The Eye of the Sibyl and Other Classic Strories by Philip K. Dick Page B

understand this.”
    “Pardon?” She glanced up, her blue eyes fixed on him intently. “Understand what, Johnny?”
    Cupertino said, “About you. Your presence. You’re obviously quite real—as real as everything else. As real as the city of Pasadena, as this table—” He rapped with brusque force on the plastic surface of the kitchen table. “As real as Dr. Hagopian or the two police who stopped me earlier this morning.” He added, “But how real is that? I think we have the central question there. It would explain my sensation of passing my hands through matter, through the dashboard of my wheel, as I did. That very unpleasant sensation that nothing around me was substantial, that I inhabited a world of shadows.” Staring at him Carol suddenly laughed. Then continued eating. “Possibly,” Cupertino said, “I’m in a prison on Ganymede, or in a psychiatric hospital there. Because of my criminal act. And I’ve begun, during these last years since your death, to inhabit a fantasy world.”
    “Oh God,” Carol said and shook her head. “I don’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry; it’s just too—” She gestured. “Too pathetic. I really feel sorry for you, Johnny. Rather than give up your delusional idea you’d actually prefer to believe that all Terra is a product of your mind, everyone and everything. Listen—don’t you agree it’d be more economical to give up the fixed idea? Just abandon the one idea that you killed me—” The phone rang.
    “Pardon me.” Carol hastily wiped her mouth, rose to go and answer it. Cupertino remained where he was, gloomily playing with a flake of toast which had fallen from her plate; the butter on it stained his finger and he licked it away, reflexively, then realized that he was gnawingly hungry; it was time for his own breakfast and he went to the stove to press buttons for himself, in Carol’s absence. Presently he had his own meal, bacon and scrambled eggs, toast and hot coffee, before him.
    But how can I live? he asked himself.— Gain substance, if this is a delusional world?
    I must be eating a genuine meal, he decided. Provided by the hospital or prison; a meal exists and I am actually consuming it—a room exists, walls and a floor… but not this room. Not these walls nor this floor.
    And—people exist. But not this woman. Not Carol Holt Cupertino. Someone else. An impersonal jailer or attendant. And a doctor. Perhaps, he decided, Dr. Hagopian.
    That much is so, Cupertino said to himself. Dr. Hagopian is really my psychiatrist.
    Carol returned to the kitchen, reseated herself at her now cold plate. “You talk to him. It’s Hagopian.”
    At once he went to the phone.
    On the small vidscreen Dr. Hagopian’s image looked taut and drawn. “I see you got there, John. Well? What took place?”
    Cupertino said, “Where are we, Hagopian?”
    Frowning, the psychiatrist said, “I don’t—“
    “We’re both on Ganymede, aren’t we?”
    Hagopian said, “I’m in San Jose; you’re in Los Angeles.”
    “I think I know how to test my theory,” Cupertino said. “I’m going to discontinue treatment with you; if I’m a prisoner on Ganymede I won’t be able to, but if I’m a free citizen on Terra as you maintain—”
    “You’re on Terra,” Hagopian said, “but you’re not a free citizen. Because of your attempt on your wife’s life you’re obliged to accept regular psychotherapy through me. You know that. What did Carol tell you? Could she shed any light on the events of that night?”
    “I would say so,” Cupertino said. “I learned that she’s employed by the parent company of Six-planet Educational Enterprises; that alone makes my trip down here worthwhile. I must have found out about her, that she was employed by Six-planet to ride herd over me.”
    “P-pardon?” Hagopian blinked.
    “A watchdog. To see that I remained loyal; they must have feared I was going to leak details of the planned uprising to the Terran authorities. So