Read Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick for Free Online Page B

safe. Intercity was big, big enough to keep free of the SP. Jennings put the remaining trinkets back into his pocket and stood up, pulling the bellcord.
    A moment later he stepped gingerly out onto the sidewalk.
    The rocket let him off at the edge of town, at a tiny brown field. A few disinterested porters moved about, stacking luggage, resting from the heat of the sun.
    Jennings crossed the field to the waiting room, studying the people around him. Ordinary people, workmen, businessmen, housewives. Stuartsville was a small Middle Western town. Truck drivers. High school kids.
    He went through the waiting room, out onto the street. So this was where Rethrick's Plant was located—perhaps. If he had used the stub correctly. Anyhow, something was here, or he wouldn't have included the stub with the other trinkets.
    Stuartsville, Iowa. A faint plan was beginning to form in the back of his mind, still vague and nebulous. He began to walk, his hands in his pockets, looking around him. A newspaper office, lunch counters, hotels, pool-rooms, a barber shop, a television repair shop. A rocket sales store with huge showrooms of gleaming rockets. Family size. And at the end of the block the Portola Theater.
    The town thinned out. Farms, fields. Miles of green country. In the sky above a few transport rockets lumbered, carrying farm supplies and equipment back and forth. A small, unimportant town. Just right for Rethrick Construction. The Plant would be lost here, away from the city, away from the SP.
    Jennings walked back. He entered a lunchroom, BOB'S PLACE . A young man with glasses came over as he sat down at the counter, wiping his hands on his white apron.
    “Coffee,” Jennings said.
    “Coffee.” The man brought the cup. There were only a few people in the lunchroom. A couple of flies buzzed, against the window.
    Outside in the street shoppers and farmers moved leisurely by.
    “Say,” Jennings said, stirring his coffee. “Where can a man get work around here? Do you know?”
    “What kind of work?” The young man came back, leaning against the counter.
    “Electrical wiring. I'm an electrician. Television, rockets, computers. That sort of stuff.”
    “Why don't you try the big industrial areas? Detroit. Chicago. New York.”
    Jennings shook his head.“Can't stand the big cities. I never liked cities.”
    The young man laughed. “A lot of people here would be glad to work in Detroit. You're an electrician?”
    “Are there any plants around here? Any repair shops or plants?”
    “None that I know of.” The young man went off to wait on some men who had come in. Jennings sipped his coffee. Had he made a mistake? Maybe he should go back and forget about Stuartsville, Iowa. Maybe he had made the wrong inference from the ticket stub. But the ticket meant something, unless he was completely wrong about everything. It was a little late to decide that, though.
    The young man came back. “Is there any kind of work I can get here?” Jennings said. “Just to tide me over.”
    “There's always farm work.”
    “How about the retail repair shops? Garages. TV.”
    “There's a TV repair shop down the street. Maybe you might get something there. You could try. Farm work pays good. They can't get many men, anymore. Most men in the military. You want to pitch hay?”
    Jennings laughed. He paid for his coffee. “Not very much. Thanks.”
    “Once in a while some of the men go up the road and work. There's some sort of Government station.”
    Jennings nodded. He pushed the screen door open, stepping outside onto the hot sidewalk. He walked aimlessly for a time, deep in thought, turning his nebulous plan over and over. It was a good plan; it would solve everything, all his problems at once. But right now it hinged on one thing: finding Rethrick Construction. And he had only one clue, if it really was a clue. The ticket stub, folded and creased, in his pocket. And a faith that he had known what he was doing.
    A Government station.