Eye in the Sky (1957) by Philip K. Dick Page A

ordered.
    Uncertainly, Father O’Farrel
murmured, “‘Et resur rexit tertia
die secundum scripturas, et ascendit in coe lum, sedet ad dexteram partis, et iterum venurus est cum gloria
judicare vinos et mortuos, cujas regni non erit finis …’”
    In Hamilton’s hands the umbrella
quivered. Gradually, laboriously, it began to ascend. McFeyffe gave a
terrified bleat and hung on for his life. In a moment the tip of the umbrella was bumping against the low
ceiling of the store; Hamilton and McFeyffe dangled absurdly, their feet
waving in the dusty shadows.
    “The skylight,” Hamilton
gasped. “Open it.”
    “Rushing to get the pole,
Father O’Farrel scurried about like a disturbed mouse. The skylight was pushed aside; wet night air billowed in, displacing the
staleness of years. Released, the umbrella shot upward; the tum ble-down wooden building disappeared below. Cold fog
plucked at Hamilton and McFeyffe as they rose higher and higher. Now they were
level with Twin Peaks. Now they were above
the great city of San Fran cisco, suspended by the handle of the
umbrella over a dish of winking yellow
lights. “What—” McFeyffe shouted, “what if we let
go?”
    “Pray for strength!”
Hamilton shouted back, closing his eyes and
clutching frantically at the shaft of the um brella. Up and up the
umbrella shot, gaining velocity each
instant. For a brief interval, Hamilton dared to open his eyes and peer upward.
    Above
lay a limitless expanse of ominous black clouds. What existed beyond? Was He waiting?
    Up and up rose the umbrella, into
the dark night. It was too late to back
out, now.

    VII

    As they ascended, the chaotic
darkness began to fade. The layer of clouds dribbled moistly past them;
with a wet slither the umbrella burst through. Instead of the chill black of
night, they were rising in a dull medium of indiscriminate gray, an unformed
expanse of color less, shapeless nothing.
    Below
lay the Earth.
    It was the best view Hamilton had
ever had of the Earth. In many ways it met his expectations. It was round and
quite clearly a globe. Suspended in its medium, the globe hung quietly, a
somber but impressive object
    Especially
impressive because it was unique. Shocked, Hamilton realized that no
other planets were heaving into view. He peered up apprehensively, gazed around
him, gradually and reluctantly absorbing what his eyes made out.
    The Earth was alone in the
firmament. Around it wheeled a blazing orb, much smaller, a gnat buzzing and flickering around a giant, inert bulb of
matter. That, he realized with a thrill of dismay, was the sun. It was tiny. And—it
moved!
    Si
muove. But not Terra. Si muove— the
sun! Fortunately, the glowing,
burning bit of phosphorescence was on the far side of the mighty Terra. It
moved slowly; its total revolution was a twenty-four hour per iod. On this side came a smaller, almost unnoticed
speck. A corroded wad of waste material that dully plodded along, trivial and dispensable. The moon.
    It
wasn’t far off; the umbrella was going to carry him almost within
touching distance. Incredulous, he gazed at it, until it fell away into the
gray medium. Was science, then, in error? Was the whole scheme of the universe
mistaken? The vast and overwhelming structure of
the Copernican heliocentric system all wrong?
    He
was seeing the ancient, outmoded, geocentric uni verse, with a giant,
unmoving Earth the only planet. Now he could make out Mars and Venus, bits of
ma terial so tiny as to be virtually
nonexistent. And the stars. They, too, were incredibly tiny … a canopy of insignificance. In an
instant, the entire fabric of his cosmology had come tottering down into
ludicrous ruin.
    But it was only here. This was
the ancient Ptolemaic universe. Not his world. Tiny sun, tiny stars, the great obese blob of an Earth, swollen and bloated,
occupying dead center. That was true here—that was the way this universe was run.
    But that meant nothing concerning
his own universe … thank