Galactic Pot-Healer by Philip K. Dick Page A

breath and said, “Are you going to pay the hotel compensation? For the damage you’ve done?”
    “My check,” Glimmung said, “will be in the mail by tomorrow morning.”
    “Mr. Fernwright just meant that as a joke,” Harper Baldwin said nervously. “About paying the hotel.”
    “‘Joke’?” Joe said. “Collapsing ten floors of a twelve-floor building? How do you know people weren’t killed? There could be as many as a hundred dead, plus a lot more injured.”
    “No, no,” Glimmung assured him. “I killed no one. But the query is legitimate, Mr. Fernwright.” Joe felt the presence of Glimmung within him, stirring in his brain: Glimmungedged here and there throughout the most unusual corners of Joe’s mind. I wonder what he’s looking for? Joe thought. And at once the answer, within his consciousness, came. “I’m interested in your reaction to the Book of the Kalends,” Glimmung said. He spoke, then, to them all. “Out of all of you, only Miss Yojez knew about The Book. The rest of you I’ll need to study. It will only take a moment.” The extension of Glimmung left Joe’s mind, then. It had gone elsewhere.
    Turning to Joe, Mali said, “I’m going to ask him a question.” She, too, took a deep and steadying breath. “Glimmung,” she said sharply, “tell me one thing.
Are you going to die soon?”
    The enormous lump throbbed; its whiplike extremities thrashed in agitation. “Does it say that in the Book of the Kalends?” Glimmung demanded. “It does not. If I were, it would say.”
    Mali said, “Then The Book is infallible.”
    “You have no reason to think I am near death,” Glimmung said.
    “None at all,” Mali said. “I asked my question in order to learn something. I learned it.”
    “When I am depressed,” Glimmung said, “I begin to think about the Book of the Kalends, and I think that their prediction that I cannot raise Heldscalla is true. That, in fact, I can accomplish nothing; the cathedral will remain at the bottom of Mare Nostrum into eternity.”
    Joe said, “But that’s when your energy is low.”
    “Each living entity,” Glimmung said, “passes through periods of expansion and periods of contraction. The rhythm of living is as active in me as in any of you. I am larger; I am older; I can do many things that none of you, even collectively, can. But there are times when the sun is low in the sky, toward evening, before true night. Small lights come on, here and there, but they are a long way off from me. Where I dwell there are no lights. I could of course manufacturelife, light, and activity around me, but they would be extensions of myself alone. This, of course, is changed, now that you have begun to come here. The group today is the final group; Miss Mali Yojez and Mr. Fernwright and Mr. Baldwin, and those with them, are the last who will be coming.”
    I wonder, Joe thought, if we will leave this planet again. He thought about Earth and his life there; he thought about The Game and his room with its dead, black window; he thought about the government’s Mickey Mouse money that came in baskets. He thought of Kate. I won’t be calling her again, he thought. For some reason I know that; it is a fact. Probably because of Mali. Or perhaps, he thought, the larger situation…Glimmung and the Undertaking.
    And Glimmung’s falling through the floor, he thought. Descending ten stories and winding up in the basement. That meant something, he realized, and then he realized something else. Glimmung knew his weight. As Mali had said, no floor could hold him. Glimmung had done it on purpose.
    So we wouldn’t be afraid of him, Joe realized. When we at last saw him as he really is. Then, he thought, we really should be afraid of him, perhaps. More so than before. Just exactly because of this.
    “Afraid of me?” Glimmung’s thought came.
    “Of the whole Undertaking,” Joe said. “There’s too little chance of it being a success.”
    “You are right,” Glimmung