The Variable Man - 1

THE VARIABLE MAN
BY PHILIP K. DICK
ILLUSTRATED BY EBEL
He fixed things--clocks, refrigerators, vidsenders and
destinies. But he had no business in the future, where the
calculators could not handle him. He was Earth's only
hope--and its sure failure!

Security Commissioner Reinhart rapidly climbed the front steps and
entered the Council building. Council guards stepped quickly aside and
he entered the familiar place of great whirring machines. His thin
face rapt, eyes alight with emotion, Reinhart gazed intently up at the
central SRB computer, studying its reading.
"Straight gain for the last quarter," observed Kaplan, the lab
organizer. He grinned proudly, as if personally responsible. "Not bad,
Commissioner."
"We're catching up to them," Reinhart retorted. "But too damn slowly.
We must finally go over--and soon."
Kaplan was in a talkative mood. "We design new offensive weapons, they
counter with improved defenses. And nothing is actually made!
Continual improvement, but neither we nor Centaurus can stop designing
long enough to stabilize for production."
"It will end," Reinhart stated coldly, "as soon as Terra turns out a
weapon for which Centaurus can build no defense."
"Every weapon has a defense. Design and discord. Immediate
obsolescence. Nothing lasts long enough to--"
"What we count on is the _lag_," Reinhart broke in, annoyed. His hard
gray eyes bored into the lab organizer and Kaplan slunk back. "The
time lag between our offensive design and their counter development.
The lag varies." He waved impatiently toward the massed banks of SRB
machines. "As you well know."
At this moment, 9:30 AM, May 7, 2136, the statistical ratio on the SRB
machines stood at 21-17 on the Centauran side of the ledger. All facts
considered, the odds favored a successful repulsion by Proxima
Centaurus of a Terran military attack. The ratio was based on the
total information known to the SRB machines, on a gestalt of the vast
flow of data that poured in endlessly from all sectors of the Sol and
Centaurus systems.
21-17 on the Centauran side. But a month ago it had been 24-18 in the
enemy's favor. Things were improving, slowly but steadily. Centaurus,
older and less virile than Terra, was unable to match Terra's rate of
technocratic advance. Terra was pulling ahead.
"If we went to war now," Reinhart said thoughtfully, "we would lose.
We're not far enough along to risk an overt attack." A harsh, ruthless
glow twisted across his handsome features, distorting them into a
stern mask. "But the odds are moving in our favor. Our offensive
designs are gradually gaining on their defenses."
"Let's hope the war comes soon," Kaplan agreed. "We're all on edge.
This damn waiting...."
The war would come soon. Reinhart knew it intuitively. The air was
full of tension, the _elan_. He left the SRB rooms and hurried down
the corridor to his own elaborately guarded office in the Security
wing. It wouldn't be long. He could practically feel the hot breath of
destiny on his neck--for him a pleasant feeling. His thin lips set in
a humorless smile, showing an even line of white teeth against his
tanned skin. It made him feel good, all right. He'd been working at it
a long time.
First contact, a hundred years earlier, had ignited instant conflict
between Proxima Centauran outposts and exploring Terran raiders. Flash
fights, sudden eruptions of fire and energy beams.
And then the long, dreary years of inaction between enemies where
contact required years of travel, even at nearly the speed of light.
The two systems were evenly matched. Screen against screen. Warship
against power station. The Centauran Empire surrounded Terra, an iron
ring that couldn't be broken, rusty and corroded as it was. Radical
new weapons had to be conceived, if Terra was to break out.
Through the windows of his office, Reinhart could see endless
buildings and streets, Terrans hurrying back and forth. Bright specks
that were commute ships, little eggs that carried businessmen and
white-collar workers around. The huge transport tubes that shot masses
of workmen to factories and labor camps from their housing units. All
these people, waiting to break out. Waiting for the day.
Reinhart snapped on his vidscreen, the confidential channel. "Give me
Military Designs," he ordered sharply.
* * * * *
He sat tense, his wiry body taut, as the vidscreen warmed into life.
Abruptly he was facing the hulking image of Peter Sherikov, director
of the vast network of labs under the Ural Mountains.
Sherikov's great bearded features hardened as he recognized Reinhart.
His bushy black eyebrows pulled up in a sullen line. "What do you
want? You know I'm busy. We have too much work to do, as it is.
Without being bothered by--politicians."
"I'm dropping over your way," Reinhart answered lazily. He adjusted
the cuff of his immaculate gray cloak. "I want a full description of
your work and whatever progress you've made."
"You'll find a regular departmental report plate filed in the usual
way, around your office someplace. If you'll refer to that you'll know
exactly what we--"
"I'm not interested in that. I want to _see_ what you're doing. And I
expect you to be prepared to describe your work fully. I'll be there
shortly. Half an hour."
* * * * *
Reinhart cut the circuit. Sherikov's heavy features dwindled and
faded. Reinhart relaxed, letting his breath out. Too bad he had to
work with Sherikov. He had never liked the man. The big Polish
scientist was an individualist, refusing to integrate himself with
society. Independent, atomistic in outlook. He held concepts of the
individual as an end, diametrically contrary to the accepted organic
state Weltansicht.
But Sherikov was the leading research scientist, in charge of the
Military Designs Department. And on Designs the whole future of Terra
depended. Victory over Centaurus--or more waiting, bottled up in the
Sol System, surrounded by a rotting, hostile Empire, now sinking into
ruin and decay, yet still strong.
Reinhart got quickly to his feet and left the office. He hurried down
the hall and out of the Council building.
A few minutes later he was heading across the mid-morning sky in his
highspeed cruiser, toward the Asiatic land-mass, the vast Ural
mountain range. Toward the Military Designs labs.
Sherikov met him at the entrance. "Look here, Reinhart. Don't think
you're going to order me around. I'm not going to--"
"Take it easy." Reinhart fell into step beside the bigger man. They
passed through the check and into the auxiliary labs. "No immediate
coercion will be exerted over you or your staff. You're free to
continue your work as you see fit--for the present. Let's get this
straight. My concern is to integrate your work with our total social
needs. As long as your work is sufficiently productive--"
Reinhart stopped in his tracks.
"Pretty, isn't he?" Sherikov said ironically.
"What the hell is it?
"Icarus, we call him. Remember the Greek myth? The legend of Icarus.
Icarus flew.... This Icarus is going to fly, one of these days."
Sherikov shrugged. "You can examine him, if you want. I suppose this
is what you came here to see."
Reinhart advanced slowly. "This is the weapon you've been working on?"
"How does he look?"
Rising up in the center of the chamber was a squat metal cylinder, a
great ugly cone of dark gray. Technicians circled around it, wiring up
the exposed relay banks. Reinhart caught a glimpse of endless tubes
and filaments, a maze of wires and terminals and parts criss-crossing
each other, layer on layer.
"What is it?" Reinhart perched on the edge of a workbench, leaning his
big shoulders against the wall. "An idea of Jamison Hedge--the same
man who developed our instantaneous interstellar vidcasts forty years
ago. He was trying to find a method of faster than light travel when
he was killed, destroyed along with most of his work. After that ftl
research was abandoned. It looked as if there were no future in it."
"Wasn't it shown that nothing could travel faster than light?"
"The interstellar vidcasts do! No, Hedge developed a valid ftl drive.
He managed to propel an object at fifty times the speed of light. But
as the object gained speed, its length began to diminish and its mass
increased. This was in line with familiar twentieth-century concepts
of mass-energy transformation. We conjectured that as Hedge's object
gained velocity it would continue to lose length and gain mass until
its length became nil and its mass infinite. Nobody can imagine such
an object."
"Go on."
"But what actually occurred is this. Hedge's object continued to lose
length and gain mass until it reached the theoretical limit of
velocity, the speed of light. At that point the object, still gaining
speed, simply ceased to exist. Having no length, it ceased to occupy
space. It disappeared. However, the object had not been _destroyed_.
It continued on its way, gaining momentum each moment, moving in an
arc across the galaxy, away from the Sol system. Hedge's object
entered some other realm of being, beyond our powers of conception.
The next phase of Hedge's experiment consisted in a search for some
way to slow the ftl object down, back to a sub-ftl speed, hence back
into our universe. This counterprinciple was eventually worked out."
"With what result?"
"The death of Hedge and destruction of most of his equipment. His
experimental object, in re-entering the space-time universe, came into
being in space already occupied by matter. Possessing an incredible
mass, just below infinity level, Hedge's object exploded in a titanic
cataclysm. It was obvious that no space travel was possible with such
a drive. Virtually all space contains _some_ matter. To re-enter space
would bring automatic destruction. Hedge had found his ftl drive and
his counterprinciple, but no one before this has been able to put them
to any use."
Reinhart walked over toward the great metal cylinder. Sherikov jumped
down and followed him. "I don't get it," Reinhart said. "You said the
principle is no good for space travel."
"That's right."
"What's this for, then? If the ship explodes as soon as it returns to
our universe--"
"This is not a ship." Sherikov grinned slyly. "Icarus is the first
practical application of Hedge's principles. Icarus is a bomb."
"So this is our weapon," Reinhart said. "A bomb. An immense bomb."
"A bomb, moving at a velocity greater than light. A bomb which will
not exist in our universe. The Centaurans won't be able to detect or
stop it. How could they? As soon as it passes the speed of light it
will cease to exist--beyond all detection."
"But--"
"Icarus will be launched outside the lab, on the surface. He will
align himself with Proxima Centaurus, gaining speed rapidly. By the
time he reaches his destination he will be traveling at ftl-100.
Icarus will be brought back to this universe within Centaurus itself.
The explosion should destroy the star and wash away most of its
planets--including their central hub-planet, Armun. There is no way
they can halt Icarus, once he has been launched. No defense is
possible. Nothing can stop him. It is a real fact."
"When will he be ready?"
Sherikov's eyes flickered. "Soon."
"Exactly how soon?"
The big Pole hesitated. "As a matter of fact, there's only one thing
holding us back."
Sherikov led Reinhart around to the other side of the lab. He pushed a
lab guard out of the way.
"See this?" He tapped a round globe, open at one end, the size of a
grapefruit. "This is holding us up."
"What is it?"
"The central control turret. This thing brings Icarus back to sub-ftl
flight at the correct moment. It must be absolutely accurate. Icarus
will be within the star only a matter of a microsecond. If the turret
does not function exactly, Icarus will pass out the other side and
shoot beyond the Centauran system."
"How near completed is this turret?"
Sherikov hedged uncertainly, spreading out his big hands. "Who can
say? It must be wired with infinitely minute equipment--microscope
grapples and wires invisible to the naked eye."
"Can you name any completion date?"
Sherikov reached into his coat and brought out a manila folder. "I've
drawn up the data for the SRB machines, giving a date of completion.
You can go ahead and feed it. I entered ten days as the maximum
period. The machines can work from that."
Reinhart accepted the folder cautiously. "You're sure about the date?
I'm not convinced I can trust you, Sherikov."
Sherikov's features darkened. "You'll have to take a chance,
Commissioner. I don't trust you any more than you trust me. I know how
much you'd like an excuse to get me out of here and one of your
puppets in."
Reinhart studied the huge scientist thoughtfully. Sherikov was going
to be a hard nut to crack. Designs was responsible to Security, not
the Council. Sherikov was losing ground--but he was still a potential
danger. Stubborn, individualistic, refusing to subordinate his welfare
to the general good.
"All right." Reinhart put the folder slowly away in his coat. "I'll
feed it. But you better be able to come through. There can't be any
slip-ups. Too much hangs on the next few days."
"If the odds change in our favor are you going to give the
mobilization order?"
"Yes," Reinhart stated. "I'll give the order the moment I see the odds
change."
* * * * *
Standing in front of the machines, Reinhart waited nervously for the
results. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The day was warm, a
pleasant May afternoon. Outside the building the daily life of the
planet went on as usual.
As usual? Not exactly. The feeling was in the air, an expanding
excitement growing every day. Terra had waited a long time. The attack
on Proxima Centaurus had to come--and the sooner the better. The
ancient Centauran Empire hemmed in Terra, bottled the human race up in
its one system. A vast, suffocating net draped across the heavens,
cutting Terra off from the bright diamonds beyond.... And it had to
end.
The SRB machines whirred, the visible combination disappearing. For a
time no ratio showed. Reinhart tensed, his body rigid. He waited.
The new ratio appeared.
Reinhart gasped. 7-6. Toward Terra!
Within five minutes the emergency mobilization alert had been flashed
to all Government departments. The Council and President Duffe had
been called to immediate session. Everything was happening fast.
But there was no doubt. 7-6. In Terra's favor. Reinhart hurried
frantically to get his papers in order, in time for the Council
session.
At histo-research the message plate was quickly pulled from the
confidential slot and rushed across the central lab to the chief
official.
"Look at this!" Fredman dropped the plate on his superior's desk.
"Look at it!"
Harper picked up the plate, scanning it rapidly. "Sounds like the real
thing. I didn't think we'd live to see it."
Fredman left the room, hurrying down the hall. He entered the time
bubble office. "Where's the bubble?" he demanded, looking around.
One of the technicians looked slowly up. "Back about two hundred
years. We're coming up with interesting data on the War of 1914.
According to material the bubble has already brought up--"
"Cut it. We're through with routine work. Get the bubble back to the
present. From now on all equipment has to be free for Military work."
"But--the bubble is regulated automatically."
"You can bring it back manually."
"It's risky." The technician hedged. "If the emergency requires it, I
suppose we could take a chance and cut the automatic."
"The emergency requires _everything_," Fredman said feelingly.
"But the odds might change back," Margaret Duffe, President of the
Council, said nervously. "Any minute they can revert."
"This is our chance!" Reinhart snapped, his temper rising. "What the
hell's the matter with you? We've waited years for this."
The Council buzzed with excitement. Margaret Duffe hesitated
uncertainly, her blue eyes clouded with worry. "I realize the
opportunity is here. At least, statistically. But the new odds have
just appeared. How do we know they'll last? They stand on the basis of
a single weapon."
"You're wrong. You don't grasp the situation." Reinhart held himself
in check with great effort. "Sherikov's weapon tipped the ratio in our
favor. But the odds have been moving in our direction for months. It
was only a question of time. The new balance was inevitable, sooner or
later. It's not just Sherikov. He's only one factor in this. It's all
nine planets of the Sol System--not a single man."
One of the Councilmen stood up. "The President must be aware the
entire planet is eager to end this waiting. All our activities for the
past eighty years have been directed toward--"
Reinhart moved close to the slender President of the Council. "If you
don't approve the war, there probably will be mass rioting. Public
reaction will be strong. Damn strong. And you know it."
Margaret Duffe shot him a cold glance. "You sent out the emergency
order to force my hand. You were fully aware of what you were doing.
You knew once the order was out there'd be no stopping things."
A murmur rushed through the Council, gaining volume. "We have to
approve the war!... We're committed!... It's too late to turn back!"
Shouts, angry voices, insistent waves of sound lapped around Margaret
Duffe. "I'm as much for the war as anybody," she said sharply. "I'm
only urging moderation. An inter-system war is a big thing. We're
going to war because a machine says we have a statistical chance of
winning."
"There's no use starting the war unless we can win it," Reinhart said.
"The SRB machines tell us whether we can win."
"They tell us our _chance_ of winning. They don't guarantee anything."
"What more can we ask, beside a good chance of winning?"
Margaret Duffe clamped her jaw together tightly. "All right. I hear
all the clamor. I won't stand in the way of Council approval. The vote
can go ahead." Her cold, alert eyes appraised Reinhart. "Especially
since the emergency order has already been sent out to all Government
departments."
"Good." Reinhart stepped away with relief. "Then it's settled. We can
finally go ahead with full mobilization."
Mobilization proceeded rapidly. The next forty-eight hours were alive
with activity.
Reinhart attended a policy-level Military briefing in the Council
rooms, conducted by Fleet Commander Carleton.
"You can see our strategy," Carleton said. He traced a diagram on the
blackboard with a wave of his hand. "Sherikov states it'll take eight
more days to complete the ftl bomb. During that time the fleet we have
near the Centauran system will take up positions. As the bomb goes off
the fleet will begin operations against the remaining Centauran ships.
Many will no doubt survive the blast, but with Armun gone we should be
able to handle them."
Reinhart took Commander Carleton's place. "I can report on the
economic situation. Every factory on Terra is converted to arms
production. With Armun out of the way we should be able to promote
mass insurrection among the Centauran colonies. An inter-system Empire
is hard to maintain, even with ships that approach light speed. Local
war-lords should pop up all over the place. We want to have weapons
available for them and ships starting _now_ to reach them in time.
Eventually we hope to provide a unifying principle around which the
colonies can all collect. Our interest is more economic than
political. They can have any kind of government they want, as long as
they act as supply areas for us. As our eight system planets act now."
Carleton resumed his report. "Once the Centauran fleet has been
scattered we can begin the crucial stage of the war. The landing of
men and supplies from the ships we have waiting in all key areas
throughout the Centauran system. In this stage--"
Reinhart moved away. It was hard to believe only two days had passed
since the mobilization order had been sent out. The whole system was
alive, functioning with feverish activity. Countless problems were
being solved--but much remained.
He entered the lift and ascended to the SRB room, curious to see if
there had been any change in the machines' reading. He found it the
same. So far so good. Did the Centaurans know about Icarus? No doubt;
but there wasn't anything they could do about it. At least, not in
eight days.
Kaplan came over to Reinhart, sorting a new batch of data that had
come in. The lab organizer searched through his data. "An amusing item
came in. It might interest you." He handed a message plate to
Reinhart.
It was from histo-research:
May 9, 2136
This is to report that in bringing the research time bubble up
to the present the manual return was used for the first time.
Therefore a clean break was not made, and a quantity of
material from the past was brought forward. This material
included an individual from the early twentieth century who
escaped from the lab immediately. He has not yet been taken
into protective custody. Histo-research regrets this incident,
but attributes it to the emergency.
E. Fredman
Reinhart handed the plate back to Kaplan. "Interesting. A man from the
past--hauled into the middle of the biggest war the universe has
seen."
"Strange things happen. I wonder what the machines will think."
"Hard to say. Probably nothing." Reinhart left the room and hurried
along the corridor to his own office.
As soon as he was inside he called Sherikov on the vidscreen, using
the confidential line.
The Pole's heavy features appeared. "Good day, Commissioner. How's the
war effort?"
"Fine. How's the turret wiring proceeding?"
A faint frown flickered across Sherikov's face. "As a matter of fact,
Commissioner--"
"What's the matter?" Reinhart said sharply.
Sherikov floundered. "You know how these things are. I've taken my
crew off it and tried robot workers. They have greater dexterity, but
they can't make decisions. This calls for more than mere dexterity.
This calls for--" He searched for the word. "--for an _artist_."
Reinhart's face hardened. "Listen, Sherikov. You have eight days left
to complete the bomb. The data given to the SRB machines contained
that information. The 7-6 ratio is based on that estimate. If you
don't come through--"
Sherikov twisted in embarrassment. "Don't get excited, Commissioner.
We'll complete it."
"I hope so. Call me as soon as it's done." Reinhart snapped off the
connection. If Sherikov let them down he'd have him taken out and
shot. The whole war depended on the ftl bomb.
The vidscreen glowed again. Reinhart snapped it on. Kaplan's face
formed on it. The lab organizer's face was pale and frozen.
"Commissioner, you better come up to the SRB office. Something's
happened."
"What is it?"
"I'll show you."
Alarmed, Reinhart hurried out of his office and down the corridor. He
found Kaplan standing in front of the SRB machines. "What's the
story?" Reinhart demanded. He glanced down at the reading. It was
unchanged.
Kaplan held up a message plate nervously. "A moment ago I fed this
into the machines. After I saw the results I quickly removed it. It's
that item I showed you. From histo-research. About the man from the
past."
"What happened when you fed it?"
Kaplan swallowed unhappily. "I'll show you. I'll do it again. Exactly
as before." He fed the plate into a moving intake belt. "Watch the
visible figures," Kaplan muttered.
Reinhart watched, tense and rigid. For a moment nothing happened. 7-6
continued to show. Then--
The figures disappeared. The machines faltered. New figures showed
briefly. 4-24 for Centaurus. Reinhart gasped, suddenly sick with
apprehension. But the figures vanished. New figures appeared. 16-38
for Centaurus. Then 48-86. 79-15 in Terra's favor. Then nothing. The
machines whirred, but nothing happened.
Nothing at all. No figures. Only a blank.
"What's it mean?" Reinhart muttered, dazed.
"It's fantastic. We didn't think this could--"
"_What's happened?_"
"The machines aren't able to handle the item. No reading can come.
It's data they can't integrate. They can't use it for prediction
material, and it throws off all their other figures."
"Why?"
"It's--it's a variable." Kaplan was shaking, white-lipped and pale.
"Something from which no inference can be made. The man from the past.
The machines can't deal with him. The variable man!"


II

Thomas Cole was sharpening a knife with his whetstone when the tornado
hit.
The knife belonged to the lady in the big green house. Every time Cole
came by with his Fixit cart the lady had something to be sharpened.
Once in awhile she gave him a cup of coffee, hot black coffee from an
old bent pot. He liked that fine; he enjoyed good coffee.
The day was drizzly and overcast. Business had been bad. An automobile
had scared his two horses. On bad days less people were outside and he
had to get down from the cart and go to ring doorbells.
But the man in the yellow house had given him a dollar for fixing his
electric refrigerator. Nobody else had been able to fix it, not even
the factory man. The dollar would go a long way. A dollar was a lot.
He knew it was a tornado even before it hit him. Everything was
silent. He was bent over his whetstone, the reins between his knees,
absorbed in his work.
He had done a good job on the knife; he was almost finished. He spat
on the blade and was holding it up to see--and then the tornado came.
All at once it was there, completely around him. Nothing but grayness.
He and the cart and horses seemed to be in a calm spot in the center
of the tornado. They were moving in a great silence, gray mist
everywhere.
And while he was wondering what to do, and how to get the lady's knife
back to her, all at once there was a bump and the tornado tipped him
over, sprawled out on the ground. The horses screamed in fear,
struggling to pick themselves up. Cole got quickly to his feet.
_Where was he?_
The grayness was gone. White walls stuck up on all sides. A deep light
gleamed down, not daylight but something like it. The team was pulling
the cart on its side, dragging it along, tools and equipment falling
out. Cole righted the cart, leaping up onto the seat.
And for the first time saw the people.
Men, with astonished white faces, in some sort of uniforms. Shouts,
noise and confusion. And a feeling of danger!
Cole headed the team toward the door. Hoofs thundered steel against
steel as they pounded through the doorway, scattering the astonished
men in all directions. He was out in a wide hall. A building, like a
hospital.
The hall divided. More men were coming, spilling from all sides.
Shouting and milling in excitement, like white ants. Something cut
past him, a beam of dark violet. It seared off a corner of the cart,
leaving the wood smoking.
Cole felt fear. He kicked at the terrified horses. They reached a big
door, crashing wildly against it. The door gave--and they were
outside, bright sunlight blinking down on them. For a sickening second
the cart tilted, almost turning over. Then the horses gained speed,
racing across an open field, toward a distant line of green, Cole
holding tightly to the reins.
Behind him the little white-faced men had come out and were standing