Philip K. Dick - World of Chance.pdf

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WORLD
OF
CHANCE
Philip K. Dick
He sought to deliver
Society from the
collapse and chaos
of the world of 2203
A Universe
of Chaos and
Cynicism . . .
a society in which the very concept of honesty has ceased to exist . . . . In
the world of 2203, power and authority are distributed on a random basis,
taken and given in a chance manner that cannot be predicted.
Then, somehow, corruption sets in . . . the supreme authority is undermined;
even more disturbing, the principle of randomness - the very foundation on
which this civilization is built is being exploited by a fanatical crackpot.
CHAPTER I
THERE had been harbingers.
Early in May of 2203 newsmachines were excited by a flight of white crows over
Sweden. A series of unexplained fires demolished half the Oiseau-Lyre Hill, an
industrial pivot of the system. Small stones fell near work-camp installations
on Mars. At Batavia, the Directorate of the nine-planet Federation, a two-
headed calf was born, a sign that something of incredible magnitude was
brewing.
Everybody speculated on what the forces of Nature intended. Everybody guessed,
consulted, and argued about the bottle-the socialized instrument of chance.
Directorate fortune-tellers were booked up weeks in advance.
But one man's harbinger is another man's event. The first reaction from
Oiseau-Lyre to its limited catastrophe was to create total catastrophe for
half its employees. Fealty oaths were dissolved, and a variety of research
technicians were tossed out. Adrift, they became a further symptom of the
approaching moment-of-importance for the system. Most of these technicians
floundered and were lost among the masses. But not all.
Ted Benteley yanked his dismissal notice from the board and as he walked to
his office he tore the notice to bits. His reaction differed from that of
those around him; he was glad to have his oath severed. For thirteen years he
had been trying to break his fealty oath with Oiseau-Lyre.
He locked his office door, snapped off his Inter-Plan Visual Industries Corp.
screen, and did some thinking. It took only an hour to develop his plan of
action.
At noon Oiseau-Lyre's outworker department returned his power card. His one
chance out of six billion in the great lottery. His fragile possibility of
being twitched by
the random motion of the bottle to the Number One class position. Politically
speaking, he was back thirty-three years; the power-card was coded at the
moment of birth.
At two-thirty he dissolved his remaining fealty connections at Oiseau-Lyre;
they were mostly with himself as protector and somebody else as serf. By four
o'clock he had liquidated his assets and had bought a first-class transport
ticket. Before nightfall he was on his way out of Europe, heading for the
Indonesian Empire.
In Batavia he rented a room and unpacked his case; the rest of his possessions
were still in France. Curiously, his room overlooked the main Directorate
building. Like tropical flies people crept in and out of its many doors. All
roads, and all space-lanes, led to Batavia.
His funds didn't amount to much; he could stall only so long. From the Public
Information Library he picked up armloads of tape and a basic scanner. As the
days passed he built up information relating to all aspects of biochemistry,
the subject on which his original classification had been won. As he scanned
and crammed he kept one thought in mind: applications for positional-fealty
oaths were processed only once; if he failed in the first try he was finished.
That first try was going to be successful. He was free of the Hill system, and
he wasn't going back.
During the next five days he smoked endless cigarettes, paced his room, and
finally got out the yellow section of the ipvic directory to look up the local
girl agencies. His favourite agency had a nearby office; within an hour most
of his psychological problems were solved. With the aid of the blonde sent by
the agency and the cocktail bar down the street, he was able to last another
twenty-four hours. But that was as far as he could string it out; the time to
act had come.
A cold chill lay over him as he got out of bed. With Quizmaster Verrick
employment oaths were apparently handed out haphazardly. It was impossible to
deduce what factor, if any, determined successful application.
He shaved, dressed, paid Lori her wages, and sent her back to the agency.
Loneliness hit him hard. And fear. He surrendered his room, stored his suit-
case, and bought himself a second good luck charm. In a public washroom he
buttoned the charm inside his shirt and dropped a coin in the phenol-barb
dispenser. The sedative calmed him; he emerged and flagged down a robot taxi.
"Main Directorate building," he told the driver, "and take your time."
"All right, sir or madam," the MacMillan robot answered; MacMillans weren't
capable of fine discriminations.
Spring air billowed into the cab as it zipped above the rooftops. Benteley
wasn't interested; his eyes were fixed on the growing syndrome of buildings
ahead. His written papers had been shot in the night before. He had waited
about the right time; they should be appearing on the desk of the first
checker in the chain of Directorate officials.
"Here we are, sir or madam." The robot taxi settled down and grappled itself
to a halt. Benteley stepped from the open door.
On a main pedestrian artery he paused to light a cigarette. His hands weren't
shaking, not really. He shoved his case under his arm as he reached the
processing lounge. Perhaps by this time next month he would be under fealty to
the Directorate . . . he touched one of the charms inside his shirt.
"Ted," a voice came, small and urgent. "Wait!"
He halted as Lori threaded her way through the crowd and came to him.
"I have something for you," she said breathlessly. "I knew I'd catch you
here."
"What is it?" Benteley demanded. He knew that the Directorate's special Corps
was close by; he didn't want his intimate thoughts known by eighty bored
telepaths.
Lori reached round his neck and clicked something in place. It was another
good luck charm.
Benteley examined the charm. "You think it'll do me any good?" he asked.
"I hope so." She touched his arm briefly. "Thanks for being so nice. You
hustled me off before I could tell you." She lingered plaintively. "If you get
taken on you'll probably stay here in Batavia."
Irritably, Benteley answered: "You're being observed. Verrick has observers
planted all over the place."
"I don't mind," Lori said wistfully. "Call girls have nothing to conceal."
"I don't like it." Benteley shrugged. "But if I'm going to hook on here I'll
have to get used to being watched."
He moved towards the central desk, his identifying cards ready. A few moments
later the MacMillan official accepted them.
"All right, Ted Benteley. You may go in."
Benteley stubbed out his cigarette and turned towards the inner offices.
"I'll look you up," he murmured to Lori as he stepped through the door.
He was inside: it had begun.
A small middle-aged man with steel-rimmed glasses and a tiny waxed moustache
was standing by the door watching him intently.
"You're Benteley?"
"That's right," Benteley answered. "I'm here to see Quizmaster Verrick."
"Why?"
"I'm looking for a class 8-8 position."
A girl pushed abruptly into the office. Ignoring Benteley, she said rapidly:
"Well, it's over." She touched her temple. "See? Now are you satisfied?"
"Don't blame me," the small man said. "It's the law."
"The law!" The girl shrugged her crimson hair out of
her eyes. She grabbed a packet of cigarettes from the desk and lit up with
shaky fingers. "Let's get out, Peter. There's nothing of importance left."
"You know I'm staying," the small man said.
The girl half-turned as she noticed Benteley for the first time. Her green
eyes flickered with interest.
"Who are you?"
"Maybe you'd better come back some other time," the small man said to
Benteley. "This isn't exactly the--"
"I didn't come this far to get chucked out," Benteley said hoarsely. "Where's
Verrick?"
The girl eyed him curiously. "You want to see Reese? What are you selling?"
"I'm a biochemist," Benteley answered, "looking for a class 8-8 position."
Amusement twisted the girl's lips. "Is that so? Interesting. . . ." She
shrugged her bare shoulders. "Swear him, Peter."
The small man hesitated.
"I'm Peter Wakeman," he said to Benteley. "This girl is Eleanor Stevens,
Verrick's private secretary."
It wasn't exactly what Benteley had expected. There was a silence as the three
of them appraised one another.
"The MacMillan passed him in," Wakeman said presently. "There's an open call
for 8-8 people. But I think Verrick has no need for more biochemists."
"What do you know about it?" Eleanor Stevens demanded. "You're not running
personnel."
"I'm using common sense." Very deliberately Wakeman moved between the girl and
Benteley. "I'm sorry," he said to the man. "You're wasting your time here. Go
to the Hill offices-they're always buying and selling biochemists."
"I know," Benteley said. "I've worked for the Hill system since I was
sixteen."
"Then what do you want here?" Eleanor asked.
"Oiseau-Lyre dropped me."
"Go over to Soong."
"I'm not working for any more Hills!" Benteley's voice lifted harshly. "I'm
through with the Hills."
"Why?" Wakeman asked.
Benteley grunted.
"The Hills are corrupt. The whole system's decaying. It's up for sale to the
highest bidder . . . and bidding's going on."
Wakeman pondered. "I don't see what that matters to you. You have your work;
that's what you're supposed to be thinking about."
"For my time, skill and loyalty I get money," Benteley agreed. "I have a lab
and equipment that cost more to build than I'll earn in a lifetime. But what
is the result of my work? Where does it go?" Benteley struggled to continue.
"I stood the smell of Oiseau-Lyre as long as possible. The Hills are supposed
to be separate, independent economic units; actually, they're sliding together
into a homogeneous mass. It isn't merely a question of mis-shipments and
expense padding and doctored tax returns. You know the Hill slogan: SERVICE IS
GOOD AND BETTER SERVICE IS BEST. That's a laugh! You think the Hills care
about serving anybody? Instead of existing for the public good they're
parasites on the public."
"I never imagined the Hills were philanthropic organizations," Wakeman said.
Benteley moved away from them. Why did he get upset about the Hills? Nobody
had complained yet. But he was complaining. Maybe it was lack of realism on
his part, an anachronistic survival the child-guidance clinic hadn't been able
to shake out of him. Whatever it was, he had taken as much as he could stand.
"How do you know the Directorate is any better?" Wakeman asked. "You have a
lot of illusions about it, I think."
"Let him swear," Eleanor said indifferently.
Wakeman shook his head. "I won't swear him."
"I will, then," the girl answered.
From the desk drawer Wakeman got a flask and poured himself a drink. "Anybody
care to join me?"
Benteley turned irritably. "Is this the way the Directorate is run?"
Wakeman smiled. "Your illusions are being shattered. Stay where you are,
Benteley; you don't know when you're well off."
Eleanor slid from the desk and hurried out of the room. She returned in a
moment with the customary symbol-representation of the Quizmaster. "Come over
here, Benteley. I'll accept your oath." She placed the small plastic flesh-
coloured bust of Reese Verrick in the centre of the desk and turned briskly to
Benteley. As Benteley moved towards the desk she reached up and touched the
cloth bag hanging from a string round his neck, the charm Lori had put there.
"What kind of charm is that?" she asked.
Benteley showed her the bit of magnetized steel and white powder.
"Virgin's milk," he explained curtly.
"That's all you carry?" Eleanor indicated the array of charms dangling on her
chest. "I don't understand how people manage with only one charm." Her green
eyes danced. "Maybe you don't! Maybe that's why you have bad luck."
"I have a high positive scale," Benteley replied. "And I have two other
charms. Somebody gave me this."
She leaned close and examined it intently. "It's the kind of charm a woman
would buy. Expensive, but flashy."
"Is it true," Benteley asked her, "that Verrick doesn't carry any charms?"
"That's right," Wakeman spoke up. "He doesn't need them. When the bottle
twitched him to One he was already class six-three. Talk about luck! He's
risen all the way to the top exactly as you see on the children's edutapes.
Luck leaks out of his pores."
"I've seen people touch him hoping to get some of it," Eleanor said. "I don't
blame them. I've touched him myself, many times."
"What good has it done you?" Wakeman asked quietly; he indicated the girl's
discoloured temples.
"I wasn't born at the same time and place as Reese," Eleanor answered shortly.
"I don't hold with astro-cosmology," Wakeman said. "Luck comes in streaks."
Speaking slowly and intently to Benteley, he continued: "Verrick may have it
now, but that doesn't mean he'll always have it." He gestured vaguely towards
the floor above, "They like to see some kind of balance." He added hastily:
"I'm not a Christian or anything like that, you understand. I know it's all
chance. Everybody gets his chance. And the high and the mighty always fall."
Eleanor shot Wakeman a warning look. "Be careful!"
Without taking his eyes from Benteley, Wakeman said slowly:
"You're out of fealty; take advantage of that. Don't swear yourself on to
Verrick. You'll be stuck to him, as one of his permanent serfs."
Benteley was chilled. "You mean I'm supposed to take an oath directly to
Verrick? Not a positional oath to the Quizmaster?"
"That's right," Eleanor said.
"Why?"
"I can't give you information. Later on there'll be an assignment for you in
terms of your class requirements; that's guaranteed."
Benteley gripped his case and moved away. His expectations had fallen apart.
"I'm in?" he demanded, half-angrily. "I'm acceptable?"
"Verrick wants all eight-eight's he can get. You can't miss."
"Wait," Bentley said, confused and uncertain. "Give me time to decide." Then
he withdrew.
Eleanor wandered about the room. "Any more news of that fellow?" she asked
Wakeman.
"Only the initial closed-circuit warning to me," Wakeman said. "His name is
Leon Cartwright. He's a member of some kind of cult. I'm curious to see what
he's like."
"I'm not." Eleanor halted at the window and gazed
down at the streets below. "Maybe I made a mistake. But it's over; there's
nothing I can do."
"When you're older you'll realize how much of a mistake," Wakeman agreed.
Fear came to the girl's face. "I'll never leave Verrick. He'll take care of
me; he always has."
"The Corps will protect you."
"I don't want anything to do with the Corps." Her lips drew back against her
even, white teeth. "My family. My willing Uncle Peter-up for sale, like his
Hills." She indicated Benteley. "And he thinks he won't find it here."
"It's not a question of sale," Wakeman said. "It's a principle. The Corps is
above any man."
"The Corps is a fixture, like this desk. You buy all the furniture, the
lights, the ipvics, the Corps." Disgust glowed in her eyes. "A Prestonite, is
that it?"
"That's it."
"No wonder you're anxious to see him. In a morbid way I suppose I'm curious,
too."
At the desk, Benteley roused himself from his thoughts. "All right," he said
aloud. "I'm ready."
"Fine!" Eleanor slipped behind the desk, one hand raised, the other on the
bust. "You know the oath?"
Benteley knew the fealty oath by heart, but gnawing doubt slowed him almost to
a halt. Wakeman stood examining his nails, looking disapproving and bored.
Eleanor Stevens watched avidly, her face intense with emotions that altered
each moment. With a growing conviction that things were not right, Benteley
began reciting his fealty oath to the small plastic bust.
The doors of the office slid back and a group of men entered noisily. One
towered over the rest; a huge man, lumbering and broad-shouldered, with a
grey, weathered face and thick iron-streaked hair. Reese Verrick, surrounded
by those of his staff in personal fealty to him, halted as he saw the
procedure taking place at the desk.

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