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Eye In The Sky
Philip K. Dick
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Eye In The Sky
Philip K. Dick
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"I have never seen [its] theme handled with greater technical dexterity or given more psychological meaning."â Fantasy and Science Fiction When a routine tour of a particle accelerator goes awry, Jack Hamilton and the rest of his tour group find themselves in a world ruled by Old Testament morality, where the smallest infraction can bring about a plague of locusts. Escape from that world is not the end, though, as they plunge into a Communist dystopia and a world where everything is an enemy.Philip K. Dick was aggressively individualistic and no worldview is safe from his acerbic and hilarious take downs. Eye in the Sky blends the thrills and the jokes to craft a startling morality lesson hidden inside a comedy.
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Ciencia ficciĂłn1
THE PROTON BEAM deflector of the Belmont Bevatron betrayed its inventors at four oâclock in the afternoon of October 2, 1959. What happened next happened instantly. No longer adequately deflectedâand therefore no longer under controlâthe six billion volt beam radiated upward toward the roof of the chamber, incinerating, along its way, an observation platform overlooking the doughnut-shaped magnet.
There were eight people standing on the platform at the time: a group of sightseers and their guide. Deprived of their platform, the eight persons fell to the floor of the Bevatron chamber and lay in a state of injury and shock until the magnetic field had been drained and the hard radiation partially neutralized.
Of the eight, four required hospitalization. Two, less severely burned, remained for indefinite observation. The remaining two were examined, treated, and then released. Local newspapers in San Francisco and Oakland reported the event. Lawyers for the victims drew up the beginnings of lawsuits. Several officials connected with the Bevatron landed on the scrap heap, along with the Wilcox-Jones Deflection System and its enthusiastic inventors. Workmen appeared and began repairing the physical damage.
The incident had taken only a few moments. At 4:00 the faulty deflection had begun, and at 4:02 eight people had plunged sixty feet through the fantastically charged proton beam as it radiated from the circular internal chamber of the magnet. The guide, a young Negro, fell first and was the first to strike the floor of the chamber. The last to fall was a young technician from the nearby guided missile plant. As the group had been led out onto the platform he had broken away from his companions, turned back toward the hallway and fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes.
Probably if he hadnât leaped forward to grab for his wife, he wouldnât have gone with the rest. That was the last clear memory: dropping his cigarettes and groping futilely to catch hold of Marshaâs fluttering, drifting coat sleeve. . . .
All morning Hamilton sat in the missile research labs, doing nothing but sharpening pencils and sweating worry. Around him his staff continued their work; the corporation went on. At noon Marsha showed up, radiant and lovely, as sleekly dressed as one of the tame ducks in Golden Gate Park. Momentarily, he was roused from his brooding lethargy by the sweet-smelling and very expensive little creature he had managed to snare, a possession even more appreciated than his hi-fi rig and his collection of good whiskey.
âWhatâs the matter?â Marsha asked, perching briefly on the end of his gray metal desk, gloved fingers pressed together, slim legs restlessly twinkling. âLetâs hurry and eat so we can get over there. This is the first day they have that deflector working, that part you wanted to see. Had you forgotten? Are you ready?â
âIâm ready for the gas chamber,â Hamilton told her bluntly. âAnd itâs about ready for me.â
Marshaâs brown eyes grew large; her animation took on a dramatic, serious tone. âWhat is it? More secret stuff you canât talk about? Darling, you didnât tell me something important was happening today. At breakfast you were kidding and frisking around like a puppy.â
âI didnât know at breakfast.â Examining his wristwatch, Hamilton got gloomily to his feet. âLetâs make it a good meal; it may be my last.â He added, âAnd this may be the last sight-seeing trip Iâll ever take.â
But he didnât reach the exit ramp of the California Maintenance Labs, let alone the restaurant down the road beyond the patrolled area of buildings and installations. A uniformed messenger stopped him, a tab of white paper folded neatly and extended. âMr. Hamilton, this is for you. Colonel T. E. Edwards asked me to give it to you.â
Shakily, Hamilton unraveled it. âWell,â he said mildly to his wife, âthis is it. Go sit in the lounge. If Iâm not out in an hour or so, go on home and open a can of pork and beans.â
âButââ She gestured helplessly. âYou sound soâso dire. Do you know what it is?â
He knew what it was. Leaning forward, he kissed her briefly on her red, moist and rather frightened lips. Then, striding rapidly down the corridor after the messenger, he headed for Colonel Edwardsâs suite of offices, the high-level conference rooms where the big brass of the corporation were sitting in solemn session.
As he seated himself, the thick, opaque presence of middle-aged businessmen billowed up around him: a compound of cigar smoke, deodorant, and black shoe polish. A constant mutter drifted around the long steel conference table. At one end sat old T. E. himself, fortified by a mighty heap of forms and reports. To some degree, each official had his mound of protective papers, opened briefcase, ashtray, glass of tepid water. Across from Colonel Edwards sat the squat, uniformed figure of Charley McFeyffe, captain of the security cops who prowled around the missile plant, screening out Russian agents.
âThere you are,â Colonel T. E. Edwards murmured, glancing sternly over his glasses at Hamilton. âThis wonât take long, Jack. Thereâs just this one item on the conference agenda; you wonât have to sit through anything else.â
Hamilton said nothing. Tautly, with a strained expression, he sat waiting.
âThis is about your wife,â Edwards began, licking his fat thumb and leafing through a report. âNow, I understand that since Sutherland resigned, youâve been in full charge of our research labs. Right?â
Hamilton nodded. On the table, his hands had visibly faded to a stark, bloodless white. As if he were already dead, he thought wryly. As if he were already hanging by the neck, squeezed out from all life and sunshine. Hanging, like one of Hormelâs hams, in the dark sanctity of the abattoir.
âYour wife,â Edwards rumbled ponderously on, his liver-spotted wrists rising and falling as he flipped pages, âhas been classified as a plant security risk. I have the report here.â He nodded toward the silent captain of the plant police. âMcFeyffe brought it to me. I should add, reluctantly.â
âReluctantly as hell,â McFeyffe put in, directly to Hamilton. His gray, hard eyes begged to apologize. Stonily, Hamilton ignored him.
âYou, of course,â Edwards rambled on, âare familiar with the security setup here. Weâre a private concern, but our customer is the government. Nobody buys missiles but Uncle Sam. So we have to watch ourselves. Iâm bringing this to your attention so you can handle it in your own way. Primarily, itâs your concern. Itâs only important to us in that you head our research labs. That makes it our business.â He eyed Hamilton as if he had never set eyes on him beforeâin spite of the fact that he had originally hired him in 1949, ten solid years ago, when Hamilton was a young, bright, eager electronics engineer, just bursting out of MIT.
âDoes this mean,â Hamilton asked huskily, watching his two hands clench and unclench convulsively, âthat Marsha is barred from the plant?â
âNo,â Edwards answered, âit means you will be denied access to classified material until the situation alters.â
âBut that means . . .â Hamilton heard his voice fade off into astonished silence. âThat means all the material I work with.â
Nobody answered. The roomful of company officials sat fortified by their briefcases and mounds of forms. Off in a corner, the air conditioner struggled tinnily.
âIâll be goddammed,â Hamilton said suddenly, in a very loud, clear voice. A few forms rattled in surprise. Edwards regarded him sideways, with curiosity. Charley McFeyffe lit a cigar and nervously ran a heavy hand through his thinning hair. He looked, in his plain brown uniform, like a potbellied highway patrolman.
âGive him the charges,â McFeyffe said. âGive him a chance to fight back, T. E. Heâs got some rights.â
For an interval Colonel Edwards fought it out with the massed data of the security report. Then, his face darkening with exasperation, he shoved the whole affair across the table to McFeyffe. âYour department drew it up,â he muttered, washing his hands of the matter. âYou tell him.â
âYou mean youâre going to read it here?â Hamilton protested. âIn front of thirty people? In the presence of every official of the company?â
âTheyâve all seen the report,â Edwards said, not unkindly. âIt was drawn up a month or so ago and itâs been circulating since then. After all, my boy, youâre an important man here. We wouldnât take up this matter lightly.â
âFirst,â McFeyffe said, obviously embarrassed, âwe have this business from the FBI. It was forwarded to us.â
âYou requested it?â Hamilton inquired acidly. âOr did it just happen to be circulating back and forth across the country?â
McFeyffe colored. âWell, we sort of asked for it. As a routine inquiry. My God, Jack, thereâs a file on meâthereâs even a file on President Nixon.â
âYou donât have to read all that junk,â Hamilton said, his voice shaking. âMarsha joined the Progressive Party back in â48 when she was a freshman in college. She contributed money to the Spanish Refugee Appeals Committee. She subscribed to In Fact. Iâve heard all that stuff before.â
âRead the current material,â Edwards instructed.
Picking his way carefully through the report, McFeyffe found the current material. âMrs. Hamilton left the Progressive Party in 1950. In Fact is no longer published. In 1952 she attended meetings of the California Arts, Sciences, and Professions, a front organization with pro-Communist leanings. She signed the Stockholm Peace Proposal. She joined the Civil Liberties Union, described by some as pro-left.â
âWhat,â Hamilton demanded, âdoes pro-left mean?â
âIt means sympathetic to groups or persons sympathetic with Communism.â Laboriously, McFeyffe continued. âOn May 8, 1953, Mrs. Hamilton wrote a letter to the San Francisco Chronicle protesting the barring of Charlie Chaplin from the United Statesâa notorious fellow-traveler. She signed the Save the Rosenbergs Appeal: convicted traitors. In 1954 she spoke at the Alameda League of Women Voters in favor of admitting Red China to the UNâa Communist country. In 1955 she joined the Oakland branch of the International Coexistence or Death Organization, with branches in Iron Curtain Countries. And in 1956 she contributed money to the Society for the Advancement of Colored People.â He translated the figure. âForty-eight dollars and fifty-five cents.â
There was silence.
âThatâs it?â Hamilton demanded.
âThatâs the relevant material, yes.â
âDoes it also mention,â Hamilton said, trying to keep his voice steady, âthat Marsha subscribed to the Chicago Tribune? That she campaigned for Adlai Stevenson in 1952? That in 1958 she contributed money to the Humane Society for the advancement of dogs and cats?â
âI donât see what relevance these have,â Edwards said impatiently.
âThey complete the picture! Sure, Marsha subscribed to In Factâshe also subscribed to The New Yorker. She left the Progressive Party when Wallace didâshe joined the Young Democrats. Does it mention that? Sure, she was curious about Communism; does that make her a Communist? All youâre saying is that Marsha reads left-wing journals and listens to left-wing speakersâit doesnât prove she endorses Communism or is under Party discipline or advocates the overthrow of the government orââ
âWeâre not saying your wife is a Communist,â McFeyffe said. âWeâre saying sheâs a security risk. The possibility that Marsha is a Communist exists.â
âGood God,â Hamilton said futilely, âthen Iâm supposed to prove she isnât? Is that it?â
âThe possibility is there,â Edwards repeated. âJack, try to be rational; donât get upset and start bellowing. Maybe Marsha is a Red; maybe not. That isnât the issue. What we have here is material showing your wife is interested in politicsâradical politics, at that. And that isnât a good thing.â
âMarsha is interested in everything. Sheâs an intelligent, educated person. She has all day to find out about things. Is she supposed to sit home and justââHamilton groped for wordsââand dust off the mantel? Fix dinner and sew and cook?â
âWe have a pattern, here,â McFeyffe said. âAdmittedly, none of these items in itself is indicative. But when you add them up, when you get the statistical average . . . itâs simply too damn high, Jack. Your wife is mixed up in too many pro-left movements.â
âGuilt by association. Sheâs curious; sheâs interested. Does her being there prove she agrees with what theyâre saying?â
âWe canât look into her mindâand neither can you. All we can judge is what she does: the groups she joins, the petitions she signs, the money she contributes. Thatâs the only evidence we haveâweâve got to go on that. You say she goes to these meetings but she doesnât agree with the sentiments expressed. Well, letâs suppose the police break up a lewd show and arrest the girls and the management. But the audience gets off by saying it didnât enjoy the show.â McFeyffe spread his hands. âWould they be there if they didnât enjoy the show? One show, maybe. For curiosity. But not one after another, all down the line.
âYour wife has been mixed up in left-wing groups for ten years, since she was eighteen. Sheâs had plenty of time to make up her mind about Communism. But she still goes to these things; she still turns up when some Commie group organizes to protest a lynching in the South or to squall about the latest armament budget. It seems to me the fact that Marsha also reads the Chicago Tribune is no more relevant than the fact that the man watching the lewd show goes to church. It proves he has many facets, maybe even contradictory facets . . . but the fact remains that one of those facets includes enjoying smut. He isnât booked because he goes to church; heâs booked because he likes smut and because he goes to see smut.
âNinety-nine percent of your wife may be average red-blooded Americanâshe may cook well, drive carefully, pay her income tax, give money to charity, bake cakes for church raffles. But the remaining one percent may be tied into the Communist Party. And thatâs it.â
After a moment Hamilton admitted begrudgingly, âYou put your case pretty well.â
âI believe in my case. Iâve known you and Marsha as long as youâve worked here. I like both of youâand so does Edwards. Everybody does. Thatâs not the issue, though. Until we have telepathy and can get into peopleâs minds, weâre going to have to depend on this statistical stuff. No, we canât prove Marsha is an agent of a foreign power. And you canât prove she isnât. In abeyance, weâll have to resolve the doubt against her. We simply canât afford to do otherwise.â Rubbing his heavy lower lip, McFeyffe asked, âHas it ever occurred to you to wonder if she is a Communist?â
It hadnât. Perspiring, Hamilton sat gazing mutely down at the gleaming surface of the table. He had always assumed Marsha was telling the truth, that she was merely curious about Communism. For the first time, a miserable, unhappy suspicion was beginning to grow. Statistically, it was possible.
âIâll ask her,â he said out loud.
âYou will?â McFeyffe said. âAnd whatâll she say?â
âSheâll say no, of course!â
Shaking his head, Edwards said, âThat isnât worth anything, Jack. And if you think it over, youâll agree.â
Hamilton was on his feet. âSheâs out in the lounge. You can all ask herâbring her in here, ask her yourselves.â
âIâm not going to argue with you,â Edwards said. âYour wife is classed as a security risk, and until further notice youâre suspended from your job. Either bring conclusive evidence to show she isnât a Communist, or get rid of her.â He shrugged. âYou have a career, boy. This is your lifework.â
Getting to his feet, McFeyffe came heavily around the side of the table. The meeting was breaking up; the conference on Hamiltonâs clearance was over. Taking hold of the technicianâs arm, McFeyffe led him insistently toward the door. âLetâs get out of here, where we can breathe. How about a drink? The three of us, you and me and Marsha. Whiskey sours down at the Safe Harbor. I think we can use them.â