We Can Build You by Philip K. Dick Page A
Authors: Philip K. Dick
are; you prefer it. It’s easier, it’s the easiest way of all. You’re lazy, on a ghastly scale, and you’ll keep on until you’re forced to be otherwise. You’ll never change by yourself. In fact you’ll just get worse.”
Pris laughed, sharply and coldly.
So we walked back without saying anything more to each other.
When we returned to the repair shop we found the Stanton watching Bob Bundy as he labored on the Lincoln.
To the Stanton, Pris said, “This is going to be that man who used to write you all those letters about getting soldiers pardoned.”
The Stanton said nothing; it gazed fixedly at the prone figure, its face lined and stiff with a sort of haughty aloofness. “So I see,” it replied at last. It cleared its throat noisily, coughed, struck a pose in which it put its arms behind its back and clasped its fingers together; it rocked back and forth, still with the same expression. This is my business, it seemed to be saying. Everything of public importance is my business.
It had, I decided, taken up much the same stance that it had assumed during its authentic earlier lifetime. It was returning to its customary posture. Whether this was good or not I could not say. Certainly, as we watched the Lincoln we were all acutely aware of the Stanton behind us; we couldnot ignore it or forget it. Maybe that’s how Stanton had been during his lifetime, always there—no one could ignore him or forget him, no matter how they felt about him otherwise, whether they hated him or feared him or worshiped him.
Pris said, “Maury, I think this one’s already working out better than the Stanton one. Look, it’s stirring.”
Yes, the prone Lincoln simulacrum had stirred.
“Sam Barrows ought to be here,” Pris said excitedly, clasping her hands together. “What’s wrong with us? If he could see it he’d be overwhelmed—I know he’d be. Even he, Maury, even Sam K. Barrows!”
It was impressive. No doubt of it.
“I remember when the factory turned out our first electronic organ,” Maury said to me. “And we all played it, all day long, until one in the morning; you remember?”
“Yes.”
“You and me and Jerome and that brother of yours with the upside down face, we made the darn thing sound like a harpsichord and a Hawaiian guitar and a steam calliope. We played all sorts of stuff on it, Bach and Gershwin, and then remember we made those frozen rum drinks with the blender—and after that, what did we do? We made up our own compositions and we found all types of tone settings, thousands of them; we made up new musical instruments that didn’t exist. We composed! And we got that tape recorder and turned it on while we composed. Boy. That was something.”
“That was the day.”
“And I lay down on the floor and worked the foot pedals that get those low notes—I passed out on the low G, as I recall. And it kept playing; when I came to the next morning that goddam low G was still sounding like a foghorn. Wow. That organ—where do you suppose it is now, Louis?”
“In someone’s living room. They never wear out because they don’t generate any heat. And they never need to be tuned. Someone’s playing tunes on it right now.”
“I’ll bet you’re right.”
Pris said, “Help it sit up.”
The Lincoln simulacrum had begun struggling, flailing with its big hands in an effort to sit up. It blinked its eyes, grimaced; its heavy features stirred. Both Maury and I jumped over and helped support it; god, it weighed a lot, like solid lead. But we managed to get it up to a sitting position at last; we propped it against the wall so it wouldn’t slide back down again.
It groaned.
Something about the noise made me shiver. Turning to Bob Bundy I said, “What do you think? Is it okay? It’s not suffering, is it?”
“I don’t know.” Bundy drew his fingers nervously again and again through his hair; I noticed that his hands were shaking. “I can check it over. The
Pris laughed, sharply and coldly.
So we walked back without saying anything more to each other.
When we returned to the repair shop we found the Stanton watching Bob Bundy as he labored on the Lincoln.
To the Stanton, Pris said, “This is going to be that man who used to write you all those letters about getting soldiers pardoned.”
The Stanton said nothing; it gazed fixedly at the prone figure, its face lined and stiff with a sort of haughty aloofness. “So I see,” it replied at last. It cleared its throat noisily, coughed, struck a pose in which it put its arms behind its back and clasped its fingers together; it rocked back and forth, still with the same expression. This is my business, it seemed to be saying. Everything of public importance is my business.
It had, I decided, taken up much the same stance that it had assumed during its authentic earlier lifetime. It was returning to its customary posture. Whether this was good or not I could not say. Certainly, as we watched the Lincoln we were all acutely aware of the Stanton behind us; we couldnot ignore it or forget it. Maybe that’s how Stanton had been during his lifetime, always there—no one could ignore him or forget him, no matter how they felt about him otherwise, whether they hated him or feared him or worshiped him.
Pris said, “Maury, I think this one’s already working out better than the Stanton one. Look, it’s stirring.”
Yes, the prone Lincoln simulacrum had stirred.
“Sam Barrows ought to be here,” Pris said excitedly, clasping her hands together. “What’s wrong with us? If he could see it he’d be overwhelmed—I know he’d be. Even he, Maury, even Sam K. Barrows!”
It was impressive. No doubt of it.
“I remember when the factory turned out our first electronic organ,” Maury said to me. “And we all played it, all day long, until one in the morning; you remember?”
“Yes.”
“You and me and Jerome and that brother of yours with the upside down face, we made the darn thing sound like a harpsichord and a Hawaiian guitar and a steam calliope. We played all sorts of stuff on it, Bach and Gershwin, and then remember we made those frozen rum drinks with the blender—and after that, what did we do? We made up our own compositions and we found all types of tone settings, thousands of them; we made up new musical instruments that didn’t exist. We composed! And we got that tape recorder and turned it on while we composed. Boy. That was something.”
“That was the day.”
“And I lay down on the floor and worked the foot pedals that get those low notes—I passed out on the low G, as I recall. And it kept playing; when I came to the next morning that goddam low G was still sounding like a foghorn. Wow. That organ—where do you suppose it is now, Louis?”
“In someone’s living room. They never wear out because they don’t generate any heat. And they never need to be tuned. Someone’s playing tunes on it right now.”
“I’ll bet you’re right.”
Pris said, “Help it sit up.”
The Lincoln simulacrum had begun struggling, flailing with its big hands in an effort to sit up. It blinked its eyes, grimaced; its heavy features stirred. Both Maury and I jumped over and helped support it; god, it weighed a lot, like solid lead. But we managed to get it up to a sitting position at last; we propped it against the wall so it wouldn’t slide back down again.
It groaned.
Something about the noise made me shiver. Turning to Bob Bundy I said, “What do you think? Is it okay? It’s not suffering, is it?”
“I don’t know.” Bundy drew his fingers nervously again and again through his hair; I noticed that his hands were shaking. “I can check it over. The