Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick by Philip K. Dick Page A

Adaptation. He started forward again.
    A tall figure came out on the ridge above him, cloak flapping. Gray-green. A Russian. Behind him a second soldier appeared, another Russian. Both lifted their guns, aiming.
    Hendricks froze. He opened his mouth. The soldiers were kneeling, sighting down the side of the slope. A third figure had joined them on the ridge top, a smaller figure in gray-green. A woman. She stood behind the other two.
    Hendricks found his voice. “Stop!” He waved up at them frantically. “I'm—”
    The two Russians fired. Behind Hendricks there was a faint pop. Waves of heat lapped against him, throwing him to the ground. Ash tore at his face, grinding into his eyes and nose. Choking, he pulled himself to his knees. It was all a trap. He was finished. He had come to be killed, like a steer. The soldiers and the woman were coming down the side of the ridge toward him, sliding down through the soft ash. Hendricks was numb. His head throbbed. Awkwardly, he got his rifle up and took aim. It weighed a thousand tons; he could hardly hold it. His nose and cheeks stung. The air was full of the blast smell, a bitter acrid stench.
    “Don't fire,” the first Russian said, in heavily accented English.
    The three of them came up to him, surrounding him. “Put down your rifle, Yank,” the other said.
    Hendricks was dazed. Everything had happened so fast. He had been caught. And they had blasted the boy. He turned his head. David was gone. What remained of him was strewn across the ground.
    The three Russians studied him curiously. Hendricks sat, wiping blood from his nose, picking out bits of ash. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Why did you do it?” he murmured thickly. “The boy.”
    “Why?” One of the soldiers helped him roughly to his feet. He turned Hendricks around. “Look.”
    Hendricks closed his eyes.
    “Look!” The two Russians pulled him forward. “See. Hurry up. There isn't much time to spare, Yank!”
    Hendricks looked. And gasped.
    “See now? Now do you understand?”
    From the remains of David a metal wheel rolled. Relays, glinting metal. Parts, wiring. One of the Russians kicked at the heap of remains. Parts popped out, rolling away, wheels and springs and rods. A plastic section fell in, half charred. Hendricks bent shakily down. The front of the head had come off. He could make out the intricate brain, wires and relays, tiny tubes and switches, thousands of minute studs—
    “A robot,” the soldier holding his arm said.“We watched it tagging you.”
    “Tagging me?”
    “That's their way. They tag along with you. Into the bunker. That's how they get in.”
    Hendricks blinked, dazed. “But—”
    “Come on.” They led him toward the ridge. “We can't stay here. It isn't safe. There must be hundreds of them all around here.”
    The three of them pulled him up the side of the ridge, sliding and slipping on the ash. The woman reached the top and stood waiting for them.
    “The forward command,” Hendricks muttered. “I came to negotiate with the Soviet—”
    “There is no more forward command. They got in. We'll explain.” They reached the top of the ridge. “We're all that's left. The three of us. The rest were down in the bunker.”
    “This way. Down this way.” The woman unscrewed a lid, a gray manhole cover set in the ground. “Get in.”
    Hendricks lowered himself. The two soldiers and the woman came behind him, following him down the ladder. The woman closed the lid after them, bolting it tightly into place.
    “Good thing we saw you,” one of the two soldiers grunted. “It had tagged you about as far as it was going to.”
    “Give me one of your cigarettes,” the woman said. “I haven't had an American cigarette for weeks.”
    Hendricks pushed the pack to her. She took a cigarette and passed the pack to the two soldiers. In the corner of the small room the lamp gleamed fitfully. The room was low-ceilinged, cramped. The four of them sat around a small