The Book of Philip K Dick (1973) by Philip K. Dick Page A

was it?
    He advanced cautiously, feeling his way through the mist. Everything was silent. No sounds—not even the traffic sounds. Ed peered frantically around, trying to see through the rolling haze. No people. No cars. No sun. Nothing.
    The office building loomed up ahead, ghostly. It was an indistinct gray. He put out his hand uncertainly—
    A section of the building fell away. It rained down, a torrent of particles. Like sand. Ed gaped foolishly. A cascade of gray debris, spilling around his feet. And where he had touched the building, a jagged cavity yawned—an Ugly pit marring the concrete.
    Dazed, he made his way to the front steps. He mounted them. The steps gave way underfoot. His feet sank down. He was wading through shifting sand, weak, rotted stuff that broke under his weight.
    He got into the lobby. The lobby was dim and obscure. The overhead lights flickered feebly in the gloom. An unearthly pall hung over everything.
    He spied the cigar stand. The seller leaned silently, resting on the counter, toothpick between his teeth, his face vacant. And gray. He was gray all over.
    “Hey,” Ed croaked. “What’s going on?”
    The seller did not answer. Ed reached out toward him. His hand touched the seller’s gray arm—and passed right through.
    “Good God,” Ed said,
    The seller’s arm came loose. It fell to the lobby floor, disintegrating into fragments. Bits of gray fiber. Like dust. Ed’s senses reeled.
    “Help!” he shouted, finding his voice.
    No answer. He peered around. A few shapes stood here and there: a man reading a newspaper, two women waiting at the elevator.
    Ed made his way over to the man. He reached out and touched him.
    The man slowly collapsed. He settled into a heap, a loose pile of gray ash. Dust. Particles. The two women
    dissolved when he touched them. Silently. They made no sound as they broke apart.
    Ed found the stairs. He grabbed hold of the bannister and climbed. The stairs collapsed under him. He hurried faster. Behind him lay a broken path—his footprints clearly visible in the concrete. Clouds of ash blew around him as he reached the second floor.
    He gazed down the silent corridor. He saw more clouds of ash. He heard no sound. There was just darkness—rolling darkness.
    He climbed unsteadily to the third floor. Once, his shoe broke completely through the stair. For a sickening second he hung, poised over a yawning hole that looked down into a bottomless nothing.
    Then he climbed on, and emerged in front of his own office: DOUGLAS AND BLAKE, REAL ESTATE.
    The hall was dim, gloomy with clouds of ash. The overhead lights flickered fitfully. He reached for the door handle. The handle came off in his hand. He dropped it and dug his fingernails into the door. The plate glass crashed past him, breaking into bits. He tore the door open and stepped over it, into the office.
    Miss Evans sat at her typewriter, fingers resting quietly on the keys. She did not move. She was gray, her hair, her skin, her clothing. She was without color. Ed touched her. His fingers went through her shoulder, into dry flakiness.
    He drew back, sickened. Miss Evans did not stir.
    He moved on. He pushed against a desk. The desk collapsed into rotting dust. Earl Hendricks stood by the water cooler, a cup in his hand. He was a gray statue, unmoving. Nothing stirred. No sound. No life. The whole office was gray dust—without life or motion.
    Ed found himself out in the corridor again. He shook his head, dazed. What did it mean? Was he going out of his mind? Was he—?
    A sound.
    Ed turned, peering into the gray mist. A creature was coming, hurrying rapidly. A man—a man in a white robe. Behind him others came. Men in white, with equipment. “They were lugging complex machinery.
    “Hey—” Ed gasped weakly.
    The men stopped. Their mouths opened. Their eyes popped.
    “Look!”
    “Something’s gone wrong!”
    “One still charged.”
    “Get the de-energizer.”
    “We can’t proceed until—”
    The men