Read The Book of Philip K Dick (1973) for Free Online Page B

his soft gums were lined with caked sores.
    “Nothing for me,” Sung-wu muttered grumpily, as he took a seat opposite the Indian; “I’m here on an official survey.”
    The Indian nodded faintly. “Oh?”
    “Birth and death rates.” Sung-wu hesitated, then leaned toward the Indian. “I insist you send those two Caucs away; what I have to say to you is private.”
    The Indian showed no change of expression; his broad face was utterly impassive. After a time he turned slightly. “Please go down to the street level,” he ordered. “As you will.”
    The two Caucs got to their feet, grumbling, and pushed past the table, scowling and darting resentful glances at Sung-wu. One of them hawked and elaborately spat over the railing, an obvious insult.
    “Insolence!” Sung-wu choked. “How can you allow it? Did you see them? By Elron, it’s beyond belief!”
    The Indian shrugged indifferently—and belched. “All men are brothers on the wheel. Didn’t Elron Himself teach that, when He was on Earth?”
    “Of course. But—”
    “Are not even these men our brothers?”
    “Naturally,” Sung-wu answered haughtily, “but they must know their place; they’re an insignificant class. In the rare event some object wants fixing, they called; but in the last year I do not recall a single incident when it was deemed advisible to repair anything. The need of such a class diminishes yearly; eventually such a class and the elements composing it—”
    “You perhaps advocate sterilization?” the Indian inquired, heavy-lidded and sly.
    “I advocate something. The lower classes reproduce like rabbits; spawning all the time—much faster than we Bards. I always see some swollen-up Cauc woman, but hardly a single Bard is born these days; the lower classes must fornicate constantly.”
    “That’s about all that’s left them,” the Indian murmured mildly. He sipped a little lime juice. “You should try to be more tolerant.”
    “Tolerant? I have nothing against them, as long as they—”
    “It is said,” the Indian continued softly, “that Elron Hu, Himself, was a Cauc.”
    Sung-wu spluttered indignantly and started to rejoin, but the hot words stuck fast in his mouth; down the mud street something was coming.
    Sung-wu demanded, “What is it?” He leaped up excitedly and hurried to the railing.
    A slow procession was advancing with solemn step. As if at a signal, men and women poured from their rickety huts and excitedly lined the street to watch. Sung-wu was transfixed, as the procession neared; his senses reeled. More and more men and women were collecting each moment; there seemed to be hundreds of them. They were a dense, murmuring mob, packed tight, swaying back and forth, faces avid. An hysterical moan passed through them, a great wind that stirred them like leaves of a tree. They were a single collective whole, a vast primitive organism, held ecstatic and hypnotized by the approaching column.
    The marchers wore a strange costume: white shirts, with the sleeves roiled up; dark gray trousers of an incredibly archaic design, and black shoes. All were dressed exactly alike. They formed a dazzling double line of white shirts, gray trousers, marching calmly and solemnly, faces up, nostrils flared, jaws stern. A glazed fanaticism stamped each man and woman, such a ruthless expression that Sung-wu shrank back in terror. On and on they came, figures of grim stone in their primordial white shirts and gray trousers, a frightening breath from the past. Their heels struck the ground in a dull, harsh beat that reverberated among the rickety huts. The dogs woke; the children began to wail. The chickens flew squawking.
    “Elron!” Sung-wu cried. “What’s happening?”
    The marchers carried strange symbolic implements, ritualistic images with esoteric meaning that of necessity escaped Sung-wu. There were tubes and poles, and shiny webs of what looked like metal. Metal! But it was not rusty; it was shiny and bright. He was