{"id":27324,"date":"2026-04-02T23:51:28","date_gmt":"2026-04-03T03:51:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=27324"},"modified":"2026-04-02T23:52:23","modified_gmt":"2026-04-03T03:52:23","slug":"philip-k-dick-exhibit-piece","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/philip-k-dick-exhibit-piece\/27324\/","title":{"rendered":"Philip K. Dick: Exhibit Piece"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cExhibit Piece\u201d is a short story by American writer Philip K. Dick, published in August 1954 in If <\/em>magazine. In a future society, George Miller is a historian dedicated to the study of the 20th century. Obsessed with his work, which consists of overseeing a detailed exhibition dedicated to that era, he adopts its manner of speaking, dress, and even the use of its everyday objects. Facing hostility from his superiors due to his overzealousness, everything changes one day when, inside one of the houses in the complex he oversees, he hears voices that shouldn\u2019t be there.<\/p>\n\n\n

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

Exhibit Piece<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

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

\u201cThat\u2019s a strange suit you have on,\u201d the robot pubtrans driver observed. It slid back its door and came to rest at the curb. \u201cWhat are the little round things?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThose are buttons,\u201d George Miller explained. \u201cThey are partly functional, partly ornamental. This is an archaic suit of the twentieth century. I wear it because of the nature of my employment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He paid the robot, grabbed up his briefcase, and hurried along the ramp to the History Agency. The main building was already open for the day; robed men and women wandered everywhere. Miller entered a PRIVATE lift, squeezed between two immense controllers from the pre-Christian division, and in a moment was on his way to his own level, the Middle Twentieth Century.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGorning,\u201d he murmured, as Controller Fleming met him at the atomic engine exhibit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGorning,\u201d Fleming responded brusquely. \u201cLook here, Miller. Let\u2019s have this out once and for all. What if everyone dressed like you? The Government sets up strict rules for dress. Can\u2019t you forget your damn anachronisms once in a while? What in God\u2019s name is that thing in your hand? It looks like a squashed Jurassic lizard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is an alligator hide briefcase,\u201d Miller explained. \u201cI carry my study spools in it. The briefcase was an authority symbol of the managerial class of the later twentieth century.\u201d He unzipped the briefcase. \u201cTry to understand, Fleming. By accustoming myself to everyday objects of my research period I transform my relation from mere intellectual curiosity to genuine empathy. You have frequently noticed I pronounce certain words oddly. The accent is that of an American businessman of the Eisenhower administration. Dig me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEh?\u201d Fleming muttered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDig me <\/em>was a twentieth-century expression.\u201d Miller laid out his study spools on his desk. \u201cWas there anything you wanted? If not I\u2019ll begin today\u2019s work. I\u2019ve uncovered fascinating evidence to indicate that although twentieth-century Americans laid their own floor tiles, they did not weave their own clothing. I wish to alter my exhibits on this matter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s no fanatic like an academician,\u201d Fleming grated. \u201cYou\u2019re two hundred years behind times. Immersed in your relics and artifacts. Your damn authentic replicas of discarded trivia.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI love my work,\u201d Miller answered mildly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNobody complains about your work. But there are other things than work. You\u2019re a political-social unit here in this society. Take warning, Miller! The Board has reports on your eccentricities. They approve devotion to work\u2026\u201d His eyes narrowed significantly. \u201cBut you go too far.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy first loyalty is to my art,\u201d Miller said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour what? What does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA twentieth-century term.\u201d There was undisguised superiority on Miller\u2019s face. \u201cYou\u2019re nothing but a minor bureaucrat in a vast machine. You\u2019re a function of an impersonal cultural totality. You have no standards of your own. In the twentieth century men had personal standards of workmanship. Artistic craft. Pride of accomplishment. These words mean nothing to you. You have no soul \u2014 another concept from the golden days of the twentieth century when men were free and could speak their minds.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBeware, Miller!\u201d Fleming blanched nervously and lowered his voice. \u201cYou damn scholars. Come up out of your tapes and face reality. You\u2019ll get us all in trouble, talking this way. Idolize the past, if you want. But remember \u2014 it\u2019s gone and buried. Times change. Society progresses.\u201d He gestured impatiently at the exhibits that occupied the level. \u201cThat\u2019s only an imperfect replica.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou impugn my research?\u201d Miller was seething. \u201cThis exhibit is absolutely accurate! I correct it to all new data. There isn\u2019t anything I don\u2019t know about the twentieth century.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fleming shook his head. \u201cIt\u2019s no use.\u201d He turned and stalked wearily off the level, onto the descent ramp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller straightened his collar and bright hand-painted necktie. He smoothed down his blue pin stripe coat, expertly lit a pipeful of two-century-old tobacco, and returned to his spools.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Why didn\u2019t Fleming leave him alone? Fleming, the officious representative of the great hierarchy that spread like a sticky gray web over the whole planet. Into each industrial, professional, and residential unit. Ah, the freedom of the twentieth century! He slowed his tape scanner a moment, and a dreamy look slid over his features. The exciting age of virility and individuality, when men were men \u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was just about then, just as he was settling deep in the beauty of his research, that he heard the inexplicable sounds. They came from the center of his exhibit, from within the intricate, carefully regulated interior.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Somebody was in his exhibit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He could hear them back there, back in the depths. Somebody or something had gone past the safety barrier set up to keep the public out. Miller snapped off his tape scanner and got slowly to his feet. He was shaking all over as he moved cautiously toward the exhibit. He killed the barrier and climbed the railing on to a concrete pavement. A few curious visitors blinked, as the small, oddly dressed man crept among the authentic replicas of the twentieth century that made up the exhibit and disappeared within.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Breathing hard, Miller advanced up the pavement and on to a carefully tended gravel path. Maybe it was one of the other theorists, a minion of the Board, snooping around looking for something with which to discredit him. An inaccuracy here \u2014 a trifling error of no consequence there. Sweat came out of his forehead; anger became terror. To his right was a flower bed. Paul Scarlet roses and low-growing pansies. Then the moist green lawn. The gleaming white garage, with its door half up. The sleek rear of a 1954 Buick \u2014 and then the house itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d have to be careful. If this was <\/em>somebody from the Board he\u2019d be up against official hierarchy. Maybe it was somebody big. Maybe even Edwin Carnap, President of the Board, the highest ranking official in the N\u2019York branch of the World Directorate. Shakily, Miller climbed the three cement steps. Now he was on the porch of the twentieth-century house that made up the center of the exhibit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was a nice little house; if he had lived back in those days he would have wanted one of his own. Three bedrooms, a ranch style California bungalow. He pushed open the front door and entered the living room. Fireplace at one end. Dark wine-colored carpets. Modern couch and easy chair. Low hardwood glass-topped coffee table. Copper ashtrays. A cigarette lighter and a stack of magazines. Sleek plastic and steel floor lamps. A bookcase. Television set. Picture window overlooking the front garden. He crossed the room to the hall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The house was amazingly complete. Below his feet the floor furnace radiated a faint aura of warmth. He peered into the first bedroom. A woman\u2019s boudoir. Silk bedcover. White starched sheets. Heavy drapes. A vanity table. Bottles and jars. Huge round mirror. Clothes visible within the closet. A dressing gown thrown over the back of a chair. Slippers. Nylon hose carefully placed at the foot of the bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller moved down the hall and peered into the next room. Brightly painted wallpaper: clowns and elephants and tight-rope walkers. The children\u2019s room. Two little beds for the two boys. Model airplanes. A dresser with a radio on it, pair of combs, school books, pennants, a No Parking sign, snapshots stuck in the mirror. A postage stamp album. Nobody there, either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller peered in the modern bathroom, even in the yellow-tiled shower. He passed through the dining room, glanced down the basement stairs where the washing machine and dryer were. Then he opened the back door and examined the back yard. A lawn, and the incinerator. A couple of small trees and then the three-dimensional projected backdrop of other houses receding off into incredibly convincing blue hills. And still no one. The yard was empty \u2014 deserted. He closed the door and started back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the kitchen came laughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A woman\u2019s laugh. The clink of spoons and dishes. And smells. It took him a moment to identify them, scholar that he was. Bacon and coffee. And hot cakes. Somebody was eating breakfast. A twentieth-century breakfast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He made his way down the hall, past a man\u2019s bedroom, shoes and clothing strewn about, to the entrance of the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A handsome late-thirtyish woman and two teenage boys were sitting around the little chrome and plastic breakfast table. They had finished eating; the two boys were fidgeting impatiently. Sunlight filtered through the window over the sink. The electric clock read half past eight. The radio was chirping merrily in the corner. A big pot of black coffee rested in the center of the table, surrounded by empty plates and milk glasses and silverware.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman had on a white blouse and checkered tweed skirt. Both boys wore faded blue jeans, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes. As yet they hadn\u2019t noticed him. Miller stood frozen at the doorway, while laughter and small talk bubbled around him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll have to ask your father,\u201d the woman was saying, with mock sternness. \u201cWait until he comes back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe already said we could,\u201d one of the boys protested.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, ask him again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s always grouchy in the morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNot today. He had a good night\u2019s sleep. His hay fever didn\u2019t bother him. The new anti-hist the doctor gave him.\u201d She glanced up at the clock. \u201cGo see what\u2019s keeping him, Don. He\u2019ll be late for work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe was looking for the newspaper.\u201d One of the boys pushed back his chair and got up. \u201cIt missed the porch again and fell in the flowers.\u201d He turned towards the door, and Miller found himself confronting him face to face. Briefly, the observation flashed through his mind that the boy looked familiar. Damn familiar \u2014 like somebody he knew, only younger. He tensed himself for the impact, as the boy abruptly halted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGee,\u201d the boy said. \u201cYou scared me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The woman glanced quickly up at Miller. \u201cWhat are you doing out there, George?\u201d she demanded. \u201cCome on back in here and finish your coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller came slowly into the kitchen. The woman was finishing her coffee; both boys were on their feet and beginning to press around him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t you tell me I could go camping over the weekend up at Russian River with the group from school?\u201d Don demanded. \u201cYou said I could borrow a sleeping bag from the gym because the one I had you gave to the Salvation Army because you were allergic to the kapok in it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d Miller muttered uncertainly. Don. That was the boy\u2019s name. And his brother, Ted. But how did he know that? At the table the woman had got up and was collecting the dirty dishes to carry over to the sink. \u201cThey said you already promised them,\u201d she said over her shoulder. The dishes clattered into the sink and she began sprinkling soap flakes over them. \u201cBut you remember that time they wanted to drive the car and the way they said it, you\u2019d think they had got your okay. And they hadn\u2019t, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller sank weakly down at the table. Aimlessly, he fooled with his pipe. He set it down in the copper ashtray and examined the cuff of his coat. What was happening? His head spun. He got up abruptly and hurried to the window, over the sink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Houses, streets. The distant hills beyond the town. The sights and sounds of people. The three dimensional projected backdrop was utterly convincing; or was it the projected backdrop? How could he be sure. What was happening?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGeorge, what\u2019s the matter?\u201d Marjorie asked, as she tied a pink plastic apron around her waist and began running hot water in the sink. \u201cYou better get the car out and get started to work. Weren\u2019t you saying last night old man Davidson was shouting about employees being late for work and standing around the water cooler talking and having a good time on company time?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Davidson. The word stuck in Miller\u2019s mind. He knew it, of course. A clear picture leaped up; a tall, white-haired old man, thin and stern. Vest and pocket watch. And the whole office, United Electronic Supply. The twelve-story building in downtown San Francisco. The newspaper and cigar stand in the lobby. The honking cars. Jammed parking lots. The elevator, packed with bright-eyed secretaries, tight sweaters and perfume.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He wandered out of the kitchen, through the hall, past his own bedroom, his wife\u2019s, and into the living room. The front door was open and he stepped out on to the porch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The air was cool and sweet. It was a bright April morning. The lawns were still wet. Cars moved down Virginia Street, towards Shattuck Avenue. Early morning commuting traffic, businessmen on their way to work. Across the street Earl Kelly cheerfully waved his Oakland Tribune as he hurried down the pavement towards the bus stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A long way off Miller could see the Bay Bridge, Yerba Buena Island, and Treasure Island. Beyond that was San Francisco itself. In a few minutes he\u2019d be shooting across the bridge in his Buick, on his way to the office. Along with thousands of other businessmen in blue pinstripe suits.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ted pushed past him and out on the porch. \u201cThen it\u2019s okay? You don\u2019t care if we go camping?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller licked his dry lips. \u201cTed, listen to me. There\u2019s something strange.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLike what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d Miller wandered nervously around on the porch. \u201cThis is Friday, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSure.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI thought it was.\u201d But how did he know it was Friday? How did he know anything? But of course it was Friday. A long hard week \u2014 old man Davidson breathing down his neck. Wednesday, especially, when the General Electric order was slowed down because of a strike.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet me ask you something,\u201d Miller said to his son. \u201cThis morning \u2014 I left the kitchen to get the newspaper.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ted nodded. \u201cYeah. So?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI got up and went out of the room. How long was I gone? <\/em>Not long, was I?\u201d He searched for words, but his mind was a maze of disjointed thoughts. \u201cI was sitting at the breakfast table with you all, and then I got up and went to look for the paper. Right? And then I came back in. Right?\u201d His voice rose desperately. \u201cI got up and shaved and dressed this morning. I ate breakfast. Hot cakes and coffee. Bacon. Right?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRight,\u201d Ted agreed. \u201cSo?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLike I always do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe only have hot cakes on Friday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller nodded slowly. \u201cThat\u2019s right. Hot cakes on Friday. Because your uncle Frank eats with us Saturday and Sunday and he can\u2019t stand hot cakes, so we stopped having them on weekends. Frank is Marjorie\u2019s brother. He was in the Marines in the First World War. He was a corporal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGoodbye,\u201d Ted said, as Don came out to join him. \u201cWe\u2019ll see you this evening.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

School books clutched, the boys sauntered off towards the big modern high school in the center of Berkeley.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller reentered the house and automatically began searching the closet for his briefcase. Where was it? Damn it, he needed it. The whole Throckmorton account was in it; Davidson would be yelling his head off if he left it anywhere, like in the True Blue Cafeteria that time they were all celebrating the Yankees\u2019 winning the series. Where the hell was it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He straightened up slowly, as memory came. Of course. He had left it by his work desk, where he had tossed it after taking out the research tapes. While Fleming was talking to him. Back at the History Agency.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He joined his wife in the kitchen. \u201cLook,\u201d he said huskily. \u201cMarjorie, I think maybe I won\u2019t go down to the office this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Marjorie spun in alarm. \u201cGeorge, is anything wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m \u2014 completely confused.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour hay fever again?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. My mind. What\u2019s the name of that psychiatrist the PTA recommended when Mrs. Bentley\u2019s kid had that fit?\u201d He searched his disorganized brain. \u201cGrunberg, I think. In the Medical-Dental building.\u201d He moved towards the door. \u201cI\u2019ll drop by and see him. Something\u2019s wrong \u2014 really wrong. And I don\u2019t know what it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Adam Grunberg was a large heavyset man in his late forties, with curly brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses. After Miller had finished, Grunberg cleared his throat, brushed at the sleeve of his Brooks Bros, suit, and asked thoughtfully, \u201cDid anything happen while you were out looking for the newspaper? Any sort of accident? You might try going over that part in detail. You got up from the breakfast table, went out on the porch, and started looking around in the bushes. And then what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller rubbed his forehead vaguely. \u201cI don\u2019t know. It\u2019s all confused. I don\u2019t remember looking for any newspaper. I remember coming back in the house. Then it gets clear. But before that it\u2019s all tied up with the History Agency and my quarrel with Fleming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat was that again about your briefcase? Go over that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFleming said it looked like a squashed Jurassic lizard. And I said \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. I mean, about looking for it in the closet and not finding it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI looked in the closet and it wasn\u2019t there, of course. It\u2019s sitting beside my desk at the History Agency. On the Twentieth Century level. By my exhibits.\u201d A strange expression crossed Miller\u2019s face. \u201cGood God, Grunberg. You realize this may be nothing but an exhibit? <\/em>You and everybody else \u2014 maybe you\u2019re not real. Just pieces of this exhibit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat wouldn\u2019t be very pleasant for us, would it?\u201d Grunberg said, with a faint smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPeople in dreams are always secure until the dreamer wakes up,\u201d Miller retorted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you\u2019re dreaming me,\u201d Grunberg laughed tolerantly. \u201cI suppose I should thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m not here because I especially like you. I\u2019m here because I can\u2019t stand Fleming and the whole History Agency.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grunberg protested. \u201cThis Fleming. Are you aware of thinking about him before you went out looking for the newspaper?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller got to his feet and paced around the luxurious office, between the leather-covered chairs and the huge mahogany desk. \u201cI want to face this thing. I\u2019m an exhibit. An artificial replica of the past. Fleming said something like this would happen to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSit down, Mr. Miller,\u201d Grunberg said, in a gentle but commanding voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When Miller had taken his chair again, Grunberg continued, \u201cI understand what you say. You have a general feeling that everything around you is unreal. A sort of stage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAn exhibit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, an exhibit in a museum.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn the N\u2019York History Agency. Level R, the Twentieth Century level.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd in addition to this general feeling of \u2014 insubstantiality, there are specific projected memories of persons and places beyond this world. Another realm in which this one is contained. Perhaps I should say, the reality within which this is only a sort of shadow world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis world doesn\u2019t look shadowy to me.\u201d Miller struck the leather arm of the chair savagely. \u201cThis world is completely real. That\u2019s what\u2019s wrong. I came in to investigate the noises and now I can\u2019t get back out. Good God, do I have to wander around this replica the rest of my life?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know, of course, that your feeling is common to most of mankind. Especially during periods of great tension. Where \u2014 by the way \u2014 was the newspaper? Did you find it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAs far as I\u2019m concerned \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs that a source of irritation with you? I see you react strongly to a mention of the newspaper.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller shook his head wearily. \u201cForget it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, a trifle. The paperboy carelessly throws the newspaper in the bushes, not on the porch. It makes you angry. It happens again and again. Early in the day, just as you\u2019re starting to work. It seems to symbolize in a small way the whole petty frustrations and defeats of your job. Your whole life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPersonally, I don\u2019t give a damn about the newspaper.\u201d Miller examined his wristwatch. \u201cI\u2019m going \u2014 it\u2019s almost noon. Old man Davidson will be yelling his head off if I\u2019m not at the office by \u2014\u201d He broke off. \u201cThere it is again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere what is?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll this!\u201d Miller gestured impatiently out the window. \u201cThis whole place. This damn world. This exhibition.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have a thought,\u201d Doctor Grunberg said slowly. \u201cI\u2019ll put it to you for what it\u2019s worth. Feel free to reject it if it doesn\u2019t fit.\u201d He raised his shrewd, professional eyes. \u201cEver see kids playing with rocket ships?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLord,\u201d Miller said wretchedly. \u201cI\u2019ve seen commercial rocket freighters hauling cargo between Earth and Jupiter, landing at La Guardia Spaceport.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Grunberg smiled slightly. \u201cFollow me through on this. A question. Is it job tension?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt would be nice,\u201d Grunberg said blandly, \u201cto live in the world of tomorrow. With robots and rocket ships to do all the work. You could just sit back and take it easy. No worries, no cares. No frustrations.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy position in the History Agency has plenty of cares and frustrations.\u201d Miller rose abruptly. \u201cLook, Grunberg. Either this is an exhibit on R level of the History Agency, or I\u2019m a middle-class businessman with an escape fantasy. Right now I can\u2019t decide which. One minute I think this is real, and the next minute \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe can decide easily,\u201d Grunberg said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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

\u201cYou were looking for the newspaper. Down the path, on to the lawn. Where did it happen? <\/em>Was it on the path? On the porch? Try to remember.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t have to try. I was still on the pavement. I had just jumped over the rail past the safety screens.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOn the pavement. Then go back there. Find the exact place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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

\u201cSo you can prove to yourself there\u2019s nothing on the other side.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller took a deep slow breath. \u201cSuppose there is?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere can\u2019t be. You said yourself: only one of the worlds can be real. This world is real \u2014\u201d Grunberg thumped his massive mahogany desk. \u201cErgo, you won\u2019t find anything on the other side.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Miller said, after a moment\u2019s silence. A peculiar expression cut across his face and stayed there. \u201cYou\u2019ve found the mistake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat mistake?\u201d Grunberg was puzzled. \u201cWhat \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller moved towards the door of the office. \u201cI\u2019m beginning to get it. I\u2019ve been putting up a false question. Trying to decide which world is real.\u201d He grinned humorlessly back at Doctor Grunberg. \u201cThey\u2019re both real, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He grabbed a taxi and headed back to the house. No one was home. The boys were in school and Marjorie had gone downtown to shop. He waited indoors until he was sure nobody was watching along the street, and then started down the path to the pavement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He found the spot without any trouble. There was a faint shimmer in the air, a weak place just at the edge of the parking strip. Through it he could see faint shapes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was right. There it was \u2014 complete and real. As real as the pavement under him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A long metallic bar was cut off by the edges of the circle. He recognized it; the safety railing he had leaped over to enter the exhibit. Beyond it was the safety screen system. Turned off, of course. And beyond that, the rest of the level and the far walls of the History building.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He took a cautious step into the weak haze. It shimmered around him, misty and oblique. The shapes beyond became clearer. A moving figure in a dark blue robe. Some curious person examining the exhibits. The figure moved on and was lost. He could see his own work desk now. His tape scanner and heaps of study spools. Beside the desk was his briefcase, exactly where he had expected it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While he was considering stepping over the railing to get the briefcase, Fleming appeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some inner instinct made Miller step back through the weak spot, as Fleming approached. Maybe it was the expression on Fleming\u2019s face. In any case, Miller was back and standing firmly on the concrete pavement, when Fleming halted just beyond the juncture, face red, lips twisted with indignation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMiller,\u201d he said thickly. \u201cCome out of there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller laughed. \u201cBe a good fellow, Fleming. Toss me my briefcase. It\u2019s that strange looking thing over by the desk. I showed it to you \u2014 remember?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop playing games and listen to me!\u201d Fleming snapped. \u201cThis is serious. Carnap knows. <\/em>I had to inform him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood for you. The loyal bureaucrat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miller bent over to light his pipe. He inhaled and puffed a great cloud of gray tobacco smoke through the weak spot, out into the R level. Fleming coughed and retreated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that stuff?\u201d he demanded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTobacco. One of the things they have around here. Very common substance in the twentieth century. You wouldn\u2019t know about that \u2014 your period is the second century, B.C. The Hellenistic world. I don\u2019t know how well you\u2019d like that. They didn\u2019t have very good plumbing back there. Life expectancy was damn short.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn comparison, the life expectancy of my <\/em>research period is quite high. And you should see the bathroom I\u2019ve got. Yellow tile. And a shower. We don\u2019t have anything like that at the Agency leisure-quarters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fleming grunted sourly. \u201cIn other words, you\u2019re going to stay in there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a pleasant place,\u201d Miller said easily. \u201cOf course, my position is better than average. Let me describe it for you. I have an attractive wife: marriage is permitted, even sanctioned in this era. I have two fine kids \u2014 both boys \u2014 who are going up to the Russian River this weekend. They live with me and my wife \u2014 we have complete custody of them. The State has no power of that, yet. I have a brand new Buick \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIllusions,\u201d Fleming spat. \u201cPsychotic delusions.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you sure?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou damn fool! I always knew you were too ego-recessive to face reality. You and your anachronistic retreats. Sometimes I\u2019m ashamed I\u2019m a theoretician. I wish I had gone into engineering.\u201d Fleming\u2019s lips twitched. \u201cYou\u2019re insane, you know. You\u2019re standing in the middle of an artificial exhibit, which is owned by the History Agency, a bundle of plastic and wire and struts. A replica of a past age. An imitation. And you\u2019d rather be there than in the real world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStrange,\u201d Miller said thoughtfully. \u201cSeems to me I\u2019ve heard the same thing very recently. You don\u2019t know a Doctor Grunberg, do you? A psychiatrist.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Without formality, Director Carnap arrived with his company of assistants and experts. Fleming quickly retreated. Miller found himself facing one of the most powerful figures of the twenty-second century. He grinned and held out his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou insane imbecile,\u201d Carnap rumbled. \u201cGet out of there before we drag you out. If we have to do that, you\u2019re through. You know what they do with advanced psychotics. It\u2019ll be euthanasia for you. I\u2019ll give you one last chance to come out of that fake exhibit \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d Miller said. \u201cIt\u2019s not an exhibit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Carnap\u2019s heavy face registered sudden surprise. For a brief instant his massive pose vanished. \u201cYou still try to maintain \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is a time gate,\u201d Miller said quietly. \u201cYou can\u2019t get me out, Carnap. You can\u2019t reach me. I\u2019m in the past, two hundred years back. I\u2019ve crossed back to a previous existence-coordinate. I found a bridge and escaped from your continuum to this. And there\u2019s nothing you can do about it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Carnap and his experts huddled together in a quick technical conference. Miller waited patiently. He had plenty of time; he had decided not to show up at the office until Monday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a while Carnap approached the juncture again, being careful not to step over the safety rail. \u201cAn interesting theory, Miller. That\u2019s the strange part about psychotics. They rationalize their delusions into a logical system. A priori, <\/em>your concept stands up well. It\u2019s internally consistent. Only \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOnly what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOnly it doesn\u2019t happen to be true.\u201d Carnap had regained his confidence; he seemed to be enjoying the interchange. \u201cYou think you\u2019re really back in the past. Yes, this exhibit is extremely accurate. Your work has always been good. The authenticity of detail is unequalled by any of the other exhibits.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI tried to do my work well,\u201d Miller murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou wore archaic clothing and affected archaic speech mannerisms. You did everything possible to throw yourself back. You devoted yourself to your work.\u201d Carnap tapped the safety railing with his fingernail. \u201cIt would be a shame, Miller. A terrible shame to demolish such an authentic replica.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI see your point,\u201d Miller said, after a time. \u201cI agree with you, certainly. I\u2019ve been very proud of my work \u2014 I\u2019d hate to see it all torn down. But that really won\u2019t do you any good. All you\u2019ll succeed in doing is closing the time gate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re sure?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course. The exhibit is only a bridge, a link with the past. I passed through <\/em>the exhibit, but I\u2019m not there now. I\u2019m beyond the exhibit.\u201d He grinned tightly. \u201cYour demolition can\u2019t reach me. But seal me off, if you want. I don\u2019t think I\u2019ll be wanting to come back. I wish you could see this side, Carnap. It\u2019s a nice place here. Freedom, opportunity. Limited government, responsible to the people. If you don\u2019t like a job here you quit. There\u2019s no euthanasia, here. Come on over. I\u2019ll introduce you to my wife.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll get you,\u201d Carnap said. \u201cAnd all your psychotic figments along with you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI doubt if any of my \u2018psychotic figments\u2019 are worried. Grunberg wasn\u2019t. I don\u2019t think Marjorie is \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve already begun demolition preparations,\u201d Carnap said calmly. \u201cWe\u2019ll do it piece by piece, not all at once. So you may have the opportunity to appreciate the scientific and \u2014 artistic <\/em>way we take your imaginary world apart.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re wasting your time,\u201d Miller said. He turned and walked off, down the pavement, to the gravel path and up on to the front porch of the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the living room he threw himself down in the easy chair and snapped on the television set. Then he went to the kitchen and got a can of ice cold beer. He carried it happily back into the safe, comfortable living room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As he was seating himself in front of the television set he noticed something rolled up on the low coffee table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He grinned wryly. It was the morning newspaper, which he had looked so hard for. Marjorie had brought it in with the milk, as usual. And of course forgotten to tell him. He yawned contentedly and reached over to pick it up. Confidently, he unfolded it \u2014 and read the big black headlines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

RUSSIA REVEALS COBALT BOMB
TOTAL WORLD DESTRUCTION AHEAD<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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

\u201cExhibit Piece\u201d is a short story by American writer Philip K. Dick, published in August 1954 in If magazine. In a future society, George Miller is a historian dedicated to the study of the 20th century. Obsessed with his work, which consists of overseeing a detailed exhibition dedicated to that era, he adopts its manner of speaking, dress, and even the use of its everyday objects. Facing hostility from his superiors due to his overzealousness, everything changes one day when, inside one of the houses in the complex he oversees, he hears voices that shouldn\u2019t be there.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":27323,"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":[577,552,570],"class_list":["post-27324","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","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":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\/2026\/04\/Philip-K.-Dick-Pieza-de-coleccion.webp",768,768,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":411,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":411,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"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":118,"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":288,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27324","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=27324"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27324\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27326,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27324\/revisions\/27326"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/27323"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27324"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27324"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27324"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}