Short Story: The Final Amnesia Of Philip…

Short Story: The Final Amnesia Of Philip K Dick

THE FINAL AMNESIA OF PHILIP K. DICK

On the 33rd of February Philip K. Dick asked The Machine to provide him with a wife. He was nineteen years old now, he said, and it was about time he settled down. The Machine made the necessary connections and the face of Howard Hopwood appeared on the screen above the control desk where Phil sat. Hopwood was the Data Controller of Bride-by-Connection, and he was not pleased to see Phil at all.

“Not you again!” was his immediate response. “I see your credit with Amnesiacs hasn’t run out yet. Has it?” he leaned forward and his face suddenly became huge on the screen.

“I beg your pardon?” said Phil politely. “Amnesiacs?”

“Well, you’ve forgotten, naturally,” Hopwood replied irritably. “Just a moment,” he glanced aside, looking at something Phil couldn’t see. “So, Mr. Dick. You’re a Grade B Date Reviser, with aspirations to become a writer, and you’re seeking a lady of at least twenty, five feet nine minimum, preferably with dark hair.” He looked Phil in the eye. “Correct?”

“I don’t understand. How did you get all that information? I’ve only just -”

“No, no, Mr. Dick. You haven’t ‘only just’ at all, as I’m getting tired of telling you. You have been connected on FIVE previous occasions! Five times we have answered your request for a bride. For an astounding variety of reasons your marriages are unsuccessful. Even with the darkest haired lady on our books.”

Phil looked aghast. “I don’t remember...” he stammered.

“I know you don’t remember!” Hopwood sounded despairing. “The trauma of each separation sends you scuttling to Amnesiacs Incorporated to have the memory erased. After all - that’s what they’re there for - to erase psychologically disturbing memories. But for some reason when you undergo their process something goes wrong; too much gets lost, and you’re soon back here requesting a bride for the first time. Mr. Dick, you are not nineteen years old at all! And you’re not a Date Reviser.”

“I’m not?”

“No. You are a highly successful science fiction writer.” Hopwood shook his head. “Though frankly I’ve never seen any of your books anywhere. Tell me, have you ever heard of the ‘Complete Recall Set’?”

Phil scratched his head. The term did seem oddly familiar. “No.”

“Every time someone uses Amnesiacs they’re provided with a headset, to be used if lost memories want to be retrieved. You must have one somewhere. In fact,” he added, dryly, “you must have at least five!”

Phil looked around at his cluttered workroom. “Okay,” he said, turning back to Hopwood. “I’ll have a good look. In the meantime...”

“I know,” said Hopwood, with a groan. “You’d like another Connection.”

Turning off The Machine, Phil surveyed his workroom again. Bookcases lined the walls, and there was a sturdy desk in the corner with an old typewriter on it. Besides one of the bookcases was a comfy looking armchair, with a pair of headphones dangling over the arm. His eye followed the lead to an expensive looking stereo system tucked away in the corner of the room. He went over and checked the turntable. A copy of Linda Rondstadt’s ‘Greatest Hits’ sat smugly on it, challenging him.

He looked carefully round the room. Here was a collection of books and records that should have taken years to gather - yet he was only nineteen years old! And yes, he did have ideas of becoming a writer, but with his job in Date Revision there was so little free time...

Hopwood had said something about a headset. Maybe the headphones he saw on the armchair... He settled himself down, and placed them on his head, setting the hi-fi into action. He wasn’t sure, now, who Linda Ronstadt was, but maybe she could help him recover his memory. But as music filled his ears he decided there really wasn’t much to remember.

It was hard to say how much time had elapsed when he heard the knock at the door. Who was this? Of course! It must be his date - he had arranged something with that Computer Agency, Bride-By-something or other. He rose from the chair and opened the door.

“Hi!” She was certainly dark haired, was his first thought. Long, dark locks tumbled around her shoulders, and her face was lit by a lovely smile. “I’m Sophia.”

“Come in,” he said, feeling suddenly embarrassed by the shabbiness of the room. “Would you like a coffee?”

“That would be fine. Oh!” She gave a start of surprise, and picked up the sleeve of the Linda Ronstadt album. “So that’s who she is.”

“I don’t think it’s mine, actually,” said Phil.

“Oh, it’s yours all right, Philip. You’re a big fan. Don’t you see the resemblance?”

Phil looked from the record sleeve to Sophia, and back again. There was an uncanny similarity between the two, he had to admit. But who was she, this singer he was supposed to be an admirer of? He stared intently at Sophia, and that’s when he saw it. A sparkling necklace hung round her neck, and nestling in her throat was a curious symbol, like a-

“What is that?” he asked, touching it with his forefinger.

“I thought you’d never notice,” said Sophia. “Originally it was a symbol used by the ancient Christians, but it’s now used by Amnesiacs Incorporated for their more difficult cases. When they heard of your most recent request they provided it, and Mr. Hopwood was most insistent that I wore it. It appears you have had some difficulty finding your Complete Recall Set. And yet I see one by your desk...”

Sophia crossed the room and picked up what looked like a pink crash helmet from some futuristic motorcycle. Phil stared at it, wondering how he could have missed it. She passed it to him, and he fastened it tentatively onto his head, his eyes never straying from her necklace.

The memories hit him instantly, in a flash of pink light that hit the middle of his forehead, beneath the helmet. Of course! He was a writer! It had been years since he had been in Date Revision. Those were the days when the evil President Glyn had been running the country, and it had been his job to process dates of historical events, giving them new dates according to Glyn’s new calendar. When he had come to power he had erased nearly two thousand years of history, and implemented his own system, making every month have thirty three days, excepting Glyntember (the old December) which had thirty six. This gave the year too many days, so March had been arbitrarily erased.

It had been a terrible time. But Glyn had been overthrown, and - he remembered now - his fifth wife had left him. So it was true what Hopwood said. He searched his memory. He had had so many fixes with Amnesiacs that his head was befuddled. There was only one way to lose the effect, he recalled, and that was this helmet, which Sophia had brought to him.

He relaxed, sat down, still wearing the helmet, and saw his life unravel before his eyes like a roll of film. The struggles to develop his writing, the early success, the failure of one relationship after another, his search for the dark haired girl, the dark days of President Glyn and how he had helped the resistance overthrow him. The cost to his health and marriage, and his most recent, despairing, visit to Amnesiacs to start again. All it had done, once more, was to reduce him to nineteen years old, paying repeated visits to Bride-By-Connection, with its Data Controller at a loss as to how to break the cycle.

Until now. Now, it appeared, Hopwood had contacted Amnesiacs, and obtained a means of restoring his mind, and with it provided the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He undid the helmet, pulled it off, and stared at her. “Sophia?”

“Yes Phil?”

“You’re still here then? You have actually been sent, as a prospective partner, not simply...”

Sophia put her arm around him. “Not simply to restore your memory. Of course not, Phil. I’m here to make you happy, to help you find the happiness you failed to find with anyone else.”

She continued talking to him in a calming, soothing voice, explaining in clear, rational tone all she could do for him. “Now, how about that coffee?” she concluded.

The following weeks were the happiest of Phil’s life. He and Sophia went everywhere together, to cinemas, art galleries, theatres, gigs; she was even a fan of Linda Rondstadt.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he said to her one time, while they were having coffee in a small restaurant near to Phil’s apartment, “that you look like anyone else, apart from Linda Rondstadt?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, that first day, when you showed me the resemblance to her, I thought it was uncanny. But the funny thing I’ve noticed since is that you don’t always look like her.”

“No?”

“No. When we go to a gig, or to the cinema, you look like someone else entirely. Someone I can’t quite put my finger on. You’re like a chameleon, and I can’t decide which one of you I like the best.”

“You should like all of me, Philip,” said Sophia, waving a cautionary finger in front of his face. “I want to be the perfect partner.”

“And so you are,” he replied, “and so you are.”

It was only a week later that the dream was shattered. One morning, while Sophia was out at the supermarket, there was a knock at the apartment door. Phil was busy with his most recent novel, ‘An Owl in Daylight’ and didn’t bother to answer. The knocking turned to a hammering, though, and he was forced to open the door. Two plain suited, short haired men, the type Phil never trusted, were standing outside.

“Mr. Dick?”

“Yes?”

“We’re from A.R.T. May we have a word with you?”

“A.R.T. What’s that?”

“Please, Mr. Dick,” said the second man. “It won’t take a moment. It concerns your friend Sophia.”

A chill gripped Phil’s heart; he went numb, opening the door wider and allowing the two men to enter. They circled the room suspiciously, until one of them noticed a pile of records on the floor. The Rondstadt album was on top. He picked it up and showed it to his partner.

“I thought so,” said his partner grimly. “Mr. Dick,” he said, more gently now. I hate to tell you this, because I know how much you hate them, but for the last few weeks you’ve been living with a PRIS.”

“A what?”

“An android, Mr. Dick. A.R.T. - the Android Reclamation Team - has been trying to locate this particular model for some time. It’s difficult, because, as you’ve probably noticed, they have the ability to change their appearance subtly, so you can’t always recognise them. It’s a Perfect Replica Intelligence System; we call it PRIS for short. Six escaped from the project where they were developed, by imitating the team studying them. We’ve tracked the others down. This one, PRIS 6, is the last.”

“I see. I knew,” Phil sank into his armchair. “I knew she was strange, changeable. Sometimes...” he laughed, “she almost reminded me of other women, other women I’d known. She looked mostly like Linda. I thought it was cute, but...”

“Now you know.”

“Yes. What are you going to do?”

“She’s out shopping?”

“Yes.”

“What we propose is this. We can’t reclaim her without your help. She, it, will deny all knowledge of what she is, naturally. An easy way would be a small incision; unfortunately we can’t do that - believe it or not these things have rights. However, it’s programmed to please you; if you get angry with it, it’ll go through all her possible changes and give itself away. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Then, with you as witness, we can detain it.”

“And? What happens then?”

“Well, it will be deprogrammed, obviously. Some of the constituent parts can be very useful.” The men sat down at the table. Phil stared at them. They were going to wait for her. They were going to take Sophia away from him. She’s an android, he said to himself, a fake, the thing he hated.

The hour they spent waiting for Sophia to return was the longest in Phil’s life. The men were silent, turning down all offers of coffee. Finally, at noon, he heard the sound of her key in the door.

Quickly, he got up and crossed the room, opening the door for her, and causing her to almost fall into the room, laden with bags. “Oh!” She gasped, then looked at the men, then at Phil. “We have company? You should have said.”

“Yes, Linda,” said Phil, taking the shopping bags from her. “Some gentlemen from A.R.T. They seem to have made a mistake.”

“Mr. Dick,” began one of the men, rising.

“I have been a fan of Ms. Rondstadt’s for years,” said Phil. “I didn’t know until recently she was also a fan of mine. I wrote to her, and she’s very kindly agreed to come and do a personal performance,” he laughed. “She even agreed to go to the corner store for some supplies for me. I couldn’t get there because of my bad leg.” He limped across the room.

The men rose and looked at Sophia. “You are Ms. Linda Rondstadt?”

“That’s correct.” She and Phil exchanged anxious looks.

“Okay. Perhaps we’ll stay for the performance.”

“Performance?”

“Yes. We’d love to hear you sing.”

The woman smiled at them, then moved to the centre of the room and gave a perfect, accapella rendition of ‘Heart Like a Wheel’.

As her voice died away the men looked at each other, then at Phil. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mr. Dick,” said one. “Nothing for us here, at present,” he said to his partner.

“What’s your real name?” Phil asked, after they’d left.

The woman shrugged. “I kind of liked Sophia,” she said.

“Sophia it is, then. How did you do it?”

“Easy really. I enrolled with Bride-By-Connection to escape from the A.R.T. When I heard Hopwood bemoaning your case I asked if I could be Connected to you; I read all your books, your life history, or as much of it as I could. I knew the fish symbol would help trigger your memory. I programmed myself with as much detail of all your previous wives that I could get hold of, and sort of added Linda Rondstadt as a joke.”

“A joke?”

“Yes. I knew you were a fan. I figured I could serenade you. Just as well I did,” she laughed.

“Yes. More than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I found out you were an android I was pretty shocked,” said Phil. “But then I thought: Linda Rondsadt? That’s got to be a joke!”

“So?”

“So androids don’t have a sense of humour. I should know; I’ve written enough about them. Whether you know it or not, you’re beginning to become human.”

“So you saved me. That was very kind.”

“No - you’re very kind. Here, let me put these away.” He began unloading the supplies from her bag. “And as I said myself, in that story I wrote so long ago, it’s not what planet you were born on - or what laboratory designed you - it’s how kind you are. And whether you’ve got a sense of humour.”

He picked up Linda Ronstadt’s ‘Greatest Hits’ from the turntable, and put it back in the sleeve. He would not be needing that any more. After all, now he had the real thing.