The Last Of The Masters: Short Story

By Philip K. Dick

Edward Tolby and his daughter are members of a legendary militant group—The League—that helped to bring down the corrupt and misguided governments of the past, placing humanity on its path to a free, ruler-less society. Always on the lookout for groups trying to organize and stratify, Tolby and his companions encounter a powerful remnant of the old world.

Philip K. Dick was an American science-fiction novelist, short-story writer and essayist. His first short story, “Beyond Lies the Wub,” was published shortly after his high school graduation. Some of his most famous short stories were adapted for film, including “The Minority Report,” “Paycheck,” “Second Variety” (adapted into the film Screamers) and “We Can Remember It For You Wholesale” (adapted into the film Total Recall).

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• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Dec 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781443442756

Philip K. Dick

Over a writing career that spanned three decades, PHILIP K. DICK (1928–1982) published 36 science fiction novels and 121 short stories in which he explored the essence of what makes man human and the dangers of centralized power. Toward the end of his life, his work turned to deeply personal, metaphysical questions concerning the nature of God. Eleven novels and short stories have been adapted to film, notably Blade Runner (based on Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?), Total Recall, Minority Report, and A Scanner Darkly, as well as television's The Man in the High Castle. The recipient of critical acclaim and numerous awards throughout his career, including the Hugo and John W. Campbell awards, Dick was inducted into the Science Fiction Hall of Fame in 2005, and between 2007 and 2009, the Library of America published a selection of his novels in three volumes. His work has been translated into more than twenty-five languages.

Book preview

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THE LAST OF THE MASTERS

Philip K. Dick

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CONTENTS

The Last of the Masters

About the Author

About the Series

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Last of the Masters

Consciousness collected around him. He returned with reluctance; the weight of centuries, an unbearable fatigue, lay over him. The ascent was painful. He would have shrieked if there were anything to shriek with. And anyhow, he was beginning to feel glad.

Eight thousand times he had crept back thus, with ever-increasing difficulty. Someday he wouldn’t make it. Someday the black pool would remain. But not this day. He was still alive; above the aching pain and reluctance came joyful triumph.

Good morning, a bright voice said. Isn’t it a nice day? I’ll pull the curtains and you can look out.

He could see and hear. But he couldn’t move. He lay quietly and allowed the various sensations of the room to pour in on him. Carpets, wallpaper, tables, lamps, pictures. Desk and vidscreen. Gleaming yellow sunlight streamed through the window. Blue sky. Distant hills. Fields, buildings, roads, factories. Workers and machines.

Peter Green was busily straightening things, his young face wreathed with smiles. Lots to do today. Lots of people to see you. Bills to sign. Decisions to make. This is Saturday. There will be people coming in from the remote sectors. I hope the maintenance crew has done a good job. He added quickly, They have, of course. I talked to Fowler on my way over here. Everything’s fixed up fine.

The youth’s pleasant tenor mixed with the bright sunlight. Sounds and sights, but nothing else. He could feel nothing. He tried to move his arm but nothing happened.

Don’t worry, Green said, catching his terror. "They’ll soon be along with the rest. You’ll be all right. You have to be. How could we survive without you?"

He relaxed. God knew it had happened often enough before. Anger surged dully. Why couldn’t they coordinate? Get it up all at once, not piecemeal. He’d have to change their schedule. Make them organize better.

Past the bright window a squat metal car chugged to a halt. Uniformed men piled out, gathered up heavy armloads of equipment, and hurried toward the main entrance of the building.

Here they come, Green exclaimed with relief. A little late, eh?

Another traffic tie-up, Fowler snorted, as he entered. Something wrong with the signal system again. Outside flow got mixed up with the urban stuff; tied up on all sides. I wish you’d change the law.

Now there was motion all around him. The shapes of Fowler and McLean loomed, two giant moons abruptly ascendant. Professional faces that peered down at him anxiously. He was turned over on his side. Muffled conferences. Urgent whispers. The clank of tools.

Here, Fowler muttered. Now here. No, that’s later. Be careful. Now run it up through here.

The work continued in taut silence. He was aware of their closeness. Dim outlines occasionally cut off his light. He was turned this way and that, thrown around like a sack of meal.

Okay, Fowler said. Tape it.

A long silence. He gazed dully at the wall, at the slightly-faded blue and pink wallpaper. An old design that showed a woman in hoopskirts, with a