Read Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep for Free Online Page A

The Killers.
    Thinking about animals reminded him of the ostrich he had seen in the pet store. Temporarily he pushed away the specs on the Nexus-6 brain unit, took a pinch of Mrs. Sid-dons’ No. 3 & 4 snuff and cogitated. Then he examined his watch, saw that he had time; he picked up his desk vidphone and said to Miss Marsten, “Get me the Happy Dog Pet Shop on Sutter Street.”
    “Yes, sir,” Miss Marsten said, and opened her phone book.
    They can’t really want that much for the ostrich, Rick said to himself. They expect you to car-trade, like in the old days.
    “Happy Dog Pet Shop,” a man’s voice declared, and on Rick’s vidscreen a minute happy face appeared. Animals could be heard bawling.
    “That ostrich you have in your display window,” Rick said; he toyed with a ceramic ashtray before him on the desk. “What sort of a down payment would I need for that?”
    “Let’s see,” the animal salesman said, groping for a pen and pad of paper. “One-third down.” He figured. “May I ask, sir, if you’re going to trade something in?”
    Guardedly, Rick said, “I—haven’t decided.”
    “Let’s say we put the ostrich on a thirty-month contract,” the salesman said. “At a low, low interest rate of six percent a month. That would make your monthly payment, after a reasonable down—”
    “You’ll have to lower the price you’re asking,” Rick said. “Knock off two thousand and I won’t trade anything in; I’ll come up with cash.” Dave Holden, he reflected, is out of action. That could mean a great deal…depending on how many assignments show up during the coming month.
    “Sir,” the animal salesman said, “our asking price is already a thousand dollars under book. Check your Sidney’s; I’ll hang on. I want you to see for yourself, sir, that our price is fair.”
    Christ, Rick thought. They’re standing firm. However, just for the heck of it, he wiggled his bent Sidney’s out of his coat pocket, thumbed to ostrich comma male-female, old-young, sick-well, mint-used, and inspected the prices.
    “Mint, male, young, well,” the salesman informed him. “Thirty thousand dollars.” He, too, had his Sidney’s out. “We’re exactly one thousand under book. Now, your down payment—”
    “I’ll think it over,” Rick said, “and call you back.” He started to hang up.
    “Your name, sir?” the salesman asked alertly.
    “Frank Merriwell,” Rick said.
    “And your address, Mr. Merriwell? In case I’m not here when you call back.”
    He made up an address and put the vidphone receiver back on its cradle. All that money, he thought. And yet, people buy them; some people have that kind of money. Picking up the receiver again he said harshly, “Give me an outside line, Miss Marsten. And don’t listen in on the conversation; it’s confidential.” He glared at her.
    “Yes, sir,” Miss Marsten said. “Go ahead and dial.” She then cut herself out of the circuit, leaving him to face the outside world.
    He dialed—by memory—the number of the false-animal shop at which he had gotten his ersatz sheep. On the small vidscreen a man dressed like a vet appeared. “Dr. McRae,” the man declared.
    “This is Deckard. How much is an electric ostrich?”
    “Oh, I’d say we could fix you up for less than eight hundred dollars. How soon did you want delivery? We would have to make it up for you; there’s not that much call for—”
    “I’ll talk to you later,” Rick interrupted; glancing at his watch he saw that nine-thirty had arrived. “Good-bye.” He hurriedly hung up, rose, and shortly thereafter stood before Inspector Bryant’s office door. He passed by Bryant’s receptionist—attractive, with waist-length braided silver hair—and then the inspector’s secretary, an ancient monster from the Jurassic swamp, frozen and sly, like some archaic apparition fixated in the tomb world. Neither woman spoke to him nor he to them. Opening the inner door, he nodded to his superior, who