{"id":17875,"date":"2024-12-17T11:44:21","date_gmt":"2024-12-17T15:44:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=17875"},"modified":"2025-12-11T11:25:41","modified_gmt":"2025-12-11T15:25:41","slug":"philip-k-dick-foster-youre-dead","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/philip-k-dick-foster-youre-dead\/17875\/","title":{"rendered":"Philip K. Dick: Foster, You\u2019re Dead"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> “Foster, You’re Dead” is a science fiction short story by Philip K. Dick, published in Star Science Fiction Stories No. 3 in 1955. In a society obsessed with preparing for nuclear war, Mike Foster faces the stigma of being the son of an ‘anti-P’, someone who refuses to buy bomb shelters or contribute to the community defence system. While his peers make booby traps and knives at school, he lives with the constant humiliation and fear of not having a shelter to protect him. Social pressure and fear drive him to crave security in a world where paranoia has become a lucrative business.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Philip<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Foster, You\u2019re Dead<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

by Philip K. Dick
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

School was agony, as always. Only today it was worse. Mike Foster finished weaving his two watertight baskets and sat rigid, while all around him the other children worked. Outside the concrete-and-steel building the late-afternoon sun shone cool. The hills sparkled green and brown in the crisp autumn air. In the overhead sky a few NATS circled lazily above the town.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The vast, ominous shape of Mrs. Cummings, the teacher, silently approached his desk. \u201cFoster, are you finished?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, ma\u2019am,\u201d he answered eagerly. He pushed the baskets up. \u201cCan I leave now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Cummings examined his baskets critically. \u201cWhat about your trap-making?\u201d she demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He fumbled in his desk and brought out his intricate small-animal trap. \u201cAll finished, Mrs. Cummings. And my knife, it\u2019s done, too.\u201d He showed her the razor-edged blade of his knife, glittering metal he had shaped from a discarded gasoline drum. She picked up the knife and ran her expert finger doubtfully along the blade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot strong enough,\u201d she stated. \u201cYou\u2019ve oversharpened it. It\u2019ll lose its edge the first time you use it. Go down to the main weapons-lab and examine the knives they\u2019ve got there. Then hone it back some and get a thicker blade.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMrs. Cummings,\u201d Mike Foster pleased, \u201ccould I fix it tomorrow? <\/em>Could I leave right now, please?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everybody in the classroom was watching with interest. Mike Foster flushed; he hated to be singled out and made conspicuous, but he had <\/em>to get away. He couldn\u2019t stay in school one minute more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inexorable, Mrs. Cummings rumbled, \u201cTomorrow is digging day. You won\u2019t have time to work on your knife.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI will,\u201d he assured her quickly. \u201cAfter the digging.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, you\u2019re not too good at digging.\u201d The old woman was measuring the boy\u2019s spindly arms and legs. \u201cI think you better get your knife finished today. And spend all day tomorrow down at the field.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the use of digging?\u201d Mike Foster demanded, in despair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEverybody has to know how to dig,\u201d Mrs. Cummings answered patiently. Children were snickering on all sides; she shushed them with a hostile glare. \u201cYou all know the importance of digging. When the war begins the whole surface will be littered with debris and rubble. If we hope to survive we\u2019ll have to dig down, won\u2019t we? Have any of you ever watched a gopher digging around the roots of plants? The gopher knows he\u2019ll find something valuable down there under the surface of the ground. We\u2019re all going to be little brown gophers. We\u2019ll all have to learn to dig down in the rubble and find the good things, because that\u2019s where they\u2019ll be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster sat miserably plucking his knife, as Mrs. Cummings moved away from his desk and up the aisle. A few children grinned contemptuously at him, but nothing penetrated his haze of wretchedness. Digging wouldn\u2019t do him any good. When the bombs came he\u2019d be killed instantly. All the vaccination shots up and down his arms, on his thighs and buttocks, would be of no use. He had wasted his allowance money: Mike Foster wouldn\u2019t be alive to catch any of the bacterial plagues. Not unless \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sprang up and followed Mrs. Cummings to her desk. In an agony of desperation he blurted, \u201cPlease, I have to leave. I have to do something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Cumming\u2019s tired lips twisted angrily. But the boy\u2019s fearful eyes stopped her. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d she demanded. \u201cDon\u2019t you feel well?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy stood frozen, unable to answer her. Pleased by the tableau, the class murmured and giggled until Mrs. Cummings rapped angrily on her desk with a writer. \u201cBe quiet,\u201d she snapped. Her voice softened a shade. \u201cMichael, if you\u2019re not functioning properly, go downstairs to the psyche clinic. There\u2019s no point trying to work when your reactions are conflicted. Miss Groves will be glad to optimum you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Foster said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen what is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The class stirred. Voices answered for Foster; his tongue was stuck with misery and humiliation. \u201cHis father\u2019s an anti-P,\u201d the voices explained. \u201cThey don\u2019t have a shelter and he isn\u2019t registered in Civic Defense. His father hasn\u2019t even contributed to the NATS. They haven\u2019t done anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Cummings gazed up in amazement at the mute boy. \u201cYou don\u2019t have a shelter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A strange feeling filled the woman. \u201cBut \u2014\u201d She had started to say, But you\u2019ll die up here. <\/em>She changed it to \u201cBut where\u2019ll you go?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNowhere,\u201d the mild voices answered for him. \u201cEverybody else\u2019ll be down in their shelters and he\u2019ll be up here. He even doesn\u2019t have a permit for the school shelter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mrs. Cummings was shocked. In her dull, scholastic way she had assumed every child in the school had a permit to the elaborate subsurface chambers under the building. But of course not. Only children whose parents were part of CD, who contributed to arming the community. And if Foster\u2019s father was an anti-P\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s afraid to sit here,\u201d the voices chimed in calmly. \u201cHe\u2019s afraid it\u2019ll come while he\u2019s sitting here, and everybody else will be safe down in the shelter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He wandered slowly along, hands deep in his pockets, kicking at dark stones on the sidewalk. The sun was setting. Snub-nosed commute rockets were unloading tired people, glad to be home from the factory strip a hundred miles to the west. On the distant hills something flashed: a radar tower revolving silently in the evening gloom. The circling NATS had increased in number. The twilight hours were the most dangerous; visual observers couldn\u2019t spot high-speed missiles coming in close to the ground. Assuming the missiles came.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A mechanical news-machine shouted at him excitedly as he passed. War, death, amazing new weapons developed at home and abroad. He hunched his shoulders and continued on, past the little concrete shells that served as houses, each exactly alike, sturdy reinforced pillboxes. Ahead of him bright neon signs glowed in the settling gloom: the business district, alive with traffic and milling people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Half a block from the bright cluster of neons he halted. To his right was a public shelter, a dark tunnel-like entrance with a mechanical turnstile glowing dully. Fifty cents admission. If he was here, on the street, and he had fifty cents, he\u2019d be all right. He had pushed down into public shelters many times, during the practice raids. But other times, hideous, nightmare times that never left his mind, he hadn\u2019t had the fifty cents. He had stood mute and terrified, while people pushed excitedly past him; and the shrill shrieks of the sirens thundered everywhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He continued slowly, until he came to the brightest blotch of light, the great, gleaming showrooms of General Electronics, two blocks long, illuminated on all sides, a vast square of pure color and radiation. He halted and examined for the millionth time the fascinating shapes, the display that always drew him to a hypnotized stop whenever he passed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the center of the vast room was a single object. An elaborate pulsing blob of machinery and support struts, beams and walls and sealed locks. All spotlights were turned on it; huge signs announced its hundred and one advantages \u2014 as if there could be any doubt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE NEW 1972 BOMBPROOF RADIATION-SEALED
SUBSURFACE SHELTER IS HERE! CHECK THESE
STAR-STUDDED FEATURES:
* automatic descent-lift \u2014 jam-proof, self-powered, e-z locking
* triple-layer hull guaranteed to withstand 5g<\/em> pressure without buckling
* A-powered heating and refrigeration system \u2014 self-servicing air-purification network
* three decontamination stages for food and water
* four hygienic stages for pre-burn exposure
* complete antibiotic processing
* e-z payment plan<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He gazed at the shelter a long time. It was mostly a big tank, with a neck at one end that was the descent tube, and an emergency escape-hatch at the other. It was completely self-contained: a miniature world that supplied its own light, heat, air, water, medicines, and almost inexhaustible food. When fully stocked there were visual and audio tapes, entertainment, beds, chairs, vidscreen, everything that made up the above-surface home. It was, actually, a home below the ground. Nothing was missing that might be needed or enjoyed. A family would be safe, even comfortable, during the most severe H-bomb and bacterial-spray attack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It cost twenty thousand dollars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While he was gazing silently at the massive display, one of the salesmen stepped out onto the dark sidewalk, on his way to the cafeteria. \u201cHi, sonny,\u201d he said automatically, as he passed Mike Foster. \u201cNot bad, is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan I go inside?\u201d Foster asked quickly. \u201cCan I go down in it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman stopped, as he recognized the boy. \u201cYou\u2019re that kid,\u201d he said slowly, \u201cthat damn kid who\u2019s always pestering us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019d like to go down in it. Just for a couple minutes. I won\u2019t bust anything \u2014 I promise. I won\u2019t even touch anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman was young and blond, a good-looking man in his early twenties. He hesitated, his reactions divided. The kid was a pest. But he had a family, and that meant a reasonable prospect. Business was bad; it was late September and the seasonal slump was still on. There was no profit in telling the boy to go peddle his newstapes; but on the other hand it was bad business encouraging small fry to crawl around the merchandise. They wasted time; they broke things; they pilfered small stuff when nobody was looking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo dice,\u201d the salesman said. \u201cLook, send your old man down here. Has he seen what we\u2019ve got?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Mike Foster said tightly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s holding him back?\u201d The salesman waved expansively up at the great gleaming display. \u201cWe\u2019ll give him a good trade-in on his old one, allowing for depreciation and obsolescence. What model has he got?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe don\u2019t have any,\u201d Mike Foster said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman blinked. \u201cCome again?\u201d \u2018<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy father says it\u2019s a waste of money. He says they\u2019re trying to scare people into buying things they don\u2019t need. He says \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour father\u2019s an anti-P?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Mike Foster answered unhappily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman let out his breath. \u201cOkay, kid. Sorry we can\u2019t do business. It\u2019s not your fault.\u201d He lingered. \u201cWhat the hell\u2019s wrong with him? Does he put on the NATS?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The salesman swore under his breath. A coaster, sliding along, safe because the rest of the community was putting up thirty per cent of its income to keep a constant-defense system going. There were always a few of them, in every town. \u201cHow\u2019s your mother feel?\u201d the salesman demanded. \u201cShe go along with him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe says \u2014\u201d Mike Foster broke off. \u201cCouldn\u2019t I go down in it for a little while? I won\u2019t bust anything. Just once.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow\u2019d we ever sell it if we let kids run through it? We\u2019re not marking it down as a demonstration model \u2014 we\u2019ve got roped into that too often.\u201d The salesman\u2019s curiosity was aroused. \u201cHow\u2019s a guy get to be anti-P? He always feel this way, or did he get stung with something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe says they sold people as many cars and washing machines and television sets as they could use. He says NATS and bomb shelters aren\u2019t good for anything, so people never get all they can use. He says factories can keep turning out guns and gas masks forever, and as long as people are afraid they\u2019ll keep paying for them because they think if they don\u2019t they might get killed, and maybe a man gets tired of paying for a new car every year and stops, but he\u2019s never going to stop buying shelters to protect his children.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou believe that?\u201d the salesman asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wish we had that shelter,\u201d Mike Foster answered. \u201cIf we had a shelter like that I\u2019d go down and sleep in it every night. It\u2019d be there when we needed it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe there won\u2019t be a war,\u201d the salesman said. He sensed the boy\u2019s misery and fear, and he grinned good-naturedly down at him. \u201cDon\u2019t worry all the time. You probably watch too many vidtapes \u2014 get out and play, for a change.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNobody\u2019s safe on the surface,\u201d Mike Foster said. \u201cWe have to be down below. And there\u2019s no place I can go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSend your old man around,\u201d the salesman muttered uneasily. \u201cMaybe we can talk him into it. We\u2019ve got a lot of time-payment plans. Tell him to ask for Bill O\u2019Neill. Okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster wandered away, down the black evening street. He knew he was supposed to be home, but his feet dragged and his body was heavy and dull. His fatigue made him remember what the athletic coach had said the day before, during exercises. They were practicing breath suspension, holding a lungful of air and running. He hadn\u2019t done well; the others were still redfaced and racing when he halted, expelled his air, and stood gasping frantically for breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFoster,\u201d the coach said angrily, \u201cyou\u2019re dead. You know that? If this had been a gas attack \u2014\u201d He shook his head wearily. \u201cGo over there and practice by yourself. You\u2019ve got to do better, if you expect to survive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But he didn\u2019t expect to survive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he stepped up onto the porch of his home, he found the living room lights already on. He could hear his father\u2019s voice, and more faintly his mother\u2019s from the kitchen. He closed the door after him and began unpeeling his coat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs that you?\u201d his father demanded. Bob Foster sat sprawled out in his chair, his lap full of tapes and report sheets from his retail furniture store. \u201cWhere have you been? Dinner\u2019s been ready half an hour.\u201d He had taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. His arms were pale and thin, but muscular. He was tired; his eyes were large and dark, his hair thinning. Restlessly, he moved the tapes around, from one stack to another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d Mike Foster said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father examined his pocket watch; he was surely the only man who still carried a watch. \u201cGo wash your hands. What have you been doing?\u201d He scrutinized his son. \u201cYou look odd. Do you feel all right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI was downtown,\u201d Mike Foster said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat were you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLooking at the shelters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wordless, his father grabbed up a handful of reports and stuffed them into a folder. His thin lips set; hard lines wrinkled his forehead. He snorted furiously as tapes spilled everywhere; he bent stiffly to pick them up. Mike Foster made no move to help him. He crossed to the closet and gave his coat to the hanger. When he turned away his mother was directing the table of food into the dining room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They ate without speaking, intent on their food and not looking at each other. Finally his father said, \u201cWhat\u2019d you see? Same old dogs, I suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s the new \u201872 models,\u201d Mike Foster answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey\u2019re the same as the \u201871 models.\u201d His father threw down his fork savagely; the table caught and absorbed it. \u201cA few new gadgets, some more chrome. That\u2019s all.\u201d Suddenly he was facing his son defiantly. \u201cRight?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster toyed wretchedly with his creamed chicken. \u201cThe new ones have a jam-proof descent lift. You can\u2019t get stuck halfway down. All you have to do is get in it, and it does the rest.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019ll be one next year that\u2019ll pick you up and carry you down. This one\u2019ll be obsolete as soon as people buy it. That\u2019s what they want \u2014 they want you to keep buying. They keep putting out new ones as fast as they can. This isn\u2019t 1972, it\u2019s still 1971. What\u2019s that thing doing out already? Can\u2019t they wait?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster didn\u2019t answer. He had heard it all before, many times. There was never anything new, only chrome and gadgets; yet the old ones became obsolete, anyhow. His father\u2019s argument was loud, impassioned, almost frenzied, but it made no sense. \u201cLet\u2019s get an old one, then,\u201d he blurted out. \u201cI don\u2019t care, any one\u2019ll do. Even a secondhand one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, you want the new <\/em>one. Shiny and glittery to impress the neighbors. Lots of dials and knobs and machinery. How much do they want for it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTwenty thousand dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father let his breath out. \u201cJust like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey\u2019ve easy time-payment plans.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure. You pay for it the rest of your life. Interest, carrying charges, and how long is it guaranteed for?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThree months.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat happens when it breaks down? It\u2019ll stop purifying and decontaminating. It\u2019ll fall apart as soon as the three months are over.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster shook his head. \u201cNo. It\u2019s big and sturdy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father flushed. He was a small man, slender and light, brittle-boned. He thought suddenly of his lifetime of lost battles, struggling up the hard way, carefully collecting and holding on to something, a job, money, his retail store, bookkeeper to manager, finally owner. \u201cThey\u2019re scaring us to keep the wheels going,\u201d he yelled desperately at his wife and son. \u201cThey don\u2019t want another depression.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBob,\u201d his wife said, slowly and quietly, \u201cyou have to stop this. I can\u2019t stand any more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bob Foster blinked. \u201cWhat\u2019re you talking about?\u201d he muttered. \u201cI\u2019m tired. These goddamn taxes. It isn\u2019t possible for a little store to keep open, not with the big chains. There ought to be a law.\u201d His voice trailed off. \u201cI guess I\u2019m through eating.\u201d He pushed away from the table and got to his feet. \u201cI\u2019m going to lie down on the couch and take a nap.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His wife\u2019s thin face blazed. \u201cYou have to get one! I can\u2019t stand the way they talk about us. All the neighbors and the merchants, everybody who knows. I can\u2019t go anywhere or do anything without hearing about it. Ever since that day they put up the flag. Anti-P. <\/em>The last in the whole town. Those things circling around up there, and everybody paying for them but us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Bob Foster said. \u201cI can\u2019t get one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause,\u201d he answered simply, \u201cI can\u2019t afford it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve put everything in that store,\u201d Ruth said finally. \u201cAnd it\u2019s failing anyhow. You\u2019re just like a pack-rat, hoarding everything down at that ratty little hole-in-the-wall. Nobody wants wood furniture anymore. You\u2019re a relic \u2014 a curiosity.\u201d She slammed at the table and it leaped wildly to gather the empty dishes, like a startled animal. It dashed furiously from the room and back into the kitchen, the dishes churning in its washtank as it raced.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bob Foster sighed wearily. \u201cLet\u2019s not fight. I\u2019ll be in the living room. Let me take a nap for an hour or so. Maybe we can talk about it later.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAlways later,\u201d Ruth said bitterly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her husband disappeared into the living room, a small, hunched-over figure, hair scraggly and gray, shoulder blades like broken wings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike got to his feet. \u201cI\u2019ll go study my homework,\u201d he said. He followed after his father, a strange look on his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The living room was quiet; the vidset was off and the lamp was down low. Ruth was in the kitchen setting the controls on the stove for the next month\u2019s meals. Bob Foster lay stretched out on the couch, his shoes off, his head on a pillow. His face was gray with fatigue. Mike hesitated for a moment and then said, \u201cCan I ask you something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father grunted and stirred, opened his eyes. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike sat down facing him. \u201cTell me again how you gave advice to the President.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father pulled himself up. \u201cI didn\u2019t give any advice to the President. I just talked to him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTell me about it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve told you a million times. Every once in a while, since you were a baby. You were with me.\u201d His voice softened, as he remembered. \u201cYou were just a toddler \u2014 we had to carry you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat did he look like?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell,\u201d his father began, slipping into a routine he had worked out and petrified over the years, \u201che looked about like he does in the vidscreen. Smaller, though.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy was he here?\u201d Mike demanded avidly, although he knew every detail. The President was his hero, the man he most admired in all the world. \u201cWhy\u2019d he come all the way out here to our <\/em>town?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe was on a tour.\u201d Bitterness crept into his father\u2019s voice. \u201cHe happened to be passing through.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat kind of a tour?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVisiting towns all over the country.\u201d The harshness increased. \u201cSeeing how we were getting along. Seeing if we had bought enough NATS and bomb shelters and plague shots and gas masks and radar networks to repel attack. The General Electronics Corporation was just beginning to put up its big showrooms and displays \u2014 everything bright and glittering and expensive. The first defense equipment available for home purchase.\u201d His lips twisted. \u201cAll on easy-payment plans. Ads, posters, searchlights, free gardenias and dishes for the ladies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster\u2019s breath panted in his throat. \u201cThat was the day we got our Preparedness Flag,\u201d he said hungrily. \u201cThat was the day he came to give us our flag. And they ran it up on the flagpole in the middle of the town, and everybody was there yelling and cheering.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou remember that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI \u2014 think so. I remember people and sounds. And it was hot. It was June, wasn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJune 10,1965. Quite an occasion. Not many towns had the big green flag, then. People were still buying cars and TV sets. They hadn\u2019t discovered those days were over. TV sets and cars are good for something \u2014 you can only manufacture and sell so many of them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe gave you<\/em> the flag, didn\u2019t he?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, he gave it to all us merchants. The Chamber of Commerce had it arranged. Competition between towns, see who can buy the most the soonest. Improve our town and at the same time stimulate business. Of course, the way they put it, the idea was if we had to buy <\/em>our gas masks and bomb shelters we\u2019d take better care of them. As if we ever damaged telephones and sidewalks. Or highways, because the whole state provided them. Or armies. Haven\u2019t there always been armies? Hasn\u2019t the government always organized its people for defense? I guess defense costs too much. I guess they save a lot of money, cut down the national debt by this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTell me what he said,\u201d Mike Foster whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father fumbled for his pipe and lit it with trembling hands. \u201cHe said, \u201dHere\u2019s your flag, boys. You\u2019ve done a good job.<\/em>\u201d Bob Foster choked, as acrid pipe fumes guzzled up. \u201cHe was redfaced, sunburned, not embarrassed. Perspiring and grinning. He knew how to handle himself. He knew a lot of first names. Told a funny joke.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The boy\u2019s eyes were wide with awe. \u201cHe came all the way out here, and you talked to him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d his father said. \u201cI talked to him. They were all yelling and cheering. The flag was going up, the big green Preparedness Flag.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou said \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI said to him, \u2018Is that all you brought us? A strip of green cloth?\u2019 <\/em>\u201d Bob Foster dragged tensely on his pipe. \u201cThat was when I became an anti-P. Only I didn\u2019t know it at the time. All I knew was we were on our own, except for a strip of green cloth. We should have been a country, a whole nation, one hundred and seventy million people working together to defend ourselves. And instead, we\u2019re a lot of separate little towns, little walled forts. Sliding and slipping back to the Middle Ages. Raising our separate armies \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWill the President ever come back?\u201d Mike asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI doubt it. He was \u2014 just passing through.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf he comes back,\u201d Mike whispered, tense and not daring to hope, \u201ccan we go see <\/em>him? Can we look <\/em>at him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bob Foster pulled himself up to a sitting position. His bony arms were bare and white; his lean face was drab with weariness. And resignation. \u201cHow much was the damn thing you saw?\u201d he demanded hoarsely. \u201cThat bomb shelter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike\u2019s heart stopped beating. \u201cTwenty thousand dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is Thursday. I\u2019ll go down with you and your mother next Saturday.\u201d Bob Foster knocked out his smoldering, half-lit pipe. \u201cI\u2019ll get it on the easy-payment plan. The fall buying season is coming up soon. I usually do good \u2014 people buy wood furniture for Christmas gifts.\u201d He got up abruptly from the couch. \u201cIs it a deal?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike couldn\u2019t answer; he could only nod.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFine,\u201d his father said, with desperate cheerfulness. \u201cNow you won\u2019t have to go down and look at it in the window.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The shelter was installed \u2014 for an additional two hundred dollars \u2014 by a fast-working team of laborers in brown coats with the words GENERAL ELECTRONICS stitched across their backs. The back yard was quickly restored, dirt and shrubs spaded in place, the surface smoothed over, and the bill respectfully slipped under the front door. The lumbering delivery truck, now empty, clattered off down the street and the neighborhood was again silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster stood with his mother and a small group of admiring neighbors on the back porch of the house. \u201cWell,\u201d Mrs. Carlyle said finally, \u201cnow you\u2019ve got a shelter. The best there is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d Ruth Foster agreed. She was conscious of the people around her; it had been some time since so many had shown up at once. Grim satisfaction filled her gaunt frame, almost resentment. \u201cIt certainly makes a difference,\u201d she said harshly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Mr. Douglas from down the street agreed. \u201cNow you have some place to go.\u201d He had picked up the thick book of instructions the laborers had left. \u201cIt says here you can stock it for a whole year. Live down there twelve months without coming up once.\u201d He shook his head admiringly. \u201cMine\u2019s an old \u201869 model. Good for only six months. I guess maybe \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s still good enough for us,\u201d his wife cut in, but there was a longing wistfulness in her voice. \u201cCan we go down and peek at it, Ruth? It\u2019s all ready, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike made a strangled noise and moved jerkily forward. His mother smiled understandingly. \u201cHe has to go down there first. He gets first look at it \u2014 it\u2019s really for him, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Their arms folded against the chill September wind, the group of men and women stood waiting and watching, as the boy approached the neck of the shelter and halted a few steps in front of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He entered the shelter carefully, almost afraid to touch anything. The neck was big for him; it was built to admit a full grown man. As soon as his weight was on the descent lift it dropped beneath him. With a breathless whoosh <\/em>it plummeted down the pitch-black tube to the body of the shelter. The lift slammed hard against its shock absorbers and the boy stumbled from it. The lift shot back to the surface, simultaneously sealing off the subsurface shelter, an impassable steel-and-plastic cork in the narrow neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lights had come on around him automatically. The shelter was bare and empty; no supplies had yet been carried down. It smelled of varnish and motor grease: below him the generators were throbbing dully. His presence activated the purifying and decontamination systems; on the blank concrete wall meters and dials moved into sudden activity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sat down on the floor, knees drawn up, face solemn, eyes wide. There was no sound but that of the generators; the world above was completely cut off. He was in a little self-contained cosmos; everything needed was here \u2014 or would be here, soon: food, water, air, things to do. Nothing else was wanted. He could reach out and touch \u2014 whatever he needed. He could stay here forever, through all time, without stirring. Complete and entire. Not lacking, not fearing, with only the sound of the generators purring below him, and the sheer, ascetic walls around and above him on all sides, faintly warm, completely friendly, like a living container.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly he shouted, a loud jubilant shout that echoed and bounced from wall to wall. He was deafened by the reverberation. He shut his eyes tight and clenched his fists. Joy filled him. He shouted again \u2014 and let the roar of sound lap over him, his own voice reinforced by the near walls, close and hard and incredibly powerful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kids in school knew even before he showed up, the next morning. They greeted him as he approached, all of them grinning and nudging each other. \u201cIs it true your folks got a new General Electronics Model S-72ft?\u201d Earl Peters demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d Mike answered. His heart swelled with a peaceful confidence he had never known. \u201cDrop around,\u201d he said, as casually as he could. \u201cI\u2019ll show it to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He passed on, conscious of their envious faces.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, Mike,\u201d Mrs. Cummings said, as he was leaving the classroom at the end of the day. \u201cHow does it feel?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He halted by her desk, shy and full of quiet pride. \u201cIt feels good,\u201d he admitted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs your father contributing to the NATS?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d ;<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd you\u2019ve got a permit for our school shelter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He happily showed her the small blue seal clamped around his wrist. \u201cHe mailed a check to the city for everything. He said, \u2018As long as I\u2019ve gone this far I might as well go the rest of the way.\u2019 \u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow you have everything everybody else has.\u201d The elderly woman smiled across at him. \u201cI\u2019m glad of that. You\u2019re now a pro-P, except there\u2019s no such term. You\u2019re just \u2014 like everyone else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next day the news-machines shrilled out the news. The first revelation of the new Soviet bore-pellets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bob Foster stood in the middle of the living room, the newstape in his hands, his thin face flushed with fury and despair. \u201cGoddamn it, it\u2019s a plot!\u201d His voice rose in baffled frenzy. \u201cWe just bought the thing and now look. Look!\u201d <\/em>He shoved the tape at his wife. \u201cYou see? I told you!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve seen it,\u201d Ruth said wildly. \u201cI suppose you think the whole world was just waiting with you in mind. They\u2019re always improving weapons, Bob. Last week it was those grain-impregnation flakes. This week it\u2019s bore-pellets. You don\u2019t expect them to stop the wheels of progress because you finally broke down and bought a shelter, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man and woman faced each other. \u201cWhat the hell are we going to do?\u201d Bob Foster asked quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ruth paced back into the kitchen. \u201cI heard they were going to turn out adaptors.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAdaptors! What do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo people won\u2019t have to buy new shelters. There was a commercial on the vidscreen. They\u2019re going to put some kind of metal grill on the market, as soon as the government approves it. They spread it over the ground and it intercepts the bore-pellets. It screens them, makes them explode on the surface, so they can\u2019t burrow down to the shelter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow much?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey didn\u2019t say.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster sat crouched on the sofa, listening. He had heard the news at school. They were taking their test on berry-identification, examining encased samples of wild berries to distinguish the harmless ones from the toxic, when the bell had announced a general assembly. The principal read them the news about the bore-pellets and then gave a routine lecture on emergency treatment of a new variant of typhus, recently developed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His parents were still arguing. \u201cWe\u2019ll have to get one,\u201d Ruth Foster said calmly. \u201cOtherwise it won\u2019t make any difference whether we\u2019ve got a shelter or not. The bore-pellets were specifically designed to penetrate the surface and seek out warmth. As soon as the Russians have them in production \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll get one,\u201d Bob Foster said. \u201cI\u2019ll get an anti-pellet grill and whatever else they have. I\u2019ll buy everything they put on the market. I\u2019ll never stop buying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not as bad as that.\u201d !<\/sup> \u2018<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know, this game has one real advantage over selling people cars and TV sets. With something like this we have <\/em>to buy. It isn\u2019t a luxury, something big and flashy to impress the neighbors, something we could do without. If we don\u2019t buy this we die. They always said the way to sell something was create anxiety in people. Create a sense of insecurity \u2014 tell them they smell bad or look funny. But this makes a joke out of deodorant and hair oil. You can\u2019t escape this. If you don\u2019t buy, they\u2019ll kill you. <\/em>The perfect sales-pitch. Buy or die \u2014 new slogan. Have a shiny new General Electronics H-bomb shelter in your back yard or be slaughtered.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop talking like that!\u201d Ruth snapped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bob Foster threw himself down at the kitchen table. \u201cAll right. I give up. I\u2019ll go along with it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll get one? I think they\u2019ll be on the market by Christmas.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, yes,\u201d Foster said. \u201cThey\u2019ll be out by Christmas.\u201d There was a strange look on his face. \u201cI\u2019ll buy one of the damn things for Christmas, and so will everybody else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The GEC grill-screen adaptors were a sensation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster walked slowly along the crowd-packed December street, through the late-afternoon twilight. Adaptors glittered in every store window. All shapes and sizes, for every kind of shelter. All prices, for every pocket-book. The crowds of people were gay and excited, typical Christmas crowds, shoving good-naturedly, loaded down with packages and heavy overcoats. The air was white with gusts of sweeping snow. Cars nosed cautiously along the jammed streets. Lights and neon displays, immense glowing store windows gleamed on all sides.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His own house was dark and silent. His parents weren\u2019t home yet. Both of them were down at the store working; business had been bad and his mother was taking the place of one of the clerks. Mike held his hand up to the code-key, and the front door let him in. The automatic furnace had kept the house warm and pleasant. He removed his coat and put away his schoolbooks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t stay in the house long. His heart pounding with excitement, he felt his way out the back door and started onto the back porch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He forced himself to stop, turn around, and reenter the house. It was better if he didn\u2019t hurry things. He had worked out every moment of the process, from the first instant he saw the low hinge of the neck reared up hard and firm against the evening sky. He had made a fine art of it; there was no wasted motion. His procedure had been shaped, molded until it was a beautiful thing. The first overwhelming sense of presence <\/em>as the neck of the shelter came around him. Then the blood-freezing rush of air as the descent-lift hurtled down all the way to the bottom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the grandeur of the shelter itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every afternoon, as soon as he was home, he made his way down into it, below the surface, concealed and protected in its steel silence, as he had done since the first day. Now the chamber was full, not empty. Filled with endless cans of food, pillows, books, vidtapes, audio-tapes, prints on the walls, bright fabrics, textures and colors, even vases of flowers. The shelter was his place, where he crouched curled up, surrounded by everything he needed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Delaying things as long as possible, he hurried back through the house and rummaged in the audio-tape file. He\u2019d sit down in the shelter until dinner, listening to Wind in the Willows. <\/em>His parents knew where to find him; he was always down there. Two hours of uninterrupted happiness, alone by himself in the shelter. And then when dinner was over he would hurry back down, to stay until time for bed. Sometimes late at night, when his parents were sound asleep, he got quietly up and made his way outside, to the shelter-neck, and down into its silent depths. To hide until morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He found the audio-tape and hurried through the house, out onto the back porch and into the yard. The sky was a bleak gray, shot with streamers of ugly black clouds. The lights of the town were coming on here and there. The yard was cold and hostile. He made his way uncertainly down the steps \u2014 and froze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A vast yawning cavity loomed. A gaping mouth, vacant and toothless, fixed open to the night sky. There was nothing else. The shelter was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He stood for an endless time, the tape clutched in one hand, the other hand on the porch railing. Night came on; the dead hole dissolved in darkness. The whole world gradually collapsed into silence and abysmal gloom. Weak stars came out; lights in nearby houses came on fitfully, cold and faint. The boy saw nothing. He stood unmoving, his body rigid as stone, still facing the great pit where the shelter had been.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then his father was standing beside him. \u201cHow long have you been here?\u201d his father was saying. \u201cHow long, Mike? Answer me!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a violent effort Mike managed to drag himself back. \u201cYou\u2019re home early,\u201d he muttered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI left the store early on purpose. I wanted to be here when you \u2014 got home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d His father\u2019s voice was cold, without emotion. \u201cThe shelter\u2019s gone. I\u2019m sorry, Mike. I called them and told them to take it back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI couldn\u2019t pay for it. Not this Christmas, with those grills everyone\u2019s getting. I can\u2019t compete with them.\u201d He broke off and then continued wretchedly, \u201cThey were damn decent. They gave me back half the money I put in.\u201d His voice twisted ironically. \u201cI knew if I made a deal with them before Christmas I\u2019d come out better. They can resell it to somebody else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike said nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTry to understand,\u201d his father went on harshly. \u201cI had to throw what capital I could scrape together into the store. I have to keep it running. It was either give up the shelter or the store. And if I gave up the store \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen we wouldn\u2019t have anything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His father caught hold of his arm. \u201cThen we\u2019d have to give up the shelter, too.\u201d His thin, strong fingers dug in spasmodically. \u201cYou\u2019re growing up \u2014 you\u2019re old enough to understand. We\u2019ll get one later, maybe not the biggest, the most expensive, but something. It was a mistake, Mike. I couldn\u2019t swing it, not with the goddamn adaptor things to buck. I\u2019m keeping up the NAT payments, though. And your school tab. I\u2019m keeping that going. This isn\u2019t a matter of principle,\u201d he finished desperately. \u201cI can\u2019t help it. Do you understand, Mike? I had to do it.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike pulled away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere are you going?\u201d His father hurried after him. \u201cCome back here!\u201d He grabbed for his son frantically, but in the gloom he stumbled and fell. Stars blinded him as his head smashed into the edge of the house; he pulled himself up painfully and groped for some support.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he could see again, the yard was empty. His son was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMike!\u201d he yelled. \u201cWhere are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was no answer. The night wind blew clouds of snow around him, a thin bitter gust of chilled air. Wind and darkness, nothing else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Bill O\u2019Neill wearily examined the clock on the wall. It was nine thirty: he could finally close the doors and lock up the big dazzling store. Push the milling, murmuring throngs of people outside and on their way home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank God,\u201d he breathed, as he held the door open for the last old lady, loaded down with packages and presents. He threw the code bolt in place and pulled down the shade. \u201cWhat a mob. I never saw so many people.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll done,\u201d Al Conners said, from the cash register. \u201cI\u2019ll count the money \u2014 you go around and check everything. Make sure we got all of them out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

O\u2019Neill pushed his blond hair back and loosened his tie. He lit a cigarette gratefully, then moved around the store, checking light switches, turning off the massive GEC displays and appliances. Finally he approached the huge bomb shelter that took up the center of the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He climbed the ladder to the neck and stepped onto the lift. The lift dropped with a whoosh <\/em>and a second later he stepped out in the cavelike interior of the shelter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In one corner Mike Foster sat curled up in a tight heap, his knees drawn up against his chin, his skinny arms wrapped around his ankles. His face was pushed down; only his ragged brown hair showed. He didn\u2019t move as the salesman approached him, astounded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJesus!\u201d O\u2019Neill exclaimed. \u201cIt\u2019s that kid.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike said nothing. He hugged his legs tighter and buried his head as far down as possible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat the hell are you doing down here?\u201d O\u2019Neill demanded, surprised and angry. His outrage increased. \u201cI thought your folks got one of these.\u201d Then he remembered. \u201cThat\u2019s right. We had to repossess it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Al Conners appeared from the descent-lift. \u201cWhat\u2019s holding you up? Let\u2019s get out of here and \u2014\u201d He saw Mike and broke off. \u201cWhat\u2019s he doing down here? Get him out and let\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome on, kid,\u201d O\u2019Neill said gently. \u201cTime to go home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The two men looked at each other. \u201cI guess we\u2019re going to have to drag him out,\u201d Conners said grimly. He took off his coat and tossed it over a decontamination fixture. \u201cCome on. Let\u2019s get it over with.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It took both of them. The boy fought desperatley, without sound, clawing and struggling and tearing at them with his fingernails, kicking them, slashing at them, biting them when they grabbed him. They half-dragged, half-carried him to the descent-lift and pushed him into it long enough to activate the mechanism. O\u2019Neill rode up with him; Conners came immediately after. Grimly, efficiently, they bundled the boy to the front door, threw him out, and locked the bolts after him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWow,\u201d Conners gasped, sinking down against the counter. His sleeve was torn and his cheek was cut and gashed. His glasses hung from one ear; his hair was rumpled and he was exhausted. \u201cThink we ought to call the cops? There\u2019s something wrong with that kid.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

O\u2019Neill stood by the door, panting for breath and gazing out into the darkness. He could see the boy sitting on the pavement. \u201cHe\u2019s still out there,\u201d he muttered. People pushed by the boy on both sides. Finally one of them stopped and got him up. The boy struggled away, and then disappeared into the darkness. The larger figure picked up its packages, hesitated a moment, and then went on. O\u2019Neill turned away. \u201cWhat a hell of a thing.\u201d He wiped his face with his handkerchief. \u201cHe sure put up a fight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat was the matter with him? He never said anything, not a goddamn word.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cChristmas is a hell of a time to repossess something,\u201d O\u2019Neill said. He reached shakily for his coat. \u201cIt\u2019s too bad. I wish they could have kept it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conners shrugged. \u201cNo tickie, no laundry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy the hell can\u2019t we give them a deal? Maybe \u2014\u201d O\u2019Neill struggled to get the word out. \u201cMaybe sell the shelter wholesale, to people like that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Conners glared at him angrily. \u201cWholesale? <\/em>And then everybody wants it wholesale. It wouldn\u2019t be fair \u2014 and how long would we stay in business? How long would GEC last that way?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI guess not very long,\u201d O\u2019Neill admitted moodily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUse your head.\u201d Conners laughed sharply. \u201cWhat you need is a good stiff drink. Come on in the back closet \u2014 I\u2019ve got a fifty of Haig and Haig in a drawer back there. A little something to warm you up, before you go home. That\u2019s what you need.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mike Foster wandered aimlessly along the dark street, among the crowds of shoppers hurrying home. He saw nothing; people pushed against him but he was unaware of them. Lights, laughing people, the honking of car horns, the clang of signals. He was blank, his mind empty and dead. He walked automatically, without consciousness or feeling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To his right a garish neon sign winked and glowed in the deepening night shadows. A huge sign, bright and colorful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

PEACE ON EARTH GOOD WILL TO MEN
PUBLIC SHELTER ADMISSION 50\u00a2<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

“Foster, You’re Dead” is a science fiction short story by Philip K. Dick, published in Star Science Fiction Stories No. 3 in 1955. In a society obsessed with preparing for nuclear war, Mike Foster faces the stigma of being the son of an ‘anti-P’, someone who refuses to buy bomb shelters or contribute to the community defence system. While his peers make booby traps and knives at school, he lives with the constant humiliation and fear of not having a shelter to protect him. Social pressure and fear drive him to crave security in a world where paranoia has become a lucrative business.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":17790,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[810,581,577,552,570],"class_list":["post-17875","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-14-en","tag-christmas","tag-philip-k-dick-en","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":810,"label":"+14"},{"value":581,"label":"Christmas"},{"value":577,"label":"Philip K. Dick"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/12\/Philip-K.-Dick-Foster-estas-muerto.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":810,"name":"+14","slug":"14-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":810,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":15,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":581,"name":"Christmas","slug":"christmas","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":581,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":17,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":577,"name":"Philip K. Dick","slug":"philip-k-dick-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":577,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":15,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":121,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17875","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17875"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17875\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/17790"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17875"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17875"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17875"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}