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TEN
The Mission Street Hall of Justice building, onto the
roof of which the hovercar descended, jutted up in a
series of baroque, ornamented spires; complicated and
modern, the handsome structure struck Rick Deckard
as attractive -- except for one aspect. He had never seen
it before.
The police hovercar landed. And, a few minutes
later, he found himself being booked.
"304," Officer Crams said to the sergeant at the high
desk. " And 612.4 and let's see. Representing himself to
be a peace officer."
"406.7," the desk sergeant said, filling out the forms;
he wrote leisurely, in a slightly bored manner. Routine
business, his posture and expression declared. Nothing
of importance.
"Over here," Officer Crams said to Rick, leading him
to a small white table at which a technician operated
familiar equipment. "For your cephalic pattern,"
Crams said. "Ident-purposes."
Rick said brusquely, "I know." In the old days, when
he had been a harness bull himself, he had brought
many suspects to a table like this. Like this, but not this
particular table.
His cephalic pattern taken, he found himself being
led off to an equally familiar room; reflexively he began
assembling his valuables for transfer. It makes no
sense, he said to himself. Who are these people? If this
place has always existed, why didn't we know about
it? And why don't they know about us? Two parallel
police agencies, he said to himself; ours and this one.
But never coming in contact -- as far as I know -- until
now. Or maybe they have, he thought. Maybe this isn't
the first time. Hard to believe, he thought, that this
wouldn't have happened long ago. If this really is a
police apparatus, here; if it's what it asserts itself to
be.
A man, not in uniform, detached himself from the
spot at which he had been standing; he approached
Rick Deckard at a measured, unruffled pace, gazing at
him curiously. "What's this one?" he asked Officer
Crams.
"Suspected homicide," Crams answered. "We have a
body -- we found it in his car -- but he claims it's an
android. We're checking it out, giving it a bone marrow
analysis at the lab. And posing as a police officer, a
bounty hunter. To gain access to a woman's dressing
room in order to ask her suggestive questions. She
doubted he was what he said he was and called us in."
Stepping back, Crams said, "Do you want to finish up
with him, sir?"
"All right." The senior police official, not in uniform,
blue-eyed, with a narrow, flaring nose and inexpressive
lips, eyed Rick, then reached for Rick's briefcase.
"What do you have in here, Mr. Deckard?"
Rick said, "Material pertaining to the Voigt-Kampff
personality test. I was testing a suspect when Officer
Crams arrested me." He watched as the police official rummaged
through the contents of the briefcase, examining each item. "The questions I asked Miss Luft
are standard V-K questions, printed on the --"
"Do you know George Gleason and Phil Resch?" the
police official asked.
"No," Rick said; neither name meant
anything to
him.
"They're the bounty hunters for Northern California.
Both are attached to our department. Maybe you'll run
into them while you're here. Are you an android, Mr.
Deckard? The reason I ask is that several times in the
past we've had escaped andys turn up posing as out-of-
state bounty hunters here in pursuit of a suspect."
Rick said, "I'm not an android. You can administer
the Voigt-Kampff test to me; I've taken it before and I
don't mind taking it again. But I know what the results
will be. Can I phone my wife?"
"You're allowed one call. Would you rather phone
her than a lawyer?"
"I'll phone my wife," Rick said. "She can get a lawyer for me."
The plainclothes police officer handed him a fifty-cent piece and pointed. "There's the vidphone over
there." He watched as Rick crossed the room to the
phone. Then he returned to his examination of the contents of Rick's briefcase.
Inserting the coin, Rick dialed his home
phone number. And stood for what seemed like an eternity,
waiting.
A woman's face appeared on the vidscreen. "Hello,"
she said.
It was not Iran. He had never seen the woman before
in his life.
He hung up, walked slowly back to the police officer.
"No luck?" the officer asked. "Well, you can make
another call; we have a liberal policy in that regard. I
can't offer you the opportunity of calling a bondsman
because your offense is unbailable, at present. When
you're arraigned, however --"
"I know," Rick said acridly. "I'm familiar with police procedure."
"Here's your briefcase," the officer said; he handed it
back to Rick. "Come into my office ... I'd like to talk
with you further." He started down a side hall, leading
the way; Rick followed. Then, pausing and turning, the
officer said, "My name is Garland." He held out his
hand and they shook. Briefly. "Sit down," Garland said
as he opened his office door and pushed behind a large
uncluttered desk.
Rick seated himself facing the desk.
"This Voigt-Kampff test," Garland said, "that you
mentioned." He indicated Rick's briefcase. "All that
material you carry." He filled and lit a pipe, puffed for
a moment. "It's an analytical tool for detecting andys?"
"It's our basic test," Rick said. "The only one we
currently employ. The only one capable of distinguishing the new Nexus-6 brain unit. You haven't heard of
this test?"
"I've heard of several profile-analysis scales for use
with androids. But not that one." He continued to study
Rick intently, his face turgid; Rick could not fathom
what Garland was thinking. "Those smudged carbon
flimsies," Garland continued, "that you have there in
your briefcase. Polokov, Miss Luft ... your assignments. The next one is me."
Rick stared at him, then grabbed for the briefcase.
In a moment the carbons lay spread out before him.
Garland had told the truth; Rick examined the sheet.
Neither man -- or rather neither he nor Garland -- spoke
for a time and then Garland cleared his throat, coughed
nervously.
"It's an unpleasant sensation," he said. "To find
yourself a bounty hunter's assignment all of a sudden.
Or whatever it is you are, Deckard." He pressed a key
on his desk intercom and said, "Send one of the bounty
hunters in here; I don't care which one. Okay; thank
you." He released the key. "Phil Resch will be in here a
minute or so from now," he said to Rick. "I want to see
his list before I proceed."
"You think I might be on his list?" Rick
said.
"It's possible. We'll know pretty soon. Best to be
sure about these critical matters. Best not to leave it to
chance. This info sheet about me." He indicated the
smudged carbon. "It doesn't list me as a police inspector; it inaccurately gives my occupation as insurance
underwriter. Otherwise it's correct, as to physical description, age, personal habits, home address. Yes, it's
me, all right. Look for yourself." He pushed the page to
Rick, who picked it up and glanced over it.
The office door opened and a tall, fleshless man with
hard-etched features, wearing horn-rim glasses and a
fuzzy Vandyke beard, appeared. Garland rose, indicating Rick.
"Phil Resch, Rick Deckard. You're both bounty
hunters and it's probably time you met."
As he shook hands with Rick, Phil Resch said,
"Which city are you attached to?"
Garland answered for Rick. "San Francisco. Here;
take a look at his schedule. This one comes up next."
He handed Phil Resch the sheet which Rick had been
examining, that with his own description.
"Say, Gar," Phil Resch said. "This is you."
"There's more," Garland said. "He's also got Luba
Luft the opera singer there on his list of retirement-
assignments, and Polokov. Remember Polokov? He's
now dead; this bounty hunter or android or whatever he
is got him, and we're running a bone marrow test at the
lab. To see if there's any conceivable basis --"
"Polokov I've talked to," Phil Resch said. "That big
Santa Claus from the Soviet police?" He pondered,
plucking at his disarrayed beard. "I don't think it's a
good idea to run a bone marrow test on him."
"Why do you say that?" Garland asked,
clearly annoyed. "It's to remove any legal basis on which this
man Deckard could claim he hadn't killed anyone; he
only 'retired an android.'"
Phil Resch said, "Polokov struck me as
cold. Extremely cerebral and calculating; detached."
"A lot of the Soviet police are that way," Garland
said, visibly nettled.
"Luba Luft I never met," Phil Resch said. " Although I've heard records she's made." To Rick he
said, "Did you test her out?"
"I started to," Rick said. "But I couldn't get an accurate reading. And she called in a harness bull, which
ended it."
"And Polokov?" Phil Resch asked.
"I never got a chance to test him either."
Phil Resch said, mostly to himself, "And I assume
you haven't had an opportunity to test out Inspector
Garland, here."
"Of course not," Garland interjected, his face wrinkled with indignation; his words broke off, bitter and
sharp.
"What test do you use?" Phil Resch asked.
"The Voigt-Kampff scale."
"Don't know that particular one." Both Resch and
Garland seemed deep in rapid, professional thought --
but not in unison. "I've always said," he continued,
"that the best place for an android would be with a big
police organization such as W.P.O. Ever since I first
met Polokov I've wanted to test him, but no pretext
ever arose. It never would have, either ... which is one
of the values such a spot would have for an enterprising
android."
Getting slowly to his feet Inspector Garland faced
Phil Resch and said, "Have you wanted to test me,
too?"
A discreet smile traveled across Phil Resch's face;
he started to answer, then shrugged. And remained silent. He did not seem afraid of his superior, despite
Garland's palpable wrath.
"I don't think you understand the situation," Garland said. "This man
-- or android -- Rick Deckard
comes to us from a phantom, hallucinatory, nonexistent police agency
allegedly operating out of the old departmental headquarters on Lombard. He's never heard
of us and we've never heard of him -- yet ostensibly
we're both working the same side of the street. He employs a test we've never heard of. The list he carries
around isn't of androids; it's a list of human beings.
He's already killed once -- at least once. And if Miss
Luft hadn't gotten to a phone he probably would have
killed her and then eventually he would have come sniffing around after me."
"Hmm," Phil Resch said.
"Hmm," Garland mimicked, wrathfully. He looked,
now, as if he bordered on apoplexy. "Is that all you
have to say?"
The intercom came on and a female voice
said, "Inspector Garland, the lab report on Mr. Polokov's
corpse is ready."
"I think we should hear it," Phil Resch said.
Garland glanced at him, seething. Then he bent,
pressed the key of the intercom. "Let's have it, Miss
French."
"The bone marrow test," Miss French said, "shows
that Mr. Polokov was a humanoid robot. Do you want
a detailed --"
"No, that's enough." Garland settled back in his
seat, grimly contemplating the far wall; he said nothing
to either Rick or Phil Resch.
Resch said, "What is the basis of your Voigt-Kampff
test, Mr. Deckard?"
"Empathic response. In a variety of social situations.
Mostly having to do with animals."
"Ours is probably simpler," Resch said. "The reflex-arc response taking place in the upper ganglia of the
spinal column requires several microseconds more in
the humanoid robot than in a human nervous system."
Reaching across Inspector Garland's desk
he plucked a
pad of paper toward him; with a ball-point pen he drew
a sketch. "We use an audio signal or a light~flash. The
subject presses a button and the elapsed time is measured. We try it a number of times, of course. Elapsed
time varies in both the andy and the human. But by the
time ten reactions have been measured, we believe we
have a reliable clue. And, as in your case with Polokov,
the bone marrow test backs us up."
An interval of silence passed and then Rick said,
"You can test me out. I'm ready. Of course I'd like to
test you, too. If you're willing."
"Naturally," Resch said. He was, however, studying
Inspector Garland. "I've said for years," Resch murmured, "that the Boneli Reflex-Arc Test should be applied routinely to police personnel, the higher up the
chain of command the better. Haven't I, Inspector?"
"That's right you have," Garland said. "And I've
always opposed it. On the grounds that it would lower
department morale."
"I think now," Rick said, "you're going to have to sit
still for it. In view of your lab's report on Polokov."
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