Free Ubik by Philip K. Dick Page B

time?” Mr. Apostos, bald-headed and bearded, his gold lamé trousers glittering, plucked at Joe Chip’s arm. “Could I discuss an experience I had late last night? In a hypnagogic state I seem to have contacted one, or possibly two, of Mr. Hollis’ people—a telepath evidently operating in conjunction with one of their precogs. Do you think I should tell Mr. Runciter? Is it important?”
    Hesitating, Joe Chip looked toward Runciter. Seated in his worthy, beloved chair, trying to relight his all-Havana cigar, Runciter appeared terribly tired; the wattles of his face sagged. “No,” Joe said. “Let it go.”
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” Runciter said, raising his voice above the general noise. “We’re leaving now for Luna, you eleven inertials, Joe Chip and myself and our client’s rep, Zoe Wirt; fourteen of us in all. We’ll use our own ship.” He got out his round, gold, anachronistic pocket watch and studied it. “Three-thirty.
Pratfall II
will take off from the main roof-field at four.” He snapped his watch shut and returned it to the pocket of his silk sash. “Well, Joe,” he said, “we’re in this for better or worse. I wish we had a resident precog who could take a look ahead for us.” Both his face and the tone of his voice drooped with worry and the cares, the irreversible burden, of responsibility and age.

SIX
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    We wanted to give you a shave like no other you ever had. We said, It’s about time a man’s face got a little loving. We said, With Ubik’s self-winding Swiss chromium never-ending blade, the days of scrape-scrape are over. So try Ubik. And be loved. Warning: use only as directed. And with caution.
    “Welcome to Luna,” Zoe Wirt said cheerfully, her jolly eyes enlarged by her red-framed, triangular glasses. “Via myself, Mr. Howard says hello to each and every one of you, and most especially to Mr. Glen Runciter for making his organization—and you people, in particular—available to us. This subsurface hotel suite, decorated by Mr. Howard’s artistically talented sister Lada, lies just three-hundred linear yards from the industrial and research facilities which Mr. Howard believes to have been infiltrated. Your joint presence in this room, therefore, should already be inhibiting the psionic capabilities of Hollis’ agents, a thought pleasing to all of us.” She paused, looked over them all. “Are there any questions?”
    Tinkering with his test gear, Joe Chip ignored her; despite their client’s stipulation, he intended to measure the surrounding psionic field. During the hour-long trip from Earth he and Glen Runciter had decided on this.
    “I have a question,” Fred Zafsky said, raising his hand. He giggled. “Where is the bathroom?”
    “You will each be given a miniature map,” Zoe Wirt said, “on which this is indicated.” She nodded to a drab female assistant, who began passing out brightly colored, glossy paper maps. “This suite,” she continued, “is complete with a kitchen all the appliances of which are free, rather than coin-operated. Obviously, outright blatant expense has been incurred in the constructing of this living unit, which is ample enough for twenty persons, possessing, as it does, its own self-regulating air, heat, water, and unusually varied food supply, plus closed-circuit TV and high-fidelity polyphonic phonograph sound-system—the two latter facilities, however, unlike the kitchen, being coin-operated. To aid you in utilizing these recreation facilities, a change-making machine has been placed in the game room.”
    “My map,” Al Hammond said, “shows only nine bedrooms.”
    “Each bedroom,” Miss Wirt said, “contains two bunk-type beds; hence eighteen accommodations in all. In addition, five of the beds are double, assisting those of you who wish to sleep with each other during your stay here.”
    “I have a rule,” Runciter said irritably, “about my employees sleeping with one another.”
    “For or against?” Zoe