The texts on this website are published for religious education and teaching purposes only. Writer and (Neo-Gnostic) Philip Kindred Dick also deals deeply with the theme of humanity and genuine empathy in his novels and short stories.
Mercerism – 1st list of Holy Texts to teach Empathy (book Do Androids Dream of Electronic Sheep?)
Source of quotation: Blade runner: Do androids dream of electric sheep. Prague: W. Smith, 1993. Science fiction (Winston Smith). ISBN 80-85643-07-3; electronic version.
Contents: 1) "The absence of appropriate affect" (p.2) 2) "Penfield's artificial brain stimulation setup" (p. 2) 3) "The Legacy of the Final World War" (p. 3) 4) "Animal Ownership" (p. 3) 5) "Live and Artificial Animals" (p. 4) 6) "What is TABU in Mercerism" (p. 4) 7) "Defining Modern Slavery" (p. 5) 8) "[1] The Loss of Humanity" (p. 5) 9) "[2] Loss of Humanity" (p. 6) 10) "The Definition of Mortal Silence after the Final World War" (p. 6) 11) "One Day Death Will Come for Him, Too" (p. 7) 12) "Isidore's Fusion with Mercer" (pp. 7; 8) 13) "Human and android - the difference" (p. 10) 14) "What are Androids Missing?" (p. 10) 15) "The Capacity for Empathy" (p. 10) 16) "A False Pretext to Advocate Killing Androids" (p. 10) 17) "When humans fail" (p. 12) 18) "The Real Animal and the Tyranny of the Thing" (p. 14) 19) "The First Law of Junk" (p. 21) 20) "The Laws of Mercerism - A Box of Empathy" (p. 21) 21) "Who is Wilbur Mercer?" (p. 21) 22) "Isidore's Secret Thoughts" (p. 23) 23) "False Messengers' Testimonies Against Mercerism" (p. 24) 24) "More Testimonies of the False Messengers Against Mercerism" (p. 24) 25) "The Closed Cycle of Life According to Mercer" (p. 25) 26) "[1] Abuse of the Penfield Wave Transmitter" (p. 28) 27) "Measured Time" (p. 31) 28) "Poem by Victoria Christy - Sub Specie Oeternitatis" (p. 31) 29) "The Cold of the Androids" (p. 32) 30) "[1] How far does the replacement of humans by androids go? Aren't we all just cold replacements anymore?" (p. 32) 31) "[2] How far does replacing humans with androids go? Aren't we all just cold replacements anymore?" (p. 36) 32) "Empathy among androids" (p. 39) 33) "Ideology" (p. 45) 34) "Life" (p. 46) 35) "Mercerian Ethics" (p. 47) 36) "Feelings on the colonization of Mars" (p. 48) 37) "Feelings on the Colonization of the Universe" (p. 48) 38) "This is against Mercerism!" (p. 50; 51) 39) "[2] Misuse of the Penfield Wave Transmitter" (p. 52) 40) "Depression" (p. 52) 41) "[1] The Inner Life of a Mercerist" (pp. 55; 56) 42) "[2] The Inner Life of a Mercerist" (p. 57) 43) "Roy Baty" (p. 59) 44) "The Horror of the Life Cycle" (p. 59) 45) "Android Feelings" (p. 60) 46) "Man Made Modern Slaves" (p. 62) 47) "The Limitations of Life" (p. 63) 48) "How the flame of Life is extinguished" (p. 64) 49) "The extreme spider episode; a mockery of Mercerism and the false revelations of Mercer" (p. 66) 50) "Mercerism - Revealed?" (p. 67) 51) "Mercerism is not over" (p. 68) 52) "The Revelation of Isidore" (pp. 68; 69) 53) "The Passion" (p. 72) 54) "[1] The Revelation of Rick Deckard" (p. 73; 74) 55) "I am Wilbur Mercer" (p. 75) 56) "[2] The Revelation of Rick Deckard" (p. 76) 57) "[3] The Revelation of Rick Deckard" (p. 77; 78)
1. "Absence of adequate affect" - So while I could hear the emptiness with my mind, I didn't feel it. My first reaction was gratitude that we could afford a moody organ. But then I realized how unhealthy it is to feel that absence of life, not just in this building, but everywhere, and not react in any way - you know? I guess not. This used to be considered a symptom of mental illness; it was called 'absence of appropriate affect'. (p.2) 2. 'Penfield's artificial brain stimulation setup' - He had set up a creative and fresh approach to his console, though he didn't particularly need it; it was his usual, natural frame of mind, for which he didn't need the crutch of Penfield's artificial brain stimulation. (p. 2) 3. "The Legacy of the Final World War" - The legacy of the Final World War had faded; those who couldn't survive the dust had fallen into oblivion years ago, and the dust, which had thinned over time and encroached on the surviving individuals, had only eroded brains and genetic makeup. (p. 3) 4. "Animal ownership" - There was something demoralizing about owning and keeping an imitation. Yet it was socially desirable, given the scarcity of real goods. (p. 3) 5. "A live and artificial animal" - "But," Rick jumped in, "if you have two horses and I have none, that violates the very foundations of the theological and moral structure of mercerism." "You've got your sheep; hell, you can have Ascension in your life, and if you grab both handles of empathy, you'll achieve it honorably. If you didn't have the old sheep, I could see some logic in your position. Certainly if I had two animals and you had none, I would be preventing you from truly merging with Mercer. (p. 4) 6. "What is in Mercerism IS" - "But then they would look down on you. Not all, but some do. You know what people do when someone doesn't care for an animal; they consider it immoral and heartless. I mean, technically it's not a crime like it was just after the end of the world, but the feeling is still there." (p. 4) 7. "The Definition of Modern Slavery" - A Synthetic Freedom Fighter; a humanoid robot capable of functioning on an alien planet - an organic android, to be precise - has become a moving support machine for the colonization program. Under UN law, each emigrant automatically took possession of the type of android of his or her choice, and by 2019 the diversity of their subspecies had surpassed all expectations, much as it had with American cars in the 1960s. (p. 5) 8. "[1] Loss of humanity" - Once a person was labeled special, they ceased to count, even if they agreed to be sterilized. He ceased to be human. (p. 5) 9. "[2] Loss of humanity" - John Isidore thought sourly: And in my case he disappeared too, I didn't even have to emigrate. For over a year now he had been a special case, and not just in terms of the messed-up genes he carried. Worse, he had failed the minimum mental capacity test, so in the vernacular he was a cripple. (p. 6) 10. "The Definition of Mortal Silence after the Final World War" - Silence. It burst from the paneling and walls; it rushed at him with a terrible, irresistible force, as if produced by a huge mill. It rose from the floor, seeped from the threadbare grey carpet laid wall to wall. It broke free from the broken or battered equipment in the kitchen, from the dead machines that hadn't worked once in all the time Isidore had lived here. It pulled from the useless floor lamp in the living room and mingled with the empty, voiceless silence that drifted down from the clam-smeared ceiling. In fact, it emanated from every object in Isidore's sight, as if it - the silence - wanted to displace all tangible things. It assaulted not only his ears, but his eyes as well; standing next to the inert television, he felt that the silence was visible and, in a way, alive. Alive! Often before he had felt it approaching tentatively; when it came, it invaded without scruples, it could not wait. The silence of the world could not keep its greed at bay. No longer. Especially when it had really won. (page 6) 11. "One day Death will come for him too" - By that time he himself would naturally be dead - another interesting event to contemplate as he stood in his crumbling living room with the unconscious, all-pervading, violent silence of the planet. (p. 7) 12. "Isidore's Fusion with Mercer" - Waiting for him, out there, was the force that he felt was inexorably penetrating his private apartment. God, he thought, and closed the door. He wasn't prepared for the trip up the creaking stairs to the empty rooftop where he had no animal. The echo multiplied: the echo of nothingness. High time to get a grip, he told himself, and crossed the living room to the Black Box of Empathy. When he switched it on, the usual faint scent of negative ions wafted from the power unit; he inhaled eagerly, his mood already improved. Then the tube lit up with a cathode ray, like a vague television image; a collage appeared, made of random colors, stripes and patterns that represented nothing until he grasped the handles. So he took a deep breath to steady himself, and gripped the handles tightly. The pattern took shape; instantly he saw a familiar landscape, a tired, brown, bare hillside with clumps of dried sedge stretching bony stems diagonally into a murky, sunless sky. A lone figure, more or less human in appearance, was laboriously climbing the slope: it was an elderly man in drab, shapeless clothes, clothing as poor as if he had been snatched from the hostile emptiness of the sky. The man, Wilbur Mercer, trudged forward, and John Isidore clutched the handholds, feeling that the sitting-room in which he stood was disappearing; the crumbling furniture and walls gave way until he ceased to perceive them altogether. Instead he found, as he had so many times before, that he was entering a landscape with a barren hill and a desolate sky. And at the same time, he stopped following the older man's path. Now his own feet were slipping, seeking support among the familiar wobbling stones; he could feel the familiar uncomfortable, unusually rough ground beneath his feet, and again he could smell the burning aftertaste falling from the sky - which was not earthly, but belonged to another, distant world, yet was within reach thanks to the empathy box. He had come, by the usual marvellous process, to a physical fusion - accompanied by mental and spiritual identification - with Wilbur Mercer. Just as it had happened to everyone else who was clutching their grips at this moment, whether here on Earth or on some colonized planet. He could feel them, the others, the attached murmur of their thoughts, hear the noise of their many existences in his brain. All of them - even he - cared about one thing; their intertwined minds were focused on the hill, the climb, the need to climb. They all moved step by step, so slowly that movement was almost imperceptible. But it was unmistakable. Higher, he thought as the stones rattled beneath his feet. Higher today than yesterday, and tomorrow - he, part of the composite figure of Wilbur Mercer, looked up at the slope before him. It is impossible to get up at last. It's too far away. But one day it will come. A rock flew from above and struck him in the arm. He felt the pain. He half turned and another stone flew past, this time missing him; it hit the ground and the sound startled him. Who, he wondered, straining to see his tormentor. Old adversaries, appearing on the periphery of his vision; they had followed him all the way up the hill and would not leave him until he reached the top... He remembered the top, the sudden flattening of the slope, when he had stopped climbing and the second part had begun. How many times had he done that? The memories of those few times blurred; the future and the past blurred; what he had already experienced and what he might yet experience blended so that nothing remained but the present moment, when he stood quietly, resting and rubbing the wound on his arm that the stone had caused. God, he thought wearily. Where is any justice? Why am I up here alone like this, being tormented by someone I can't even see? And then the confused babbling of the others broke the illusion of loneliness in him. You feel it too, he thought. Yes, the voices answered. It hit us in the left arm; it hurt like hell. Okay, he said. We'd better get back up again. He stepped out again and everyone joined him immediately. Once, he remembered, it was different. Before the curse came, that was an earlier, happier part of life. His foster parents, Frank and Cora Mercer, had found him floating in an inflatable rubber dinghy off the coast of New England...or was it Mexico, near the port of Tampico? He no longer remembered the circumstances. His childhood had been a good one; he loved life, especially animals; in truth, for a time he could bring dead animals back to life, to the form they had once had. He lived with rabbits and bugs, wherever that was, on Earth or on a colonized planet; he'd forgotten that now too. But he remembered the killers, because they had locked him up as a creep, a worse special than the others. And because of that, everything had changed. Local law had abolished the right to turn back the clock by which the dead could come back to life; they'd explained that to him when he was sixteen. He continued to do it secretly for another year in the remnants of the woods, but an old woman he had never seen or heard of told on him. Without his parents' consent, they - the assassins - bombarded the unique nodule that had formed in his brain, attacking it with radioactive cobalt, and that plunged him into another world he had no idea existed before. It was a pit full of corpses and bones, and he had spent years trying to get out. The donkey and especially the toad, the creatures that had been most important to him, had disappeared, died out; only the rotting remains remained, a head without eyes here, a piece of limb there. Finally, a bird that had come there to die told him where it was. He fell into the grave world. He couldn't get out until the bones scattered around him turned back into living beings; he became part of the metabolism of other lives, and until those lives came into being, he couldn't come into being either. How long this part of the cycle lasted, he didn't know now; nothing was actually happening, so it was immeasurable. But eventually the bones began to coat themselves in flesh again; the empty eye sockets filled and new eyes peered through, and meanwhile the renewed beaks and mouths clucked and barked and mewed. Perhaps he had caused it; perhaps the extra-sensory nodule in his brain had finally regrown. Or maybe it wasn't his doing; very likely it was a natural process. Either way, he didn't sink any further; he began to rise, and the others with him. He had long since lost sight of them. He found himself climbing alone. But they were here. They were still with him; he could feel them, so strangely, inside himself. Isidore stood holding on to the handholds, feeling all the living things inside him, and then reluctantly let go. It had to end, as it always did, and still his hand ached, bleeding where the stone had struck him. (pp. 7; 8) 13. "Human and android - the difference" - After a moment's reading, he gave Miss Marsten the benefit of the doubt; the Nexus-6 did indeed have two trillion elements plus a choice within the ten million possible combinations of cerebral activity. In forty-five hundredths of a second, an android equipped with such a brain structure could assume any of the fourteen basic reaction postures. No intelligence test could catch such an android. But intelligence tests haven't caught an android in years, since the days of the ancient, unintelligent types of the 1970s. (p. 10) 14. "What are Androids Missing?"-Androids, no matter how blessed with intellectual capacity, couldn't find meaning in the melding that occurs among devotees of mercenarism-a thing that Rick, like everyone else, including subnormal cripples, could do without difficulty. (p. 10) 15. "The Capacity for Empathy" - Because ultimately the capacity for empathy blurs the lines between hunter and prey, between the successful and the defeated. As in the merging with Mercer, they all rose upward together, or when the cycle came to an end, they fell together into the grave world. (p. 10) 16. "False Pretext to Advocate Killing Androids" - In sending the Androids to rest - i.e., killing - he was not violating the rule of life established by Mercer. You only kill killers, Mercer told them the year empathy boxes first appeared on Earth. And in Mercerism, as it evolved into a full-blown religion, the idea of Killers grew insidious. In Mercerism, absolute evil pulled at the shabby cloak of the stumbling old man climbing upward, but it was never clear who or what the evil was. The Mercerist felt evil without understanding it. In other words, the Mercerist could place the Killers' nebulous presence wherever it suited him. (p. 10) 17. "When a man fails" - "St. Petersburg psychiatrists," Bryant interrupted impatiently, "think that a small group of people fail the Voigt-Kampff scale. If you tested them in ordinary police work, you'd call them humanoid robots. You'd be wrong, but they'd be dead by then." He fell silent, waiting for Rick to respond. "But these individuals," Rick said, "should all be -" "They should all be in institutions," Bryant agreed. "They wouldn't be able to function well enough in the normal world; they'd certainly be recognizable as advanced psychotics - unless, of course, their illness broke out recently and unexpectedly and no one around them noticed. (p. 12) 18. "A real animal and the tyranny of the thing" - He also remembered his longing for a real animal; his hatred of the electric sheep he had to nurse, to care for as if it were alive, was reawakened. Tyranny of the thing, he thought. He doesn't know I exist. Like androids, he has no ability to realize the existence of another. He had never thought of that yet, the similarity between an electric animal and an android. The electric animal, he mused, could be considered a subspecies of the other, a kind of very low-quality robot. Or conversely, an android could be considered a highly advanced, evolved version of an artificial animal. Both points of view were repugnant to him. (p. 14) 19. "The First Law of Junk" - "This house, except for my apartment, is all junk." "Barbarous?" She didn't understand. "Junk is useless objects, like advertising flyers or empty matchboxes or plastic wrappers or yesterday's newspaper. When no one is around, junk reproduces itself. For example, if you go to bed and leave junk around the apartment, when you wake up the next day there will be twice as much. There's more and more." "I understand." The girl eyed him uncertainly, not sure if she should believe him. She wasn't sure if he was serious. "There is a First Law of Junk," he said. "'Haraburdi corrupts good things,' like Gresham's Law of Dirty Money. And there was no one here in these apartments to fight junk." "So everything worked here," the girl finished. She nodded. "Now I understand." "This place," he said, "this apartment you've chosen-it's too cluttered to live in. We can undo the junk factor; we can do it, as I said, by going through the other flats. But -" He paused. "But what?" Isidore said: "We can't win." "Why not?" The girl stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind her, arms folded confidently in front of small, high breasts, looking at him, eager to understand. Or so it seemed to him. At least she was listening. "No one can win over junk," he said, "only temporarily and maybe in one place, like me, in my apartment, maintaining a sort of artificial balance between the pressure of junk and necessities, for now. But eventually I'll die or leave, and then the junk will have the upper hand again. This is a general principle that applies everywhere in the universe; the whole universe is moving towards a final state of total, absolute haggardness." (p. 21) 20. "The Laws of Mercerism - The Empathy Box" - He added: "Except, of course, for Wilbur Mercer's ascent." The girl never took her eyes off him, "I don't see how that's relevant." "That's what Mercerism is all about." He was astonished again, "You don't participate in the blending? You don't have an empathy box?" After a moment, the girl said cautiously. "I didn't bring it with me. I thought I'd find one here." "But an empathy box," he said, stammering with excitement. "It is the most personal possession you have. It expands your body; with its help you can touch other people, with its help you stop being alone. But you know that, everybody knows that. Mercer allows even people like me -" He fell silent. Only too late; he'd already told her, and he could tell by the look of disgust that flickered across his face that she knew. "I almost passed the IQ tests," he said in a low, shaky voice. "I'm not very special, just slightly; not in the way you see some people do. But Mercer doesn't care about that." "As far as I'm concerned," the girl said, "you can consider that a major flaw in Mercerism." Her voice was clear and neutral; she only intended to state a fact, he realized. His factual attitude toward cripples. (p. 21) 21. "Who is Wilbur Mercer?" -other than Wilbur Mercer, of course...but Mercer, he reasoned, is not a human being; he is undoubtedly an archetypal being from the stars, grafted onto our culture according to a cosmic template. (p. 21) 22. "Isidore's Secret Thoughts" - Perhaps when one degenerates as I have, when one sinks into the swamp of the grave world by being special - well, best to abandon such a line of inquiry. Nothing depressed him more than the moments when he compared his present mental faculties with those he had possessed before. His intelligence and acumen were declining by the day. (p. 23) 23. "False Messengers' Testimonies Against Mercerism" - But something bothered John Isidore about Buddy Buster, one particular thing. Buster gently, almost innocently, mocked the empathy boxes. Not once, but many times. In fact, he was doing it now. "- Rocks aren't much for me," Buster babbled in Amanda Werner's direction, "And if I ever climb up somewhere, I'm taking a couple of Budweisers with me!" The studio audience laughed and Isidore heard a shower of applause. "And I'll be coming up with my carefully documented reveal from above - that reveal is exactly ten hours from now!" "I want one too, baby!" Amanda gushed. "Take me with you! I'm coming too, and if they throw a rock at us, I'll protect you!" The audience roared again, and John Isidore felt a confused and helpless rage rise in the back of his throat. Why did Buddy Buster keep making fun of mercenarism? No one else seemed to mind; even the United Nations had endorsed it. And American and Russian police have publicly declared that mercerism has reduced crime by making citizens care more about the welfare of their neighbors. Humanity needs more empathy, Titus Corning, the UN Secretary-General, has said several times. Buster is probably jealous, Isidore concluded. Certainly, that would be the explanation; Wilbur Mercer rivals him. But why is that? Because of ours, I think, Isidore concluded. They're fighting over the ability to control our mental selves; on one side the boxes of empathy, on the other Buster's ranting and snide remarks. I'll have to tell Hannibal Sloat that, he decided. And I'll ask him if it's true; he'll know. (p. 24) 24. "More statements by the False Messengers against Mercerism" - Isidore said: "I think Buddy Buster and Mercerism are fighting each other for the ability to control our souls." "If so," Sloat said, examining the cat, "Buster wins." "He's winning now," said Isidore, "but he'll lose in the end." Sloat raised his head and looked at him. "Why?" "Because Wilbur Mercer is still rebuilding. He's eternal. He will be knocked down at the top of the mountain; he will sink into the grave world and then inevitably rise again, And we with him. So we're eternal, too." (p. 24) 25. "The Closed Cycle of Life According to Mercer" - "According to M-Mercer," Isidore pointed out, "life-in-every-thing will return. The z-z-animals also have a u-closed cycle. I mean, we all rise with it, we die -" (p. 25) 26. "[1] Abusing the Penfield Wave Transmitter" - He adjusted his weapons holster, opened it, pulled out a small indirect Penfield Wave Transmitter; pressed the catalepsy button, shielded himself against the radiation by sending counterwaves through the metal cover of the transmitter, which was aimed only at him (p. 28) 27. "Measured Time" - Mozart died - not yet forty - of kidney disease shortly after writing The Magic Flute. And he was buried in an unmarked mass grave. Thinking about it, he wondered if Mozart had any idea that there was no future, that he had already used up his allotted time. (p. 31) 28. "Poem by Victoria Christy - Sub Specie Oeternitatis" - And again he saw himself sub specie oeternitatis, a destroyer who is attracted by what he sees and hears here. (Poem : Sub Specie Oeternitatis) (p. 31) 29. "The Coldness of Androids" - There was a cold aloofness in her tone - and yet another coldness he had encountered in so many androids. It was always the same: great intelligence, the ability to understand a great deal, but also that coldness. (p. 32) 30. "[1] How far does the replacement of humans by androids go? Aren't we all just cold replacements anymore?" - "Maybe there was once a human who looked like you, and you killed him and took his place. And your superiors know nothing." (p. 32) 31. "[2] How far does replacing humans with androids go? Aren't we all just cold replacements anymore?" - "Maybe you're an android," said Lieutenant Crams. "With a false memory like they used to have now. Has that occurred to you?" He scowled coldly as he continued heading south. (page 36) 32. "Empathy among androids" - "You androids," Rick said, "don't seem to hold each other up much when the going gets tough." Garland snapped, "I guess you're right; we almost seem to lack the special talents you humans have. I think it's called empathy." (p. 39) 33. "Ideology" - "Have you laid the groundwork for your ideology?" Phil Resch asked. "One that would consider me part of the human race?" Rick said: "Your capacity for empathy, for putting yourself in another's shoes, is defective. We don't test for that. Your feelings about androids." (p. 45) 34. "Life" - So much for the difference between real, live humans and humanoid products. In that elevator at the museum, he thought, I was going down with two creatures, one was a human, the other an android... and I had feelings quite the opposite of what I should have. The opposite of what I was used to feeling - what I was obliged to feel. (p. 46) 35. "Mercerian Ethics" - "I think," said Isidore, "you're wrong." He had never heard of such a thing in his life. Buddy Buster, for instance, had never mentioned it. "It's not consistent with contemporary Mercerian ethics," he pointed out. "All life is one; 'no man is an island,' as Shakespeare once said in the old days." "John Donne." (p. 47) 36. "Feelings about colonizing Mars" - "We came back," Pris said, "because no one should live there. You can't live there, at least not for the last billion years. It's so old there. You can feel it in the rocks, that terrible age. (p. 48) 37. "Feelings about colonizing the Universe" - "Exploring the planet," Pris said. "And beings from other stars. Infinitely wise. Stories about Earth, set in our time or even later. And without radioactive dust." (p. 48) 38. "That's against Mercerism!"- He had a vague, distant image: of something ruthless, carrying a printed list and a gun, engaged like a machine in monotonous, bureaucratic killing. A thing without emotion, without even a face; a thing that, if killed, would be immediately replaced by another thing that resembled it. And so on and on until everything real and alive is shot. Unbelievable, he thought, that the police could do nothing. I don't believe that. These people must have done something, maybe emigrated back to Earth illegally. They tell us - the TV tells us - to report any ship that lands outside the designated ramps. The police have to keep an eye on it. But still, no one can deliberately kill anyone anymore. That's against mercerism. (pp. 50; 51) 39. "[2] Misuse of the Penfield Wave Transmitter" - "This switchboard," Roy continued, "has a Penfield unit built into it. As soon as the alarm goes off, it starts transmitting panic - at the intruder. Unless he acts very quickly, which he might. Huge panic; I've set it to maximum. No human being can stay close for more than a few seconds. That's the nature of panic: it leads to random circular movements, aimless running, and muscle and nerve spasms." He concluded, "Which will give us a chance to get him. Maybe. Depends on how good he is." Isidore said: "Won't the alarm work on us?" "That's right," Pris said to Roy Baty. "It will affect Isidore." (p. 52) 40. "Depression" - The new and terribly unfamiliar depression that had overwhelmed him during the day had not yet passed. Animals and animal walkers seemed to him the only weakness in the screen of depression, a crack through which he could grab it and put an end to it. Often in the past, the sight of animals, the smell of money flowing at big deals, had done much for him. Maybe it will make an impression now. (p. 52) 41. "[1] The Inner Life of a Mercerist" - "It would be immoral not to connect gratefully with Mercer," Iran said. "I was holding the handles of the box today and it chased away my depression a little - just a little, not like this. But I still got stoned, here." She held up her wrist; he saw a small dark bruise on it. "And I remember thinking how much better we are with Mercer. Regardless of the pain. Physical pain, but mentally we're together; I felt everyone else, everyone from all over the world, everyone who bonded with Mercer at the same time." She held the elevator door to keep it from closing. "Get in, Rick. It'll only be a moment. You rarely go to Mercer anyway; I want you to pass on the mood you're in to everyone else; you owe it to them. It would be immoral to keep it all to yourself." She was right, of course. So he got into the elevator and descended again. In the living room, Iran quickly flipped the switch on the empathy box, her face alive with growing joy; it illuminated her like the rising moon. "I want everyone to know," she told him. "It happened to me once; I got in touch and ran into someone who had just acquired an animal. And then one day -" Her features froze for a moment; the joy vanished. "One day I found out I'd captured someone whose animal had died. But the rest of us shared our various joys with him-I had none, as you probably know-and it cheered that person up. We might, for example, get to a potential suicide; what we have, what we feel, might -" "They'll have our joy," Rick said, "but we'll lose it. We'll trade what we feel for what they feel. Our joy will be lost." The empathy box screen now showed intertwining shapeless streams of bright color; his wife took a deep breath and gripped the handle tightly. "We don't really lose what we feel if we keep it clear in our brains. Rick, you've never made a real connection, have you?" "I don't think so," he said. But now, for the first time, he was beginning to feel the value people like Iran were getting from mercerism. The experience with bounty hunter Phil Resch had probably changed some tiny synapse in him, closed some neurological connection and opened another. And that may have started a chain reaction. "Iran," he said urgently; he pulled her away from the empathy box. "Listen; I want to talk to you about what happened to me." He led her over to the couch and sat her down facing him. "I met another bounty hunter," he said. "I've never seen him before. Such a predator, he seemed to enjoy destroying them. After I stayed with him for a while, I started to see them differently for the first time. I mean, my view of them was different than his." "Can't it wait?" said Iran. Rick shook his head, "I took a test, one question, and it confirmed it; I started to feel empathy for androids, and you know what that means. You said it yourself this morning. 'Those poor little androids.' So you know what I'm talking about. That's why I bought the goat. I've never been like this in my life. Maybe it could be depression like you're getting. Now I understand how you suffer when you're depressed. I always thought you liked it, and I thought you could quit anytime, if not on your own, then with the help of a mood organ. But when you get depressed like this, you don't care about anything. It's apathy because you've lost your sense of what's worthwhile. It doesn't matter if you feel better, because when you have nothing of value -" (pp. 55; 56) 42. "[2] The Inner Life of a Mercerist" - His wife was bent over a black empathic box, an absent expression on her face. He stood behind her for a moment, his hands resting on her breast; he felt it rise and fall, felt the life within her, the activity. Iran did not notice him; the experience with Mercer was as perfect as ever. A small, old figure of Mercer in a cloak was shambling up the screen, and then suddenly a rock flew past him. Rick watched and thought: My God; my situation is worse than his in some ways. Mercer doesn't have to do anything that's foreign to him. He's suffering, but at least he's not being asked to rape his own identity. He bent down and gently released the handles from the woman's fingers. Then he took her place himself. For the first time in weeks. Impulsively: he hadn't planned it; it just happened suddenly. He found himself in a grass-covered landscape, deserted everywhere, The air smelled sharply of flowers; this was a desert, there was no rain. A man stood before him, a pitying light in his tired, tear-filled eyes. "Mercer," said Rick. "I'm your friend," the old man spoke. "But you must go on as if I didn't exist. Do you understand?" He spread his empty hands. "No," Rick said. "I don't understand. I need help." "How can I save you," said the old man, "if I can't even save myself?" He smiled. "Don't you understand? There is no rescue." "Then what's the point?" asked Rick. "What are you for?" "To show you," Wilbur Mercer said, "that you're not alone. I'm here with you, and I always will be. Go and do your job, even if you know it's not the right one." "Why?" wondered Rick. "Why would I do that? I'll quit my job and move out." The old man said: "You're going to have to do the wrong thing no matter where you go. That's a basic condition of life, having to rape your own identity. At some time every creature that lives has to do that. It is the insurmountable shadow, the defeat of creation; it is the curse of work, the curse that fills all life. Everywhere in the universe." "Is that all you can tell me?" Rick said. A stone whistled; he crouched and the stone struck his ear. He immediately let go of the handles and stood in the living room again, next to his wife and the empathy box. His head ached like a shard; he felt his bolt and smelled the fresh blood that ran in big bright drops down his face. Iran dabbed his ear with a handkerchief. "I'm kind of glad you pushed me away. I hate it when I get hit, that's for sure. Thanks for getting that rock for me." (p. 57) 43. "Roy Baty" - (as the description informed him) has the aggressive, assertive demeanor of an artificial authority figure. Former occupation unknown, the android offered the group an escape attempt, which he justified ideologically with a pretentious fiction about the sanctity of so-called android 'life'. Further, this android had been stealing and experimenting with various mind-melding drugs, and when he was caught, he claimed that he was doing so to provide androids with a group experience akin to mercenarism, which, he pointed out, remained unattainable to androids (p. 59). 44. "Horror with the Cycle of Life" - All in good time, he thought. The cycle of life. Here it ends, the last rays. Before the silence of death comes. He sensed it perfectly in this microverse. 45. "Android feelings" - "Something like that. Identification; that's where I'm heading. My God; maybe it's going to happen. In the confusion, you'll send me to rest, not her. And she can come back to Seattle and live my life. It's never been this way for me. We're machines, they make us like bottle caps. It's just an illusion that I - me personally - really exist; I'm just an example of a type." She shuddered. (p. 60) 46. "Man has created modern slaves" - She mused. "Androids can't have children," she said then. "Are we missing something?" He undressed her. He exposed her pale, cold groin. "Are we missing something?" repeated Rachael. "I really don't know; I can't make any judgment. What is it like to have a child? What is it like to be born? We are not born; we do not grow up; instead of dying of disease or age, we exhaust ourselves like ants. Ants again; that's what we are. Not you; me. Chitinous reflex machines that are not really alive." She turned her head to the side and said loudly, "I'm not alive! You're not going to bed with a woman. Don't be disappointed, okay? Have you ever made love to an android woman?" (pg. 62) 47. "The Limits of Life" - Rachael said, "Do you know what the lifespan of a humanoid robot like me is? I've been on this world for two years. How many more should I count on?" After a moment's hesitation, he said: "About two more." "They couldn't solve the problem. I mean the cell replacement. Permanent or at least partial restoration. Well, that's the way it goes." (p. 63) 48. "As the flame of Life goes out" - "Only in the wrong way." He seemed outwardly calmer now. But deep down she was still agitated and tense. The dark flame was fading, however; the life force was draining out of her, as he had often seen in other androids. Classic resignation. A mechanical, intellectual resignation to what a true organism - with two billion years of struggle for survival and evolutionary hardship behind it - could never cope with. + "Damn, you said yourself you have two years to live anyway. And I have fifty. I'll live twenty-five times longer than you." (p. 64) 49. "An extreme episode with a spider; a mockery of Mercerism and a false revelation of Mercer" - Upstairs, at the door of his apartment, he paused to catch his breath. "- Yes, sir, folks; now is the time. This is Buddy Buster, who hopes and trusts that you are as eager as I am to witness the discovery I have made, which, by the way, has been verified by the best researchers who have been working overtime for weeks. Oh, folks; it's coming up," John Isidore said: "I've found the spider." The three androids looked up, momentarily shifting their attention from the television screen to him. "Let's take a look," Pris said. She held out her hand. Roy Baty shouted, "Don't talk when he's a Buster." "I've never seen a spider," Pris said. She took the medicine bottle in her hands and watched the creature inside. "So many legs. Why does it need so many legs, J.R.?" "Spiders are like that," Isidore said, his heart pounding; it was hard to breathe. "They have eight legs." Pris stood up and said, "You know what I think, J.R.? I don't think he needs all those legs." "Eight?" Irmgard Baty wondered. "Why wouldn't he get by with four? Let's cut four off and see." She quickly opened her purse, pulled out a clean, sharp pair of manicure scissors, and handed them to Pris. A terrible dread ran through J. R. Isidore. Pris carried the medicine bag into the kitchen and sat down at the table where J. R. Isidore was eating breakfast. She removed the cap from the vial and knocked the spider out. "He probably won't be able to run that fast," she said, "but there's nothing here for him to catch. He's going to die anyway." She reached for the scissors. "Please," Isidore gasped. Pris looked up curiously. "Is he worth anything?" "Don't torture him," he said wheezing. Pleadingly. Pris cut off one of the spider's legs with a pair of scissors. In the living room, Buddy Buster was muttering at the TV screen, "Look at this enlarged background section. That's the sky you usually see. Wait, I'll let Earl Parameter, the head of my research team, lay out his world-shaking discovery for you." Pris unclicked another leg, the edge of her palm preventing the spider from escaping. She smiled. "The magnified video footage," said a new voice from the television, "has been subjected to rigorous laboratory scrutiny, and it turns out that the gray horizon and pale moon that Mercer is moving against is not only not terrestrial-it's artificial!" "You'll miss it!" Irmgard called anxiously to Pris; she ran into the kitchen door and saw what Pris had gotten herself into. "Oh, do it then," she said huskily, "This is so important, what they say; it proves that everything we believed -" "Be quiet," said Roy Baty. "-is true," finished Irmgard. The television went on: "'The Moon' is painted; you can see the brushstrokes in the enlargements, one of which you can see on the screen right now. And there's even evidence that the sparse grass and barren, sterile ground-perhaps even the rocks hurled at Mercer by unseen alleged participants-are similarly papier-mâché. It is quite possible that the 'stones' are in fact made of a soft plastic that will not cause authentic injury." "In other words," Buddy Buster jumped in, "Wilbur Mercer isn't suffering at all." The head of research said: "Finally, Mr. Dude, we were able to track down a former Hollywood stunt specialist, Mr. Wade Cortot, and he directly confirmed, given his years of experience, that 'Mercer' could be just some occasional actor moving around in a perfect set. Cortot even went so far as to state that he recognized the sets once used by a now inactive second-rate director with whom Cortot had worked several times decades ago." "So, according to Cortot," said Buster's buddy, "there really can be no doubt." Pris had just cut off the spider's third leg, and the spider was crawling jaggedly across the kitchen table, looking for a way out, a way to freedom. He couldn't find one. (p. 66) 50. "Mercerism - disclosure?" - "I found out," the technician continued, "that the old man actually made a series of short fifteen-minute video films for a client he had never met. And, as we suspected, the 'stones' were made of a rubber-like plastic, the 'blood' was ketchup, and," the technician chuckled, "the only suffering Mr. Jarry endured was spending an entire day without a sip of whiskey." "Al Jarry," uttered Buddy Buster, whose face appeared on the screen. "An old man who, even in his prime, never achieved anything that he or we could appreciate. Al Jarry made a repetitive and stupid film, a whole series of films in fact, he didn't know for whom - and still doesn't. Mercerism's adherents have often said that Wilbur Mercer is not a human being, that he's actually an archetypal superior entity, perhaps from another star. Well, in a sense, that claim has been proven correct. Wilbur Mercer is not a human being, he doesn't really exist. The world in which he ascends is a common, cheap, Hollywood set that disappeared into the junk years ago. And who took such a colossal shot at the entire solar system? Think about that for a minute, folks." "I guess we'll never know," Irmgard muttered. Buddy Buster said: "I guess we'll never know. We can't even imagine what strange reasons led to this deception. Yes, folks, a fraud, Mercerism is a fraud!" "I think we know," said Roy Baty. "It's obvious. Mercerism originated -" "But think about it," continued Buddy Buster, "Ask yourself what it is that causes Mercerism. Well, if its many adherents are to be believed, it's the experience of merging -" "That's the empathy that people have," Irmgard said, "- of men and women throughout the solar system into a single being. But a being that is controlled by the so-called telepathic voice of 'Mercer'. Note that. Some ambitious, politically minded wannabe Hitler might-" + "Mercerism is a fraud." The whole empathy experience is a fraud." + "I don't think the cult of Mercer will end there," Pris said (p. 67) 51. "Mercerism isn't over" - "Mercerism isn't over," said Isidore. The three androids were plagued by some disease, something terrible. The spider, he thought. Maybe it was the last spider on Earth, as Roy Baty had said. And the spider was gone; Mercer was gone; he could see the dust and destruction in the apartment, spreading everywhere-he could hear the junk coming, the final chaos of all order, the disorder that would eventually prevail. It grew around him as he stood there holding the empty ceramic mug; the kitchen cabinets creaked and splintered and he felt himself losing ground. (p. 68) 52. "The apparition of Isidore" - "What is he doing?" Irmgard Baty's voice reached him from a distance. "It's breaking everything! Isidore, stop -" "I'm not doing it," he said. He walked uncertainly into the living room to be himself; he stood by the tattered sofa, looking at the yellow speckled wall with the stains of the dead bugs that had once crawled there, and thought again of the dead spider with four legs left. Everything here is old, he realized. It started to crumble a long time ago, and it's not going to stop. The corpse of the spider had won. The crevice created by the collapse of the floor showed pieces of animals, the head of a crow, withered hands that might once have belonged to monkeys. A donkey stood a little way off, unmoving, and yet one could see that it was alive; at least it had not yet begun to decompose. Isidore walked towards it, feeling the long bones crunch under his feet, dry as grass. But before he reached the donkey - the creature was one of his most beloved - a shiny blue crow swooped down from above and settled on the donkey's listless mouth. Don't do it, he said loudly, but the crow quickly pecked out the donkey's eyes. Again, he thought. It's happened to me again. I'm going to be down here a long time, he realized. Just like before. It always takes a long time, because nothing ever changes here; the break will come when nothing breaks. A dry wind whispered, piles of bones crashing down around him. Even the wind destroys them, he noted. At this stage. Just before time ceases to exist. I wish I could remember how to get out of here, he thought. He looked up and saw nothing to grab onto. Mercer, he said aloud. Where are you now? This is the grave world and I'm in it again, but this time you're not here with me. Something crawled over his leg. He knelt down and looked for it - found it, because it moved only slowly. A tortured spider, stumbling jerkily on its remaining legs; he picked it up and held it in his palm. The bones, he realized, had changed; the spider was alive again. Mercer must be nearby. The wind blew, breaking and tossing the remaining bones, but he could feel Mercer's presence. Come here, he said to Mercer. Climb over my leg or find another way to come to me. Okay? Mercer, he thought. He said loudly: "Mercer!" Wind-driven tufts of grass rolled across the landscape; the grass burrowed into the walls around him and grew through the walls until it turned into spores. The spores grew larger, splitting and cracking in the impacted steel and chunks of concrete in which the walls crumbled. And when the walls disappeared, what was left was a desert; a desert after all; Except for the frail, hazy figure of Mercer; the old man faced him, a calm expression on his face. "Is this sky painted?" Isidore asked. "Are there really brushstrokes that show up when you zoom in?" "Yes," Mercer said. "I can't see them." "You're too close," said Mercer. "You'd have to be very far away, like the androids. They have better vision." "Is that why they say you're a fraud?""I'm a fraud," Mercer said. "They're honest; they actually did the research. From their point of view, I'm a long-retired occasional Al Jarry actor. Their entire discovery is true. They talked to me at my house, as they claim; I told them what they wanted to know, and they wanted to know everything." "About the whisky, too?" Mercer smiled. "It was the truth. They did a good job, and from their point of view, Buddy Buster's discovery was convincing. They'll have a hard time understanding why nothing has changed. Because you're still here, and I'm still here." Mercer gestured with a supple hand to the bare, steep mountainside, that familiar spot. "I just lifted you out of the grave world, and I'll keep lifting you until you lose interest and want to stop. But you yourself will have to stop looking for me, because I will never stop looking for you." "I didn't like the whiskey thing," Isidore said. "It's humiliating." "That's because you're a highly moral man. I'm not. I don't judge anyone, not even myself." Mercer held up his clasped palm, the back of his hand down. "Before I forget, I have something here that belongs to you." He opened his fingers, A tortured spider rested on his hand, but his previously severed legs were in place. (p. 68; 69) 53. "Woes" - What kind of job is this, Rick wondered. I am a calamity, like hunger or the plague. Wherever I go, I'm cursed. As Mercer said, I'm asked to do bad things. Everything I've done has been wrong from the start. But now it's time to go home. Maybe when I'm with Iran for a while, I'll forget. (p. 72) 54. "[1] Rick Deckard's Revelations" - Dave would approve of what I did. But he'd be sympathetic to the other side, which I don't think even Mercer understands. Everything is easy for Mercer, he thought, because Mercer accepts everything. Nothing is foreign to him. But what I've done, he thought, is suddenly alien to me. In fact, everything about me has become unnatural; I myself have become unnatural. He walked on, up the hill, and with every step a heaviness grew in him. I am too tired, he thought, to climb. He stopped, wiped the sweat dripping into his eyes, the salty tears streaming from his skin, from all over his aching body. Angry with himself, he spat - spat furiously and contemptuously, on the bare ground, feeling a terrible hatred for himself. Then he started laboriously up the slope again, through a lonely and unknown country, far from everything; nothing lived here but himself. Heat. It had warmed up considerably; it was evident that some time had passed. And he was hungry. He hadn't eaten in God knows how long. Hunger combined with the heat, a poisonous taste reminiscent of defeat; yes, he thought, this is it: in some mysterious way I have been defeated. By killing those androids? By Rachael murdering my goat? He didn't know, but as he shuddered, his mind was clouded by some vague and almost hallucinatory ghost; in an instant he realized, without having any idea how it could have happened, that he was one step away from a near-fatal fall into the abyss - a fall humble and helpless, he thought; on and on, without witnesses. There was no one here to notice his or anyone else's disgrace, and any courage or pride that might have been displayed here would go unnoticed: the dead stones, the dusty blades of grass, dry and dying, would realize and remember nothing, neither of him nor of themselves. At that moment, the first rock hit him in the groin - and it wasn't rubber or plastic foam. The pain, the sudden realization of utter loneliness and suffering, shot through him unblurred and real. He paused. And then something spurred him on - the spurs were invisible, but impossible to resist - he began to climb again. I am rolling, he thought, like stones; I am doing what stones do, without will. Without meaning anything. "Mercer," he said, gasping for breath; he stopped, stood silent. He could make out a vague, motionless figure before him. "Wilbur Mercer! Is that you?" My God, he realized; it was my shadow. I've got to get out of here, down that hill! He began to scramble down. He fell once; clouds of dust covered everything, and he ran from the dust - hurried even more, sliding and staggering on the wobbly rocks. Ahead he saw his parked car. I'm down, he thought. I'm off the mountain. With a jerk, he opened the door and squeezed in. Who threw that rock at me? He asked himself in his mind. No one. But why does it worry me? I've done it before, in the meld. When I was using my empathic box, like everyone else. It's nothing new. But it was. Because, he thought, I did it myself. (pp. 73; 74) 55. "I'm Wilbur Mercer" - "You look," said Miss Marsten, "like Wilbur Mercer." "I am," he said. "I am Wilbur Mercer; I am constantly associated with him. And I can't disconnect. I'm sitting here waiting to disconnect. Somewhere near the Oregon border. "Shall we send someone there? A staff car to pick you up?" "No," he said. "I don't belong in the department anymore." "Clearly you worked too much yesterday, Mr. Deckard," she said reprovingly. "Now you need a good rest. Mr. Deckard, you're our best bounty hunter, the best we've ever had. I'll tell Inspector Bryant when he gets here; you fly home and go to bed. Call your wife at once, Mr. Deckard, because she's terribly, terribly worried. I can tell, you're both in a bad way." "It's because of my goat," he said. "Not because of the androids; Rachael was wrong - I had no trouble sending them to rest. And the special wasn't right either when he said I couldn't blend in with Mercer anymore. The only one who was right is Mercer." "You'd better get back here to the Cove, Mr. Deckard. There are people here. There's nothing alive out there by the Oregon; is there? You're not alone?" "It's queer," said Rick. "I had the absolute, utter, perfectly real illusion that I had become Mercer and that people were throwing rocks at me. But not the way you experience it when you're holding the handle of an empathic box. When you use the empathy box, you feel that you are with Mercer. The difference is that I wasn't with anyone; I was alone." "Now they say Mercer is a fraud." "Mercer is not a scam," he said. "Unless reality is also a fraud." This hill, he thought. This dust and this lot of rocks, each one different, different from the other. "I'm afraid," he said, "that I can't stop being Mercer. Not anymore. Not, he thought, after what happened to me up there, at the top of that mountain. I wonder what would have happened if I had continued my climb and reached the top. Because that's where Mercer seems to be dying. Mercer's victory is clearly manifested there, there at the end of the great sideric cycle.But if I am Mercer, he thought, I can never die, not even in ten thousand years. Mercer is immortal. 56. "[2] The Revelation of Rick Deckard" - Something happened to me. Like that cripple Isidore and his spider; what happened to him is happening to me. Did Mercer arrange this? But I'm Mercer. I made it happen; I found the toad. I found it because I looked through Mercer's eyes. He squatted next to the toad. It pressed itself against the fine gravel, where it made a hole: it kicked up dust with its butt. So only the top of her flat head and her eyes peeked above the surface. Meanwhile, her metabolism slowed to a near halt, she went into a trance. There was no sparkle in her eyes, no hint that she had noticed him, and he thought in horror: She's dead, maybe thirsty. But she moved. He put the box on the ground and carefully began to scrape the dirt away from the toad. She didn't seem to object, but she certainly wasn't aware of his presence. When he picked up the toad, he felt its strange chill; in his hands its little body felt dry and shriveled-almost limp-and cold, as if it lived in a cave miles underground, far from the sun. Now the toad staggered; with her thin hind leg she tried to free herself from his grasp, instinctively wanting to jump. She's big, he thought; grown up and wise. Able, in its own way, to survive where even we can't properly survive. I wonder where she finds water for her eggs. So that's what Mercer sees, he thought as he carefully wrapped the box - rewrapping it over and over. Life we can no longer discern; life carefully buried up to its head in the carrion of a dead planet. On every speck in the universe, Mercer would probably recognize subtle life. Now I know, he thought. And once I've seen through Mercer's eyes, I'll probably never stop. No android, he thought, is going to cut this one's legs off. Just like they did to that cripple spider. (p. 76) 57. "[3] The Revelation of Rick Deckard" - "Mercer said it was wrong, but that I should do it anyway. Really weird. Sometimes it's better to do the wrong thing than the right thing." "That's our curse," Iran said. "That's what Mercer's talking about." "Dust?" He asked. "The assassins who found Mercer when he was sixteen told him then that he couldn't turn back time and bring everything back to life. So now he can only move through life, go where life goes, toward death. And killers throw stones; that's what they do. They keep chasing him. And all of us, actually. Did one of them cut your face where you're still bleeding?" (pp. 77; 78)
Mercerism – 2nd listing of Holy Texts for Teaching Empathy (short story The Little Black Box)
Source of quotation: DICK, Philip K. The Golden Man. Translated by Jaroslava KOHOUTOVÁ. Plzeň: Laser, 1995. SF edition. ISBN 80-7193-008-3
Contents: - Excerpt No. [1] pp. 1-4. - Excerpt No. [2] p. 4. - Excerpt No. [3] p. 6. - Excerpt No. [4] p. 6. - Excerpt No. [5] p. 7 - Excerpt No. [6] pp. 7-9. - Excerpt No. [7] p. 9 - Excerpt No. [8] p. 10 - Excerpt No. [9] p. 11 - Excerpt No. [10] pp. 11- 12.
Excerpt No. [1] pp. 1-4. Ray uttered in a meditative tone, "And you're the girl who's always telling people to accept the blame and not blame it on the outside world. What do you call your cardinal rule, honey? Hm?" He smiled. "Anti-paranoid principle? Dr. Joan Hiashi cures your mental illness: absorb all the guilt, take it all on yourself." He looked up and said sharply: "I'm surprised you're not one of Wilbur Mercer's followers." "That clown?" "But that's part of his challenge. Come on, I'll show you." Ray turned on the television on the opposite wall of the room. It was a legless Oriental-style device with a pattern of Sung Dynasty dragons. "Funny you should know when Mercer is on," Joan paused. Ray shrugged and muttered: "I'm interested. It's a new religion that's starting to displace Zen Buddhism. It's moving in from the Midwest and will soon overrun all of California. You should be interested in it too, since you claim religion as your profession. It gives you a job. Religion pays your bills, my dear, so don't dig into it." The TV screen lit up and Wilbur Mercer appeared. "Why doesn't he say anything?" Joan asked. "You see, Mercer was sworn in this week. Total silence." Ray lit a cigarette. "The Ministry should have sent me. You're a loser." "At least I'm not a buffoon," Joan retorted, "or a follower of a buffoon." Ray reminded her gently: "There's a Zen Buddhist saying. 'There's a Buddha in every piece of toilet paper.' And another one, 'The Buddha often-'" "Shut up," she said sharply. "I want to watch Mercer." "You want to watch." There was heavy irony in his voice. "You really want to watch, for God's sake? But nobody's looking at Mercer, that's the crux of the matter." He tossed his cigarette into the fireplace and walked with long strides to the television set. Joan saw a metal box with two handles, connected by a double conducting cable to the television. Ray grasped both handles and his face instantly contorted in pain. "What's wrong?" Ray asked worriedly. "N-nothing." Ray kept gripping the handles. On the screen, Wilbur Mercer walked slowly across the arid, bleak surface of the barren hill, his head raised, an expression of composure-or emptiness-on his narrow face. Ray, gasping for breath, let go of the handholds. "I could only hold them for forty-five seconds this time." Then Joan explained, "This is an empathy box, honey. I can't tell you how I got it - to tell you the truth, I just don't know. It was brought to me once, by them, the organization that distributes them - Wilcer Inc. But what I can tell you is that once you grasp these handles, you will never look at Wilbur Mercer again/become a participant in his apotheosis. You begin to feel what he feels." "It looks like it hurts." Ray Meritan whispered, "Yes. Because Wilbur Mercer is near death. He's going to the place where he's going to die." Joan recoiled in horror in front of the box. "You said this is what we needed," Ray said. "Remember, I'm a pretty capable telepath. I don't have to strain too hard to read your mind. 'If only we could suffer.' That's what you were thinking, just a little while ago. Well, here's your chance, Joan." "It's - morbid!" "Was your idea morbid?" "Yes!" Ray Meritan said slowly, "Already Wilbur Mercer has twenty million followers. All over the world. And they're all suffering with him, on his way to Pueblo, Colorado. At least that's where he's rumored to be headed. Personally, I doubt it. In any case, Mercerism is what Zen Buddhism used to be. You go to Cuba to teach rich Chinese bankers a kind of asceticism that is outdated, that has long since passed its glory days." Joan turned quietly away from him and stared at the pacing Mercer. "You know damn well I'm right," Ray said. "I can pick up on your feelings. You may not even know about them, but they're inside you." On the screen, someone threw a rock at Mercer. It hit him in the shoulder. Anyone holding onto the empathy box now, Joan realized, felt the blow along with Mercer. Ray nodded. "That's right." "And - what about when they actually kill him?" She shuddered. "We'll see what happens," Ray said quietly. "We don't know." II FOREIGN MINISTER Douglas Herrick said to Bogart Crofts: "I think you're wrong, Bog. The girl may be Meritan's mistress, but that doesn't mean she knows anything." "We'll wait to hear what Mr. Lee has to say," Crofts replied irritably. "He'll be waiting for her at the Havana airport." "Can't Mr. Lee investigate Meritan directly?" "One telepath to investigate another?" Croft had to smile at the thought. It would create a beautifully nonsensical situation: that Mr. Lee would read Meritan's thoughts, and Meritan, also a telepath, would read Mr. Lee's thoughts and find that Mr. Lee was reading his thoughts, and Lee, reading Meritan's thoughts, would find that Meritan knew-and so on. An endless chaining that would end in a fusion of the two minds, in which Meritan would surely be careful not to give a thought to Wilbur Mercer. "The similarity of names is very suspicious to me," Herrick said. "Meritan, Mercer. The first three letters-" Crofts interrupted him. "Ray Meritan is not Wilbur Mercer. I'll tell you how we found out. We made a videotape of Mercer's television broadcast at the CIA, enlarged it, and ran an analysis. Mercer was in the usual barren landscape. Cactus, sand, rocks... you know the drill." "Yes," Herrick nodded. "Wilderness, that's what they call it." "The magnification showed something in the sky. We examined it. It wasn't the moon. I mean, it was a moon, but too small to be our moon. Mercer's not on Earth. I'd guess he's not from Earth at all." Crofts bent down and, careful not to touch the handles, picked up a small metal box. "And this wasn't designed or made on Earth. This whole Mercer movement is totally 0-Z, and we have to act accordingly now." "If Mercer isn't an Earthling, he may have suffered and even died several times before, on other planets." "He has," Crofts nodded. "Mercer - or whatever the person or thing's name is - may be vastly experienced in this. But we still don't know what we want to know." And that was, of course - what happens to the person who grabs the handles of the empathic box? Crofts sat down and examined it closely. It was on the table right in front of him, with those two tempting handles. He had never touched them, and never intended to. But- "When will Mercer die?" Herrick asked. "We reckon sometime late next week." "And do you think Mr. Lee will get anything out of the girl's brain before then? Something that will lead us to Mercer's whereabouts?" "I hope so," said Crofts, who was still staring at the box but had not yet touched it. "It must be an extraordinary experience to put your hands on those two handles and find that you are no longer yourself. That you have become a very different person in a very different place, that you are trudging along a long, monotonous, inclined plane towards certain extinction. At least that's how they describe it. But to be told about it... what is it really like? How about I try it myself. The feeling of absolute pain... that was what scared him, what discouraged him. It was incredible that people willingly sought out that feeling instead of avoiding it. Grasping the handles of the empathic box was certainly not an act expressing a desire to escape. It was not an attempt to avoid something, but to seek something out. But not pain per se. Crofts was too experienced to think that the Mercerites were mere masochists who craved physical pain. It was, he was convinced, the sense of pain that so attracted Mercer's followers. HIS FOLLOWERS suffered for something. He told his superior: "They want to suffer in order to deny their own personal existence. It is a community in which they all suffer and endure Mercer's torment together." Like the Last Supper, he thought. That's the key to everything: community, participation, that's the basis of every religion. Or it should. Religion binds people together into one common, united body, and leaves all others standing aside. Herrick objected, "But at its base it is a political movement, or at least it should be treated as such." "From our point of view, yes," Crofts agreed. "But not from theirs." Excerpt No. [2] p. 4. With a broad smile on his face, Mr. Lee remarked, "Or unreason. You see, I'm ready. Reason, no reason. It's one and the same thing in Zen." Then he sobered suddenly. "Of course I'm a Communist," he said. "The only reason I'm doing all this is because the Party in Havana has taken the official position that mercerism is dangerous and must be put down." He looked gloomy. "I have to say, those mercerites are real fanatics." "True," Crofts agreed. "And we must see to their end." He pointed to the empathy box. "Have you ever-" "Yes," Mr. Lee nodded. "It's a form of punishment. Voluntary punishment, no doubt because of a sense of guilt. If people manage their time properly, they are spared such feelings." This one doesn't understand what this is all about, Crofts thought. He's just a materialist. Typical of a man born into a communist family and brought up in a communist society. Everything is either black or white. "You're wrong," Mr. Lee picked up on Crofts' thoughts. Crofts turned red and blurted out, "Sorry, I forgot. No hard feelings." "I read in your mind," Mr. Lee continued, "that you think Wilbur Mercer, as he calls himself, might be 0-Z. Surely you know the party's position on that question. It was discussed just a few days ago. The party has decided that there are no 0-Z races in the solar system, and that the supposition that there are still somewhere the remnants of once superior beings surviving is a form of morbid mysticism." Crofts sighed. "To decide an empirical question by vote - to decide it on strictly political grounds, I really don't understand." At that point, Minister Herrick entered the conversation and began to reassure both men. "Please, don't argue over theoretical issues that you can't agree on. Let's stick to the point - Mercer's party is rapidly spreading across the planet." Mr. Lee nodded, "You're right, of course." Excerpt No. [3] p. 6. Ray Meritan was not feeling well today. He still had a headache from the rock someone had thrown at Wilbur Mercer. Although Meritan tried to pull his hands away from the box when he saw the rock fly, he wasn't fast enough. The rock hit Mercer on his right temple until blood gushed out. "I got hit by three Mercerites tonight," Glen said. "They looked terrible. All of them. What happened to Mercer today?" "How should I know?" "You look just like the ones I met today. You have a headache, don't you? I've known you long enough, Ray. You get mixed up in everything that's new and strange. I don't care if you're a mercerita. I just thought you might like some painkillers." Ray Meritan retorted sternly, "But that would defeat the whole point, don't you think? Painkillers. Please, Mr. Mercer, if you're going up that hill, how about a dose of morphine. You won't feel a thing afterwards." Excerpt No. [4] p. 6. That's exactly what I'm thinking, Meritan thought. What is jazz? What is life? He rubbed his bruised, pain-tortured forehead and asked himself how he was going to survive the next week. Wilbur Mercer was nearing his goal. Every day it got worse... "And after a short break for important rumors," Goldstream was saying, "we'll be back to tell you more about the men and women of the jazz world, these eccentric people, and especially the mastery of one of them, the one and only Ray Meritan." A band of commercials appeared on a monitor facing the studio. Meritan turned to Goldstream. "I'll take that pill." He received a yellow jagged flat pill. "Paracodeine," Goldstream commented. "Illegal, but effective. An addictive drug... I'm surprised you, of all people, don't carry any." "Not anymore," Ray got a plastic cup of water and swallowed the pill. "Now you've gone mercenary." "Now I'm-" He glanced at Goldstream. They'd known each other professionally for years. "I'm not a mercerite," he said, "so forget it, Glen. Coincidentally, I got a headache the very night some asshole sadist threw a sharp rock at Mercer and hit him in the temple." He frowned. Excerpt No. [5] p. 7. Case in point, he thought as he played. That's what the FBI needs me for. So they can show teenagers what to avoid in life. First the paracodein and now Mercer. Watch out, kids! Off-camera, Glen Goldstream was holding a paper he'd scribbled on: IS MERCER AN ALIEN? And underneath that, he added: THIS IS IT, WHAT THEY WANT TO KNOW. An invasion from somewhere outside, Meritan mused as he played. That's what he's afraid of. Fear of the unknown, like little children. That's all we are: small, frightened children playing ritual games with super-powered weapons. He picked up on a thought from a TV company worker in the control room. Mercer was injured. Ray Meritan immediately turned his attention to him, shooting with all his might. His fingers strummed the strings from memory. The government is passing a law against so-called empathy boxes. He immediately remembered his box at home in front of the television set. Organizations that distribute and sell empathy boxes outlawed. The FBI is making arrests in several major cities. Other countries are likely to follow. How badly injured? He mused in his mind. Fatally? And what had happened to the mercerites who were clutching the handles of their empathy boxes at that very moment? Where did they end up? Under medical supervision? Should we leak the news now? wondered one of the TV company's staff. Or wait for the commercials? Ray Meritan stopped playing and said clearly into the microphone, "Wilbur Mercer has been injured. We all expected it, but it's still a great tragedy. Mercer is a saint." Glen Goldstream stared at him with bulging eyes. "I believe in Mercer," Ray Meritan said, and all over the United States, television viewers heard his profession of faith. "I believe that his agony, his wounds and his death have great meaning for all of us." And it did. He made it onto the convict list. And it didn't take much courage to do it. "Pray for Wilbur Mercer," he said, and returned to his harp playing. You fool, thought Glen Goldstream, This is how you give yourself away! You'll be in jail in a week. Your career is ruined. Plink-plink, Ray played, smiling amusedly at Glen. Excerpt No. [6] pp. 7 - 9. "By the United States government. I've been scanning your thoughts, and I find that you know that Ray Meritan is one of the leading Mercerites, and that you are attracted to Mercerism itself." "But that's not true!" "You are unconsciously attracted to it, You are on the verge of breaking. I can even read the thoughts you hide from yourself. We'll go back to the United States together. We'll find Mr. Ray Meritan and he'll lead us to Wilbur Mercer. It's as simple as that." "And that's why I was sent to Cuba?" "I'm a member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Cuba. And the only telepath in the entire headquarters. We voted to cooperate with the United States State Department during this terrible crisis. Our plane, Miss Hiashi, leaves for Washington D.C. in half an hour. We must leave for the airport immediately." Joan Hiashi looked around the restaurant helplessly. The other guests, the waiters... ...no one was paying attention. She stood up, and as a waiter walked by with a heavily laden tray, she said to him, "This man," pointing to Mr. Lee, "is trying to kidnap me. Please help me." The waiter glanced into the booth, and when he saw who it was, he smiled at Joan and shrugged his shoulders. "Mr. Lee is a very important man." And he continued on his way. "He's right, then," said Mr. Lee. Joan ran out of the booth and through the restaurant. "Help me," she said to the elderly Cuban man who sat there with his empathy box in front of him. "I'm a mercerita, too. They want to arrest me." An old, wrinkled face looked up at her. The man eyed her closely. "Help me," she demanded again. "Pray to Mercer," the old man said. He can't help me, Joan realized. She turned to Mr. Lee, who stood behind her, not stopping to point his gun at her. "This old man won't do anything for you," Mr. Lee stated. "He won't even get on his feet." She slumped her shoulders helplessly. "All right, then. Let's go." The TV IN THE CORNER abruptly cut off the daily commercial chatter. The image of the woman with the bottle of detergent disappeared, leaving the screen black. Then the TV announcer's voice came on. He spoke in Spanish. "Mercer is hurt," Mr. Lee said. "But not dead. How do you feel, Ms. Hiashi, as a mercerita? Has it affected you in any way? Oh, I had forgotten entirely. First you must get hold of those handholds to make an effect. It must be a voluntary act." Joan picked up the old Cuban's box, held it in front of her for a moment, and then grasped the handles. Mr. Lee stared at her in surprise. He stepped toward her and reached for the box.... What she felt was not pain. Then what was it? She mused, looking around her at the darkened, foggy restaurant. Maybe Mercer was unconscious. That must be it. I'm running away from you, she turned her thoughts to Mr. Lee. You can't-or at least you won't-follow me where I'm going. To the netherworld of Wilbur Mercer, dying somewhere in the wilderness, surrounded by enemies. I'm with him now. And it's an escape from something worse. From you. And you'll never make me go back. Around her, the landscape was bare. The air was thick with the scent of blossoming flowers. She was in the desert and it was dry as hell. A man stood beside her, an expression of pain in his grey, downcast eyes. "I am your friend," he said, "but you must pretend I do not exist. Do you understand?" He waved his empty hands. "No, I don't understand." "How can I save you," the man spoke, "if I can't even save myself?" He smiled, "Now you understand. There is no salvation." "Then what's the use of all this?" She asked. "To show you," Wilbur Mercer replied, "that you are never alone. I am here with you and always will be. Go back and tell them." She took her hands off the handholds. Mr. Lee pointed his pistol at her. "Well?" "Let's go," she said. "Back to the United States. Turn me over to the FBI. It doesn't matter." "What did you see?" Mr. Lee asked curiously. "I won't tell you." "But I'm going to find out anyway. From your thoughts." He began to probe and scan, his head cocked to one side. The corners of his mouth slowly lowered, his face taking on a cranky expression. "And that's all? Mercer talked to you and told you there was nothing he could do for you - and this is the man you're willing to lay down your life for, you and everyone else? You're a fool." "In the company of madmen," said Joan, "the madmen are the sane ones." "Nonsense!" To BOGART CROFTS Mr. Lee said, "It was interesting. She became a mercerita right before my eyes. The latent transformed into the real... it proves I wasn't wrong when I read her mind before." "I'm sure we'll get Meritan soon," Crofts told his superior, Minister Herrick. "He left the television studio in Los Angeles where he received the news of Mercer's serious injury. No one seems to know what he did after that. He never returned to his apartment. Local police confiscated his empathy box." Excerpt No. [7] p. 9 "What would have happened," he turned to Mr. Lee, "if I had grabbed these two handles? There's no television. I have no idea what Wilbur Mercer is doing right now. As a matter of fact, for all I know, he should be dead at last." Mr. Lee began to explain, "If you grasp those handles, you will enter - I hate to use the word, but it seems most appropriate - a mystical community. You will share Mr. Mercer, wherever he is, in his suffering. But that's not all. You will also accept his-" Mr. Lee paused. "Insight is not the right term. Ideology? No." Minister Herrick suggested, "How about a hypnotic state?" "Perhaps," Mr. Lee conceded. He frowned. "No, that's not it either. No word fits. And that's the whole basis. It can't be described-it has to be experienced." "I'll give it a try," Crofts decided. "No," protested Mr. Lee. "I can't recommend it in any way. I warn you. Keep away from the thing. I have seen Miss Hiashi do it, and I have also seen the change in her. Did you ever try paracodeine when it was still popular among the cosmopolitan population?" His voice sounded angry. "I tried it," Crofts said. "It didn't do anything to me." "And what did you want it to do, Bog?" Minister Herrick asked him. Bogart Crofts shrugged his shoulders, "I mean, I didn't see any reason why people liked it, why they wanted it." Finally, he grasped the handles of the empathy box. Excerpt No. [8] p. 10 I wonder where Wilbur Mercer is? he asked himself. In this system, or somewhere else entirely, under an entirely different sun? We may never know. Or at least - I will never know. But whatever. Mercer was somewhere, and that was all that mattered. And there was always a way to get in touch with him. There was always the empathy box - at least before the police raids. And Meritan was sure that the distribution company that supplied the boxes, and which had worked undercover before, would find a way around the police. If it succeeded- In the rainy gloom ahead, he saw the red bulbs of the nightclub. He opened the door and entered. To the bartender inside, he said: "Listen, do you have an empathy box? I'll pay a hundred dollars for one use." The bartender, a tall, burly man with hairy arms, looked at him: "No. I don't have anything like that. Fuck off." The people at the bar looked him over. One of them said: "They're off limits now." "Hey, that's Ray Meritan," another shouted. "The jazz man." Another muttered sleepily: "Play something, jazzman." He sipped from his pint. "Wait," said the bartender. "Hold on, buddy. I'll give you the address." He wrote something on a matchbook and handed it to Meritan. "How much do I owe you?" "Five dollars should do it." Meritan paid and walked out of the bar, the box in his pocket. It's probably the address of the nearest police station, he told himself mentally. But I'll give it a try anyway. If I could just get my hands on the empathy box one more time-. At the address the bartender had given him, he found an old, half-decayed, wooden house in a slum area of Los Angeles. He knocked on the door and waited. The door swung open. A heavyset woman of about forty in a bathrobe and fur slippers appeared. "I'm not the police," he said, "I'm a mercerita. May I use your empathy box?" The door opened slowly. The woman eyed him carefully, apparently trusting him. But she didn't say a word. "Sorry to bother you so late at night," he apologized. "What happened to you, sir? You look ill." "It's because of Mercer, he's badly hurt." "Follow me," said the woman, and led him, with a mighty shuffle of slippers, into the dark, cool room where the parrot slept in a large brass cage. There on the old radio cabinet he saw the empathy box. At the sight, a wonderful relief spread through his body. "Just like home," the woman said. "Thanks." He gripped the handles. A voice in his ear said, "We'll use the girl. She'll lead us to Meritan. I was right to hire her." Ray Meritan didn't recognize the voice. It didn't belong to Wilbur Mercer. He was confused, but he gripped the handles harder and listened anyway. "Some alien power seems to be successfully influencing the weakest segment of our society, but that segment - and I am deeply convinced of this - is controlled by a few cynical volunteers at the top, like Meritan. They are using this Mercer mania to line their own pockets." The voice confidently droned on. When Meritan heard it, he felt himself begin to worry. Because this was someone from the other side. Somehow he had come into empathic contact with him, and not with Wilbur Mercer. Or had Mercer done this, staged this situation on purpose? He listened again and heard: "...we need to get that Miss Hiashi from New York to us so we can continue to interrogate her." Then the voice added, "As Herrick said..." Excerpt No. [9] p. 11 BOGART CROFTS said: "I didn't catch Mercer." He backed away slowly, his eyes still fixed on the empathy box. After a moment he said in an ominous tone, "I caught Meritan. But I don't know where he is. The moment I grabbed those handholds, Meritan did the same somewhere else. We've bonded, and now he knows everything I know. And we know everything he knows, which isn't much." As if stunned, he turned to Minister Herrick. "He doesn't know much more about Mercer than we do. He's been trying to get in touch with him. It is certain that he is not Mercer." Then Crofts paused. "I'm sure there's more," said Herrick, turning to Mr. Lee. "What else did he learn from Meritan, Mr. Lee?" "Meritan is going to go to New York and try to find Joan Hiashi," Mr. Lee read read readily from Crofts' thoughts. "He learned it from Meritan during the time their minds were joined." "We will prepare for Mr. Meritan's arrival," said Minister Herrick, grinning. "Do you think I've experienced what you telepaths come in contact with all the time?" Crofts asked Mr. Lee. "Only when one of us gets near another telepath," said Mr. Lee. "It can be uncomfortable. We avoid it because if two completely different minds cross, psychic damage can occur. I suspect there was a crossover between you and Mr. Meritan." Crofts asked, "What are we going to do? We know now that Meritan is innocent. He doesn't know anything about Mercer or the organization that distributed the boxes." There was silence for a while. "But he's one of the few prominent people who joined the Mercerites," Minister Herrick pointed out. He handed Crofts a teletype. "And he did it quite openly. If it won't bother you, read this-" "I know he declared himself a Mercer supporter on the television program today," Crofts said in a shaky voice. "We're facing alien forces that come from an entirely different solar system," said Minister Herrick, "so we have to be careful at every turn. We're going to try to get Meritan, and we're going to do it through Miss Hiashi. We will release her from prison and keep an eye on her. As soon as Meritan makes contact with her-" Excerpt No. [10] pp. 11- 12. MINISTER HERRICK turned on him. "No wonder those empathy boxes did so much damage. Now I see it with my own eyes. And I'm not giving up under any circumstances." He grabbed the empathy box Crofts had used earlier. He raised it above his head and tossed it to the floor. The box shattered into several pieces. "Don't think of this as an act of childishness," he said, "I just want to break the connection between us and Meritan. It would do more harm than good." "If we catch him," Crofts pointed out, "he will be able to continue to exert his influence over us." He corrected himself, "Or rather, over me." "Be that as it may, I intend to proceed," said Minister Herrick. "And please submit your resignation, Mr. Crofts. I intend to deal with that matter as well." His face was menacing and implacable. "Minister, I read in Mr. Crofts's thoughts that he is absolutely horrified at this moment. He has been the innocent victim of a situation which Mercer himself may have orchestrated to bring confusion among us. If you accept Mr. Crofts' resignation, it means that Mercer has succeeded." "It doesn't matter whether he accepts it or not," said Crofts, "because I'm resigning either way." Mr. Lee sighed, "That empathy box made you an involuntary telepath for a while, and that was too much for you." He tapped Mr. Crofts on the shoulder. "Telepathic power and empathy are two versions of the same thing. It should be called - a box of telepathy. Funny, these alien beings can produce what we can only develop." "Since you've read my mind, you know what I'm up to. No doubt you will tell the Minister about it." Mr. Lee smiled vaguely, "The Minister and I are working together in the interest of world peace. We both have our instructions." He turned to Herrick. "This man is so low that he is now actually intending to defect. To join the Mercerites before all the empathy boxes are disposed of. He's taken a liking to being an involuntary telepath." "If you defect," threatened Herrick, "you will be arrested. I promise you that." Crofts didn't say a word. "He hasn't changed his mind," Mr. Lee nodded politely to the two men, obviously amused by the situation. But in his mind Mr. Lee was thinking. This was a truly brilliant and bold move on the part of the thing called Wilbur Mercer. This linking up with Crofts through Meritan. Crofts received a strong dose of radiation directly from the centre of the movement. The next step will probably be that when Crofts consults the empathy box again - if he can find one - Mercer will reach out to him personally this time. He'll reach out to his new follower. They've got another man, Mr Lee realised. They're one step ahead. But in the end, it will be us who win. Because in the end, we will have destroyed all the empathy boxes, and Mercer can't do without them. It's the only way he can contact and control people, like the unfortunate Mr. Crofts here. Without the empathy boxes, the whole movement is finished.
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