Free Solar Lottery by Philip K. Dick Page A

“Shut up or get out of here. Benteley’s working with you from now on, whether you like it or not.”
    “Nobody gets into the project but me!” Hatred, fear, and professional jealousy blazed on Moore’s face. “If he can’t hang on at a third-rate Hill like Oiseau-Lyre, he isn’t good enough to—”
    “We’ll see,” Benteley said coolly. “I’m itching to get my hands on your notes and papers. I’ll enjoy going over your work. It sounds like just what I want.”
    “I want a drink,” Verrick muttered. “I’ve got too much to do, to stand here talking.”
    Moore shot Benteley a last glance of resentment and then hurried off after Verrick. Their voices trailed off as a door was slammed. The crowd of people shifted and began to murmur wearily and break apart.
    With a shade of bitterness Eleanor said, “Well, there goes our host. Quite a party, wasn’t it?”

SIX
    Benteley’s head had begun to ache. The constant din of voices mixed with the flash of bright clothing and the movements of bodies. The floor was littered with squashed cigarette butts and debris; the whole chamber had a disheveled cast, as if it were slowly settling on its side. His eyes hurt from the glare of the overhead lights that wavered and altered shape and value each moment. A man pushing by jabbed him hard in the ribs. Leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling between her lips, a young woman was removing her sandals and gratefully rubbing her red-nailed toes.
    “What do you want?” Eleanor asked him.
    “I want to leave.”
    Eleanor led him expertly through the drifting groups of people toward one of the exits. Sipping her drink as she walked she said, “All this may seem pointless, but actually it serves a function. Verrick is able to—”
    Herb Moore blocked their way. His face was flushed dark and unhealthy red. With him was the pale, silent Keith Pellig. “Here you are,” Moore muttered thickly, teetering unsteadily,his glass sloshing over. He focused on Benteley and harshly announced, “You wanted to get in on it.” He slammed Pellig on the back. “This is the greatest event in the world. This is the most important person alive. Feast your eyes, Benteley.”
    Pellig said nothing. He gazed impassively at Benteley and Eleanor, his thin body relaxed and supple. There was almost no color to him. His eyes, his hair, his skin, even his nails, were bleached and translucent. He had a washed hygienic appearance. He was odorless, colorless, tasteless, an empty cipher.
    Benteley put out his hand. “Hello, Pellig. Shake.”
    Pellig shook. His hand was cool and faintly moist with no life or strength.
    “What do you think of him?” Moore demanded aggressively. “Isn’t he something? Isn’t he the greatest discovery since the wheel?”
    “Where’s Verrick?” Eleanor said. “Pellig isn’t supposed to be out of his sight.”
    Moore flushed darker. “That’s a laugh! Who—”
    “You’ve had too much to drink.” Eleanor peered sharply around. “Damn Reese; he’s probably still arguing with somebody.”
    Benteley gazed at Pellig with dulled fascination. There was something repellent about the listless, slender shape, a sexless juiceless hermaphrodite quality. Pellig didn’t even have a glass in his hand. He had nothing.
    “You’re not drinking,” Benteley’s voice rolled out.
    Pellig shook his head.
    “Why not? Have some
methane gale.
” Benteley fumbled a glass from the tray of a passing MacMillan robot; three crashed to the floor, spilling and splintering under the robot’s gliding treads. It instantly halted and began an intricate cleaning and sweeping operation.
    “Here.” Benteley thrust the glass at Pellig. “Eat, drink, and be merry. Tomorrow somebody, certainly not you, will die.”
    “Cut it,” Eleanor grated in his ear.
    “Pellig,” Benteley said, “how does it feel to be a professional killer? You don’t look like a professional killer. You don’t look like anything at all. Not even a man.