Philip K. Dick - Second Variety.pdf

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Second Variety
SECOND VARIETY
by Philip K. Dick
THE RUSSIAN SOLDIER made his way nervously up the ragged
side of the bill, holding his gun ready. He glanced around
him, licking his dry lips, his face set. From time to time he
reached up a gloved band and wiped perspiration from his
neck, pushing down his coat collar.
Eric turned to Corporal Leone. "Want him? Or can I have
him?" He adjusted the view sight so the Russian's features
squarely filled the glass, the lines cutting across his hard,
sombre features.
Leone considered. The Russian was close, moving rapidly,
almost running. "Don't fire. Wait," Leone tensed. "I don't
think we're needed."
The Russian increased his pace, kicking ash and piles of
debris out of his way. He reached the top of the hill and
stopped, panting, staring around him. The sky was overcast,
drifting clouds of grey particles. Bare trunks of trees jutted up
occasionally; the ground was level and bare, rubble-strewn,
with the ruins of buildings standing out here and there like
yellowing skulls.
The Russian was uneasy. He knew something was wrong. He
started down the hill. Now he was only a few paces from the
bunker. Eric was getting fidgety. He played with his pistol,
glancing at Leone.
"Don't worry," Leone said. "He won't get here. They'll
take care of him."
"Are you sure? He's got damn far."
"They hang around close to the bunker. He's getting into
the bad part. Get set!"
The Russian began to hurry, sliding down the hill, his
boots sinking into the heaps of grey ash, trying to keep his
gun up. He stopped for a moment, lifting his field-glasses to
his face.
"He's looking right at us," Eric said.
The Russian came on. They could see his eyes, like two
blue stones. His mouth was open a little. He needed a
shave; his chin was stubbled. On one bony cheek was a
square of tape, showing blue at the edge. A fungoid spot. His
coat was muddy and torn. One glove was missing. As he ran
his belt counter bounced up and down against him.
Leone touched Eric's arm. "Here one comes."
Across the ground something small and metallic came,
flashing in the dull sunlight of mid-day. A metal sphere. It
raced up the hill after the Russian, its treads flying. It was
small, one of the baby ones. Its claws were out, two razor pro-
jections spinning in a blur of white steel. The Russian heard
it. He turned instantly, firing. The sphere dissolved into par-
ticles. But already a second had emerged and was following
the first. The Russian fired again.
A third sphere leaped up the Russian's leg, clicking and
whirring. It jumped to the shoulder. The spinning blades dis-
appeared into the Russian's throat.
Eric relaxed. "Well, that's that. God, those damn things
give me the creeps. Sometimes I think we were better off be-
fore."
"If we hadn't invented them, they would have." Leone lit
a cigarette shakily. "I wonder why a Russian would come all
this way alone. I didn't see anyone covering him."
Lieutenant Scott came slipping up the tunnel, into the bunk-
er. "What happened? Something entered the screen."
"An Ivan."
"Just one?"
Eric brought the screen view around. Scott peered into it.
Now there were numerous metal spheres crawling over the
prostrate body, dull metal globes clicking and whirring, saw-
ing up the Russian into small parts to be carried away.
"What a lot of claws," Scott murmured.
"They come like flies. Not much game for them any more."
Scott pushed the sight away, disgusted. "Like flies. I wonder
why he was out there. They know we have claws all around."
A larger robot had joined the smaller spheres. It was direct-
ing operations, a long blunt tube with projecting eyepieces.
There was not much left of the soldier. What remained
was being brought down the hillside by the host of claws.
"Sir," Leone said. "If it's all right, I'd like to go out there
and take a look at him."
"Why?"
"Maybe he came with something."
Scott considered. He shrugged. "All right. But be careful."
"I have my tab." Leone patted the metal band at his
wrist. "I'll be out of bounds."
He picked up his rifle and stepped carefully up to the
mouth of the bunker, making his way between blocks of con-
crete and steel prongs, twisted and bent. The air was cold at
the top. He crossed over the ground towards the remains of the
soldier, striding across the soft ash. A wind blew around him,
swirling grey particles up in his face. He squinted and pushed
on.
The claws retreated as he came close, some of them stiffen-
ing into immobility. He touched his tab. The Ivan would
have given something for that! Short hard radiation emitted
from the tab neutralized the claws, put them out of commis-
sion. Even the big robot with its two waving eyestalks re-
treated respectfully as he approached.
He bent down over the remains of the soldier. The gloved
hand was closed tightly. There was something in it. Leone
pried the fingers apart. A sealed container, aluminium. Still
shiny.
He put it in his pocket and made his way back to the
bunker. Behind him the claws came back to life, moving
into operation again. The procession resumed, metal spheres
moving through the grey ash with their loads. He could hear
their treads scrabbling against the ground. He shuddered.
Scott watched intently as he brought the shiny tube out
of his pocket. "He had that?"
"In his hand." Leone unscrewed the top. "Maybe you
should look at it, sir."
Scott took it. He emptied the contents out in the palm of
his hand. A small piece of silk paper, carefully folded. He
sat down by the light and unfolded it.
"What's it say, sir?" Eric said. Several officers came up
the tunnel. Major Hendricks appeared.
"Major," Scott said. "Look at this."
Hendricks read the slip. "This just come?"
"A single runner. Just now."
"Where is he?" Hendricks asked sharply.
"The claws got him."
Major Hendricks grunted. "Here." He passed it to his com-
panions. "I think this is what we've been waiting for. They
certainly took their time about it."
"So they want to talk terms," Scott said. "Are we going
along with them?"
"That's not for us to decide." Hendricks sat down. "Where's
the communications officer? I want the Moon Base."
Leone pondered as the communications officer raised the
outside antenna cautiously, scanning the sky above the bunker
for any sign of a watching Russian ship.
"Sir," Scott said to Hendricks. "It's sure strange they sud-
denly came around. We've been using the claws for almost a
year. Now all of a sudden they start to fold."
"Maybe claws have been getting down in their bunkers."
"One of the big ones, the kind with stalks, got into an
Ivan bunker last week," Eric said. "It got a whole platoon
of them before they got their lid shut."
"How do you know?"
"A buddy told me. The thing came back withwith re-
mains."
"Moon Base, sir," the communications officer said.
On the screen the face of the lunar monitor appeared. His
crisp uniform contrasted to the uniforms in the bunker. And
he was clean shaven. "Moon Base."
"This is forward command L-Whistle. On Terra. Let me
have General Thompson."
The monitor faded. Presently General Thompson's heavy
features came into focus. "What is it, Major?"
"Our claws got a single Russian runner with a message.
We don't know whether to act on itthere have been tricks
like this in the past."
"What's the message?"
"The Russians want us to send a single officer on policy
level over to their lines. For a conference. They don't state
the nature of the conference. They say that matters of" He
consulted the slip. "Matters of grave urgency make it ad-
visable that discussion be opened between a representative of
the UN forces and themselves."
He held the message up to the screen for the general to
scan. Thompson's eyes moved.
"What should we do?" Hendricks asked.
"Send a man out."
"You don't think it's a trap?"
"It might be. But the location they give for their forward
command is correct. It's worth a try, at any rate."
"I'll send an officer out. And report the results to you as
soon as he returns."
"All right. Major." Thompson broke the connection. "The
screen died. Up above, the antenna came slowly down.
Hendricks rolled up the paper, deep in, thought.
"I'll go," Leone said.
"They want somebody at policy level." Hendricks rubbed
his jaw. "Policy level. I haven't been outside in months. May-
be I could use a little air."
"Don't you think it's risky?"
Hendricks lifted the view sight and gazed into it. The re-
mains of the Russian were gone. Only a single claw was in
sight. It was folding itself back, disappearing into the ash, like
a crab. Like some hideous metal crab. . .
"That's the only thing that bothers me." Hendricks rubbed
his wrist. "I know I'm safe as long as I have this on me. But
there's something about them. I hate the damn things. I wish
we'd never invented them. There's something wrong with
them. Relentless little"
"If we hadn't invented them, the Ivans would have."
Hendricks pushed the sight back. "Anyhow, it seems to be
winning the war. I guess that's good."
"Sounds like you're getting the same jitters as the Ivans."
Hendricks examined his wrist watch. "I guess I had better
get started, if I want to be there before dark."
He took a deep breath and then stepped out on to the grey,
rubbed ground. After a minute he lit a cigarette and stood
gazing around him. The landscape was dead. Nothing stirred.
He could see for miles, endless ash and slag, ruins of build-
ings. A few trees without leaves or branches, only the trunks.
Above him the eternal rolling clouds of grey, drifting between
Terra and the sun'.
Major Hendricks went on. Off to the right something
scuttled, something round and metallic. A claw, going lickety-
split after something. Probably after a small animal, a rat.
They got rats, too. As a sort of sideline.
He came to the top of the little hill and lifted his field-
glasses. The Russian lines were a few miles ahead of him.
They had a forward command post there. The runner had
come from it.
A squat robot with undulating arms passed by him, its arms
weaving inquiringly. The robot went on its way, disappearing
under some debris. Hendricks watched it go. He had never
seen that type before. There were getting to be more and
more types he had never seen, new varieties and sizes com-
ing up from the underground factories.
Hendricks put out his cigarette and hurried on. It was in-
teresting, the use of artificial forms in warfare. How had
they got started? Necessity. The Soviet Union had gained
great initial success, usual with the side that got the war go-
ing. Most of North America had been blasted off the map. Re-
taliation was quick in coming, of course. The sky was full of
circling disc-bombers long before the war began; they had
been up there for years. The discs began sailing down all
over Russia within hours after Washington got it.
But that hadn't helped Washington.
The American bloc governments moved to the Moon Base
the first year. There was not much else to do. Europe was
gone; a slag heap with dark weeds growing from the ashes and
bones. Most of North America was useless; nothing could be
planted, no one could live. A few million people kept going
up in Canada and down in South America. But during the
second year Soviet parachutists began to drop, a few at first,
then more and more. They wore the first really effective anti-
radiation equipment; what was left of American production
moved to the moon along with the governments.
All but the troops. The remaining troops stayed behind as
best they could, a few thousand here, a platoon there. No one
knew exactly where they were; they stayed where they could,
moving around at night, hiding in ruins, in sewers, cellars, with
the rats and snakes. It looked as if the Soviet Union had the
war almost won. Except for a handful of projectiles fired off
from the moon daily, there was almost no weapon in use
aginst them. They came and went as they pleased. The war,
for all practical purposes, was over. Nothing effective opposed
them.
And then the first claws appeared. And overnight the com-
plexion of the war changed.
The claws were awkward, at first. Slow. The Ivans knocked
them off almost as fast as they crawled out of their under-
ground tunnels. But then they got better, faster, and more cun-
ning. Factories, all on Terra, turned them out. Factories a
long way underground, behind the Soviet lines, factories that
had once made atomic projectiles, now almost forgotten.
The claws got faster, and they got bigger. New types ap-
peared, some with feelers, some that flew. There were a
few jumping kinds. The best technicians on the moon were
working on designs, making them more and more intricate,
more flexible. They became uncanny; the Ivans were having a
lot of trouble with them. Some of the little claws were
learning to hide themselves, bun-owing down into the ash,
lying in wait.
And then they started getting into the Russian bunkers,
slipping down when the lids were raised for air and a look
around. One claw inside a bunker, a churning sphere of
blades and metalthat was enough. And when one got in
others followed. With a weapon like that the war couldn't
go on much longer.
Maybe it was already over.
Maybe he was going to hear the news. Maybe the Polit-
buro had decided to throw in the sponge. Too bad it had taken
so long. Six years. A long time for war like that, the way
they had waged it. The automatic retaliation discs, spinning
down all over Russia, hundreds of thousands of them. Bacteria
crystals. The Soviet guided missiles, whistling through the air.
The chain bombs. And now this, the robots, the claws
The claws weren't like other weapons. They were alive,
from any practical standpoint, whether the Governments
wanted to admit it or not. They were not machines. They
were living things, spinning, creeping, shaking themselves up
suddenly from the grey ash and darting towards a man, climb-
ing up him, rushing for his throat. And that was what they
had been designed to do. Their job.
They did their job well. Especially lately, with the new
designs coming up. Now they repaired themselves. They were

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