Eye in the Sky (1957) by Philip K. Dick

descended.
Confidently, complacently, McFeyffe guzzled his beer.
    “Apparently, I’m not on the
inside,” Hamilton said. “If I said that, I’d be struck dead.”
    “Get on the
inside.”
    “How?” Hamilton demanded.
He was weighed down by the sense of unfairness, the basic wrongness of it all. The world that to McFeyffe made perfect sense
seemed to him a travesty on an equitably run universe. To him, only the
mere glimmer of pattern beat intermittently through the haze, through the
confusion that had surrounded him since the accident at the Bevatron. The values that made up his world, the moral verities
that had underlined existence as long as he could remember, had passed
away; in their place was a crude, tribal vengeance against the outsider, an
archaic system that had come from— where?
    Reaching unsteadily into his coat,
he brought out the note which Doctor Tillingford had given him. Here was the
name, the Prophet. The center, the Sepulcher of the Second Bab, the
source-point of this non-Western cult that had somehow slipped in and absorbed
the familiar world. Had there always been a Horace Clamp? A week ago, a few days ago, there had been no Second
Bab, no Prophet of the One True God at Cheyenne, Wyoming. Or—
    Beside him, McFeyffe peered to
examine the writing on the bit of paper. On his face was a dark expression; the
blustering humor had faded, and in its place was a somberness, hard and oppressive. “What’s that?” he de manded.
    “I’m supposed to look him up,”
Hamilton said.
    “No,” McFeyffe said.
Suddenly his hand shot out; he snatched for
the note. Get rid of it.” His voice was shak ing. “Don’t pay
any attention to that”
    Struggling, Hamilton managed to
retrieve the note. McFeyffe caught hold of
his shoulder; his thick fingers dug into Hamilton’s flesh. The stool
under Hamilton tottered, and all at once he was falling. McFeyffe’s massive
weight descended on him, and then the two of them were fighting on the floor, panting and perspiring, trying to
get possession of the note.
    “No jihad in this bar,”
the bartender said, hopping around the bar to put an end to the fight “If
you want to mangle each other, go
outside.”
    Muttering,
McFeyffe crept unsteadily to his feet “Get rid of it,” he said to Hamilton as he smoothed his clothes. His
face was still rigid, still distorted by some deep- lying uneasiness.
    “What’s the matter?”
Hamilton demanded, reseating himself. He
located his beer and began to lift it. Some thing was happening in McFeyffe’s brutish mind, and he did not know what it was.
    At that moment, the little blond
barfly made her way over. With her was a doleful, gaunt figure. Bill Laws,
gripping a shot glass, bowed lugubriously to McFeyffe and Hamilton.
“‘Afternoon,” he intoned. “Let’s have no more conflicts. We’re
all friends, around here.”
    Staring down at the bar, McFeyffe
said, “All things considered, we pretty well have to be.” He did not amplify.

    VI

    this individual says he’s acquainted with you,” the small blond barfly
explained to Hamilton.
    “That’s right;” Hamilton
answered. “Pull up a stool and sit
down.” He eyed Laws levelly. “Have you investi gated the
situation with advanced physics in the last day
or so?”
    “The hell with physics,”
Laws said, scowling. “I’m past that. I’ve outgrown that”
    “Go
construct a reservoir,” Hamilton told him. “Stop reading so many
books. Get out in the fresh air.”
    Laws placed his lean hand on the
blond’s shoulder. “Meet Grace. Full of reservoir. Full to the gills.”
    “Glad
to meet you,” Hamilton said.
    The girl smiled uncertainly.
“My name isn’t Grace. My name — ”
    Pushing
the girl aside, Laws leaned close to Hamilton. “I’m glad you mentioned the term reservoir.”
    “Why?”
    “Because,” Laws informed
him, “in this world there is no such thing.” “But there has to be.”
    “Come
along.” Holding onto Hamilton’s necktie, Laws