Free Eye in the Sky (1957) by Philip K. Dick

characteristics.
One can speak of jealously defending one’s heritage.
Meaning, in that case, a zealous determination to guard that which belongs to
one. This heathen, how ever, asserts that you are jealous of him in the
sense that you wish to gainsay him his rightful position. You are motivated by an envious, grudging, and malign
greed— in essence, by a refusal to submit to the Cosmic Appor tionment.”
    “But—”
Brady said, flapping his arms foolishly.
    “The heathen is right to point
out that apparent good works which are motivated by evil intentions are only
pseudo-good works. Your zealous acts are negated by your wicked covetousness.
Although your actions are directed toward sustaining the cause of the One True
God, your souls are impure and stained.”
    “How do you define the term
impure,” Brady began, but it was too
late. Judgment had been pronounced. Si lently, the overhead sun dwindled
to a gloomy, sickly yellow and then faded out altogether. A dry, harsh wind
billowed around the group of frightened technicians. Underfoot, the ground
shriveled and became arid.
    “You can make your appeals
later,” the angel said, from the
gloomy darkness. He prepared to depart. “You’ll have plenty of time to
make use of the regular channels.” What had been a fertile section
of the landscape sur rounding the EDA
buildings was now a blighted square of drought and barrenness. No plants
grew. The trees, the grass, had withered into dry husks. The technicians dwindled until they became squat, hunched
figures, dark-skinned, hairy, with open sores on their filth-stained arms and faces. Their eyes, red-rimmed, filled with tears as they gazed about them in despair.
    “Damned,” Brady croaked
brokenly. “We’re damned.”
    The technicians were overtly and
visibly no longer saved. Now dwarfish, bent-over figures, they crept miserably
around, aimless and wretched. Night darkness filtered down on them through the
layers of drifting dust particles. Across the parched earth at their feet
slithered a snake. Soon after it came the first rasping click-click of a
scorpion… .
    “Sorry,” Hamilton said
idly. “But truth will out” Brady glared up at him, red eyes gleaming
balefully in his whisker-stubbled face.
Strands of filthy hair hung over his
ears and neck. “You heathen,” he muttered, turning his back.
    “Virtue is its own
reward,” Hamilton reminded him. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways.
Nothing succeeds like success.”
    Going
to his car, he climbed in and pushed the key into the ignition lock.
Clouds of dust settled over the windshield as he began cranking the starter
motor. Nothing happened; the engine refused to catch. For a time he continued pumping the accelerator and wondering
what was wrong. Then, with dismay,
he noticed the faded seat covers. The once brilliant and splendid
fabrics had become drab and indistinct. The car, unfortunately, had been
parked within the damned area.
    Opening the glove compartment,
Hamilton got out his well-thumbed auto
repair manual. But the thick booklet no longer contained schemata of
automotive construction; it now listed common household prayers.
    In
this milieu, prayer substituted for mechanical know- how. Folding the book
open in front of him, he put the car into low gear, pressed down on the gas,
and released the clutch.
    There is but one God,” he
began, “and the Second Bab is — ”
    The
engine caught, and the car moved noisily forward. Backfiring and
groaning, it crept from the parking lot toward the street. Behind Hamilton the
damned tech nicians wandered around in
their confined, blighted area. Already, they had begun arguing the
proper course of appeal, citing dates and authorities. They’d have their status
back, Hamilton reflected. They’d manage.
    It took four different common
household prayers to carry the car down the highway to Belmont. Once, as he passed a garage, he considered stopping for
repairs. But the sign made him hurry on.
    Nicholton and