 No Shield from the Dead by Gordon R. Dixon. Reading by Greg Marguerite. No Shield from the Dead by Gordon R. Dixon. No conceivable force could penetrate Terry's shield, yet he was defenseless. It was a nice little party, but a bit obvious. Terry Mack saw through it before he had taken a half-dozen steps into the apartment, a light flush staining his high cheekbones. This is ridiculous, he said. The light chatter ceased. Cocktail glasses were set down on various handy tables and ledges, and all faces in the room turned toward a man in his late fifties who sat propped up, invalid-wise, on pillows in a chair in a corner of the room. The Comptroller is perspicacious, said the old man agreeably, waving one hand in a casual manner. On your way, children. And the people present smiled and nodded. Quite as if it were an ordinary leave-taking, they pushed past Terry Mack and filed out the door. Even the blonde Terry had picked up at the Embassy ball and who had brought him here strolled off casually but in a decidedly less drunken fashion than she had exhibited earlier in the evening. Sit down, said the old man. Terry Mack did so, gazing searchingly at the skinny frame and white eyebrows in an unsuccessful effort to connect him with something in memory. This is ridiculous, he repeated. Really? The old man smiled benignly. And why so? Why? The situation was so obvious that Terry fumbled a little at the loss for words. Obviously you intend some form of coercion or else you would have come to me along recognized channels. And any thought of coercion is obviously, well, ridiculous. Why? Why? You senile old fool, don't you know that I'm shielded? Don't you know all government officials from the fifth class up wear complete personal shields that are not only crack-proof but contain all the necessary elements to support life independently within the shield for more than twenty hours? Don't you know that I'll be missed in two hours at the most and tracked down in less than sixty minutes more? Are you crazy? The old man chuckled, rubbing dry hands together. He said, I'm shielded, too. You can't get at me. And now the room's shielded. You can't get out of it. Terry stared at him. The initial shock was passing. His own statements and the completeness of his protection had brought back confidence and his natural coolness was returning. What do you want? He asked, eyeing the other narrowly. Pleasure of your company, said the old man. There are some very strong connections between us. Yes, very strong. We must get to know each other personally. It occurred to Terry that he had misinterpreted the situation. Relief came, mixed with a certain amount of chagrin at the way in which he allowed himself to show alarm. He had looked ridiculous. He leaned back in the chair and allowed a note of official hauteur and annoyance to creep into his voice. I see, he said. You want something? The old man nodded energetically. I do. Indeed I do. And you think you have some kind of bargaining tool that is useful but might not be so if it became known to official channels? Well, said the old man cautiously. Don't waste my time. Interrupted Terry harshly. I'm not an ordinary politician. No man who works his way up to the fifth level of the government is. I didn't get to where I am today by pussy footing around and I haven't the leisure to spend on people who do. Now, what do you want? The other cackled. Now, what do you think? He said, putting one finger to his nose cunningly. You are old, Terry said, and therefore cautious. Consequently you would not risk trying to force something from me but are almost certainly trying to sell me something. Now, what do I want? Not the usual things, certainly. Within my position I have all the material things a man could want and within my shield I enjoy complete immunity. No one but the central bureau itself can crack this shield and no one but they can prevent the conditioned reflex that stops my heart if for some reason the shield should be broached. I have a hold on every man beneath me that prevents him from knifing me in the back. There could only be one thing that I want that you could give me. He leaned forward staring into the deep pouched eyes. And that is a means of getting at the man above me. Am I right? No, said the man. Terry stiffened. No, he echoed in angry incredulity. Their eyes locked for a long time they held and at last Terry looked away. The old man's side sipped noisily from a drink on the table beside his chair. Wait, said Terry to his own surprise. His voice was eager, even a little timorous in its hopefulness. Wait, I've got it. There will be a test. There's always a test every time a man moves up. His superiors watch him when he doesn't suspect it. It will be that way for me when I am ready for the fourth level. And you have some kind of advance information. You know what the test will be. Maybe you know the man who will administer it. You want to sell me this information. The other said nothing. Well, Terry spread his hands openly. I am interested. I'll buy. What do you want? Money? A favor? Protection? No. No, Terry shouted, starting up from his chair. What do you mean by no? Can't you say anything but no? A rage possessed him. He flung himself forward two furious steps to stand threateningly over the aged figure. You doddering idiot. Say what you want and quickly. My two hours are nearly up. I'll be missed. They'll be here in a few minutes. The bureau guards. They'll crack the room shield. They'll rescue me and they'll take you into custody to be questioned to be executed at my order. Do you understand? Your life depends on me. After a little the old man chuckled again. Yes, he muttered in a high-pitched old voice. That's the way it'll be. Terry stared at him. You don't seem to understand. You're going to die. Oh, yes, said the old man nodding his head indulgingly. I'll die, but I'm an old man. I die anyway in a year or so. Maybe in a day or so. But for you, for a young man like you, the up-and-coming young governmental with everything to lose, he leered slyly at Terry. Your death won't be so easy for you to take. I die? Echoed Terry stupefied. But I'm not going to die. They're coming to rescue me. Oh, are they? said the old man ironically. Of course, said Terry. Of course, why shouldn't they? The old man winked, one faded eye, portentiously. To find young man, he said, up-and-coming young man, brilliant. Never a thought for the people he trampled on the way up the ladder. Dear me, no. What do you mean? said Terry. The old eyes, looking up, suddenly pierced him. Do you remember Kil-Aren? Kil-Aren? Kil-Aren, recited the old man as if quoting from a newspaper. The beautiful young secretary of a provincial governor whose lecherous and unnatural pursuit drove her to suicide. So that one day to escape the governor, she jumped or fell from a high window. And the people of the province who had for a long time heard ugly stories and rumors finally mobbed the office and lynched the governor, hanging him from the same window from which the girl had jumped. They said that even the fall had not spoiled her beauty, but that was probably false. The old man's words dwindled away into silence. If so, what of it? said Terry. What's that to do with me? Why, you were there. You were the governor's aide, and when the mob had gone home and feeling had slackened off, you stepped into the gap and seized up the reins of government. Handling matters so skillfully that you were immediately promoted to an underpost at Government City. What of it? Why, it was all you're doing, replied the other in a mildly reproving voice. The rumors, the stories, the mob, even the suicide. Poor Kil-Aren, a pitiful pawn in your ruthless game to eliminate the governor in your mad dash up the ladder. I never touched her, cried Terry, his voice cracking. I swear it! Who said you did? The type of mind that stoops to murder would never have gotten you this far. But you were the one who hired her, knowing the governor's tendencies. You were the one that gave her work that kept her night after night alone with the man. You prayed upon her fear of losing her job. You threw the sin in her face after she had committed it. You told her what she might have been and what she was and what she would be. You broke her day after day. In the sterile privacy of the office, you reviled her, scorned her, brought her to believe that she was what she was not. A creature of filth and dishonor. You blocked off all avenues of escape, but the one that led through one high window. You killed her. No! Yes. Terry brought his quivering hands together and clenched them in his lap. He stared at the old man. Who are you? I was a friend of hers. We lived in the same hotel apartment. She had no family. I believe you knew that when you hired her. I see, said Terry. He drew a long, deep, shuddering breath and leaned back in the chair. So that's the story, he said, his voice strengthening. I might have known it, blackmail. There are always fools that want to try blackmail. No, said the old man, not blackmail, Comptroller. I want your life. Terry laughed shortly, contemptuously. No knowledge that you have can threaten my life. They will come, said the old man, leaning wearily back against his cushions. As you say, the Bureau Guards will come and I think I shall kill myself when I hear them starting to crack the shield around this room. They will come in and find you with a dead man. What will you tell them, Terry? Tell them anything I choose. They won't question me. No, the Guards won't, but the Bureau will. How can they raise a man to the fourth level when there is a two-hour mystery in his background? They will want to know what you were doing here. I was kidnapped, said Terry. By whom? Can you prove it? And why? I've been held a prisoner here. By a dead man? No, no, Terry. The circumstances are suspicious. You walk away from the Embassy under your own power. You disappear and are found in a shielded room with a man who has committed suicide. This must be explained and in the end you will have to tell them the truth. And what if I do? Said Terry, truculently. But the truth is so fantastic, Terry. So uncheckable. I am dead and I am the only one who could have supported your story. These people who were here when you came in are common actors. They have no idea why I wanted you decoyed here. These are my rooms and there is no obvious connection between me and the dead kill Aaron. And perhaps I will decide to live just long enough to denounce you as a traitor when they enter. Ashen faced, Terry stared. The Bureau will have to question you. They will clamp a block on your mind so that you can't operate the reflex that stops your heart. And they will question you over and over again. Because the Bureau cannot afford to take chances. You will go into a private hell of your own, Terry Mack. You will tell the story of your own evil to that girl over and over again, pleading to be believed. And they will not believe you. And in the end they will kill you just to be on the safe side. Because you see you might have been doing something traitorous in these two shielded hours. Terry's head bopped limply like a drunken man's. He made one last effort. Why, he said, why do you do this, your life for a girl who was no connection to you? The old man folded his hands. I was a little like your governor, he said. We all have our sins. I loved kill Aaron and the shock of her death wrecked my health. He cocked his head suddenly on one side. Listen, he said. From beyond the closed door of the room a high-pitched humming was barely audible. It grew in volume going up the scale. Terry leaped to his feet and for the space of a couple of seconds he lunged first this way and then that like a wild animal beating against its trap. Then, as if all will had at last gone out of him, he stopped in the middle of the room and closed his eyes. For a fraction of a moment he stood there before a faint convulsion seized him and he fell. With a faint smile on his face the old man reached out to a hidden switch and cut the shield about the room. Uniformed guards tumbled through the door to pull up in dismay at the sight of the body on the floor. I'm sorry, said the old man. I must have turned the shield on by mistake. I was trying to signal someone. The comptroller seems to have had a heart attack. End of No Shield from the Dead by Gordon R. Dixon. Piper in the Woods by Philip K. Dick. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Piper in the Woods by Philip K. Dick. Earth maintained an important garrison on asteroid Y3. Now suddenly it was imperiled with a biological impossibility. Men becoming plants. Well, Corporal Westerberg, Dr. Henry Harris said gently. Just why do you think you're a plant? As he spoke, Harris glanced down again at the card on his desk. It was from the base commander himself, made out in Cox's heavy scrawl. Doc, this is the lad I told you about. Talk to him and try to find out how he got this delusion. He's from the new garrison, the new check station on asteroid Y3, and we don't want anything to go wrong there. Especially a silly damn thing like this. Harris pushed the card aside and stared back up at the youth across the desk from him. The young man seemed ill at ease and appeared to be avoiding answering the question Harris had put to him. Harris frowned. Westerberg was a good-looking chap, actually handsome in his patrol uniform, a shock of blonde hair over one eye. He was tall, almost six feet, a fine, healthy lad, just two years out of training according to the card. Born in Detroit, had measles when he was nine, interested in jet engines, tennis, and girls, 26 years old. Well, Corporal Westerberg, Dr. Harris said again. Why do you think you're a plant? The Corporal looked up shyly. He cleared his throat. Sir, I am a plant. I don't just think so. I've been a plant for several days now. I see. The doctor nodded. You mean that you weren't always a plant? No, sir. I just became a plant recently. And what were you before you became a plant? Well, sir, I was just like the rest of you. There was silence. Dr. Harris took up his pen and scratched a few lines, but nothing of importance came. A plant and such a healthy-looking lad. Harris removed his steel-rimmed glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. He put them on again and leaned back in his chair. Care for a cigarette, Corporal? No, sir. The doctor lit one himself, resting his arm on the edge of the chair. Corporal, you must realize that there are very few men who become plants, especially on such short notice. I have to admit you are the first person who has ever told me such a thing. Yes, sir. I realize it's quite rare. You can understand why I'm interested, then. When you say you're a plant, you mean you're not capable of mobility, or do you mean you're a vegetable as opposed to an animal, or just what? The Corporal looked away. I can't tell you any more, he murmured. I'm sorry, sir. Well, would you mind telling me how you became a plant? Corporal Westerberg hesitated. He stared down at the floor, then out the window at the spaceport, then at a fly on the desk. At last he stood up, getting slowly to his feet. I can't even tell you that, sir, he said. You can't. Why not? Because—because I promised not to. The room was silent. Dr. Harris rose, too, and they both stood facing each other. Harris frowned, rubbing his jaw. Corporal, just who did you promise? I can't even tell you that, sir. I'm sorry. The doctor considered this. At last he went to the door and opened it. All right, Corporal, you may go now, and thanks for your time. I'm sorry I'm not more helpful. The Corporal went slowly out, and Harris closed the door after him. Then he went across his office to the vid phone. He rang Commander Cox's letter. A moment later the beefy, good-natured face of the base commander appeared. Cox, this is Harris. I talked to him, all right. All I could get is the statement that he's a plant. What else is there? What kind of behavior pattern? Well, Cox said. The first thing they noticed was that he wouldn't do any work. The garrison chief reported that this Westerberg would wander off outside the garrison and just sit all day long. Just sit. In the sun? Yes, just sit in the sun. Then at nightfall he would come back in. When they asked why he wasn't working in the jet repair building, he told them he had to be out in the sun. Then he said—Cox hesitated. Yes, said what? He said that work was unnatural, that it was a waste of time, that the only worthwhile thing was to sit and contemplate outside. What then? Then they asked him how he got that idea, and he revealed to them that he had become a plant. I'm going to have to talk to him again. I can see. Harris said. And he applied for a permanent discharge from the patrol. What reason did he give? The same, that he's a plant now and has no more interest in being a patrolman. All he wants to do is sit in the sun. It's the damnedest thing I ever heard. All right. I think I'll visit him in his quarters. Harris looked at his watch. I'll go over after dinner. Good luck, Cox said gloomily. But whoever heard of a man turning into a plant, we told him it wasn't possible, but he just smiled at us. I'll let you know how I make out, Harris said. Harris walked slowly down the hall. It was after six, the evening meal was over. A dim concept was coming into his mind, but it was much too soon to be sure. He increased his pace, turning right at the end of the hall. Two nurses passed, hurrying by. Westerberg was quartered with a buddy, a man who had been injured in a jet blast and who was now almost recovered. Harris came to the dorm wing and stopped, checking the numbers on the doors. Can I help you, sir? The robot attendant said, gliding up. I'm looking for Corporal Westerberg's room. Three doors to the right. Harris went on. A nice asteroid, Y-3, had only recently been garrisoned and staffed. It had become the primary checkpoint to halt and examine ships entering the system from outer space. The garrison made sure that no dangerous bacteria, fungus, or what-not arrived to infect the system. A nice asteroid it was, warm, well-watered with trees and lakes and lots of sunlight, and the most modern garrison in the nine planets. He shook his head coming to the third door. He stopped, raising his hand and knocking. Who's there? Sounded through the door. I want to see Corporal Westerberg. The door opened. A bovine youth with horn-rimmed glasses looked out, a book in his hand. Who are you? Dr. Harris. I'm sorry, sir. Corporal Westerberg is asleep. Would he mind if I woke him up? I want very much to talk to him. Harris peered inside. He could see a neat room with a desk of rug and lamp and two bunks. On one of the bunks was Westerberg, lying face up, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes tightly closed. Sir, the bovine youth said, I'm afraid I can't wake him up for you much as I'd like to. You can't? Why not? Sir, Corporal Westerberg won't wake up. Not after the sun sets. He just won't. He can't be wakened. Cataleptic? Really? But in the morning as soon as the sun comes up, he leaps out of bed and goes outside, stays the whole day. I see, the doctor said. Well, thanks anyhow. He went back out into the hall and the door shut after him. There was more to this man than I realized. He murmured. He went on back the way he had come. It was a warm, sunny day. The sky was almost free of clouds and a gentle wind moved through the cedars along the bank of the stream. There was a path leading from the hospital building down the slope to the stream. At the stream, a small bridge led over to the other side and a few patients were standing on the bridge, sitting in their bathrooms, looking aimlessly down at the water. It took Harris several minutes to find Westerberg. The youth was not with the other patients, near or around the bridge. He had gone farther down, past the cedar trees and out onto a strip of bright meadow where poppies and grass grew everywhere. He was sitting on the stream bank on a flat gray stone, leaning back and staring up, his mouth open a little. He did not notice the doctor until Harris was almost beside him. Hello? Harris said softly. Westerberg opened his eyes, looking up. He smiled and got slowly to his feet, a graceful flowing motion that was rather surprising for a man of his size. Hello, doctor. What brings you out here? Nothing. Thought I'd get some sun. Here, you can share my rock. Westerberg moved over and Harris sat down gingerly, being careful not to catch his trousers on the sharp edges of the rock. He lit a cigarette and gazed silently down at the water. Beside him, Westerberg had resumed his strange position, leaning back, resting on his hands, staring up with his eyes shut tight. Nice day, the doctor said. Yes. Do you come here every day? Yes. You like it better out here than inside? I can't stay inside, Westerberg said. You can't? How do you mean can't? You would die without air, wouldn't you? the corporal said. And you die without sunlight? Westerberg nodded. Corporal, may I ask you something? Do you intend to do this the rest of your life? Sit out in the sun on a flat rock? Nothing else? Westerberg nodded. How about your job? You went to school for years to become a patrolman. You wanted to enter the patrol very badly. You were given a fine rating and a first-class position. How do you feel giving all that up? You know it won't be easy to get back in. Do you realize that? I realize it. And you're really going to give it all up? That's right. Paris was silent for a while. At last he put his cigarette out and turned toward the youth. All right. Let's say you give up your job and sit in the sun. Well, what happens then? Someone else has to do the job instead of you, isn't that true? The job has to be done. Your job has to be done. And if you don't do it, someone else has to. I suppose so. Westerberg, suppose everyone felt the way you do. Suppose everyone wanted to sit in the sun all day. What would happen? No one would check ships coming from outer space. Bacteria and toxic crystals would enter the system and cause mass death and suffering. Isn't that right? If everyone felt the way I do, they wouldn't be going into outer space. But they have to. They have to trade. They have to get minerals and products and new plants. Why? To keep society going. Why? Well, Harris gestured. People couldn't live without society. Westerberg said nothing to that. Harris watched him, but the youth did not answer. Isn't that right? Harris said. Perhaps. It's a peculiar business, doctor. You know, I struggled for years to get through training. I had to work and pay my own way, wash dishes, work in kitchens, studied at night, learned, crammed, worked on and on. And you know what I think now? What? I wish I'd become a plant earlier. Dr. Harris stood up. Westerberg, when you come inside, will you stop off at my office? I want to give you a few tests if you don't mind. The shock box? Westerberg smiled. I knew that would be coming around. Sure, I don't mind. Nettled, Harris left the rock, walking back up the bank a short distance. About three, Corporal. The Corporal nodded. Harris made his way up the hill to the path toward the hospital building. The whole thing was beginning to become more clear to him. A boy who had struggled all his life. Financial insecurity, idealized goal, getting a patrol assignment. Finally reached it, found the load too great, and on Asteroid Y3 there was too much vegetation to look at all day. Primitive identification and projection on the flora of the asteroid. The concept of security involved in immobility and permanence. Unchanging forest. He entered the building. A robot orderly stopped him almost at once. Sir Commander Cox wants you urgently on the VID phone. Thanks. Harris strode to his office. He dialed Cox's letter, and the Commander's face came presently into focus. Cox. This is Harris. I've been out talking to the boy. I'm beginning to get this lined up. Now I can see the pattern. Too much load, too long. Finally gets what he wants, and the idealization shatters under the... Harris. Cox barked. Shut up and listen. I just got a report from Y3. They're sending an express rocket here. It's on the way. An express rocket? Five more cases like Westerberg. All say they're plants. The garrison chief is worried as hell. Says we must find out what it is, or the garrison will fall apart right away. Do you get me, Harris? Find out what it is. Yes, sir. Harris murmured. Yes, sir. By the end of the week there were twenty cases, and all, of course, were from asteroid Y3. Commander Cox and Harris stood together at the top of the hill, looking gloomily down at the stream below. Sixteen men and four women sat in the sun along the bank, none of them moving, none speaking. An hour had gone by since Cox and Harris appeared, and in all that time the twenty people below had not stirred. I don't get it, Cox said, shaking his head. I just absolutely don't get it. Harris, is this the beginning of the end? Is everything going to start cracking around us? It gives me a hell of a strange feeling to see those people down there, basking away in the sun, just sitting and basking. Who's that man there with the red hair? That's Ulrich Deutsch. He was second in command at the garrison. Now look at him. Sits and dozes with his mouth open and his eyes shut. A week ago that man was climbing, going right to the top. When the garrison chief retires, he was supposed to take over, maybe another year at the most. All his life he's been climbing to get up there. And now he sits in the sun. Harris finished. That woman, the brunette with the short hair, career woman, head of the entire office staff at the garrison, and the man beside her, Janitor, and that cute little gal there with the bosom? Secretary, just out of school. All kinds, and I got a note this morning, three more coming in sometime today. Harris nodded. The strange thing is they really want to sit down there. They're completely rational. They could do something else, but they just don't care to. Well, Cox said, what are you going to do? Have you found anything? We're counting on you. Let's hear it. I couldn't get anything out of them directly. Harris said, but I've had some interesting results with the shock box. Let's go inside and I'll show you. Fine. Cox turned and started toward the hospital. Show me anything you've got. This is serious. Now I know how Tiberius felt when Christianity showed up in high places. Harris snapped off the light. The room was pitch black. I'll run this first reel for you. The subject is one of the best biologists stationed at the garrison, Robert Bradshaw. He came in yesterday. I got a good run from the shock box because Bradshaw's mind is so highly differentiated. There's a lot of repressed material of a non-rational nature, more than usual. He pressed the switch. The projector word and, on the far wall, a three-dimensional image appeared in color, so real that it might have been the man himself. Robert Bradshaw was a man of fifty, heavy set with iron gray hair and a square jaw. He sat in the chair calmly, his hands resting on the arms, oblivious to the electrodes attached to his neck and wrist. There I go, Harris said. Watch. His film image appeared approaching Bradshaw. Now, Mr. Bradshaw, his image said, this won't hurt you at all and it'll help us a lot. The image rotated the controls on the shock box. Bradshaw stiffened and his jaw set, but otherwise he gave no sign. The image of Harris regarded him for a time and then stepped away from the controls. Can you hear me, Mr. Bradshaw? The image asked. Yes. What is your name? Robert C. Bradshaw. What is your position? Chief biologist at the check station on Y-3. Are you there now? No, I'm back on Terra in a hospital. Why? Because I admitted to the garrison chief that I had become a plant. Is that true that you are a plant? Yes, in a non-biological sense I retain the physiology of a human being, of course. What do you mean, then, that you're a plant? The reference is to attitudinal response to Weltanschung. Go on. It is possible for a warm-blooded animal and upper primate to adopt the psychology of a plant to some extent. Yes, I refer to this. And the others, they refer to this also? Yes. How did this occur, you're adopting this attitude? Bradshaw's image hesitated, the lips twitching. See? Harris said to Cox. Strong conflict. He wouldn't have gone on if he had been fully conscious. I... Yes? I was taught to become a plant. The image of Harris showed surprise and interest. What do you mean you were taught to become a plant? They realized my problems and taught me to become a plant. Now I'm free from them, the problems. Who? Who taught you? The Pipers. Who? The Pipers. Who are the Pipers? There was no answer. Mr. Bradshaw, who are the Pipers? After a long agonized pause, the heavy lips parted. They live in the woods. Harris snapped off the projector and the lights came on. He and Cox blinked. That was all I could get, Harris said. But I was lucky to get that. He wasn't supposed to tell, not at all. That was the thing they all promised not to do. Tell who taught them to become plants. The Pipers who live in the woods on asteroid Y3. You got this story from all 20? No, Harris grimaced. Most of them put up too much fight. I couldn't even get this much from them. Cox reflected. The Pipers. Well, what do you propose to do? Just wait around until you can get the full story? Is that your program? No, Harris said, not at all. I'm going to Y3 and find out who the Pipers are myself. The small patrol ship made its landing with care and precision, its jets choking into final silence. The hatch slid back and Dr. Henry Harris found himself staring out at a field of brown sun-baked landing field. At the end of the field was a tall signal tower. Around the field on all sides were long grey buildings, the garrison check station itself. Not far off a huge Venusian cruiser was parked a vast green hulk, like an enormous lime. The technicians from the station were swarming all over it, checking and examining each inch of it for lethal lifeforms and poisons that might have attached themselves to the hull. All out, sir, the pilot said. Harris nodded. He took hold of his two suitcases and stepped carefully down. The ground was hot underfoot and he blinked in the bright sunlight. Jupiter was in the sky and the vast planet reflected considerable sunlight down onto the asteroid. Harris started across the field, carrying his suitcases. A field attendant was already busy opening the storage compartment of the patrol ship, extracting his trunk. The attendant lowered the trunk into a waiting dolly and came after him, manipulating the little truck with bored skill. As Harris came to the entrance of the signal tower the gate slid back and a man came forward, an older man, large and robust with white hair and a steady walk. How are you, doctor? he said, holding out his hand. I'm Lawrence Watts, the garrison chief. They shook hands. Watts smiled down at Harris. He was a huge old man, still regal and straight in his dark blue uniform with his gold epaulettes sparkling on his shoulders. Have a good trip? Watts asked. Come on inside and I'll have a drink fixed for you. It gets hot around here with the big mirror up there. Jupiter? Harris followed him inside the building. The signal tower was cool and dark, a welcome relief. Why is the gravity so near-terrorist I expected to go flying off like a kangaroo? Is it artificial? No. There's a dense core of some kind to the asteroid, some kind of metallic deposit. That's why we picked this asteroid out of all the others. It made the construction problem much simpler and it also explains why the asteroid has natural air and water. Did you see the hills? The hills? When we get up higher in the tower we'll be able to see over the buildings. There's quite a natural park here, a regular little forest complete with everything you'd want. Come in here, Harris. This is my office. The old man strode at quite a clip around the corner and into a large, well-furnished apartment. Isn't this pleasant? I intend to make my last year here as amiable as possible. He frowned. Of course, with Deutsch gone I may be here forever. Though well. He shrugged. Sit down, Harris. Thanks. Harris took a chair, stretching his legs out. He watched Watts as he closed the door to the hall. By the way, any more cases come up? Two more today. Watts was grim. Makes almost thirty in all. We have three hundred men in this station. At the rate it's going. Chief, you spoke about a forest on the asteroid. Do you allow the crew to go into the forest at will? Or do you restrict them to the buildings and grounds? Watts rubbed his jaw. Well, it's a difficult situation, Harris. I have to let the men leave the grounds sometime. They can see the forest from the buildings and as long as you can see a nice place to stretch out and relax, that does it. Once every ten days they have a full period of rest and then they go out and fool around. And then it happens? Yes, I suppose so, but as long as they can see the forest, they'll want to go. I can't help it. No, I'm not censoring you. Well, what's your theory? What happens to them out there? What do they do? What happens? Once they get out there and take it easy for a while, they don't want to come back and work. It's boondoggling, playing hooky. They don't want to work, so off they go. How about this business of their delusions? Watts laughed good-naturedly. Listen, Harris, you know as well as I do that it's a lot of poppycock. They're no more plants than you or I. They just don't want to work, that's all. When I was a kid dead, we had a few ways to make people work. I wish we could lay a few on their backs like we used to. You think this is simple gold-breaking then? Don't you think it is? No, Harris said. They really believe they're plants. I put them through the high-frequency shock treatment, the shock box. The whole nervous system is paralyzed. All inhibitions stopped cold. They tell the truth then, and they said the same thing, and more. Watts paced back and forth. His hands clasped behind his back. Harris, you're a doctor, and I suppose you know what you're talking about, but look at the situation here. We have a garrison, a good modern garrison. We're probably the most modern outfit in the system. Every new device and gadget is here that science can produce. Harris, this garrison is one vast machine. The manor parts, and each has his job. The maintenance crew, the biologists, the office crew, the managerial staff. Look what happens when one person steps away from his job. Everything else begins to creak. We can't service the bugs if no one services the machines. We can't order food to feed the crews if no one makes out the reports, takes inventories. We can't direct any kind of activity if the second in command decides to go out and sit in the sun all day. Thirty people. One-tenth of the garrison. But we can't run without them. The garrison is built that way. If you take the supports out, the whole building falls. No one can leave. We're all tied here, and these people know it. They know they have no right to do that, run off on their own. No one has that right anymore. We're all too tightly interwoven for what we want. It's unfair to the rest, the majority. Harris nodded. Chief, can I ask you something? What is it? Are there any inhabitants on the asteroid? Any natives? Natives? What's considered? Yes, there's some kind of aborigines living out there. He waved vaguely toward the window. What are they like? Have you seen them? Yes, I've seen them. At least I saw them when we first came here. They hung around for a while, watching us. Then after a time, they disappeared. Did they die off? Diseases of some kind? No, they just disappeared into the forest. They're still there someplace. What kind of people are they? Well, the story is that they're originally from Mars, though they don't look much like Martians. They're dark, a kind of coppery color, thin, very agile in their own way. They hunt and fish. No written language. We don't pay much attention to them. I see. Harris paused. Chief, have you ever heard of anything called the Pipers? The Pipers? What's frowned? No. Why? The patients mentioned something called the Pipers. According to Bradshaw, they taught him to become a plant. He learned it from them. A kind of teaching. The Pipers? What are they? I don't know, Harris admitted. I thought maybe you might know. My first assumption, of course, was that they're natives, but now I'm not so sure, not after hearing your description of them. The natives are primitive savages. They don't have anything to teach anybody, especially a top-flight biologist. Harris hesitated. Chief, I'd like to go into the woods and look around. Is that possible? Certainly. I can arrange it for you. I'll give you one of the men to show you around. I'd rather go alone. Is there any danger? No. None that I know of. Except... Except the Pipers. Harris finished. I know. Well, there's only one way to find them, and that's it. I'll have to take my chances. If you walk in a straight line, Chief Watts said, you'll find yourself back at the garrison in about six hours. It's a damn small asteroid. There's a couple of streams and lakes, so don't fall in. How about snakes or poisonous insects? Nothing like that reported. We did a lot of tramping around at first, but it's grown back now the way it was. We never encountered anything dangerous. Thanks, Chief. Harris said. They shook hands. I'll see you before nightfall. Good luck. The Chief and his two armed escorts turned and went back across the rise, down the other side toward the garrison. Harris watched them go until they disappeared inside the building. Then he turned and started into the grove of trees. The woods were very silent around him as he walked. Trees dowered up on all sides of him, huge dark green trees like eucalyptus. The ground underfoot was soft with endless leaves that had fallen and rotted into soil. After a while, the grove of high trees fell behind, and he found himself crossing a dry meadow. The grass and weeds burned brown in the sun. Insects buzzed around him, rising up from the dry weed stalks, something scuttled ahead, harrying through the undergrowth. He caught sight of a gray ball with many legs, scampering furiously, its antenna weaving. The meadow ended at the bottom of a hill. He was going up now, going higher and higher. Ahead of him, an endless expanse of green rose, acres of wild growth. He scrambled to the top finally, blowing and panting, catching his breath. He went on. Now he was going down again, plunging into a deep gully. Tall ferns grew as large as his trees. He was entering a living Jurassic forest, ferns that stretched out endlessly ahead of him. Down he went, walking carefully. The air began to turn cold around him. The floor of the gully was damp and silent. Underfoot the ground was almost wet. He came out on a level table. It was dark with the ferns growing up on all sides, dense growths of ferns, silent and unmoving. He came upon a natural path, an old stream-bed, rough and rocky, but easy to follow. The air was thick and oppressive. Beyond the ferns he could see the side of the next hill, a green field rising up. Something gray was ahead. Rocks piled up olders, scattered and stacked here and there. The stream-bed led directly to them. Apparently this had been a pool of some kind, stream emptying from it. He climbed the first of the boulders awkwardly, feeling his way up. At the top he paused, resting again. As yet he had had no luck. So far he had not met any of the natives. It would be through them that he would find the mysterious pipers that were stealing the men away, if such really existed. If he could find the natives, talk to them, perhaps he could find out something. But as yet he had been unsuccessful. He looked around. The woods were very silent. A slight breeze moved through the ferns, rustling them, but that was all. Where were the natives? Probably they had a settlement of some sort, hot, so clearing. The asteroid was small he should be able to find them by nightfall. He started down the rocks. More rocks rose up ahead and he climbed them. Suddenly he stopped, listening. Far off he could hear a sound, the sound of water. Was he approaching a pool of some kind? He went on again, trying to locate the sound. He scrambled down the rocks and up rocks and all around him there was silence except for the splashing of distant water. Maybe a waterfall, water in motion, a stream. If he found the stream he might find the natives. The rocks ended and the stream bed began again, but this time it was wet. The bottom muddy and overgrown with moss he was on the right track. Not too long ago this stream had flowed, probably during the rainy season. He went up on the side of the stream pushing through the ferns and vines. A golden snake slid expertly out of his path. Something glinted ahead, something sparkling through the ferns. Water, a pool. He hurried, pushing the vines aside and stepping out, leaving them behind. He was standing on the edge of a pool. A deep pool sunk in a hollow of gray rocks surrounded by ferns and vines. The water was clear and bright and in motion, flowing in a waterfall at the far end. It was beautiful and he stood watching, marveling at it, the undisturbed quality of it. Untouched it was. Just as it had always been, probably. As long as the asteroid existed, was he the first to see it? Perhaps. It was so hidden, so concealed by the ferns, it gave him a strange feeling of feeling almost of ownership. He stepped down a little toward the water and it was then he noticed her. The girl was sitting on the far edge of the pool, staring down into the water, resting her head on one drawn-up knee. She had been bathing. He could see that at once. Her coppery body was still wet and glistening with moisture sparkling in the sun. She had not seen him. He stopped, holding his breath, watching her. She was lovely, very lovely, with long dark hair that wound around her shoulders and arms. Her body was slim, very slender, with a supple grace to it that made him stare, accustomed as he was to various forms of anatomy. How silent she was. Silent and unmoving, staring down at the water. Time passed. Strange, unchanging time as he watched the girl. Time might even have ceased with the girl sitting on the rock, staring into the water and the rows of great ferns behind her as rigid as if they had been painted there. All at once the girl looked up. Harris shifted, suddenly conscious of himself as an intruder. He stepped back. I'm sorry, he murmured. I'm from the garrison. I didn't mean to come poking around. She nodded without speaking. You don't mind? Harris asked presently. No. So she spoke, Taryn. He moved a little toward her, around the side of the pool. I hope you don't mind my bothering you. I won't be on the asteroid very long. This is my first day here. I just arrived from Tara. She smiled faintly. I'm a doctor, Henry Harris. He looked down at her at the slim, cobbery body gleaming in the sunlight, a faint sheen of moisture on her arms and thighs. You might be interested in why I'm here. He paused. Maybe you can even help me. She looked up a little. Oh. Would you like to help me? She smiled. Yes, of course. That's good. Mind if I sit down? He looked around and found himself a flat rock. He sat down slowly, facing her. Cigarette? No. Well, I'll have one. He lit up, taking a deep breath. You see, we have a problem at the garrison. Something has been happening to some of the men, and it seems to be we won't be able to run the garrison. He waited for a moment. She nodded slightly. How silent she was. Silent and unmoving. Like the ferns. Well, I've been able to find out a few things from them, and one very interesting fact stands out. They keep saying that something called the Pipers are responsible for their condition. They say the Pipers taught them. A strange look had flitted across her dark small face. Do you know the Pipers? She nodded. A cute satisfaction flooded over Harris. You do? I was sure the natives would know. He stood up again. I was sure they would if the Pipers really existed. Then they do exist, do they? They exist. Harris frowned. And they're here in the woods? Yes. I see. He ground his cigarette out impatiently. You don't suppose there's any chance you could take me to them, do you? Take you? Yes, I have this problem and I have to solve it. You see, the base commander on Terra has assigned this to me. This business about the Pipers. It has to be solved, and I'm the one assigned to the job. So it's important to me to find them. Do you understand? She nodded. Well, will you take me to them? The girl was silent. For a long time she sat staring down into the water, resting her head against her knee. Harris began to become impatient. He fidgeted back and forth, resting first on one leg and then on the other. Well, will you? He said again. It's important to the whole garrison. He felt around in his pockets. Maybe I could give you something. What do I have? He brought out his lighter. I could give you my lighter. The girl stood up, rising slowly, gracefully, without motion or effort. Harris' mouth fell open. How supple she was, gliding to her feet in a single motion. He blinked. Without effort she had stood seemingly without change. All at once she was standing instead of sitting, standing and looking calmly at him, her small face expressionless. Will you? He said. Yes, come along. She turned away, moving toward the row of ferns. Harris followed quickly, stumbling across the rocks. Fine, he said. Thanks a lot. I'm very interested to meet these pipers. Where are you taking me to your village? The girl did not answer. She had entered the ferns already and Harris quickened his pace to keep from losing her. How silently she glided. Wait, he called. Wait for me. The girl paused waiting for him, slim and lovely, looking silently back. He entered the ferns hurrying after her. Well, I'll be damned, Commander Cox said. It sure didn't take you long. He leaped down the steps too at a time. Let me give you a hand. Harris grinned, lugging his heavy suitcases. He set them down and breathed a sigh of relief. It isn't worth it, he said. I'm going to give up taking so much. Come on inside, soldier. Give him a hand. The patrolman hurried over and took one of the suitcases. The three men went inside and down the corridor to Harris's quarters. Harris unlocked the door and the patrolman deposited his suitcase inside. Thanks, Harris said. He set the other down beside it. It's good to be back, even for a little while. A little while? I just came back to settle my affairs. I have to return to Y-3 tomorrow morning. And you didn't solve the problem? I solved it, but I haven't cured it. I'm going back and get to work right away. There's a lot to be done. But you found out what it is. Yes. It was just what the men said. The Pipers. The Pipers do exist? Yes, Harris nodded. They do exist. He removed his coat and put it over the back of the chair. Then he went to the window and let it down. Warm spring air rushed into the room. He settled himself on the bed, leaning back. The Pipers exist, all right, in the minds of the garrison crew. To the crew, the Pipers are real. The crew created them. It's a mass hypnosis, a group projection, and all the men there have it, to some degree. How did it start? Those men on Y-3 were sent there because they were skilled, highly trained men with exceptional ability. All their lives they've been schooled by complex modern society. Fast tempo and high integration between people. Constant pressure toward some goal, some job to be done. Those men are put down suddenly on an asteroid where there are natives living the most primitive of existence, completely vegetable lives. No concept of goal, no concept of purpose, and hence no ability to plan. The natives live the way the animals live, from day to day, sleeping, picking food from the trees, a kind of garden of Eden existence without struggle or conflict. So, but each of the garrison crew sees the natives and unconsciously thinks of his own early life when he was a child, when he had no worries, no responsibilities, before he joined modern society, a baby lying in the sun. But he can't admit this to himself. He can't admit that he might want to live like the natives, to lie asleep all day so he invents the pipers. The idea of a mysterious group living in the woods who trap him, lead him into their kind of life. Then he can blame them, not himself. They teach him to become a part of the woods. What are you going to do? Have the woods burned? No. Harris shook his head. That's not the answer. The woods are harmless. The answer is psychotherapy for the men. I'm going to write back so I can begin work. They've got to be made to see that the pipers are inside them, their own unconscious voices calling to them to give up their responsibilities. They've got to be made to realize that there are no pipers, at least not outside themselves. The woods are harmless and the natives have nothing to teach anyone. They're primitive savages without even a written language. We're seeing a psychological projection by a whole garrison of men who lay down their work and take it easy for a while. The room was silent. I see, Cox said presently. Well, it makes sense. He got to his feet. I hope you can do something with the men when you get back. I hope so too, Harris agreed. And I think I can. After all, it's just a question of increasing their self-awareness. When they have that, the pipers will vanish. Cox nodded. Well, you go ahead with your unpacking, Doc. I'll see you at dinner and maybe before you leave tomorrow. Fine. Harris opened the door and the commander went out into the hall. Harris closed the door after him and then went back across the room. He looked out the window for a moment, his hands in his pockets. It was becoming evening, the air was turning cool, the sun was just setting as he watched, disappearing behind the buildings surrounding the hospital. He watched it go down. Then he went over to his two suitcases. He was tired, very tired from his trip. A great weariness was beginning to descend over him. There were so many things to do, so terribly many. How could he hope to do them all? Back to the asteroid and then what? He yawned, his eyes closing. How sleepy he was. He looked over at the bed. Then he sat down on the edge of it and took his shoes off. So much to do the next day. He put his shoes in the corner of the room. Then he bent over unsnapping one of the suitcases. He opened the suitcase. From it he took a bulging gunny sack. Carefully he emptied the contents of the sack out on the floor. Dirt. Rich, soft dirt. Dirt he had collected during his last hours there. Dirt he had carefully gathered up. When the dirt was spread out on the floor, he sat down in the middle of it. He stretched himself out, leaning back. When he was fully comfortable, he folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes. So much work to do. But later on, of course, tomorrow, how warm the dirt was. He was sound asleep in a moment. End of Piper in the Woods by Philip K. Dick. The Prophetic Camera by John McGreevy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.com Reading by Bologna Times. The Prophetic Camera by John McGreevy Joey Barrett set his camera carefully to one side and swung onto the edge of the desk. He knew this annoyed, nugent, moment nothing gave him greater satisfaction than his ability to irritate the editor. His heels thunked against the highly polished sides of the desk and he shook his head very deliberately in rhythm with the heel hammering. No, he said. I don't think so, nugent. He decided the drumming had lost its impact, so he crossed his legs and turned to face the balding man behind the desk. Why should I? I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, but this is an unusual story, Joey, and I'd like to get a photographer's land on it. Want to find out how the other half thinks, huh? Nugent referred to a memo. This is the address. He pushed the slip of paper toward Joey. I think you'll find this Jason Yewing most cooperative. He's a crackpot. He went right away from the memo and slid off the desk. That's why none of your brainy reporters will touch the assignment. He is eccentric. Nugent didn't bother to hide his impatience. What inventor isn't? He's an inventor? New kind of camera. That's where you come in, Joey. Nugent leaned back in his swivel chair. I want a photographer's reaction to it. What's so special about his camera? Nugent didn't look at Joey. It photographs another dimension. There was a moment's silence. Nugent was abruptly preoccupied with his hands. Joey moved slowly toward the desk. Another dimension? You mean stereo-opticon stuff with depth? Nugent stood. No, I don't think that's what Yewing means. He moved from his desk to the window. I want you to find out what it is. Get all the information you can. Are you sure this thing doesn't belong on the comic page, Nugent? Dusk was settling over the city. Nugent stared out at the darkening skyline. I admit it sounds crazy, but it'll make a good human interest yarn. He turned back to Joey. Just bring in the facts and one of the rewrite boys will put them in shape. Joey Barrett's chin set doggedly. You've got no right to ask me to, but he didn't finish. His editor had abruptly moved in very close. You're in no position to quibble, Joey. What does that mean? Nugent's thin lips were tightly compressed. The management's not happy with you. Joey's laugh was brittle. He walked slowly back to his desk. I've had more and more complaints about your work. Joey was close behind him. I take the assignments you hand me, and there's no one on the staff gets us sharp or shot. Nugent waved this aside. It's your manner. He pushed a glossy 8x10 print toward the photographer. You play up the grizzly, the macabre. Joey stared down at the picture. A slow smile narrowed his eyes. I photograph what I see. I figure it's what your readers want to see, too. Nugent sat heavily. We had a hundred phone calls about that picture. Brutal, sadistic, morbid. The print fell face up before Nugent. He turned it over. Joey laughed. Sure, it's all those things. And they loved it. He leaned very close to Nugent. You didn't have to print it. It was the only shot I had. It was print it or be scooped on one of the big stories of the year. Joey's outward nonchalance failed to mask entirely his inner tension. When I take a picture they remember it. There's a difference between memorable photography and cheap sensationalism. The editor picked up the memo with Ewing's address. All things considered. I think you'd better get this interview for me. Joey stared at Nugent for an insolent second. Then he took the memo. He checked the address, jammed the paper into his pocket, and moved quickly to the door. Hand on the knob, he paused. Oh, Nugent, he called. If you can't see the story just remember it's in another dimension. He slammed the door on Nugent's anger. Early evening traffic was heavy as he pulled into the quiet old-fashioned street where Ewing lived. Sober, brownstone houses, their front steps rising steeply to stained glass-paneled doors, heavily-curtained bay windows, weather-stained and rotting gingerbread, an atmosphere of reluctant decay feel, senescence. Ewing's house was like a dozen others in the same block. Joey was not a man given to hunches, and yet as he climbed out of his car and stood staring up at the silent house he could not repress a shiver of apprehension. He looked up the street. Nothing marred the quiet. A middle-aged woman hurried home with her armload of groceries. A man paraded an ancient dog on a leash. Slowly Joey climbed the steps. His apprehension was no more than the resentment he felt for the assignment. He yanked the old-fashioned bell and listened for its echoes dying deep in the house. He fidgeted impatiently. Perhaps old Ewing wasn't at a home, or maybe he was so eccentric he no longer answered the bell. Joey jerked it again. On the traffic-noisy boulevard a block away he heard a raw feeling of breaks. Joey sighed and turned away. He'd wasted an hour. He started down the steps and the door opened. Jason Ewing was very old. His incredibly blue eyes seemed alien in the yellow parchment face. His clothing, his manner, even his speech were archaic. As Joey shook the bony hand Ewing was apologizing for the delay. In my dark room, he said, the voice strangely resonant to come from so frail a chest, and I had to get the developer off my hands. Joey nodded and stepped inside. The atmosphere of the house was a curious mixture of chemical and decay. There was a layer of dust on the brick-a-brack and as Joey followed the stoop figure from the entry-hall into the living-room he saw Ewing as a kind of insubstantial ghost moving through the deserted room so carefully that the dust was not disturbed. Ewing gestured to a chair which looked prim and uncomfortable in its yellowed antimacassers. Sit down, please, Mr. Barrett. He switched on an ornate table-lamp. It's most kind of you to be interested in my work. Joey gave him the automatic smile. The room was a combination studio and parlor. A bulky antique camera lorded it over the conventional furnishings. Its unblinking eye regarded Joey coldly. There was a fireplace with massive brass and irons cast to resemble griffin heads. Purple draperies at the window were faded by the sun and time. The heavy furniture was definitely shabby, even the antique photograph album with its plush cover and gold-plated clasp and lock was right for the room. This was Jason Ewing's world and Joey felt himself to be an alien. Ewing hovered nervously, white fingers clenching and unclenching, reaching out now and then to touch the album on the dusty tabletop. I know you are a busy man, Mr. Barrett," he said, so I'll come at once to the point. Joey relaxed as much as he could in the old chair. I should tell you first, Mr. Ewing, that I'm not a writer. I'm a photographer. My editor thought maybe you and me would talk the same language. Ewing bobbed his head up and down. Excellent, excellent! He pulled up a small chair. Believe me, Mr. Barrett, I hesitated a very long while before I decided to make my discovery public. Joey disguised a grin at you. Ewing closed his eyes. I'm not well. Heart, most unreliable. Doctor tells me I may die at any time. I see. But before I die, the old man said, leaning forward again, I must share my secret. He seemed to have difficulty in finding the words he sought. It's so extraordinary, Mr. Barrett, that I've been afraid to divulge it. He gave a sad check of his head. People today are so unwilling to accept the unusual. Joey writhed inwardly. This was worse than he had thought. He would make Nugent pay. Mr. Nugent said something about your photographing another dimension. He prompted. The old man pushed himself to his feet. It was accidental. I've dabbled in amateur photography for years. He limped over to his camera. Not only took pictures, developed my own. He paused and looked very directly at Joey. About six years ago I began experimenting with a new developer. Ewing's eyes were disturbing. Joey looked away. You had used commercial developers before? Yes. Ewing gripped the camera. I wanted a developer with a more sharply defined image. I tried fifty different formulae. Never quite achieving what I had in mind. Joey lit a cigarette. You must have spent a lot of time on it. I had retired. I live alone here. No other interests. The phrases came in little gasps as if Ewing had to force the words between his lips. Made no progress. And then I tried. The pause indicated Joey was expected to react. Formula 53. Ewing moved back to the light. My 53rd experiment. Radical departure from commercial developers. It succeeded. It succeeded, Mr. Barrett. But not in the way I had imagined. The fish-white hands rested on the photo album. I developed some film in Formula 53 and received the shock of my life. His voice was a whisper. The pictures on the negative were not the pictures I had taken. He paused to watch the effect on Barrett. Joey scratched his ear. You took one set of pictures and the negatives you got were of another set. I know what you're thinking, Ewing said. What I thought first but that wasn't the answer. The same thing happened again and again whenever I used Formula 53 as my developer. I produced a strange set of pictures. Joey stood up nervously. The old boy was crazier than he had first guessed. Humoring him seemed the only answer. That's incredible. Ewing nodded excitedly. I thought I was losing my mind but slowly I began to realize what had happened. The old man sank into the chair by the table. School of modern philosophers teaches all time is co-existent. Joey felt almost sorry for the old boy. He was so much in earnest about his correct brain discovery. Time co-existent? Past, present, future, all simultaneous, running along in parallel dimensions. Joey tried to laugh. Little rough for me, Mr. Ewing. He apologized. Look, he went on quickly. I've been thinking. But Ewing wasn't listening. Simplify it. At this moment Caesar, crossing the Rubicon, Columbus is discovering America. You and I are talking. A man in the 25th century is rocketing toward Mars. I see what you mean. Ewing was holding the old-fashioned photo album in his lap. I know now that what I've stumbled into with Formula 53 is another dimension in time. You mean that you can take a picture of what's happening in another time? Ewing nodded. I know it's difficult to grasp, Mr. Barrett. He held out the plush-covered album. But I have proof. Joey stepped toward the old man. You've got pictures in there. Pictures of this other dimension. Yes. He fumbled in his vest pocket, found a small key, and with trembling hand inserted it in the album lock. I've never shown anyone these pictures before, he said. Despite himself, Joey felt excited. Even as he dismissed Ewing as a hopeless crackpot, he was disturbingly eager to see the pictures in the old album. Ewing gestured for him to be seated. He sat in the chair near the table, and the old man handed him the open album. So far, Ewing said, I haven't been able to control the process. I photograph a subject, and the picture may be projected ten years into the future, or a hundred years into the past. There must be an infinite number of dimensions registered on the film, but my developer varies. Joey's initial eagerness was quickly dissipated. The photographs in the album were disappointingly ordinary. True, there were some that seemed to be trick shots, and a few in which the costuming was unfamiliar, but certainly nothing to document the old boy's claim. Aside from a few shots that were interesting because of their violence, there was nothing in the album. Ewing waited for Joey's reaction, the parchment face even more deeply wrinkled by excitement, the blue eyes blazing. Joey left the album open at the picture of a gruesome accident. Apparently two cars had met head-on. The one had been a sleek convertible. The other was an old sedan. Both were terribly crumpled. Glass littered the street. Steam spewed from the twisted radiator of the old wreck. A man sprawled from the front seat of the sedan. An elderly man with a white beard. A beard spattered with blood. This eyes stared accusingly at the small cluster of onlookers who surrounded the wreck. Nearby, thrown from the crushed convertible by the impact, lay a woman. She wore an extreme evening dress and a fur cape had fallen not far from her body. All around her were pearls spilled from the broken strand at her throat. Joey looked up at Ewing. He shook his head. He smiled up at the old man. That looks like a shot I might have made. Ewing's entire body seemed shaken by his eagerness to prove his point. Mr. Barrett, that picture is of an accident that hasn't occurred. One evening I took a picture of the street out there at the corner where our street joins the boulevard. His room was empty. He looked up at the old man. The street joins the boulevard. His voice was low, urgent. When I snapped that photo, the street was deserted. There were no cars, no people. Joey took another look at the wreck. He closed the album with finality. Mr. Ewing, he said, I'm not questioning your sincerity. I can see that you're convinced your developer has extraordinary powers. But you don't believe me. There was despair in the old man's voice. What can I say to make you believe that you've just looked at the picture of an accident that's yet to happen? Joey laid the album on the table. It's an interesting theory. Ewing moved to his camera. It's more than a theory. I can prove it. He ducked behind the camera. Let me take your picture, Mr. Barrett, and I'll prove it. Wait a minute! Joey half rose from the chair in protest and then, with a shrug, subsided. Sure, he said. Why not? Thank you. Ewing answered. He focused the camera, cut on extra lights, posed Joey, took his picture. The ordeal over, Joey moved toward the door. You'll see, Mr. Barrett, this picture will convince you. Joey nodded. Sure, sure. You give me a call. They were in the entry hall. As I said, Ewing continued, for a long time. That's why I'm very anxious to pass on my discovery. It could do great good in the right hands. Joey opened the door. I understand, he said. You give me a call. I will. Joey was outside, the door between him and Ewing's pathetic eagerness. As he bounded down the steps, he was devising a revenge as near psycho as Ewing should be loose. The old boy had lived too long alone in the empty house. Just as he drew away from the curb, Joey heard the crash. Squealing rubber, splintering glass, rending metal, perhaps a human scream, compounded into an awful discord that ricocheted against the quiet brownstone fronts, building to a crescendo of metallic anguish. After the first moment of surprise, he experienced the curious exultation. He always felt at a scene of violence. The trip wasn't a waste after all. He'd get a picture, and from the sound of the crash it would be a good one. As he clambered out of his car, camera ready, people were running down steps. Cars were swinging off the boulevard. The first cluster the curious was collecting. With professional assurance Joey brushed people aside and moved in. One car had been stopped at the intersection, and the other had careened off the boulevard and smashed head-on into it. Joey stopped on the crowd's inner edge and stared. It was impossible. One car was an old sedan. The other a sleek convertible. An old man with blood-spattered white beard, half spilled from the sedan, and on the glistening pavement lay a woman in evening dress surrounded by dozens of pearls. From habit Joey took the picture of the accident and delivered it to Nugent. By the time he had developed his picture he was beginning to enjoy the knowledge that it was an exact duplicate of the photograph in Ewing's album. Only he and Ewing realized the power of Formula 53. It couldn't be a coincidence. The details were too exact. Ewing's explanation was the only one possible, and that meant the old boy wasn't crazy. The formula was all he insisted. Such a formula could be a great force for good, the old man had said, in the right hands. In the hands of Joey Barrett. Joey decided to keep his secret. This was not a power to be shared with Leslie Nugent or anyone else. So when he faced his editor again he was careful to dismiss the Ewing interview with just the proper history of casualness. There's no doubt about it. He said, Ewing's a crackpot. Nugent scowled impatiently. Even so. I tell you, if we run the story he gave me we'll be laughed out of business. Joey watched Nugent closely. But surely as a human interest yarn the editor protested we'd be justified. Joey shook his head. He's an old crank trying to build up his ego with these phony claims. Nugent leaned back. There was absolutely no basis for his theory. None. Joey laughed easily. You should have seen the obvious trick photos he tried to pass off as evidence. My advice is forget Jason Ewing. There was a long pause. Then Nugent nodded. All right, thanks Joey. We'll see of the accident. You outdid yourself on this one. Joey sauntered to the door. The master's touch, he called. I'll hit you for a raise later. Satisfied that Nugent considered the Ewing story dead, Joey left the paper and hurried to a payphone. When Jason Ewing answered there was a note of near hysteria in his voice. He seemed frightened by Joey's interest and was extremely reluctant to give him another interview. I don't blame you for being irritated. Joey said, I was very rude. But look, Mr. Ewing, now I see I was wrong. We can't talk about it on the phone. All I want is a chance to see you again. Maybe tomorrow? There was such a long pause that Joey thought Ewing had broken the connection. Then he heard the old man sigh. I don't know what to say. Ewing faltered. In the light of recent developments I think it would be unwise to involve you, Mr. Barrett. Joey laughed. Listen, this is the break of a lifetime for me. How about tomorrow morning at nine? Tomorrow. The one word was neither affirmation nor question. But Joey chose to interpret it as agreement. See you in the morning at nine, Mr. Ewing, he said, and hung up quickly. Joey slept a little that night. He was up early, gulped a hasty breakfast and stood on the steps at Ewing's house at five minutes to nine. Again, as on the day before he had to ring the bell twice before the door opened and the wrinkled face showed itself. He was shocked by the change in Ewing. The man seemed much older and there was a haunting fear in the blue eyes. It would have been wiser, the old man whispered, if you had not come here again, for us not to have met. Joey was determined to be charming. He put his hand on the thin old arm and gently pushed Ewing into the entry-hall. I don't blame you for being bitter, he said, closing the door. I was a fool yesterday. Ewing pulled free and moved agitatedly into the living-room. Even the morning sun made no impression on the shadows there. The old man didn't look at Joey. You were right, he said. That would be better to forget the formula. Joey fucked down his impatience. He tried to move smoothly, keep his voice calm. No, you mustn't think that. You can't be selfish. You said yourself, Mr. Ewing, that this knowledge could do great good. The quiet persuasiveness of Joey's approach seemed cause for further alarm. I said that, but since then I see that it might also do great harm. He tottered away from Joey and slumped tiredly into the chair by the table. Mr. Ewing, Joey said, following him, yesterday I saw one of your pictures come to life. Ewing did not look up. I know the accident at the corner. I was afraid you had seen it. Afraid! Joey laughed. That was the clincher. He leaned over the old man. Listen, Mr. Ewing, the second I saw that wreck, I have in Formula 53. I want to help you make use of it. The proper use. The old man shook his head. I'm afraid! He whimpered. Joey ignored the interruption. We'll work this together. If we play it smart, the sky's the limit. We can be millionaires. Name our own prices. He laughed in his excitement. They'll meet our demands when they see what we've got to offer. Joey really pushed himself to his feet. He regarded Joey with mixed apprehension and disgust. You, you can't commercialize my discovery, he protested. I wouldn't permit the formula to be used for personal gain. Not just my gain, you and me together. Joey looked at the red plush photo album and rubbed his hands. I'll bet we've got pictures in that album worth a hundred grand. Abruptly, he stopped past Joey and seized the album. He cradled it in his arms. That's out of the question. He tottered toward the fireplace. Mr. Barrett, he pleaded. I beg you to go now. Anger simmered in Joey. Anger and frustration. All right, he said, forcing himself to be reasonable. Those are your pictures. He faced youing at the fireplace. But if I take some, will you give me the formula with them? Stubbornly, the old man shook his head. What is the formula? Joey demanded. I've never written it down. Youing clutched the red plush photo album with one hand and gestured imploringly with the other. Mr. Barrett, every moment you stay here, you jeopardize us both. Leave now. Please forget we ever met that you ever heard of Formula 53. Forget! Joey's hands clenched and unclenched and mounting desperation. You can't start a guy on a thing like this, youing, and then tell him to forget it. For a long second they stared at each other. Youing was breathing heavily and perspiration beaded the parchment face. Joey tried another tactic. Look, if you don't want to give me the formula, at least let me have a few of the pictures in that album. Whatever I get out of them I'll split with you. He reached out tentatively. Youing shrank back. Go away. Leave me alone. There's nothing in the album. I burned the pictures. You're lying. The thought of the money, the old fool, had thrown away cut into Joey like a knife. You wouldn't do a crazy thing like that. Only two left. Should have burned them. Panic, sees Joey. He grabbed at the red plush album. Youing held on to the book with the tenacity of an aged crab. You mustn't! He croaked. You're destroying yourself. Don't! But the old man's stubborn and futile resistance stoked the smoldering fires of Joey's anger. He gripped one corner of the coveted trophy with his left hand and with his right gave Youing a vicious shove. With a rattling cry the old man staggered back into the fireplace. The book was in Joey's hand. He didn't look at Youing. The clasp was not locked. Feverishly he opened the heavy cover. The truth took his breath away. Youing hadn't lied. The pages were empty. He had burned the pictures, the crazy old fool. But he had said there were two pictures left. Joey thumbed hastily through the empty album till he reached the first of the remaining pictures. He cried out. In a self-portrait of Youing he lay sprawled on the floor before the fireplace, blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, blood smearing his temple, and one of the massive brass and irons. Joey dropped the album on the table and slowly turned. He closed his eyes. Oh God! he whispered. No! No! Like a sleepwalker he moved to the silent figure. Nelt searched in vain Jason Youing was dead. Joey stared at the end-iron with its tell-tale stain. He pulled himself up to a half-crouch and looked wildly around the dark living-room. The camera was an accusing eye. It was an accident, he murmured. His heart he was an old man. The photo-album still lay open on the table. Youing had saved two pictures. One of himself, the other. There was a heavy knocking at the front door. Joey went shakily to the album, gripping the table's edge. He turned to the second picture. Joey Barrett sat in a chair. His trousers were slit. His head was shaved and there were straps and electrodes. It was the kind of picture that would sell a thousand extra copies. End of The Prophetic Camera by John McGreevy