you tell, Isidore? Didn’t you notice the difference?”
   “I thought,” Isidore managed to say, “it was a really good job. So good it fooled me; I mean, it seemed alive and a job that good—”
   “I don’t think Isidore can tell the difference,” Milt said mildly. “To him they’re all alive, false animals included. He probably tried to save it.” To Isidore he said, “What did you do, try to recharge its battery? Or locate a short in it?
   “Y—yes,” Isidore admitted.
   “It probably was so far gone it wouldn’t have made it anyhow,” Milt said. “Let the chickenhead off the hook, Han. He’s got a point; the fakes are beginning to be darn near real, what with those disease circuits they’re building into the new ones. And living animals do die; that’s one of the risks in owning them. We’re just not used to it because all we see are fakes.”
   “The goddamn waste,” Sloat said.
   “According to M-mercer,” Isidore pointed Out, “a-all life returns. The cycle is c-c-complete for a-a-animals, too. I mean, we all ascend with him, die—”
   “Tell that to the guy that owned this cat,” Mr. Sloat said.
   Not sure if his boss was serious Isidore said, “You mean I have to? But you always handle vidcalls.” He had a phobia about the vidphone and found making a call, especially to a stranger, virtually impossible. Mr. Sloat, of course, knew this.
   “Don’t make him,” Milt said. “I’ll do it.” He reached for the receiver. “What’s his number?”
   “I’ve got it here somewhere.” Isidore fumbled in his work smock pockets.
   Sloat said, “I want the chickenhead to do it.”
   “I c-c-can’t use the vidphone,” Isidore protested, his heart laboring. “Because I’m hairy, ugly, dirty, stooped, snaggletoothed, and gray. And also I feel sick from the radiation; I think I’m going to die.”
   Milt smiled and said to Sloat, “I guess if I felt that way I wouldn’t use the vidphone either. Come on, Isidore; if you don’t give me the owner’s number I can’t make the call and you’ll have to.” He held out his hand amiably.
   “The chickenhead makes it,” Sloat said, “or he’s fired.” He did not look either at Isidore or at Milt; he glared fixedly forward.
   “Aw come on,” Milt protested.
   Isidore said, “I d-d-don’t like to be c-c-called a chickenhead. I mean, the d-d-dust has d-d-done a lot to you, too, physically. Although maybe n-n-not your brain, as in m-my case.” I’m fired, he realized. I can’t make the call. And then all at once he remembered that the owner of the cat had zipped off to work. There would be no one home. “I g-guess I can call him,” he said, as he fished out the tag with the information on it.
   “See? “ Mr. Sloat said to Milt. “He can do it if he has to.”
   Seated at the vidphone, receiver in hand, Isidore dialed.
   “Yeah,” Milt said, “but he shouldn’t have to. And he’s right; the dust has affected you; you’re damn near blind and in a couple of years you won’t be able to hear.”
   Sloat said, “It’s got to you, too, Borogrove. Your skin is the color of dog manure.”
   On the vidscreen a face appeared, a mitteleuropaische some-what careful-looking woman who wore her hair in a tight bun. “Yes?” she said.
   “M-m-mrs. Pilsen?” Isidore said, terror spewing through him; he had not thought of it naturally but the owner had a wife, who of course was home. “I want to t-t-talk to you about your c-c-c-c-c-c—” He broke off, rubbed his chin tic-wise. “Your cat.”
   “Oh yes, you picked up Horace,” Mrs. Pilsen said. “Did it turn out to be pneumonitis? That’s what Mr. Pilsen thought.”
   Isidore said, “Your cat died.”
   “Oh no god in heaven.”
   “We’ll replace it,” he said. “We have insurance.” He glanced toward Mr. Sloat; he seemed to concur. “The owner of our firm, Mr. Hannibal Sloat—” He floundered. “Will personally—”
   “No,” Sloat said, “we’ll give them a check. Sidney’s list price.”
   “—will personally pick the replacement cat out for you,” Isidore found himself saying. Having started a conversation which he could not endure he discovered himself unable to get back out. What he was saying possessed an intrinsic logic which he had no means of halting; it had to grind to its own conclusion. Both Mr. Sloat and Milt Borogrove stared at him as he rattled on, “Give us the specifications of the cat you desire. Color, sex, subtype, such as Manx, Persian, Abyssinian—”
   “Horace is dead,” Mrs. Pilsen said.
   “He had pneumonitis,” Isidore said. “He died on the trip to the hospital. Our senior staff physician, Dr. Hannibal Sloat, expressed the belief that nothing at this point could have saved him. But isn’t it fortunate, Mrs. Pilsen, that we’re going to replace him. Am I correct?”
   Mrs. Pilsen, tears appearing in her eyes, said, “There is only one cat like Horace. He used to—when he was just a kitten—stand and stare up at us as if asking a question. We never understood what the question was. Maybe now he knows the answer.” Fresh tears appeared. “I guess we all will eventually.”
   An inspiration came to Isidore. “What about an exact electric duplicate of your cat? We can have a superb handcrafted job by Wheelright & Carpenter in which every detail of the old animal is faithfully repeated in permanent—”
   “Oh that’s dreadful!” Mrs. Pilsen protested. “What are you saying? Don’t tell my husband that; don’t suggest that to Ed or he’ll go mad. He loved Horace more than any cat he ever had, and he’s had a cat since he was a child.”
   Taking the vidphone receiver from Isidore, Milt said to the woman, “We can give you a check in the amount of Sidney’s list, or as Mr. Isidore suggested we can pick out a new cat for you. We’re very sorry that your cat died, but as Mr. Isidore pointed out, the cat had pneumonitis, which is almost always fatal.” His tone rolled out professionally; of the three of them at the Van Ness Pet Hospital, Milt performed the best in the matter of business phone calls.
   “I can’t tell my husband,” Mrs. Pilsen said.
   “All right, ma’am,” Milt said, and grimaced slightly. “We’ll call him. Would you give me his number at his place of employment?” He groped for a pen and pad of paper; Mr. Sloat handed them to him.
   “Listen,” Mrs. Pilsen said; she seemed now to rally. “Maybe the other gentleman is right. Maybe I ought to commission an electric replacement of Horace but without Ed ever knowing; could it be so faithful a reproduction that my husband wouldn’t be able to tell?”
   Dubiously, Milt said, “If that’s what you want. But it’s been our experience that the owner of the animal is never fooled. It’s only casual observers such as neighbors. You see, once you get real close to a false animal—”
   “Ed never got physically close to Horace, even though he loved him; I was the one who took care of all Horace’s personal needs such as his sandbox. I think I would like to try a false animal, and if it didn’t work then you could find us a real cat to replace Horace. I just don’t want my husband to know; I don’t think he could live through it. That’s why he never got close to Horace; he was afraid to. And when Horace got sick—with pneumonitis, as you tell me—Ed got panic-stricken and just wouldn’t face it. That’s why we waited so long to call you. Too long … as I knew before you called. I knew.” She nodded, her tears under control, now. “How long will it take?”
   Milt essayed, “We can have it ready in ten days. “We’ll deliver it during the day while your husband is at work.” He wound up the call, said good-by, and hung up. “He’ll know,” he said to Mr. Sloat. “In five seconds. But that’s what she wants.”
   “Owners who get to love their animals,” Sloat said somberly, “go to pieces. I’m glad we’re not usually involved with real animals. You realize that actual animal vets have to make calls like that all the time?” He contemplated John Isidore. “In some ways you’re not so stupid after all, Isidore. You handled that reasonably well. Even though Milt had to come in and take over.”
   “He was doing fine,” Milt said. “God, that was tough.” He picked up the dead Horace. “I’ll take this down to the shop; Han, you phone Wheelright & Carpenter and get their builder over to measure and photograph it. I’m not going to let them take it to their shop; I want to compare the replica myself.”

   “I think I’ll have Isidore talk to them,” Mr. Sloat decided. “He got this started; he ought to be able to deal with Wheelright & Carpenter after handling Mrs. Pilsen.”
   Milt said to Isidore, “Just don’t let them take the original.” He held up Horace. “They’ll want to because it makes their work a hell of a lot easier. Be firm.”
   “Um,” Isidore said, blinking. “Okay. Maybe I ought to call them now before it starts to decay. Don’t dead bodies decay or something?” He felt elated.
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8

   After parking the departments speedy beefed-up hovercar on the roof of the San Francisco Hall of Justice on Lombard Street, bounty hunter Rick Deckard, briefcase in hand, descended to Harry Bryant’s office.
   “You’re back awfully soon,” his superior said, leaning back in his chair and taking a pinch of Specific No. 1 snuff.
   “I got what you sent me for.” Rick seated himself facing the desk. He set his briefcase down. I’m tired, he realized. It had begun to hit him, now that he had gotten back; he wondered if he would be able to recoup enough for the job ahead. “How’s Dave?” he asked. “Well enough for me to go talk to him? I want to before I tackle the first of the andys.”
   Bryant said, “You’ll be trying for Polokov first. The one that lasered Dave. Best to get him right out of it, since he knows we’ve got him listed.”
   “Before I talk to Dave?”
   Bryant reached for a sheet of onionskin paper, a blurred third or fourth carbon. “Polokov has taken a job with the city as a trash collector, a scavenger.”
   “Don’t only specials do that kind of work?”
   “Polokov is mimicking a special, an anthead. Very deteriorated—or so he pretends to be. That’s what suckered Dave; Polokov apparently looks and acts so much like an anthead that Dave forgot. Are you sure about the Voigt-Kampff scale now? You’re absolutely certain, from what happened up in Seattle, that—”
   “I am,” Rick said shortly. He did not amplify.
   Bryant said, “I’ll take your word for it. But there can’t be even one slip-up.”
   “There never could be in andy hunting. This is no different.”
   “The Nexus-6 is different.”
   “I already found my first one,” Rick ‘said. “And Dave found two. Three, if you count Polokov. Okay, I’ll retire Polokov today, and then maybe tonight or tomorrow talk to Dave.” He reached for the blurred carbon, the poop sheet on the android Polokov.
   “One more item,” Bryant said. “A Soviet cop, from the W.P.O., is on his way here. While you were in Seattle I got a call from him; he’s aboard an Aeroflot rocket that’ll touch down at the public field, here, in about an hour. Sandor Kadalyi, his name is.”
   “What’s he want?” Rarely if ever did W.P.O. cops show up in San Francisco.
   “W.P.O. is enough interested in the new Nexus-6 types that they want a man of theirs to be with you. An observer and also, if he can, he’ll assist you. It’s for you to decide when and if he can be of value. But I’ve already given him permission to tag along.”
   “What about the bounty?” Rick said.
   “You won’t have to split it,” Bryant said, and smiled creakily.
   “I just wouldn’t regard it as financially fair.” He had absolutely no intention of sharing his winnings with a thug from W.P.O. He studied the poop sheet on Polokov; it gave a description of the man—or rather the andy—and his current address and place of business: The Bay Area Scavengers Company with offices on Geary.
   “Want to wait on the Polokov retirement until the Soviet cop gets here to help you?” Bryant asked.
   Rick bristled. “I’ve always worked alone. Of course, it’s your decision—I’ll do whatever you say. But I’d just as soon tackle Polokov right now, without waiting for Kadalyi to hit town.”
   “You go ahead on your own,” Bryant decided. “And then on the next one, which’ll be a Miss Luba Luft—you have the sheet there on her, too—you can bring in Kadalyi.”
   Having stuffed the onionskin carbons in his briefcase, Rick left his superior’s office and ascended once more to the roof and his parked hovercar. And now let’s visit Mr. Polokov, he said to himself. He patted his laser tube.

   For his first try at the android Polokov, Rick stopped off at the offices of the Bay Area Scavengers Company.
   “I’m looking for an employee of yours,” he said to the severe, gray-haired switchboard woman. The scavengers’ building impressed him; large and modern, it held a good number of high-cllass purely office employees. The deep-pile carpets, the expensive genuine wood desks, reminded him that garbage collecting and trash disposal had, since the war, become one of Earth’s important industries. The entire planet had begun to disintegrate into junk, and to keep the planet habitable for the remaining population the junk had to be hauled away occasionally … or, as Buster Friendly liked to declare, Earth would die under a layer—not of radioactive dust—but of kipple.
   “Mr. Ackers,” the switchboard woman informed him. “He’s the personnel manager.” She pointed to an impressive but imitation oak desk at which sat a prissy, tiny, bespectacled individual, merged with his plethora of paperwork.
   Rick presented his police ID. “Where’s your employee Polokov right now? At his job or at home?”
   After reluctantly consulting his records Mr. Ackers said, “Polokov ought to be at work. Flattening hovercars at our Daly City plant and dumping them into the Bay. However—” The personnel manager consulted a further document, then picked up his vidphone and made an inside call to someone else in the building. “He’s not, then,” he said, terminating the call; hanging up he said to Rick, “Polokov didn’t show up for work today. No explanation. What’s he done, officer? “
   “If he should show up,” Rick said, “don’t tell him I here asking about him. You understand?”
   “Yes, I understand,” Ackers said sulkily, as if his deep schooling in police matters had been derided.
   In the department’s beefed-up hovercar Rick next flew to Polokov’s apartment building in the Tenderloin. We’ll never get him, he told himself. They—Bryant and Holden—waited too long. Instead of sending me to Seattle, Bryant should have sicced me on Polokov—better still last night, as soon as Dave Holden got his.
   What a grimy place, he observed as he walked across the roof to the elevator. Abandoned animal pens, encrusted with months of dust. And, in one cage, a no longer functioning false animal, a chicken. By elevator he descended to Polokov’s floor, found the hall limit, like a subterranean cave. Using his police A-powered sealed-beam light he illuminated the hall and once again glanced over the onionskin carbon. The Voigt-Kampff test had been administered to Polokov; that part could be bypassed, and he could go directly to the task of destroying the android.
   Best to get him from out here, he decided. Setting down his weapons kit he fumbled it open, got out a nondirectional Penfield wave transmitter; he punched the key for catalepsy, himself protected against the mood emanation by means of a counterwave broadcast through the transmitter’s metal hull directed to him alone.
   They’re now all frozen stiff, he said to himself as he shut off the transmitter. Everyone, human and andy alike, in the vicinity. No risk to me; all I have to do is walk in and laser him. Assuming, of course, that he’s in his apartment, which isn’t likely.
   Using an infinity key, which anayzed and opened all forms of locks known, he entered Polokov’s apartment, laser beam in hand.
   No Polokov. Only semi-ruined furniture, a place of kipple and decay. In fact no personal articles: what greeted him consisted of unclaimed debris which Polokov had inherited when he took the apartment and which in leaving he had abandoned to the next—if any—tenant.
   I knew it, he said to himself. Well, there goes the first thousand dollars bounty; probably skipped all the way to the Antarctic Circle. Out of my jurisdiction; another bounty hunter from another police department will retire Polokov and claim the money. On, I suppose, to the andys who haven’t been warned, as was Polokov. On to Luba Luft.
   Back again on the roof in his hovercar he reported by phone to Harry Bryant. “No luck on Polokov. Left probably right after he lasered Dave.” He inspected his wristwatch. “Want me to pick up Kadalyi at the field? It’ll save time and I’m eager to get started on Miss Luft.” He already had the poop sheet on her laid out before him, had begun a thorough study of it.
   “Good idea,” Bryant said, “except that Mr. Kadalyi is already here; his Aeroflot ship—as usual, he says—arrived early. Just a moment.” An invisible conference. “He’ll fly over and meet you where you are now,” Bryant said, returning to the screen. “Meanwhile read up on Miss Luft.”
   “An opera singer. Allegedly from Germany. At present attached to the San Francisco Opera Company.” He nodded in reflexive agreement, mind on the poop sheet. “Must have a good voice to make connections so fast. Okay, I’ll wait here for Kadalyi.” He gave Bryant his location and rang off.
   I’ll pose as an opera fan, Rick decided as he read further. I particularly would like to see her as Donna Anna in Don Giovanni. In my personal collection I have tapes by such oldtime greats as Elisabeth Schwarzkopf and Lotte Lehmann and Lisa Della Casa; that’ll give us something to discuss while I set up my Voigt-Kampff equipment.
   His car phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver.
   The police operator said, “Mr. Deckard, a call for Von from Seattle; Mr. Bryant said to put it through to you. From the Rosen Association.”
   “Okay,” Rick said, and waited. What do they want? he wondered. As far as he could discern, the Rosens had already proven to be bad news. And undoubtedly would continue so, whatever they intended.
   Rachel Rosen’s face appeared on the tiny screen. “Hello, Officer Deckard.” Her tone seemed placating; that caught his attention. “Are you busy right now or can I talk to you?”
   “Go ahead,” he said.
   “We of the association have been discussing your situation regarding the escaped Nexus-6 types and knowing them as we do we feel that you’ll have better luck if one of us works in conjunction with you.”
   “By doing what?”
   “Well, by one of us coming along with you. When you go out looking for them.”
   “Why? What would you add?”
   Rachael said, “The Nexus-6s would be wiry at being approached by a human. But if another Nexus-6 made the contact—”
   You specifically mean yourself.”
   “Yes.” She nodded, her face sober.
   “I’ve got too much help already.”
   “But I really think you need me.”
   “I doubt it. I’ll think it over and call you back.” At some distant, unspecified future time, he said to himself. Or more likely never. That’s all I need: Rachael Rosen popping up through the dust at every step.
   “You don’t really mean it,” Rachael said. “You’ll never call me. You don’t realize how agile an illegal escaped Nexus-6 is, how impossible it’ll be for you. We feel we owe you this because of—you know. What we did.”
   “I’ll take it under advisement.” He started to hang up.
   “Without me,” Rachael said, “one of them will get you before you can get it.”
   “Good-by,” he said and hung up. What kind of world is it, he asked himself, when an android phones up a bounty hunter and offers him assistance? He rang the police operator back. “Don’t put any more calls through to me from Seattle,” he said.
   “Yes, Mr. Deckard. Has Mr. Kadalyi reached you, yet?”
   “I’m still waiting. And he had better hurry because I’m not going to be here long.” Again he hung up.
   As he resumed reading the poop sheet on Luba Luft a hovercar taxi spun down to land on the roof a few yards off. From it a red-faced, cherubic-looking man, evidently in his mid-fifties, wearing a heavy and impressive Russian-style greatcoat, stepped and, smiling, his hand extended, approached Rick’s car.
   “Mr. Deckard?” the man asked with a Slavic accent. “The bounty hunter for the San Francisco Police Department?” The empty taxi rose, and the Russian watched it go, absently. “I’m Sandor Kadalyi,” the man said, and opened the car door to squeeze in beside Rick.
   As he shook hands with Kadalyi, Rick noticed that the W.P.O. representative carried an unusual type of laser tube, a subform which he had never seen before.
   “Oh, this?” Kadalyi said. “Interesting, isn’t it?” He tugged it from his belt holster. “I got this on Mars.”
   “I thought I knew every handgun made,” Rick said. “Even those manufactured at and for use in the colonies.”
   “We made this ourselves,” Kadalyi said, beaming like a Slavic Santa, his ruddy face inscribed with pride. “You like it? What is different about it, functionally, is—here, take it.” He passed the gun over to Rick, who inspected it expertly, by way of years of experience.
   “How does it differ functionally?” Rick asked. He couldn’t tell.
   “Press the trigger.”
   Aiming upward, out the window of the car, Rick squeezed the trigger of the weapon. Nothing happened; no beam emerged. Puzzled, he turned to Kadalyi.
   “The triggering circuit,” Kadalyi said cheerfully, “isn’t attached. It remains with me. You see?” He opened his hand, revealed a tiny unit. “And I can also direct it, within certain limits. Irrespective of where it’s aimed.”
   “You’re not Polokov, you’re Kadalyi,” Rick said.
   “Don’t you mean that the other way around? You’re a bit confused.”
   “I mean you’re Polokov, the android; you’re not from the Soviet police.” Rick, with his toe, pressed the emergency button on the floor of his car.
   “Why won’t my laser tube fire?” Kadalyi-Polokov said, switching on and off the miniaturized triggering and aiming device which he held in the palm of his hand.
   “A sine wave,” Rick said. “That phases out laser emanation and spreads the beam into ordinary light.”
   “Then I’ll have to break your pencil neck.” The android dropped the device and, with a snarl, grabbed with both hands for Rick’s throat.
   As the android’s hands sank into his throat Rick fired his regulation issue old-style pistol from its shoulder holster; the .38 magnum slug struck the android in the head and its brain box burst. The Nexus-6 unit which operated it blew into pieces, a raging, mad wind which carried throughout the car. Bits of it, like the radioactive dust itself, whirled down on Rick. The retired remains of the android rocked back, collided with the car door, bounced off and struck heavily against him; he found himself struggling to shove the twitching remnants of the android away.
   Shakily, he at last reached for the car phone, called in to the Hall of Justice. “Shall I make my report?” he said. “Tell Harry Bryant that I got Polokov.”
   “‘You got Polokov.’ He’ll understand that, will he?”
   “Yes,” Rick said, and hung up. Christ that came close, he said to himself. I must have overreacted to Rachael Rosen’s warning; I went the other way and it almost finished me. But I got Polokov, he said to himself. His adrenal gland, by degrees, ceased pumping its several secretions into his bloodstream; his heart slowed to normal, his breathing became less frantic. But he still shook. Anyhow I made myself a thousand dollars just now, he informed himself. So it was worth it. And I’m faster to react than Dave Holden. Of course, however, Dave’s experience evidently prepared me; that has to be admitted. Dave had not had such warning.
   Again picking up the phone he placed a call home to his apt, to Iran. Meanwhile he managed to light a cigarette; the shaking had begun to depart.
   His wife’s face, sodden with the six-hour self-accusatory depression which she had prophesied, manifested itself on the vidscreen. “Oh hello, Rick.”
   “What happened to the 594 I dialed for you before I left? Pleased acknowledgment of—”
   “I redialed. As soon as you left. What do you want?” Her voice sank into a dreary drone of despond. “I’m so tired and I just have no hope left, of anything. Of our marriage—and you possibly getting killed by one of those andys. Is that what you want to tell me, Rick? That an andy got you?” In the background the racket of Buster Friendly boomed and brayed, eradicating her words; he saw her mouth moving but heard only the TV.
   “Listen,” he broke in. “Can you hear me? I’m on to something. A new type of android that apparently nobody can handle but me. I’ve retired one already, so that’s a grand to start with. You know what we’re going to have before I’m through?”
   Iran stared at him sightlessly. “Oh,” she said, nodding.
   “I haven’t said yet!” He could tell, now; her depression this time had become too vast for her even to hear him. For all intents he spoke into a vacuum. “I’ll see you tonight,” he finished bitterly and slammed the receiver down. Damn her, he said to himself. What good does it do, my risking my life? She doesn’t care whether we own an ostrich or not; nothing penetrates. I wish I had gotten rid of her two years ago when we were considering splitting up. I can still do it, he reminded himself.
   Broodingly, he leaned down, gathered together on the car floor his crumpled papers, including the info on Luba Luft. No support, he informed himself. Most androids I’ve known have more vitality and desire to live than my wife. She has nothing to give me.
   That made him think of Rachael Rosen again. Her advice to me as to the Nexus-6 mentality, he realized, turned out to be correct. Assuming she doesn’t want any of the bounty money, maybe I could use her.
   The encounter with Kadalyi-Polokov had changed his ideas rather massively.
   Snapping on his hovercar’s engine he whisked nippity-nip up into the sky, heading toward the old War Memorial Opera House, where, according to Dive Holden’s notes, he would find Luba Luft this time of the day.
   He wondered, now, about her, too. Some female androids seemed to him pretty; he had found himself physically attracted by several, and it was an odd sensation, knowing intellectually that they were machines but emotionally reacting anyhow.
   For example Rachael Rosen. No, he decided; she’s too thin. No real development, especially in the bust. A figure like a child’s, flat and tame. He could do better. How old did the poop sheet say Luba Luft was? As he drove he hauled out the now wrinkled notes, found her so-called “age.” Twenty-eight, the sheet read. Judged by appearance, which, with andys, was the only useful standard.
   It’s a good thing I know something about opera, Rick reflected. That’s another advantage I have over Dave; I’m more culturally oriented.
   I’ll try one more andy before I ask Rachael for help, he decided. If Miss Luft proves exceptionally hard—but he had an intuition she wouldn’t. Polokov had been the rough one; the others, unaware that anyone actively hunted them, would crumble in succession, plugged like a file of ducks.
   As he descended toward the ornate, expansive roof of the opera house he loudly sang a potpourri of arias, with pseudo-Italian words made up on the spot by himself; even without the Penfield mood organ at hand his spirits brightened into optimism. And into hungry, gleeful anticipation.
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