Free Ubik by Philip K. Dick Page A

baritone like that of a Siamese cat declared; it arose from within a slender, earnest-looking individual who sat bolt-upright in his chair, his hands on his knees. He wore a polyester dirndl, his long hair in a snood, cowboy chaps with simulated silver stars. And sandals.
    “You’re an anti-animator,” Runciter said, reading the appropriate sheet. “The only one we use.” To Joe he said, “I wonder if we’ll need him; maybe we should substitute another anti-telepath—the more of those the better.”
    Joe said, “We have to cover everything. Since we don’t know what we’re getting into.”
    “I guess so.” Runciter nodded. “Okay, Sammy Mundo.”
    A weak-nosed young man, dressed in a maxiskirt, with an undersized, melon-like head, stuck his hand up in a spasmodic, wobbling, ticlike gesture; as if, Joe thought, the anemic body had done it by itself. He knew this particular person. Mundo looked years younger than his chronological age; both mental and physical growth processes had ceased for him long ago. Technically, Mundo had the intelligence of a raccoon; he could walk, eat, bathe himself, even—after a fashion—talk. His anti-telepathic ability, however, was considerable. Once, alone, he had blanked out S. Dole Melipone; the firm’s house magazine had rambled on about it for months afterward.
    “Oh, yes,” Runciter said. “Now we come to Wendy Wright.”
    As always, when the opportunity arose, Joe took a long, astute look at the girl whom, if he could have managed it, he would have had as his mistress, or, even better, his wife. It did not seem possible that Wendy Wright had been born out of blood and internal organs like other people. In proximity to her he felt himself to be a squat, oily, sweating, uneducated nurt whose stomach rattled and whose breath wheezed. Near her he became aware of the physical mechanisms which kept him alive; within him machinery, pipes and valves and gas-compressors and fan belts had to chug away at a losing task, a labor ultimately doomed. Seeing her face, he discovered that his own consisted of a garish mask; noticing her body made him feel like a low-class windup toy. All her colors possessed a subtle quality, indirectly lit. Her eyes, those green and tumbled stones, looked impassively at everything; he had never seen fear in them, or aversion, or contempt. What she saw she accepted. Generally she seemed calm. But more than that she struck him as being durable, untroubled and cool, not subject to wear, or to fatigue, or to physical illness and decline. Probably she was twenty-five or -six, but he could not imagine her looking younger, and certainly she would never look older. She had too much control over herself and outside reality for that.
    “I’m here,” Wendy said, with soft tranquility.
    Runciter nodded. “Okay; that leaves Fred Zafsky.” He fixed his gaze on a flabby, big-footed, middle-aged, unnatural-looking individual with pasted-down hair, muddy skin plus a peculiar protruding Adam’s apple—clad, for this occasion, in a shift dress the color of a baboon’s ass. “That must be you.”
    “Right you are,” Zafsky agreed, and sniggered. “How about that?”
    “Christ,” Runciter said, shaking his head. “Well, we have to include one anti-parakineticist, to be safe. And you’re it.” He tossed down his documents and looked about for his green cigar. To Joe he said, “That’s the group, plus you and me. Any last-minute changes you want to make?”
    “I’m satisfied,” Joe said.
    “You suppose this bunch of inertials is the best combination we can come up with?” Runciter eyed him intently.
    “Yes,” Joe said.
    “And it’s good enough to take on Hollis’ Psis?”
    “Yes,” Joe said.
    But he knew otherwise.
    It was not something he could put his finger on. It certainly was not rational. Potentially, the counter-field capacity of the eleven inertials had to be considered enormous. And yet—
    “Mr. Chip, can I have a second of your