36 Philip K. Dick
the table was a bottle of medication and a glass of water. In dejection she sat resting her chin on her fist; in her fist she clutched a wadded-up handkerchief.
“I’ll get my suit on,” Asher said; he popped the suit-compartment door open, and his suit-little used and long neglected-tumbled out onto the floor.
Ten minutes later he stood outside his dome, in the bulky suit, his lamp sweeping out over the expanse of frozen methane before him; he trembled, feeling the cold even through the suit-which was a delusion, he realized, since the suit was absolutely insulat- ing. What an experience, he said to himself as he started walking down the slope. Roused out of my sleep in the middle of the night, my equipment burned down, my tapes erased-bulk erased in their totality.
The methane crystals crunched under his boots as he walked down the slope, homing in on the automatic signal emitted by Rybys Rommey’s dome; the signal would guide him. Pictures inside my head, he thought. Pictures of a girl about to take her own life. It’s a good thing Yah woke me. She probably would have done it.
He was still frightened, and as he descended the slope he sang to himself an old Communist Party marching song.
Because he fought for freedom
He was forced to leave his home.
Near the blood-stained Manzanares,
Where he led the fight to hold Madrid,
Died Hans, the Commissar,
Died Hans, the Commissar.
With heart and hand I pledge you,
While I load my gun again,
You will never be forgotten,
Nor the enemy forgiven,
Hans Beimler, our Commissar,
Hans Beimler, our Commissar.
CHAPTER 4
As Herb Asher descended the slope the meter in his hand showed the homing signal growing in strength. She ascended this hill to get to my dome, he realized. I made her walk uphill, since I wouldn’t go to her. I made a sick girl toil her way up step by step, carrying an armload of supplies. I will fry in hell.
But, he realized, it’s not too late.
He made me take her seriously, Asher realized. I simply was not taking her seriously. It was as if I imagined that she was making up her illness. Telling a tale to get attention. What does that say about me? he asked himself. Because in point of fact I really knew she was sick, truly sick, not faking it. I have been asleep, he said to himself. And, while I slept, a girl has been dying.
And then he thought about Yah, and he trembled. I can get my rig repaired, he thought. The gear that Yah burned down. That won’t be hard; all I have to do is notify the mother ship and inform them that I suffered a meltdown. And Yah promised to restore to me my Fox tapes-which undoubtedly he can do. But I’ve got to go back to that dome and live there. How can I live there? I can’t live there. It’s impossible.
Yah has plans for me, he thought. And he felt fear, realizing this. He can make me do anything. 37
38 Philip K. Dick The Divine Invasion
Rybys greeted him impassively. She did have on a blue robe and she did hold a wadded-up handkerchief, and, he saw, her eyes were red from crying. “Come in,” she said, although he was already in the dome; she seemed a little dazed. “I was thinking about you,” she said. “Sitting and thinking.”
On the kitchen table stood a medicine bottle. Full.
“Oh, that,” she said. “I was having trouble sleeping and I was thinking about taking a sleeping pill.”
“Put it away,” he said.
Obediently, she returned the bottle to her bathroom cabinet.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
“No you don’t. Want something to drink? What time is it?” She turned to look at her wall clock. “I was up anyhow; you didn’t wake me. Some telemetric data was coming in.” She pointed to her gear; lights showed, indicating activity.
He said, “I mean I had air. Portable air.”
“I know that. Everyone has portable air. Sit down; I’ll fix you tea.” She rooted in an overflowing drawer beside her stove. “Somewhere I have teabags.”
Now, for the first time, he became aware of the condition of her dome. It was shocking. Dirty dishes, pots and pans and even glasses of spoiled food, soiled clothing strewn everywhere, litter and debris . . . Troubled, he gazed around, wondering if he should offer to clean up the place. And she moved so slowly, with such evident fatigue. He had an intuition, suddenly, that she was far sicker than she had originally led him to believe.
“It’s a sty,” she said.
He said, “You are very tired.”
“Well, it wears me out to heave up my guts every day of the week. Here’s a teabag. Shit; it’s been used once. I use them and then dry them out. It’s OK once, but sometimes I find I’m reusing the same bag again and again. I’ll try to find a fresh one.” She continued to rummage.
The TV screen showed a picture. It was an animated horror: a vast hemorrhoid that swelled and pulsed angrily. “What are you watching?” Asher asked. He averted his gaze from the animation.
“There’s a new soap opera on. It just began the other day. ‘The Splendor of-‘ I forget. Somebody or something. It’s really interesting. They’ve been running it a lot.”
“You like the soaps?” he said.
“They keep me company. Turn up the sound.”
He turned up the sound. The soap opera had now resumed, replacing the animated hemorrhoid. An elderly bearded man, an exceedingly hairy old man, struggled with two popeyed arachnids who sought, apparently, to decapitate him. “Get your fucking mandibles off me!” the elderly man shouted, flailing about. The flash of laser beams ignited the screen. Herb Asher remembered once again the burning down of his communications gear by Yah; he felt his heart race in anxiety.
“If you don’t want to watch it-” Rybys said.
“It’s not that.” Telling her about Yah would be hard; he doubted if he could do it. “Something happened to me. Some- thing woke me.” He rubbed his eyes.
“I’ll bring you up to date,” Rybys said. “Elias Tate-”
“Who is Elias Tate?” Asher interrupted.
“The old bearded man; I remember what the program is called, now. ‘The Splendor of Elias Tate.’ Elias has fallen into the hands-although they don’t have hands, actually-of the ant- men of Sychron Two. There’s this queen who is really evil, named-I forget.” She reflected. “Hudwillub, I think. Yes, that’s it. Anyhow, Hudwillub wants Elias Tate dead. She’s really awful; you’ll see her. She has one eye.
“Gracious,” Asher said, not interested. “Rybys,” he said, “listen to me.”
As if she had not heard him, Rybys plodded on, “However, Elias has this friend Elisha McVane; they’re really good friends and they always help each other out. It’s sort of-” She glanced at Asher. “Like you and me. You know; helping each other. I fixed you dinner and you came over here because you were worried about me.”
“I came over here,” he said, “because I was told to.”
“But you were worried.”
“Yes,” he said.
40 Philip K. Dick The Divine Invasion
“Elisha McVane is a lot younger than Elias. He’s really good-looking. Anyhow, Hudwillub wants-”
“Yah sent me,” Asher said.
“Sent you what?”
“Here.” His heart continued to labor.
“Did he? That’s really interesting. Anyhow, Hudwillub is very beautiful. You’ll like her. I mean, you’ll like her physically. Well, let me put it this way; she’s objectively obviously attractive, but spiritually she’s lost. Elias Tate is a sort of external conscience for her. What do you take in your tea?”
“Did you hear-” he began and then gave up.
“Milk?” Rybys examined the contents of her refrigerator, got out a carton of milk, poured some of the milk into a glass, tasted it and made a face. “It’s sour. Goddam.” She poured the milk down the sink drain.
“What I am telling you,” Asher said, “is important. The deity of my hill woke me up in the night to tell me that you were in trouble. He burned down half my equipment. He erased all my Fox tapes.”
“You can get more from the mother ship.” Asher stared at her.
“Why are you staring at me?” Quickly, Rybys inspected the buttons of her robe. “I’m not unfastened, am I?”
Only mentally, he thought.
“Sugar?” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “I should notify the C-in-C on the mother ship. This is a major matter.”
Rybys said, “You do that. Contact the C-in-C and tell him that God talked to you.”
“Can I use your gear? I’ll report my meltdown at the same time. That’s my proof.”
“No,” she said.
“No?” He glared at her, baffled.
“That’s inductive reasoning, which is suspect. You can’t reason back from effects to causes.”