Solar Lottery by Philip K. Dick Page B

down here and make him talk. He’s getting back at Benteley; they had a fight.”
    Verrick’s eyes widened. “This is Benteley? That goddamn Moore! He has no sense; this’ll foul up things.”
    Benteley was beginning to get back some sanity. “Can this be fixed?” he muttered.
    “He was out cold,” Eleanor said in a thin clipped voice. She had pulled on her slacks and sandals and thrown a greatcoat over her shoulders. Her face was colorless; her deep red hair was stringy and vapid. “He can’t go through with it in a conscious condition. Get one of the lab doctors in here to black him. And don’t dry to utilize this. Put him back before you say anything to him. He can’t take it now, you understand?”
    Moore appeared, shaken and afraid. “There’s no harm done. I jumped the gun a little, that’s all.” He caught hold of Benteley’s arm. “Come along. We’ll get this straightened around right away.”
    Benteley pulled loose. He retreated from Moore and examined his alien hands and face. “Verrick,” his voice said, thin and empty. “Help me.”
    “We’ll fix it up,” Verrick said gruffly. “It’ll be all right. Here’s the doctor now.”
    Both Verrick and the doctor had hold of him. Herb Moore fluttered a few paces off, afraid to come near Verrick. At the desk Eleanor wearily lit a cigarette and stood smoking, as the doctor inserted the needle in Benteley’s arm and squashed the bulb. As darkness dissolved him, he heard Verrick’s heavy voice dim and recede.
    “You should have killed him or let him alone; not this kind of stuff. You think he’s going to forget this?”
    Moore answered something, but Benteley didn’t hear. The darkness had become complete, and he was in it.
        A long way off Eleanor Stevens was saying, “You know, Reese doesn’t really understand what Pellig is. Have you noticed that?”
    “He doesn’t understand any kind of theory.” Moore’s voice, sullen and resentful.
    “He doesn’t have to understand theory. Why should he, when he can hire infinite numbers of bright young men to understand it for him?”
    “I suppose you mean me.”
    “Why are you with Reese? You don’t like him. You don’t get along with him.”
    “Verrick has money to invest in my kind of work. If he didn’t back it, I’d be out of luck.”
    “When it’s all over, Reese gets the output.”
    “That’s not important. Look, I took MacMillan’s papers, all that basic stuff he did on robots. What ever came of that? Just these witless hulks, glorified vacuum cleaners, stoves, dumbwaiters. MacMillan had the wrong idea. All he wanted was something big and strong to lift things, so the unks could liedown and sleep. So there wouldn’t be any more unk servants and laborers. MacMillan was pro-unk. He probably bought his classification on the black market.”
    There was the sound of movement: People stirring, getting up and walking, the clink of a glass.
    “Scotch and water,” Eleanor said.
    There was the sound of sitting down. A man sighed gratefully. “I’m tired. What a night. I’m going to turn in early. A whole day gone to waste.”
    “It was your fault.”
    “He’ll keep. He’ll be there for good old Keith Pellig.”
    “You’re not going to go over the implementation, not in your condition.”
    Moore’s voice was full of outrage. “He’s mine, isn’t he?”
    “He belongs to the world,” Eleanor said icily. “You’re so wrapped up in your verbal chess-games, you can’t see the danger you’re putting us in. Every hour that crackpot has gives him a better chance of survival. If you hadn’t gone berserk and turned everything on its head to pay off a personal grudge, Cartwright might already be dead.”
    It was evening.
    Benteley stirred. He sat up a little, surprised to find himself strong and clear-headed. The room was in semi-darkness. A single light gleamed, a tiny glowing dot that he identified as Eleanor’s cigarette. Moore sat beside her, legs crossed, a