Free The Crack In Space by Philip K Dick Page B

pistol did not fire, and Lurton Sands stared down at it in disbelief. ‘Myra, my wife.’ He sounded almost apologetic. ‘She removed the energy cartridge, obviously. Evidently, she thought I’d try to use it on her.’ He tossed the pistol away.
    After a pause Jim Briskin said huskily, ‘Well, now what, Doctor?’
    ‘Nothing, Briskin. Nothing. If I had had more time I would have checked the gun out, but I had to hurry to get here before you left. That was quite a heroic speech you made; it’ll certainly give most people the impression that you’re seeking to alleviate man’s problems  . . . although of course you and I know better. By the way—you do realize you won’t be able to awaken all the bibs; you can’t fulfill that promise because some are dead. I’m responsible for that. Roughly four hundred of them.’
    Jim Briskin stared at him.
    ‘That’s right,’ Sands said. ‘I’ve had access to Department of Special Public Welfare warehouses. Do you know what that means? Every organ I’ve taken has created a dead human—when the time comes for them to be revived, whenever that may be. But I suppose the trump has to be played sooner or later, doesn’t it?’
    ‘You’d do that?’ Jim Briskin said.
    ‘I did that,’ Sands corrected. ‘But remember this: I killed only potentially. Whereas, in exchange, I saved someone right now, someone conscious and alive in the present, someone completely dependent on my skill.’
    Two Chicago policemen shoved their way up to him; Dr Sands jerked irritably away but they continued to hold onto him, pinning him between them.
    Pale, Phil Danville said, ‘That—was almost it, Jim. Wasn’t it?’ He deliberately stepped between Jim Briskin and Dr Sands, shielding Briskin. ‘History revisited.’
    ‘Yes,’ Jim managed to say. He nodded, his mouth dry. Basically he felt resigned. If Lurton Sands did not manage to carry it off then, certainly someone else would, given time. It was just too easy. Weapons technology had improved too much in the last hundred years; everyone knew that, and now the assassin did not even have to be in his vicinity. Like an act of evil magic it could be done from a distance. And the instruments were cheap and available to virtually anyone—even, as history had shown, some ignorant, worthless smallfry, without friends, funds, or even a fanatical purpose, an overriding political cause.
    This incident with Lurton Sands was a vile harbinger.
    ‘Well,’ Phil Danville said, and sighed, ‘I guess we have to go on. What do you want to drink?’
    ‘A Black Russian,’ Jim decided, after a pause. ‘Vodka and  . . .’
    ‘I know,’ Phil interrupted. His face still ragged with fear and gloom, he made his way unsteadily over to the bar to order.
    To Dotty, Jim said, ‘Even if they get me, I’ve done my job. I keep telling myself that over and over again, anyhow. I broke the news about TD’s break-through and that’s enough.’
    ‘Do you actually mean that?’ she demanded. ‘You’re that fatalistic about it, about your chances?’ She stared unwinkingly up into his face.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, finally. And well he might be.
    I have a feeling, he thought to himself, that this is not the time a Negro is going to make it to the presidency.
    His contact within CLEAN came via an individual named Dave DeWinter. DeWinter had joined the movement at its inception and had reported to Tito Cravelli throughout. Now, hurriedly, DeWinter told his employer the most recent—and urgent—news.
    ‘They’ll try it late tonight. The man actually doing it is not a member. His name is Herb Lackmore or Luckmore, and with the equipment they’re providing him he doesn’t need to be an accurate shot.’ DeWinter added, ‘The equipment, what they call a boulder, was paid for by George Walt, those two mutants who own the Golden Door.’
    Tito Cravelli said, ‘I see.’ There goes my post as Attorney General, he said to himself. ‘Where can I find this Lackmore