Free Ubik by Philip K. Dick

symbols of danger at the bottom of the sheet. “My own wife,” he said.
    “I’m not your wife,” Pat said. “I changed that, too. Do you want it back the way it was? With no changes, not even in details? That won’t show your inertials much. On the other hand, they’re unaware anyhow…unless some of them have retained a vestigial memory as Joe has. By now, though, it should have phased out.”
    Runciter said bitingly, “I’d like the Mick contract back; that much, at least.”
    “When I scout them,” G. G. Ashwood said, “I scout them.” He had become gray.
    “Yes, you really bring in the talent,” Runciter said.
    The intercom buzzed and the quaking, elderly voice of Mrs. Frick rasped, “A group of our inertials are waiting to see you, Mr. Runciter; they say you sent for them in connection with a new joint work project. Are you free to see them?”
    “Send them in,” Runciter said.
    Pat said, “I’ll keep this ring.” She displayed the silver and jade wedding ring which, in another time track, she and Joe had picked out; this much of the alternate world she had elected to retain. He wondered what—if any—legal basis she had kept in addition. None, he hoped; wisely, however, he said nothing. Better not even to ask.
    The office door opened and, in pairs, the inertials entered; they stood uncertainly for a moment and then began seating themselves facing Runciter’s desk. Runciter eyed them, then pawed among the rat’s nest of documents on his desk; obviously, he was trying to determine whether Pat had changed in any way the composition of the group.
    “Edie Dorn,” Runciter said. “Yes, you’re here.” He glanced at her, then at the man beside her. “Hammond. Okay, Hammond. Tippy Jackson.” He peered inquiringly.
    “I made it as quick as I could,” Mrs. Jackson said. “You didn’t give me much time, Mr. Runciter.”
    “Jon Ild,” Runciter said.
    The adolescent boy with the tousled, woolly hair grunted in response. His arrogance, Joe noted, seemed to have receded; the boy now seemed introverted and even a little shaken. It would be interesting, Joe thought, to find out what he remembers—what all of them, individually and collectively, remember.
    “Francesca Spanish,” Runciter said.
    The luminous, gypsy-like dark woman, radiating a peculiar jangled tautness, spoke up. “During the last few minutes, Mr. Runciter, while we waited in your outer office, mysterious voices appeared to me and told me things.”
    “You’re Francesca Spanish?” Runciter asked her, patiently; he looked more than usually tired.
    “I am; I have always been; I will always be.” Miss Spanish’s voice rang with conviction. “May I tell you what the voices revealed to me?”
    “Possibly later,” Runciter said, passing on to the next personnel document.
    “It must be said,” Miss Spanish declared vibrantly.
    “All right,” Runciter said. “We’ll take a break for a couple of minutes.” He opened a drawer of his desk, got out one of his amphetamine tablets, took it without water. “Let’s hear what the voices revealed to you, Miss Spanish.” He glanced toward Joe, shrugging.
    “Someone,” Miss Spanish said, “just now moved us, all of us, into another world. We inhabited it, lived in it, as citizens of it, and then a vast, all-encompassing spiritual agency restored us to this, our rightful universe.”
    “That would be Pat,” Joe Chip said. “Pat Conley. Who just joined the firm today.”
    “Tito Apostos,” Runciter said. “You’re here?” He craned his neck, peering about the room at the seated people.
    A bald-headed man, wagging a goatish beard, pointed to himself. He wore old-fashioned, hip-hugging gold lamé trousers, yet somehow created a stylish effect. Perhaps the egg-sized buttons of his kelp-green mitty blouse helped; in any case he exuded a grand dignity, a loftiness surpassing the average. Joe felt impressed.
    “Don Denny,” Runciter said.
    “Right here, sir,” a confident