A Handful of Darkness by Philip K. Dick Page B

must go some place .”
    Miller put his hand on Ellis’s shoulder in a friendly big-brother fashion. “Henry, old man, you just leave that up to us. Okay? We’re the designers, you’re the consumer. Your job is to use the ’scuttler, try it out for us, report any defects or failure so when we put it on the market next year we’ll be sure there’s nothing wrong with it.”
    “As a matter of fact—” Ellis began.
    “What is it?”
    Ellis clamped his sentence off. “Nothing.” He picked up his brief-case. “Nothing at all. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks, Mr. Miller. Goodnight.”
    He hurried downstairs and out of the TD building. The faint outline of his Jiffi-scuttler was visible in the fading late-afternoon sunlight. The sky was already full of monojets taking off. Weary workers beginning their long trip back to their homes in the country. The endless commute. Ellis made his way to the hoop and stepped into it. Abruptly the bright sunlight dimmed and faded.
    Again he was in the wavery grey tunnel. At the far end flashed a circle of green and white. Rolling green hills and his own house. His back yard. The cedar tree and flower beds. The town of Cedar Groves.
    Two steps down the tunnel. Ellis halted, bending over. He studied the floor of the tunnel intently. He studied the misty grey wall, where it rose and flickered—and the thin place. The place he had noticed.
    They were still there. Still? It was a different bunch. This time ten or eleven of them. Men and women and children. Standing together, gazing up at him with awe and wonder. No more than a half-inch high, each. Tiny distorted figures, shifting and changing shape oddly. Altering colours and hues.
    Ellis hurried on. The tiny figures watched him go. A brief glimpse of their microscopic astonishment—and then he was stepping out into his back yard.
    He clicked off the Jiffi-scuttler and mounted the back steps. He entered his house, deep in thought.
    “Hi,” Mary cried, from the kitchen. She rustled towards him in her hip-length mesh shirt, her arms out. “How was work today?”
    “Fine.”
    “Is anything wrong? You look—strange.”
    “No. No, nothing’s wrong.” Ellis kissed his wife absently on the forehead. “What’s for dinner?”
    “Something choice. Siriusian mole steak. One of your favourites. Is that all right?”
    “Sure.” Ellis tossed his hat and coat down on the chair. The chair folded them up and put them away. His thoughtful, preoccupied look still remained. “Fine, honey.”
    “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You didn’t get into another argument with Pete Taylor, did you?”
    “No. Of course not.” Ellis shook his head in annoyance. “Everything’s all right, honey. Stop needling me.”
    “Well, I hope so,” Mary said, with a sigh.
    The next morning they were waiting for him.
    He saw them the first step into the Jiffi-scuttler. A small group waiting within the wavering grey, like bugs caught in a block of jello. They moved jerkily, rapidly, arms and legs pumping in a blur of motion. Trying to attract his attention. Piping wildly in their pathetically faint voices.
    Ellis stopped and squatted down. They were putting something through the wall of the tunnel, through the thin place in the grey. It was small, so incredibly small he could scarcely see it. A square of white at the end of a microscopic pole. They were watching him eagerly, faces alive with fear and hope. Desperate, pleading hope.
    Ellis took the tiny square. It came loose like some fragile rose petal from its stalk. Clumsily, he let it drop and had to hunt all around for it. The little figures watched in an agony of dismay as his huge hands moved blindly around the floor of the tunnel. At last he found it and gingerly lifted it up.
    It was too small to make out. Writing? Some tiny lines—but be couldn’t read them. Much too small to read. He got out his wallet and carefully placed the square between two cards. He restored his wallet to his