The Greatest Science Fiction Works of Philip K. Dick. Филип Дик

against the saucer. "What a terrible thing."

      Ed leaned intently toward his wife. "Ruth. Do you think I'm going crazy?"

      Ruth's red lips twisted. "I don't know what to say. It's so strange..."

      "Yeah. Strange is hardly the word for it. I poked my hands right through them. Like they were clay. Old dry clay. Dust. Dust figures." Ed lit a cigarette from Ruth's pack. "When I got out I looked back and there it was. The office building. Like always."

      "You were afraid Mr. Douglas would bawl you out, weren't you?"

      "Sure. I was afraid—and guilty." Ed's eyes flickered. "I know what you're thinking. I was late and I couldn't face him. So I had some sort of protective psychotic fit. Retreat from reality." He stubbed the cigarette out savagely. "Ruth, I've been wandering around town since. Two and a half hours. Sure, I'm afraid. I'm afraid like hell to go back."

      "Of Douglas?"

      "No! The men in white." Ed shuddered. "God. Chasing me. With their damn hoses and—and equipment."

      Ruth was silent. Finally she looked up at her husband, her dark eyes bright. "You have to go back, Ed."

      "Back? Why?"

      "To prove something."

      "Prove what?"

      "Prove it's all right." Ruth's hand pressed against his. "You have to, Ed. You have to go back and face it. To show yourself there's nothing to be afraid of."

      "The hell with it! After what I saw? Listen, Ruth. I saw the fabric of reality split open. I saw—behind. Underneath. I saw what was really there. And I don't want to go back. I don't want to see dust people again. Ever."

      Ruth's eyes were fixed intently on him. "I'll go back with you," she said.

      "For God's sake."

      "For your sake. For your sanity. So you'll know." Ruth got abruptly to her feet, pulling her coat around her. "Come on, Ed. I'll go with you. We'll go up there together. To the office of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate. I'll even go in with you to see Mr. Douglas."

      Ed got up slowly, staring hard at his wife. "You think I blacked out. Cold feet. Couldn't face the boss." His voice was low and strained. "Don't you?"

      Ruth was already threading her way toward the cashier. "Come on. You'll see. It'll all be there. Just like it always was."

      "Okay," Ed said. He followed her slowly. "We'll go back there—and see which of us is right."

      They crossed the street together, Ruth holding on tight to Ed's arm. Ahead of them was the building, the towering structure of concrete and metal and glass.

      "There it is," Ruth said. "See?"

      There it was, all right. The big building rose up, firm and solid, glittering in the early afternoon sun, its windows sparkling brightly.

      Ed and Ruth stepped up onto the curb. Ed tensed himself, his body rigid. He winced as his foot touched the pavement—

      But nothing happened: the street noises continued; cars, people hurrying past; a kid selling papers. There were sounds, smells, the noises of the city in the middle of the day. And overhead was the sun and the bright blue sky.

      "See?" Ruth said. "I was right."

      They walked up the front steps, into the lobby. Behind the cigar stand the seller stood, arms folded, listening to the ball game. "Hi, Mr. Fletcher," he called to Ed. His face lit up good-naturedly. "Who's the dame? Your wife know about this?"

      Ed laughed unsteadily. They passed on toward the elevator. Four or five businessmen stood waiting. They were middle-aged men, well dressed, waiting impatiently in a bunch. "Hey, Fletcher," one said. "Where you been all day? Douglas is yelling his head off."

      "Hello, Earl," Ed muttered. He gripped Ruth's arm. "Been a little sick."

      The elevator came. They got in. The elevator rose. "Hi, Ed," the elevator operator said. "Who's the good-looking gal? Why don't you introduce her around?"

      Ed grinned mechanically. "My wife."

      The elevator let them off at the third floor. Ed and Ruth got out, heading toward the glass door of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate.

      Ed halted, breathing shallowly. "Wait." He licked his lips. "I—"

      Ruth waited calmly as Ed wiped his forehead and neck with his handkerchief. "All right now?"

      "Yeah." Ed moved forward. He pulled open the glass door.

      Miss Evans glanced up, ceasing her typing. "Ed Fletcher! Where on earth have you been?"

      "I've been sick. Hello, Tom."

      Tom glanced up from his work. "Hi, Ed. Say, Douglas is yelling for your scalp. Where have you been?"

      "I know." Ed turned wearily to Ruth. "I guess I better go in and face the music."

      Ruth squeezed his arm. "You'll be all right. I know." She smiled, a relieved flash of white teeth and red lips. "Okay? Call me if you need me."

      "Sure." Ed kissed her briefly on the mouth. "Thanks, honey. Thanks a lot. I don't know what the hell went wrong with me. I guess it's over."

      "Forget it. So long." Ruth skipped back out of the office, the door closing after her. Ed listened to her race down the hall to the elevator.

      "Nice little gal," Jackie said appreciatively.

      "Yeah." Ed nodded, straightening his necktie. He moved unhappily toward the inner office, steeling himself. Well, he had to face it. Ruth was right. But he was going to have a hell of a time explaining it to the boss. He could see Douglas now, thick red wattles, big bull roar, face distorted with rage—

      Ed stopped abruptly at the entrance to the inner office. He froze rigid. The inner office—it was changed.

      The hackles of his neck rose. Cold fear gripped him, clutching at his windpipe. The inner office was different. He turned his head slowly, taking in the sight: the desks, chairs, fixtures, file cabinets, pictures.

      Changes. Little changes. Subtle. Ed closed his eyes and opened them slowly. He was alert, breathing rapidly, his pulse racing. It was changed, all right. No doubt about it.

      "What's the matter, Ed?" Tom asked. The staff watched him curiously, pausing in their work.

      Ed said nothing. He advanced slowly into the inner office. The office had been gone over. He could tell. Things had been altered. Rearranged. Nothing obvious—nothing he could put his finger on. But he could tell.

      Joe Kent greeted him uneasily. "What's the matter, Ed? You look like a wild dog. Is something—?"

      Ed studied Joe. He was different. Not the same. What was it?

      Joe's face. It was a little fuller. His shirt was blue-striped. Joe never wore blue stripes. Ed examined Joe's desk. He saw papers and accounts. The desk—it was too far to the right. And it was bigger. It wasn't the same desk.

      The picture on the wall. It wasn't the same. It was a different picture entirely. And the things on top of the file cabinet—some were new, others were gone.

      He looked back through the door. Now that he thought about it, Miss Evans' hair was different, done a different way. And it was lighter.

      In here, Mary, filing her nails, over by the window—she was taller, fuller. Her purse, lying on the desk in front of her—a red purse, red knit.

      "You always...have that purse?" Ed demanded.

      Mary glanced up. "What?"

      "That purse. You always have that?"

      Mary laughed. She smoothed her skirt coyly around her shapely thighs, her long lashes blinking modestly. "Why, Mr. Fletcher. What do you mean?"

      Ed turned away. He knew. Even if she didn't. She had been redone—changed: her purse, her clothes, her figure, everything about