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

as Jason Dill stood facing the thing, he saw that it had put forth a new reel of supply requisitions; it was there for him to pick up and fill. As if, he thought, I’m some errand boy.
    I do its shopping, he realized. It’s stuck here, so I go out and come back with the week’s groceries. Only in its case we don’t supply food; we supply just about everything else but.
    The financial cost of supporting Vulcan 3 was immense. Part of the taxation program conducted by Unity on a worldwide basis existed to maintain the computer. At the latest estimate, Vulcan 3’s share of the taxes came to about forty-three percent.
    And the rest, Dill thought idly, goes to schools, for roads, hospitals, fire departments, police—the lesser order of human needs.
    Beneath his feet the floor vibrated. This was the deepest level which the engineers had constructed, and yet something was constantly going on below. He had felt the vibrations before. What lay down there? No black earth; not the inert ground. Energy, tubes and pipes, wiring, transformers, self-contained machinery . . . He had a mental image of relentless activity going on: carts carrying supplies in, wastes out; lights blinking on and off; relays closing; switches cooling and reheating; worn-out parts replaced; new parts invented; superior designs replacing obsolete designs. And how far had it spread? Miles? Were there even more levels beneath the one transmitting up through the soles of his shoes? Did it go down, down,
forever?
    Vulcan 3 was aware of him. Across the vast impersonal face of metal an acknowledgment gleamed, a ribbon of fluid letters that appeared briefly and then vanished. Jason Dill had to catch the words at once or not at all; no latitude for human dullness was given.
    Is the educational bias survey complete?
    “Almost,” Dill said. “A few more days.” As always, in dealing with Vulcan 3, he felt a deep, inertial reluctance; it slowed his responses and hung over his mind, his faculties, like a dead weight. In the presence of the computer he found himself becoming stupid. He always gave the shortest answers; it was easier. And as soon as the first words lit up in the air above his head, he had a desire to leave; already, he wanted to go.
    But this was his job, this being cloistered here with Vulcan 3. Someone had to do it. Some human being had to stand in this spot.
    He had never had this feeling in the presence of Vulcan 2.
    Now, new words formed, like lightning flashing blue-white in the damp air.
    I need it at once.
    “It’ll be along as soon as the feed-teams can turn it into data forms.”
    Vulcan 3 was—well, he thought, the only word was
agitated
. Power lines glowed red—the origin of the series’ name. The rumblings and dull flashes of red had reminded Nathaniel Greenstreet of the ancient god’s forge, the lame god who had created the thunderbolts for Jupiter, in an age long past.
    There is some element misfunctioning. A significant shift in
the orientation of certain social strata which cannot be explained
in terms of data already available to me. A realignment of the
social pyramid is forming in response to historic-dynamic factors
unfamiliar to me. I must know more if I am to deal with this.
    A faint tendril of alarm moved through Jason Dill. What did Vulcan 3 suspect? “All data is made available to you as soon as possible.”
    A decided bifurcation of society seems in the making. Be certain your report on educational bias is complete. I will need all the
relevant facts.
    After a pause, Vulcan 3 added:
I sense a rapidly approaching
crisis.
    “What kind of crisis?” Dill demanded nervously.
    Ideological. A new orientation appears to be on the verge of
verbalization. A Gestalt derived from the experience of the lowest
classes. Reflecting their dissatisfaction.
    “Dissatisfaction? With what?”
    Essentially, the masses reject the concept of stability. In the
main, those without sufficient property to be firmly rooted are
more concerned