Ubik by Philip K. Dick Page B

infiltrated your operations here on Luna? And why didn’t you want us to run our normal tests? Did you know we would get this result?”
    “Obviously, he knew,” Joe Chip said. He felt sure of it.
    Rapid, agitated activity crossed Runciter’s face; he started to speak to Stanton Mick, then changed his mind and said to Joe in a low voice, “Let’s get back to Earth; let’s get our inertials right out of here now.”
    Aloud, to the others, he said, “Collect your possessions; we’re flying back to New York. I want all of you in the ship within the next fifteen minutes; any of you who aren’t in will be left behind. Joe, get all that junk of yours together in one heap; I’ll help you lug it to the ship, if I have to—anyhow, I want it out of here and you with it.” He turned in Mick’s direction once again, his face puffy with anger; he started to speak—
    Squeaking in his metal-insect voice, Stanton Mick floated to the ceiling of the room, his arms protruding distendedly and rigidly. “Mr. Runciter, don’t let your thalamus override your cerebral cortex. This matter calls for discretion, not haste; calm your people down and let’s huddle together in an effort to mutually understand.” His rotund, colorful body bobbed about, twisting in a slow, transversal rotation so that now his feet, rather than his head, extended in Runciter’s direction.
    “I’ve heard of this,” Runciter said to Joe. “It’s a self-destruct humanoid bomb. Help me get everybody out of here. They just now put it on auto; that’s why it floated upward.”
    The bomb exploded.
    Smoke, billowing in ill-smelling masses which clung to the ruptured walls and floor, sank and obscured the prone, twitching figure at Joe Chip’s feet.
    In Joe’s ear Don Denny was yelling, “They killed Runciter, Mr. Chip. That’s Mr. Runciter.” In his excitement he stammered.
    “Who else?” Joe said thickly, trying to breathe; the acrid smoke constricted his chest. His head rang from the concussion of the bomb, and, feeling an oozing warmth on his neck, he found that a flying shard had lacerated him.
    Wendy Wright, indistinct although close by, said, “I think everyone else is hurt but alive.”
    Bending down beside Runciter, Edie Dorn said, “Could we get an animator from Ray Hollis?” Her face looked crushed in and pale.
    “No,” Joe said; he, too, bent down. “You’re wrong,” he said to Don Denny. “He’s not dead.”
    But on the twisted floor Runciter lay dying. In two minutes, three minutes, Don Denny would be correct.
    “Listen, everybody,” Joe said aloud. “Since Mr. Runciter is injured, I’m now in charge—temporarily, anyhow, until we can get back to Terra.”
    “Assuming,” Al Hammond said, “we get back at all.” With a folded handkerchief he patted a deep cut over his right eye.
    “How many of you have hand weapons?” Joe asked. The inertials continued to mill without answering. “I know it’s against Society rules,” Joe said. “But I know some of you carry them. Forget the illegality; forget everything you’ve ever learned pertaining to inertials on the job carrying guns.”
    After a pause Tippy Jackson said, “Mine is with my things. In the other room.”
    “Mine is here with me,” Tito Apostos said; he already held, in his right hand, an old-fashioned lead-slug pistol.
    “If you have guns,” Joe said, “and they’re in the other room where you left your things, go get them.”
    Six inertials started toward the door.
    To Al Hammond and Wendy Wright, who remained, Joe said, “We’ve got to get Runciter into cold-pac.”
    “There’re cold-pac facilities on the ship,” Al Hammond said.
    “Then we’ll lug him there,” Joe said. “Hammond, take one end and I’ll lift up the other. Apostos, you go ahead of us and shoot any of Hollis’ employees who try to stop us.”
    Jon Ild, returning from the next room with a laser tube, said, “You think Hollis is in here with Mr. Mick?”
    “With him,” Joe