Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick by Philip K. Dick Page B

his pocket and made his way back to the bunker. Behind him the claws came back to life, moving into operation again. The procession resumed, metal spheres moving through the gray ash with their loads. He could hear their treads scrabbling against the ground. He shuddered.
    Scott watched intently as he brought the shiny tube out of his pocket. “He had that?”
    “In his hand.” Leone unscrewed the top. “Maybe you should look at it, sir.”
    Scott took it. He emptied the contents out in the palm of his hand. A small piece of silk paper, carefully folded. He sat down by the light and unfolded it.
    “What's it say?” Eric said. Several officers came up the tunnel. Major Hendricks appeared.
    “Major,” Scott said. “Look at this.”
    Hendricks read the slip. “This just come?”
    “A single runner. Just now.”
    “Where is he?” Hendricks asked sharply.
    “The claws got him.”
    Major Hendricks grunted. “Here.” He passed it to his companions. “I think this is what we've been waiting for. They certainly took their time about it.”
    “So they want to talk terms,” Scott said. “Are we going along with them?”
    “That's not for us to decide.” Hendricks sat down. “Where's the communications officer? I want the Moon Base.”
    Leone pondered as the communications officer raised the outside antenna cautiously, scanning the sky above the bunker for any sign of a watching Russian ship.
    “Sir,” Scott said to Hendricks. “It's sure strange they suddenly came around. We've been using the claws for almost a year. Now all of a sudden they start to fold.”
    “Maybe claws have been getting down in their bunkers.”
    “One of the big ones, the kind with stalks, got into an Ivan bunker last week,” Eric said. “It got a whole platoon of them before they got their lid shut.”
    “How do you know?”
    “A buddy told me. The thing came back with—with remains.”
    “Moon Base, sir,” the communications officer said.
    On the screen the face of the lunar monitor appeared. His crisp uniform contrasted to the uniforms in the bunker. And he was clean-shaven. “Moon Base.”
    “This is forward command L-Whistle. On Terra. Let me have General Thompson.”
    The monitor faded. Presently General Thompson's heavy features came into focus. “What is it, Major?”
    “Our claws got a single Russian runner with a message. We don't know whether to act on it—there have been tricks like this in the past.”
    “What's the message?”
    “The Russians want us to send a single officer on policy level over to their lines. For a conference. They don't state the nature of the conference.
    They say that matters of—” He consulted the slip: “—matters of grave urgency make it advisable that discussion be opened between a representative of the UN forces and themselves.”
    He held the message up to the screen for the General to scan. Thompson's eyes moved.
    “What should we do?” Hendricks said.
    “Send out a man.”
    “You don't think it's a trap?”
    “It might be. But the location they give for their forward command is correct. It's worth a try, at any rate.”
    “I'll send an officer out. And report the results to you as soon as he returns.”
    “All right, Major.” Thompson broke the connection. The screen died. Up above, the antenna came slowly down.
    Hendricks rolled up the paper, deep in thought.
    “I'll go,” Leone said.
    “They want somebody at policy level.” Hendricks rubbed his jaw. “Policy level. I haven't been outside in months. Maybe I could use a little air.”
    “Don't you think it's risky?”
    Hendricks lifted the view sight and gazed into it. The remains of the Russian were gone. Only a single claw was in sight. It was folding itself back, disappearing into the ash, like a crab. Like some hideous metal crab … “That's the only thing that bothers me.” Hendricks rubbed his wrist. “I know I'm safe as long as I have this on me. But there's something about them. I hate the damn