Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep (18 page)

SEE IF IT’S REALLY THEM.

Getting up, he walked glumly into the living room. How would I know if it was them? he inquired of himself. He opened the door.

Two people stood in the dim hall, a small woman, lovely in the manner of Greta Garbo, with blue eyes and yellow-blond hair; the man larger, with intelligent eyes but flat, Mongolian features which gave him a brutal look. The woman wore a fashionable wrap, high shiny boots, and tapered pants; the man lounged in a rumpled shirt and stained trousers, giving an air of almost deliberate vulgarity. He smiled at Isidore but his bright, small eyes remained oblique.

“We’re looking—” the small blond woman began, but then she saw past Isidore; her face dissolved in rapture and she whisked past him, calling, “Pris! How are you?” Isidore turned. The two women were embracing. He stepped aside, and Roy Baty entered, somber and large, smiling his crooked, tuneless smile.

14

“Can we talk?” Roy said, indicating Isidore.

Pris, vibrant with bliss, said, “It’s okay up to a point.” To Isidore she said, “Excuse us.” She led the Batys off to one side and muttered at them; then the three of them returned to confront J. R. Isidore, who felt uncomfortable and out of place. “This is Mr. Isidore,” Pris said. “He’s taking care of me.” The words came out tinged with an almost malicious sarcasm; Isidore blinked. “See? He brought me some natural food.”

“Food,” Irmgard Baty echoed, and trotted lithely into the kitchen to see. “Peaches,” she said, immediately picking up a bowl and spoon; smiling at Isidore, she ate with brisk little animal bites. Her smile, different from Pris’s, provided simple warmth; it had no veiled overtones.

Going after her—he felt attracted to her—Isidore said, “You’re from Mars.”

“Yes, we gave up.” Her voice bobbed, as, with birdish acumen, her blue eyes sparkled at him. “What an awful building you live in. Nobody else lives here, do they? We didn’t see any other lights.”

“I live upstairs,” Isidore said.

“Oh, I thought you and Pris were maybe living together.” Irmgard Baty did not sound disapproving; she meant it, obviously, as merely a statement.

Dourly—but still smiling his smile—Roy Baty said, “Well, they got Polokov.”

The joy which had appeared on Pris’s face at seeing her friends at once melted away. “Who else?”

“They got Garland,” Roy Baty said. “They got Anders and Gitchel and then just a little earlier today they got Luba.” He delivered the news as if, perversely, it pleased him to be telling this. As if he derived pleasure from Pris’s shock. “I didn’t think they’d get Luba; remember I kept saying that during the trip?”

“So that leaves—” Pris said.

“The three of us,” Irmgard said with apprehensive urgency.

“That’s why we’re here.” Roy Baty’s voice boomed out with new, unexpected warmth; the worse the situation, the more he seemed to enjoy it. Isidore could not fathom him in the slightest.

“Oh god,” Pris said, stricken.

“Well, they had this investigator, this bounty hunter,” Irmgard said in agitation, “named Dave Holden.” Her lips dripped venom at the name. “And then Polokov almost got him.”

“
Almost
got him,” Roy echoed, his smile now immense.

“So he’s in this hospital, this Holden,” Irmgard continued. “And evidently they gave his list to another bounty hunter, and Polokov almost got him, too. But it wound up with him retiring Polokov. And then he went after Luba; we know that because she managed to get hold of Garland and he sent out someone to capture the bounty hunter and take him to the Mission Street building. See, Luba called us after Garland’s agent picked up the bounty hunter. She was sure it would be okay; she was sure that Garland would kill him.” She added, “But evidently something went wrong on Mission. We don’t know what. Maybe we never will.”

Pris asked, “Does this bounty hunter have our names?”

“Oh yes, dear, I suppose he does,” Irmgard said. “But he doesn’t know where we are. Roy and I aren’t going back to our apartment; we have as much stuff in our car as we could cram in, and we’ve decided to take one of these abandoned apartments in this ratty old building.”

“Is that wise?” Isidore spoke up, summoning courage. “T-T-To all be in one place?”

“Well, they got everybody else,” Irmgard said, matter-of-factly; she, too, like her husband, seemed strangely resigned, despite her superficial agitation. All of them, Isidore thought; they’re all strange. He sensed it without being able to finger it. As if a peculiar and malign
abstractness
pervaded their mental processes. Except, perhaps, for Pris; certainly she was radically frightened. Pris seemed almost right, almost natural. But—

“Why don’t you move in with him?” Roy said to Pris, indicating Isidore. “He could give you a certain amount of protection.”

“A chickenhead?” Pris said. “I’m not going to live with a chickenhead.” Her nostrils flared.

Irmgard said rapidly, “I think you’re foolish to be a snob at a time like this. Bounty hunters move fast; he may try to tie it up this evening. There may be a bonus in it for him if he got it done by—”

“Keerist, close the hall door,” Roy said, going over to it; he slammed it with one blow of his hand, thereupon summarily locking it. “I think you should move in with Isidore, Pris, and I think Irm and I should be here in the same building; that way we can help each other. I’ve got some electronic components in my car, junk I ripped off the ship. I’ll install a two-way bug so Pris, you can hear us and we can hear you, and I’ll rig up an alarm system that any of the four of us can set off. It’s obvious that the synthetic identities didn’t work out, even Garland’s. Of course, Garland put his head in the noose by bringing the bounty hunter to the Mission Street building; that was a mistake. And Polokov, instead of staying as far away as possible from the hunter, chose to approach him. We won’t do that; we’ll stay put.” He did not sound worried in the slightest; the situation seemed to rouse him to crackling near-manic energy. “I think—” He sucked in his breath noisily, holding the attention of everyone else in the room, including Isidore. “
I
think that there’s a reason why the three of us are still alive. I think if he had any clue as to where we are, he’d have shown up here by now. The whole idea in bounty hunting is to work as fast as hell. That’s where the profit comes.”

“And if he waits,” Irmgard said in agreement, “we slip away, like we’ve done. I bet Roy is right; I bet he has our names but no location. Poor Luba; stuck in the War Memorial Opera House, right out in the open. No difficulty finding her.”

“Well,” Roy said stiltedly, “she wanted it that way; she believed she’d be safer as a public figure.”

“You told her otherwise,” Irmgard said.

“Yes,” Roy agreed, “I told her, and I told Polokov not to try to pass himself off as a W.P.O. man. And I told Garland that one of his own bounty hunters would get him, which is very possibly, just conceivably, exactly what did happen.” He rocked back and forth on his heavy heels, his face wise with profundity.

Isidore spoke up. “I-I-I gather from 1–1-listening to Mr. Baty that he’s your n-n-natural leader.”

“Oh yes, Roy’s a leader,” Irmgard said.

Pris said, “He organized our—trip. From Mars to here.”

“Then,” Isidore said, “you better do what h-h-he suggests.” His voice broke with hope and tension. “I think it would be t-t-terrific, Pris, if you l-l-lived with me. I’ll stay home a couple of days from my job—I have a vacation coming. To make sure you’re okay.” And maybe Milt, who was very inventive, could design a weapon for him to use. Something imaginative, which would slay bounty hunters…whatever they were. He had an indistinct, glimpsed darkly impression: of something merciless that carried a printed list and a gun, that moved machine-like through the flat, bureaucratic job of killing. A thing without emotions, or even a face; a thing that if killed got replaced immediately by another resembling it. And so on, until everyone real and alive had been shot.

Incredible, he thought, that the police can’t do anything. I can’t believe that.
These people must have done something.
Perhaps they emigrated back to Earth illegally. We’re told—the TV tells us—to report any landing of a ship outside the approved pads. The police must be watching for this.

But even so, no one got killed deliberately anymore. It ran contrary to Mercerism.

“The chickenhead,” Pris said, “likes me.”

“Don’t call him that, Pris,” Irmgard said; she gave Isidore a look of compassion. “Think what he could call
you.”

Pris said nothing. Her expression became enigmatic.

“I’ll go start rigging up the bug,” Roy said. “Irmgard and I’ll stay in this apartment; Pris you go with—Mr. Isidore.” He started toward the door, striding with amazing speed for a man so heavy. In a blur he disappeared out the door, which banged back as he flung it open. Isidore, then, had a momentary, strange hallucination; he saw briefly a frame of metal, a platform of pullies and circuits and batteries and turrets and gears—and then the slovenly shape of Roy Baty faded back into view. Isidore felt a laugh rise up inside him; he nervously choked it off. And felt bewildered.

“A man,” Pris said distantly, “of action. Too bad he’s so poor with his hands, doing mechanical things.”

“If we get saved,” Irmgard said in a scolding, severe tone, as if chiding her, “it’ll be because of Roy.”

“But it is worth it,” Pris said, mostly to herself. She shrugged, then nodded to Isidore. “Okay, J. R. I’ll move in with you and you can protect me.”

“A-A-All of you,” Isidore said immediately.

Solemnly, in a formal little voice, Irmgard Baty said to him, “I want you to know we appreciate it very much, Mr. Isidore. You’re the first friend I think any of us have found here on Earth. It’s very nice of you and maybe sometime we can repay you.” She glided over to pat him on the arm.

“Do you have any pre-colonial fiction I could read?” he asked her.

“Pardon?” Irmgard Baty glanced inquiringly at Pris.

“Those old magazines,” Pris said; she had gathered a few things together to take with her, and Isidore lifted the bundle from her arms, feeling the glow that comes only from satisfaction at a goal achieved. “No, J. R. We didn’t bring any back with us, for reasons I explained.”

“I’ll g-g-go to a library tomorrow,” he said, going out into the hall. “And g-g-get you and me, too, some to read, so you’ll have something to do besides just waiting.”

He led Pris upstairs to his own apartment, dark and empty and stuffy and lukewarm as it was; carrying her possessions into the bedroom, he at once turned on the heater, lights, and the TV to its sole channel.

“I like this,” Pris said, but in the same detached and remote tone as before. She meandered about, hands thrust in her skirt pockets; on her face a sour expression, almost righteous in the degree of its displeasure, appeared. In contrast to her stated reaction.

“What’s the matter?” he asked as he laid her possessions out on the couch.

“Nothing.” She halted at the picture window, drew the drapes back, and gazed morosely out.

“If you think they’re looking for you—” he began.

“It’s a dream,” Pris said. “Induced by drugs that Roy gave me.”

“P-Pardon?”

“You really think that bounty hunters exist?”

“Mr. Baty said they killed your friends.”

“Roy Baty is as crazy as I am,” Pris said. “Our trip was between a mental hospital on the East Coast and here. We’re all schizophrenic, with defective emotional lives—flattening of affect, it’s called. And we have group hallucinations.”

“I didn’t think it was true,” he said, full of relief.

“Why didn’t you?” She swiveled to stare intently at him; her scrutiny was so strict that he felt himself flushing.

“B-B-Because things like that don’t happen. The g-g-government never kills anyone, for any crime. And Mercerism—”

“But you see,” Pris said, “if you’re not human, then it’s all different.”

“That’s not true. Even animals—even eels and gophers and snakes and spiders—are sacred.”

Pris, still regarding him fixedly, said, “So it can’t be, can it? As you say, even animals are protected by law. All life. Everything organic that wriggles or squirms or burrows or flies or swarms or lays eggs or—” She broke off, because Roy Baty had appeared, abruptly throwing the door of the apartment open and entering; a trail of wire rustled after him.

“Insects,” he said, showing no embarrassment at overhearing them, “are especially sacrosanct.” Lifting a picture from the wall of the living room, he attached a small electronic device to the nail, stepped back, viewed it, then replaced the picture. “Now the alarm.” He gathered up the trailing wire, which led to a complex assembly. Smiling his discordant smile, he showed the assembly to Pris and John Isidore. “The alarm. These wires go under the carpet; they’re antennae. It picks up the presence of a—” He hesitated. “A mentational entity,” he said obscurely, “which isn’t one of us four.”

“So it rings,” Pris said, “and then what? He’ll have a gun. We can’t fall on him and bite him to death.”

“This assembly,” Roy continued, “has a Penfield unit built into it. When the alarm has been triggered, it radiates a mood of panic to the—intruder. Unless he acts very fast, which he may. Enormous panic; I have the gain turned all the way up. No human being can remain in the vicinity more than a matter of seconds. That’s the nature of panic: it leads to random circus-motions, purposeless flight, and muscle and neural spasms.” He concluded, “Which will give us an opportunity to get him. Possibly. Depending on how good he is.”