The Unteleported Man by Philip K. Dick

But Trails of Hoffman Limited had the inventive genius of half-senile but still crafty old Dr. Sepp von Einem. And—the inventor of the Telpor instrument might not have ceased with that construct.

He wondered if Horst Bertold had considered this.

It didn’t matter, because if von Einem had produced something else of equal—or of merely significant—value, it would show up now.

In the streets of Newcolonizedland, whatever Dr. Sepp von Einem and THL had over the years developed would be at this moment in full use. Because this was, for all participants, the Dies Irae, the Day of Wrath; now they were, like beasts in the field, being tried. And God help, Rachmael thought, the contender who was found wanting. Because out of this only one participant would live; there would be extended to the loser no par­tial, no half, life. Not in this arena.

He himself—he had only one task, as he saw it. That of getting Freya Holm out of Whale’s Mouth and back safely to Terra.

The eighteen-year journey, the odyssey aboard the Omphalos, learning Attic Greek so that he could read the Bachae in the original—that childlike fantasy had withered at the press of the iron glove of the reality-situation, the struggle going on—not eighteen years from now—but at this instant, at the Whale’s Mouth terminals of six thousand Telpor stations.

” ‘Sein Herz voll Hasz geladen,’ ” Horst Bertold said to Rachmael. “You speak Yiddish? You understand?”

“I speak a little Yiddish,” Rachmael said, “but that’s German. ‘His heart heavy with hate.’ What’s that from?”

“From the Civil War in Spain,” Bertold said. “From a song of the International Brigade. Germans, mostly, who had left the Third Reich to fight in Spain against Franco, in the 1930s. They were, I suppose, Com­munists. But—they were fighting Fascism, and very early; and they were Germans. So they were always ‘good’ Germans . . . what that man, Hans Beimler, hated was Nazism and Fascism, in all its stages and states and manifestations.” After a pause he said, “We fought the Nazis, too, we ‘good’ Germans; verges’ uns nie.” Forget us never, Bertold had said, quietly, calmly. Because we did not merely join the fight late, in the 1950s or ’60s, but from the start. The first human beings to fight to the death, to kill and be killed by the Nazis, were—

Germans.

“And Terra,” Bertold said to Rachmael, “ought not to forget that. As I hope they will not forget who at this moment is taking out Dr. Sepp von Einem and creatures allied with him. Theodoric Ferry, his boss . . . who, by the way, is an American.” He smiled at Rachmael. “But there are ‘good’ Americans. Despite the A-bomb dropped on those Japanese women and children and elderly.”

Rachmael was silent; he could not answer this.

“All right,” Bertold said, then. “We will put you together with a wep-x, a weapon expert. To see what gear you should have. And then good luck. I hope you bring back Miss Holm.” He smiled—fleetingly. And turned at once to other matters.

A minor UN official plucked at Rachmael’s sleeve. “I’m to take charge of your problem,” he explained. “I will be handling it from now on. Tell me, Mr. ben Applebaum; precisely what contemporary—and I do not mean last month’s or last year’s—weapons of war you are accustomed to operating, if any? And how recently you have been exposed to the neurological and bacterial—”

“I’ve had absolutely no military training,” Rachmael said. “Or antineuro or -bac modulation.”

“We can still assist you,” the minor UN official said. “There is certain equipment requiring no prior ex­perience. However—” He made a mark on the sheet at­tached to his clipboard. “This does make a difference; eighty percent of the hardware available would be useless to you.” He smiled encouragingly. “We must not let it get us down, Mr. ben Applebaum.”

“I won’t,” Rachmael said grimly. “So I’ll be teleported to Whale’s Mouth after all.”

“Yes, within a matter of an hour.”

“The unteleported man,” Rachmael murmured. “Will be teleported.” Instead of enduring the eighteen years aboard the Omphalos. Ironic.

“Are you capable morally,” the UN official inquired, “of employing a nerve gas, or would you prefer to—”

“Anything,” Rachmael said, “that’ll bring back Freya. Anything except the phosphorus weapons, the jellied petroleum products; I won’t use any of those, and also the bone-marrow destroyers—leave those out. But lead slugs, the old-fashioned muzzle-expelled shells; I’ll accept them, as well as the laser-beam artifacts.” He wondered what variety of weapon had gotten Matson Glazer-Holliday, the most professional of men in this area.

“We have something new,” the UN official said, con­sulting his clipboard, “and according to the Defense Department people very promising. It’s a time-warping construct that sets up a field which coagulates the—”

“Just equip me,” Rachmael said. “And get me over there. To her.”

“Right away,” the UN official promised, and led him rapidly down a side hall to a hi-speed descent ramp. To the UN Advance-weapons Archives.

At the retail outlet of Trails of Hoffman Limited, Jack and Ruth McElhatten and their two children emerged from a flapple taxi; a robot-like organism carted their luggage, all seven overstuffed seedy—borrowed for the most part—suitcases, as they entered the modern, small building which for them was to be the last stopping-point on Terra.

Going up to the counter, Jack McElhatten searched about for a clerk to wait on them. Jeez, he thought; just when you decide to make the Big Move they decide to step out for a coffee break.

A smartly uniformed armed UN soldier, with an arm­band identifying him as a member of the crack UAR division, approached him. “What did you wish?”

Jack McElhatten said, “Hell, we came here to emi­grate. I’ve got the poscreds.” He reached for his wallet. “Where are the forms to fill out, and then I know we got to take shots and—”

The UN soldier politely said, “Sir, have you watched your info media during the last forty-eight hours?”

“We’ve been packing.” Ruth McElhatten spoke up. “Why, what is it? Has something happened?”

And then, through an open rear door, Jack McElhat­ten saw it. The Telpor. And his heart bent with mingled dread and anticipation. What an admirably large move this was, this true migration; seeing the twin wall-like polar surfaces of the Telpor was to see—the frontier it­self. In his mind he recalled the years of TV scenes of grasslands, of miles of green, lush—

“Sir,” the UN soldier said, “read this notice.” He pointed to a square white with words so dark, so un-glamorous, that Jack McElhatten, even without reading them, felt the glow, the wonder of what for him was a long-held inner vision, depart.

“Oh good lord,” Ruth said, from beside him as she read the notice. “The UN—it’s closed down all the Telpor agencies. Emigration has been suspended.” She glanced in dismay at her husband. “Jack, it’s now illegal for us to emigrate, it says.”

The UN soldier said, “Later on, madam. Emigration will resume. When the situation is resolved.” He turned away, then, to halt a second couple, who, with four children, had entered the Trails of Hoffman office.

Through the still-open rear door, McElhatten saw, to his dumb disbelief, four work-garbed laborers; they were busily, sweatily, efficiently torch-cutting into sec­tions the Telpor equipment.

He then forced himself to read the notice.

After he had read it the UN soldier tapped him—not unkindly—on the shoulder, pointed out a nearby TV set, which, turned on, was being watched by the second couple and their four children. “These are Newcolon­izedland,” the UN soldier said. “You see?” His English was not too good, but he was attempting to explain; he wanted the McElhattens to understand why.

Approaching the TV set, Jack McElhatten saw gray, barracks-like structures with tiny, slotted windows like raptor eyes. And—high fences. He stared, uncompre­hendingly . . . and yet, underneath, comprehending completely; he did not even have to listen to the aud track, to the UN announcer.

Ruth whispered, “My god. It’s a—concentration camp.”

A puff of smoke and the top floors of the gray cement building disappeared; dwarfed dark shapes scampered, and rapid-fire weapons clattered in the background of the announcer’s British-type voice; the calm, reasonable commentary explained what did not need to be ex­plained.

At least not after this sight.

“Is that,” Ruth said to her husband, “how we would have lived over there?”

Presently he said, to her and their two children, “Come on. Let’s go home.” He signaled the robot-organism to pick their luggage up once more.

“But,” Ruth protested, “couldn’t the UN have helped us? They have all those welfare agencies—”

Jack McElhatten said, “The UN is protecting us now. And not with welfare agencies.” He indicated the work-garbed laborers busy dismantling the Telpor unit. “But so late—”

“Not,” he said, “too late.” He signaled the robot-thing to carry their seven bulging suitcases back outside onto the sidewalk; avoiding the many passing people, the dense, always dense, sidewalk traffic, he searched for a flapple taxi to take himself and his family home again to their miserably cramped, hated conapt.

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