The Philip K. Dick Megapack Read Free

Bentley’s kid had that fit?” He searched his disorganized brain. “Grunberg, I think. In the Medical-Dental building.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll drop by and see him. Something’s wrong—really wrong. And I don’t know what it is.”
    * * * *
    Adam Grunberg was a large heavy-set man in his late forties, with curly brown hair and hornrimmed glasses. After Miller had finished, Grunberg cleared his throat, brushed at the sleeve of his Brooks Bros. suit, and asked thoughtfully,
    “Did anything happen while you were out looking for the newspaper? Any sort of accident? You might try going over that part in detail. You got up from the breakfast table, went out on the porch, and started looking around in the bushes. And then what?”
    Miller rubbed his forehead vaguely. “I don’t know. It’s all confused. I don’t remember looking for any newspaper. I remember coming back in the house. Then it gets clear. But before that it’s all tied up with the History Agency and my quarrel with Fleming.”
    “What was that again about your briefcase? Go over that.”
    “Fleming said it looked like a squashed Jurassic lizard. And I said—”
    “No. I mean, about looking for it in the closet and not finding it.”
    “I looked in the closet and it wasn’t there, of course. It’s sitting beside my desk at the History Agency. On the Twentieth Century level. By my exhibits.” A strange expression crossed Miller’s face. “Good God, Grunberg. You realize this may be nothing but an exhibit? You and everybody else—maybe you’re not real. Just pieces of this exhibit.”
    “That wouldn’t be very pleasant for us, would it?” Grunberg said, with a faint smile.
    “People in dreams are always secure until the dreamer wakes up,” Miller retorted.
    “So you’re dreaming me.” Grunberg laughed tolerantly. “I suppose I should thank you.”
    “I’m not here because I especially like you. I’m here because I can’t stand Fleming and the whole History Agency.”
    Grunberg pondered. “This Fleming. Are you aware of thinking about him before you went out looking for the newspaper?”
    Miller got to his feet and paced around the luxurious office, between the leather-covered chairs and the huge mahogany desk. “I want to face this thing. I’m in an exhibit. An artificial replica of the past. Fleming said something like this would happen to me.”
    “Sit down, Mr. Miller,” Grunberg said, in a gentle but commanding voice. When Miller had taken his chair again, Grunberg continued. “I understand what you say. You have a general feeling that everything around you is unreal. A sort of stage.”
    “An exhibit.”
    “Yes, an exhibit in a museum.”
    “In the N’York History Agency. Level R, the Twentieth Century level.”
    “And in addition to this general feeling of—insubstantiality, there are specific projected memories of persons and places beyond this world. Another realm in which this one is contained. Perhaps I should say, the reality within which this is only a sort of shadow world.”
    “This world doesn’t look shadowy to me.” Miller struck the leather arm of the chair savagely. “This world is completely real. That’s what’s wrong. I came in to investigate the noises, and now I can’t get back out. Good God, do I have to wander around this replica the rest of my life?”
    “You know, of course, that your feeling is common to most of mankind. Especially during periods of great tension. Where—by the way—was the newspaper? Did you find it?”
    “As far as I’m concerned—”
    “Is that a source of irritation with you? I see you react strongly to a mention of the newspaper.”
    Miller shook his head wearily. “Forget it.”
    “Yes, a trifle. The paperboy carelessly throws the newspaper in the bushes, not on the porch. It makes you angry. It happens again and again. Early in the day, just as you’re starting to work. It seems to symbolize in a small way the whole petty frustrations and