Free Vulcan's Hammer by Philip K. Dick Page A

letter, accusing someone high up in Unity. I managed to convince them I was innocent—or rather, their analysis of the contents of my mind convinced them; all I did was sit. They took my mind out, took it apart, studied it, put the pieces back together and stuffed them back in my head.” Reaching up, she slid aside the bandanna for a moment; he saw, with grim aversion, the neat white scar slightly before her hairline. “It’s all back,” she said. “At least, I hope it is.”
    With compassion, he said, “That’s really terrible. A real abuse of human beings. It should be stopped.”
    “If you get to be Managing Director, maybe you can stop it,” she said. “Who knows? You might someday be—after all, you’re bright and hardworking and ambitious. All you have to do is defeat all those other bright, hardworking, ambitious Directors. Like Taubmann.”
    “Is he the one you’re supposed to have accused?” Barris said.
    “No,” she said, in a faint voice. “It’s you, William Barris. Isn’t that interesting? Anyhow, now I’ve given you my news—free. There’s a letter in Jason Dill’s file accusing you of being in the pay of the Healers; they showed it to me. Someone is trying to get you, and Dill is interested. Isn’t that worth your knowing, before you go in there and lock horns with him?”
    Barris said, “How do you know I’m here to do that?”
    Her dark eyes flickered. “Why else would you be here?” But her voice had a faltering tone now.
    Reaching out, he took hold of her arm. With firmness, he guided her along the walk to the street side of the field. “I will take the time to talk to you,” he said. He racked his mind, trying to think of a place to take her. Already they had come to the public taxi stand; a robot cab had spotted them and was rolling in their direction.
    The door of the cab opened. The mechanical voice said, “May I be of service, please?”
    Barris slid into the cab and drew the woman in beside him. Still holding firmly onto her, he said to the cab, “Say listen, can you find us a hotel, not too conspicuous—you know.” He could hear the receptor mechanism of the cab whirring as it responded. “For us to get a load off our feet,” he said. “My girl and me. You know.”
    Presently the cab said, “Yes, sir.” It began to move along the busy Geneva streets. “Out-of-the-way hotel where you will find the privacy you desire.” It added, “The Hotel Bond, sir.”
    Rachel Pitt said nothing; she stared sightlessly ahead.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    In his pockets, Jason Dill carried the two reels of tape; they never left him, night and day. He had them with him now as he walked slowly along the brightly lit corridor. Once again, involuntarily, he lifted his hand and rubbed the bulge which the tapes made. Like a magic charm, he thought to himself with irony. And we accuse the masses of being superstitious!
    Ahead of him, lights switched on. Behind him, enormous reinforced doors slid shut to fill in the chamber’s single entrance. The huge calculator rose in front of him, the immense tower of receptor banks and indicators. He was alone with it—alone with Vulcan 3.
    Very little of the computer was visible; its bulk disappeared into regions which he had never seen, which in fact no human had ever seen. During the course of its existence it had expanded certain portions of itself. To do so it had cleared away the granite and shale earth; it had, for a long time now, been conducting excavation operations in the vicinity. Sometimes Jason Dill could hear that sound going on like a far-off, incredibly high-pitched dentist’s drill. Now and then he had listened and tried to guess where the operations were taking place. It was only a guess. Their only check on the growth and development of Vulcan 3 lay in two clues: the amount of rock thrown up to the surface, to be carted off, and the variety, amount, and nature of the raw materials and tools and parts which the computer requested.
    Now,