Philip K Dick - Project Earth.pdf - Philip K.Dick - margozap

The sound echoed hollowly through the big frame house. It vibrated among the

dishes in the kitchen, the gutters along the roof, thumping slowly and evenly like

distant thunder. From time to time it ceased, but then it began again, booming

through the quiet night, a relentless sound, brutal in its regularity. From the top floor

of the big house.

In the bathroom the three children huddled around the chair, nervous and

hushed, pushing against each other with curiosity.

"You sure he can't see us?" Tommy rasped.

"How could he see us? Just don't make any noise." Dave Grant shifted on the

chair, his face to the wall. "Don't talk so loud." He went on looking, ignoring them

both.

"Let me see," Joan whispered, nudging her brother with a sharp elbow. "Get out of

the way."

"Shut up." Dave pushed her back. "I can see better now." He turned up the light.

"I want to see," Tommy said. He pushed Dave off the chair onto the bathroom

floor. "Come on."

Dave withdrew sullenly. "It's our house."

Tommy stepped cautiously up onto the chair. He put his eye to the crack, his face

against the wall. For a time he saw nothing. The crack was narrow and the light on

the other side was bad. Then, gradually, he began to make out shapes, forms

beyond the wall.

Edward Billings was sitting at an immense old-fashioned desk. He had stopped

typing and was resting his eyes. From his vest pocket he had taken a round pocket

watch. Slowly, carefully, he wound the great watch. Without his glasses his lean,

withered face seemed naked and bleak, the features of some elderly bird. Then he

put his glasses on again and drew his chair closer to the desk.

He began to type, working with expert fingers the towering mass of metal and

parts that reared up before him. Again the ominous booming echoed through the

house, resuming its insistent beat.

Mr Billings's room was dark and littered. Books and papers lay everywhere, in

piles and stacks, on the desk, on the table, in heaps on the floor. The walls were

covered with charts, anatomy charts, maps, astronomy charts, signs of the zodiac.

By the windows rows of dust-covered chemical bottles and packages lay stacked. A

stuffed bird stood on the top of the bookcase, gray and drooping. On the desk was a

huge magnifying glass, Greek and Hebrew dictionaries, a postage stamp box, a bone

letter opener. Against the door a curling strip of flypaper moved with the air currents

rising from the gas heater.

The remains of a magic lantern lay against one wall. A black satchel with clothes

piled on it. Shirts and socks and a long frock coat, faded and threadbare. Heaps of

newspapers and magazines, tied with brown cord. A great black umbrella against the

table, a pool of sticky water around its metal point. A glass frame of dried butterflies,

pressed into yellowing cotton.

And at the desk the huge old man hunched over his ancient typewriter and heaps

of notes and papers.

"Gosh," Tommy said.

Edward Billings was working on his report. The report was open on the desk

beside him, an immense book, leather-bound, bulging at its cracked seams. He was

transferring material into it from his heaps of notes.

The steady thumping of the great typewriter made the things in the bathroom

rattle and shake, the light fixture, the bottles and tubes in the medicine cabinet.

Even the floor under the children's feet.

"He's some kind of Communist agent," Joan said. "He's drawing maps of the city

so he can set off bombs when Moscow gives the word."

The heck he is," Dave said angrily.

"Don't you see all the maps and pencils and papers? Why else would— "

"Be quiet," Dave snapped. "He will hear us. He is not a spy. He's too old to be a

spy."

"What is he, then?"

"I don't know. But he isn't a spy. You're sure dumb. Anyhow, spies have beards."

"Maybe he's a criminal," Joan said.

"I talked to him once," Dave said. "He was coming downstairs. He spoke to me

and gave me some candy out of a bag."

"What kind of candy was it?"

"I don't know. Hard candy. It wasn't any good."

"What's he do?" Tommy asked, turning from the crack.

"Sits in his room all day. Typing."

"Doesn't he work?"

Dave sneered. "That's what he does. He writes on his report. He's an official with

a company."

"What company?"

"I forget."

"Doesn't he ever go out?"

"He goes out on the roof."

"On the roof?"

"He has a porch he goes out on. We fixed it. It's part of the apartment. He's got a

garden. He comes downstairs and gets dirt from the back yard."

"Shhh!" Tommy warned. "He turned around."

Edward Billings had got to his feet. He was covering the typewriter with a black

cloth, pushing it back and gathering up the pencils and erasers. He opened the desk

drawer and dropped the pencils into it.

"He's through," Tommy said. "He's finished working."

The old man removed his glasses and put them away in a case. He dabbed at his

forehead wearily, loosening his collar and necktie. His neck was long and the cords

stood out from yellow, wrinkled skin. His adam's apple bobbed up and down as he

sipped some water from a glass.

His eyes were blue and faded, almost without color. For a moment he gazed

directly at Tommy, his hawk-like face blank. Then abruptly he left the room, going

through a door.

"He's going to bed," Tommy said.

Mr Billings returned, a towel over his arm. At the desk he stopped and laid the

towel over the back of the chair. He lifted the massive report book and carried it

from the desk over to the bookcase, holding it tightly with both hands. It was heavy.

He laid it down and left the room again.

The report was very close. Tommy could make out the gold letters stamped into

the cracked leather binding. He gazed at the letters a long time— until Joan finally

pushed him away from the crack, shoving him impatiently off the chair.

Tommy stepped down and moved away, awed and fascinated by what he had

seen. The great report book, the huge volume of material on which the old man

worked, day after day. In the flickering light from the lamp on the desk he had easily

been able to make out the gold-stamped words on the ragged leather binding.

PROJECT B: EARTH.

"Let's go," Dave said. "He'll come in here in a couple minutes. He might catch us

watching."

"You're afraid of him," Joan taunted.

"So are you. So is Mom. So is everybody." He glanced at Tommy. "You afraid of

him?"

Tommy shook his head. "I'd sure like to know what's in that book," he murmured.

"I'd sure like to know what that old man is doing."

The late afternoon sunlight shone down bright and cold. Edward Billings came

slowly down the back steps, an empty pail in one hand, rolled-up newspapers under

his arm. He paused a moment, shielding his eyes and gazing around him. Then he

disappeared into the back yard, pushing through the thick wet grass.

Tommy stepped out from behind the garage. He raced silently up the steps two at

a time. He entered the building, hurrying down the dark corridor.

A moment later he stood before the door of Edward Billings's apartment, his chest

rising and falling, listening intently.

There was no sound.

Tommy tried the knob. It turned easily. He pushed. The door swung open and a

musty cloud of warm air drifted past him out into the corridor.

He had little time. The old man would be coming back with his pail of dirt from the

yard.

Tommy entered the room and crossed to the bookcase, his heart pounding

excitedly. The huge report book lay among heaps of notes and bundles of clippings.

He pushed the papers away, sliding them from the book. He opened it quickly, at

random, the thick pages crackling and bending.

Denmark.

Figures and facts. Endless facts, pages and columns, row after row. The lines of

type danced before his eyes. He could make little out of them. He turned to another

section.

New York.

Facts about New York. He struggled to understand the column heads. The number

of people. What they did. How they lived. What they earned. How they spent their

time. Their beliefs. Politics. Philosophy. Morals. Their age. Health. Intelligence.

Graphs and statistics, averages and evaluations.

Evaluations. Appraisals. He shook his head and turned to another section.

California.

Population. Wealth. Activity of the state government. Ports and harbors. Facts,

facts, facts—

Facts on everything. Everywhere. He thumbed through the report. On every part

of the world. Every city, every state, every country. Any and all possible information.

Tommy closed the report uneasily. He wandered restlessly around the room,

examining the heaps of notes and papers, the bundles of clippings and charts. The

old man, typing day after day. Gathering facts, facts about the whole world. The

earth. A report on the earth, the earth and everything on it. All the people.

Everything they did and thought, their actions, deeds, achievements, beliefs,

prejudices. A great report of all the information in the whole world.

Tommy picked up the big magnifying glass from the desk. He examined the

surface of the desk with it, studying the wood. After a moment he put down the

glass and picked up the bone letter knife. He put down the letter knife and examined

the broken magic lantern in the corner. The frame of dead butterflies. The drooping

stuffed bird. The bottles of chemicals.

He left the room, going out onto the roof porch. The late afternoon sunlight

flickered fitfully; the sun was going down. In the center of the porch was a wooden

frame, dirt and grass heaped around it. Along the rail were big earthen jars, sacks of

fertilizer, damp packages of seeds. An over-turned spray gun. A dirty trowel. Strips

of carpet and a rickety chair. A sprinkling can.

Over the wood frame was a wire netting. Tommy bent down, peering through the

netting. He saw plants, small plants in rows. Some moss, growing on the ground.

Tangled plants, tiny and very intricate.

At one place some dried grass was heaped up in a pile. Like some sort of cocoon.

Bugs? Insects of some sort? Animals?

He took a straw and poked it through the netting at the dried grass. The grass

stirred. Something was in it. There were other cocoons, several of them, here and

there among the plants.

Suddenly something scuttled out of one of the cocoons, racing across the grass. It

squeaked in fright. A second followed it. Pink, running quickly. A small herd of

shrilling pink things, two inches high, running and dashing among the plants.

Tommy leaned closer, squinting excitedly through the netting, trying to see what

they were. Hairless. Some kind of hairless animals. But tiny, tiny as grasshoppers.

Baby things? His pulse raced wildly. Baby things or maybe—

A sound. He turned quickly, rigid.

Edward Billings stood at the door, gasping for breath. He set down the pail of dirt,

sighing and feeling for his handkerchief in the pocket of his dark blue coat. He

mopped his forehead silently, gazing at the boy standing by the frame.

"Who are you, young man?" Billings said, after a moment. "I don't remember

seeing you before."

Tommy shook his head. "No."

"What are you doing here?"

"Nothing."

"Would you like to carry this pail out onto the porch for me? It's heavier than I

realized."

Tommy stood for a moment. Then he came over and picked up the pail. He

carried it out onto the roof porch and put it down by the wood frame.

"Thank you," Billings said. "I appreciate that." His keen, faded-blue eyes flickered

as he studied the boy, his gaunt face shrewd, yet not unkind. "You look pretty strong

to me. How old are you? About eleven?"

Tommy nodded. He moved back toward the railing. Below, two or three stories

down, was the street. Mr Murphy was walking along, coming home from the office.

Some kids were playing at the corner. A young woman across the street was

watering her lawn, a blue sweater around her slim shoulders. He was fairly safe. If

the old man tried to do

anything— "Why did you come here?" Billings asked. Tommy said nothing. They

stood looking at each other, the stooped old man, immense

in his dark old-fashioned suit, the young boy in a red sweater and jeans, a beanie

cap on his head, tennis shoes and freckles. Presently Tommy glanced toward the

wood frame covered with netting, then up at Billings.

"That? You wanted to see that?"

"What's in there? What are they?"

"They?"

"The things. Bugs? I never saw anything like them. What are they?"

Billings walked slowly over. He bent down and unfastened the corner of the

netting.

"I'll show you what they are. If you're interested." He twisted the netting loose and

pulled

it back. Tommy came over, his eyes wide. "Well?" Billings said presently. "You can

see what they are." Tommy whistled softly. "I thought maybe they were." He

straightened up slowly, his

face pale. "I thought maybe— but I wasn't sure. Little tiny men!"

"Not exactly," Mr Billings said. He sat down heavily in the rickety chair. From his

coat he took a pipe and a worn tobacco pouch. He filled the pipe slowly, shaking

tobacco into it. "Not exactly men."

Tommy continued to gaze down into the frame. The cocoons were tiny huts, put

together by the little men. Some of them had come out in the open now. They gazed

up at him, standing together. Tiny pink creatures, two inches high. Naked. That was

why they were pink.

"Look closer," Billings murmured. "Look at their heads. What do you see?"

"They're so small— "

"Go get the glass from the desk. The big magnifying glass." He watched Tommy

hurry

into the study and come out quickly with the glass. "Now tell me what you see."

Tommy examined the figures through the glass. They seemed to be men, all right.

Arms, legs— some were women. Their heads. He squinted. And then recoiled.

"What's the matter?" Billings grunted. "They're— they're queer." "Queer?" Billings

smiled. "Well, it all depends on what you're used to. They're

different— from you. But they're not queer. There's nothing wrong with them. At

least, I hope there's nothing wrong." His smile faded, and he sat sucking on his pipe,

deep in silent thought.

"Did you make them?" Tommy asked.

"I?" Billings removed his pipe. "No, not I."

"Where did you get them?"

"They were lent to me. A trial group. In fact, the trial group. They're new. Very

new."

"You want— you want to sell one of them?"

Philip K Dick - Project Earth.pdf

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