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

Sons
    Auto Healing
    And
under it, a small window display of inspirational literature, with the
leading slogan, Every day in every way my car is getting newer and newer.
    After the fifth prayer, the engine
seemed to be per forming properly. And the
seat covers had regained their usual luster. Some confidence returned to
him; he had gotten out of a nasty situation. Every world had its laws. It was simply a question of discovering them.
    Now evening had arrived everywhere.
Cars raced along El Camino, their
headlights blazing. Behind him, the lights of San Mateo winked in the
darkness. Overhead, ominous clouds covered the night sky. Driving with utmost
caution, he maneuvered his car from the lanes
of commuter traffic over to the curb.
    To
his left lay California Maintenance. But there was no use approaching
the missile plant; even in his own world he hadn’t been acceptable. God knew
what it would be like now. Somehow, he intuited that it could only be worse.
Far worse. A man of Colonel T. E. Ed wards’
type in this world would surpass belief.
    To his right lay a small, familiar,
luminous oasis. He had loafed away many afternoons in the Safe Harbor …
directly across from the missile plant, the bar was the favorite spot of the
beer-drinking technicians on hot; mid-summer
days.
    Parking his car, Hamilton clambered
out and strode down the dark sidewalk. A light rain beat quietly down on him as
he headed gratefully for the flickering red Golden Glow neon sign.

    * * * *
*

    The bar was full of people and
friendly noise. Hamilton stood for a moment in the entrance, taking in the
presence of sullied humanity. This, at least, hadn’t changed. The same black-jacketed truck drivers hunched o ver
their beers at the far end of the counter. The same noisy young blond sat
perched on her stool: inevitable barfly drinking down her whiskey-colored
water. The gaudy jukebox roared furiously in the corner next to the stove. To one side, two balding workmen were
in tently playing shuffleboard.
    Shouldering
his way among the people, Hamilton ap proached the line of stools.
Seated directly in the center, before the
great plate-glass mirror, waving his beer mug, s houting and yelling at a group of momentary pals, was a familiar figure.
    A perverse gladness filled
Hamilton’s confused and weary mind. “I
thought you were dead,” he said, punch ing McFeyffe on the arm.
“You miserable bastard.”
    Surprised,
McFeyffe spun around on his stool, sloshi ng beer down his arm.
“I’ll be damned. The Red.” Happily, he signaled the bartender.
“Pour my pal a beer, goddam it.”
    Apprehensively, Hamilton said:
“Pipe down. Haven’t you heard?”
    “Heard? About what?”
    “About what’s happened.”
Hamilton sank down on a vacant stool beside him. “Haven’t you noticed?
Can’t you see any difference between things
as they were and things as they are?”
    “I’ve
noticed,” McFeyffe said. He did not appear disturbed. Lifting aside his
coat, he showed Hamilton what he was wearing. Every conceivable good
luck charm hung from him; an array of devices for each situation. “I’m
twenty-four hours ahead of you, buddy,” he said. “I don’t know who
this Bab is, or where they dug up this corny Arab religion, but I’m not
worried.” Stroking one of the charms, a gold medalion with cryptic symbols
carved in interwoven circles, he said, “Don’t trifle with me or I’ll get a plague of rats in here to gnaw
you apart.”
    Hamilton’s beer arrived and he
accepted it avidly. Noise, people, human
activity blared around him; tem porarily content, he relaxed and allowed
himself to slide passively into the general
uproar. When it came down to it, he didn’t really have much choice.
    “Who’s
your friend?” the sharp-faced little blond de manded, squirming
over beside McFeyffe and draping herself
around his shoulder. “He’s cute.”
    Take off,” McFeyffe told her
good-naturedly. “Or I’ll turn you into a worm.”
    “Wise guy,” the