Imposter

 

"It'll be good when we get the Project into final stage. Maybe it's just the propaganda
from the newsmachines, but in the last month I've gotten weary of all this. Everything seems so grim and serious, no color to life."
"Do you think the war is in vain?" the older man said suddenly. "You are an integral part
of it, yourself."
"This is Major Peters," Nelson said. Olham and Peters shook hands. Olham studied the
older man.
"What brings you along so early?" he said. "I don't remember seeing you at the Project
before."
"No, I'm not with the Project," Peters said, "but I know something about what you're do-
ing. My own work is altogether different."
A look passed between him and Nelson. Olham noticed it and he frowned. The bug was
gaining speed, flashing across the barren, lifeless ground toward the distant rim of the Project
building.
"What is your business?" Olham said. "Or aren't you permitted to talk about it?"
"I'm with the government," Peters said. "With FSA, the security organ."
"Oh?" Olham raised an eyebrow. "Is there any enemy infiltration in this region?"
"As a matter of fact I'm here to see you, Mr Olham."
Olham was puzzled. He considered Peters" words, but he could make nothing of them.
"To see me? Why?"
"I'm here to arrest you as an Outspace spy. That's why I'm up so early this morning. Grab
him Nelson --"
The gun drove into Olham's ribs. Nelson's hands were shaking, trembling with released
emotion, his face pale. He took a deep breath and let it out again.
"Shall we kill him now?" he whispered to Peters. "I think we should kill him now. We
can't wait."
Olham stared into his friend's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
Both men were staring at him steadily, rigid and grim with fright. Olham felt dizzy. His head
ached and spun.
"I don't understand," he murmured.
At that moment the shoot car left the ground and rushed up, heading into space. Below
them the Project fell away, smaller and smaller, disappearing. Olham shut his mouth.
"We can wait a little," Peters said. "I want to ask him some questions first."
Olham gazed dully ahead as the bug rushed through space.
"The arrest was made all right," Peters said into the vidscreen. On the screen the features
of the security chief showed. "It should be a load off everyone's mind."
"Any complications?"
"None. He entered the bug without suspicion. He didn't seem to think my presence was
too unusual."
"Where are you now?"
"On our way out, just inside the protec-bubble. We're moving at a maximum speed. You
can assume that the critical period is past. I'm glad the takeoff jets in this craft were in good
working order. If there had been any failure at that point --"

"Let me see him," the security chief said. He gazed directly at Olham where he sat, his
hands in his lap, staring ahead.
"So that's the man." He looked at Olham for a time. Olham said nothing. At last the chief
nodded to Peters. "All right. That's enough." A faint trace of disgust wrinkled his features. "I've
seen all I want. You've done something that will be remembered for a long time. They're prepar-
ing some sort of citation for both of you."
"That's not necessary," Peters said.
"How much danger is there now? Is there still much chance that --"
"There is some chance, but not too much. According to my understanding it requires a
verbal key phrase. In any case we'll have to take the risk."
"I'll have the Moon base notified you're coming."
"No." Peters shook his head. "I'll land the ship outside, beyond the base. I don't want it in
jeopardy."
"Just as you like." The chief's eyes flickered as he glanced again at Olham. Then his im-
age faded. The screen blanked.
Olham shifted his gaze to the window. The ship was already through the protec-bubble,
rushing with greater and greater speed all the time. Peters was in a hurry; below him, rumbling
under the floor, the jets were wide-open. They were afraid, hurrying frantically, because of him.
Next to him on the seat, Nelson shifted uneasily. "I think we should do it now," he said.
"I'd give anything if we could get it over with."
"Take it easy," Peters said. "I want you to guide the ship for a while so I can talk to him."
He slid over beside Olham, looking into his face. Presently he reached out and touched
him gingerly, on the arm and then on the cheek.
Olham said nothing. If I could let Mary know, he thought again. If I could find some way
of letting her know. He looked around the ship. How? The vidscreen? Nelson was sitting by the
board, holding the gun. There was nothing he could do. He was caught, trapped.
But why?
"Listen," Peters said, "I want to ask you some questions. You know where we're going.
We're moving Moonward. In an hour we'll land on the far side, on the desolate side. After we
land you'll be turned over immediately to a team of men waiting there. Your body will be de-
stroyed at once. Do you understand that?" He looked at his watch. "Within two hours your parts
will be strewn over the landscape. There won't be anything left of you."
Olham struggled out of his lethargy. "Can't you tell me --"
"Certainly, I'll tell you." Peters nodded. "Two days ago we received a report that an
Outspace ship had penetrated the protec-bubble. The ship let off a spy in the form of a humanoid
robot. The robot was to destroy a particular human being and take his place."
Peters looked calmly at Olham.
"Inside the robot was a U-Bomb. Our agent did not know how the bomb was to be deto-
nated, but he conjectured that it might be by a particular spoken phrase, a certain group of words.
The robot would live the life of the person he killed, entering into his usual activities, his job, his
social life. He had been constructed to resemble that person. No one would know the difference."
Olham's face went sickly chalk.

"The person whom the robot was to impersonate was Spence Olham, a high-ranking offi-
cial at one of the research Projects. Because this particular Project was approaching crucial stage,
the presence of an animate bomb, moving toward the center of the Project --"
Olham stared down at his hands. "But I'm Olham."
"Once the robot had located and killed Olham it was a simple matter to take over his life.
The robot was released from the ship eight days ago. The substitution was probably accom-
plished over the last weekend, when Olham went for a short walk in the hills."
"But I'm Olham." He turned to Nelson, sitting at the controls. "Don't you recognize me?
You've known me for twenty years. Don't you remember how we went to college together?" He
stood up,. "You and I were at the University. We had the same room." He went toward Nelson.
"Stay away from me!" Nelson snarled.
"Listen. Remember our second year? Remember that girl? What was her name --" He
rubbed his forehead. "The one with the dark hair. The one we met over at Ted's place."
"Stop!" Nelson waved the gun frantically. "I don't want to hear any more. You killed him!
You. . . machine."
Olham looked at Nelson. "You're wrong. I don't know what happened, but the robot never
reached me. Something must have gone wrong. Maybe the ship crashed." He turned to Peters.
"I'm Olham. I know it. No transfer was made. I'm the same as I've always been."
He touched himself, running his hands over his body. "There must be some way to prove
it. Take me back to Earth. An X-ray examination, a neurological study, anything like that will
show you. Or maybe we can find the crashed ship."
Neither Peters nor Nelson spoke.
"I am Olham," he said again. "I know I am. But I can't prove it."
"The robot," Peters said, "would be unaware that he was not the real Spence Olham. He
would become Olham in mind as well as body. He was given an artificial memory system, false
recall. He would look like him, have his memories, his thoughts and interests, perform his job.
"But there would be one difference. Inside the robot is a U-Bomb, ready to explode at the
trigger phrase." Peters moved a little away. That's the one difference. That's why we're taking you
to the Moon. They'll disassemble you and remove the bomb. Maybe it will explode, but it won't
matter, not there."
Olham sat down slowly.
"We'll be there soon," Nelson said.
He lay back, thinking frantically, as the ship dropped slowly down. Under them was the
pitted surface of the Moon, the endless expanse of ruin. What could he do? What would save
him?
"Get ready," Peters said.
In a few minutes he would be dead. Down below he could see a tiny dot, a building of
some kind. There were men in the building, the demolition team, waiting to tear him to bits.
They would rip him open, pull off his arms and legs, break him apart. When they found no bomb
they would be surprised; they would know, but it would be too late.
Olham looked around the small cabin. Nelson was still holding the gun. There was no
chance there. If he could get to a doctor, have an examination made -- that was the only way.

Mary could help him. He thought frantically, his mind racing. Only a few minutes, just a little
time left. If he could contact her, get word to her some way.
"Easy," Peters said. The ship came down slowly, bumping on the rough ground. There
was silence.
"Listen," Olham said thickly. "I can prove I'm Spence Olham. Get a doctor. Bring him
here --"
"There's the squad," Nelson pointed. "They're coming." He glanced nervously at Olham.
"I hope nothing happens."
"We'll be gone before they start work," Peters said. "We'll be out of here in a moment."
He put on his pressure suit. When he had finished he took the gun from Nelson. "I'll watch him
for a moment."
Nelson put on his pressure suit, hurrying awkwardly. "How about him?" He indicated Ol-
ham. "Will he need one?"
"No." Peters shook his head. "Robots probably don't require oxygen."
The group of men were almost to the ship. They halted, waiting. Peters signaled to them.
"Come on!" He waved his hand and the men approached warily; stiff, grotesque figures
in their inflated suits.
"If you open the door," Olham said, "it means my death. It will be murder."
"Open the door," Nelson said. He reached for the handle.
Olham watched him. He saw the man's hand tighten around the metal rod. In a moment
the door would swing back, the air in the ship would rush out. He would die, and presently they
would realize their mistake. Perhaps at some other time, when there was no war, men might not
act this way, hurrying an individual to his death because they were afraid. Everyone was fright-
ened, everyone was willing to sacrifice the individual because of the group fear.
He was being killed because they could not wait to be sure of his guilt. There was not
enough time.
He looked at Nelson. Nelson had been his friend for years. They had gone to school to-
gether. He had been best man at his wedding. Now Nelson was going to kill him. But Nelson was
not wicked; it was not his fault. It was the times. Perhaps it had been the same way during the
plagues. When men had shown a spot they probably had been killed, too, without a moment's
hesitation, without proof, on suspicion alone. In times of danger there was no other way.
He did not blame them. But he had to live. His life was too precious to be sacrificed. Ol-
ham thought quickly. What could he do? Was there anything? He looked around.
"Here goes," Nelson said.
"You're right," Olham said. The sound of his own voice surprised him. It was the strength
of desperation. "I have no need of air. Open the door."
They paused, looking at him in curious alarm.
"Go ahead. Open it. It makes no difference." Olham's hand disappeared inside his jacket.
"I wonder how far you two can run?"
"Run?"
"You have fifteen seconds to live." Inside his jacket his fingers twisted, his arm suddenly
rigid. He relaxed, smiling a little. "You were wrong about the trigger phrase. In that respect you
were mistaken. Fourteen seconds, now."

Two shocked faces stared at him from the pressure suits. Then they were struggling, run-
ning, tearing the door open. The air shrieked out, spilling into the void. Peters and Nelson bolted
out of the ship. Olham came after them. He grasped the door and dragged it shut. The automatic
pressure system chugged furiously, restoring the air. Olham let his breath out with a shudder.
One more second --
Beyond the window the two men had joined the group. The group scattered, running in
all directions. One by one they threw themselves down, prone on the ground. Olham seated him-
self at the control board. He moved the dials into place. As the ship rose up into the air the men
below scrambled to their feet and stared up, their mouths open. "Sorry," Olham murmured, "but
I've got to get back to Earth." He headed the ship back the way it had come.
It was night. All around the ship crickets chirped, disturbing the chill darkness. Olham
bent over the vidscreen. Gradually the image formed; the call had gone through without trouble.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Mary," he said. The woman stared at him. She gasped.
"Spence! Where are you? What's happened?"
"I can't tell you. Listen, I have to talk fast. They may break this call off any minute. Go to
the Project grounds and get Dr Chamberlain. If he isn't there, get any doctor. Bring him to the
house and have him stay there. Have him bring equipment, X-ray, fluoroscope, everything."
"But --"
"Do as I say. Hurry. Have him get it ready in an hour." Olham leaned toward the screen.
"Is everything all right? Are you alone?"
"Alone?"
"Is anyone with you? Has. . . has Nelson or anyone contacted you?"
"No. Spence, I don't understand."
"All right. I'll see you at the house in an hour. And don't tell anyone anything. Get Cham-
berlain there on any pretext. Say you're very ill."
He broke the connection and looked at his watch. A moment later he left the ship, step-
ping down into the darkness. He had a half mile to go.
He began to walk.
One light showed in the window, the study light. He watched it, kneeling against the
fence. There was no sound, no movement of any kind. He held his watch up and read it by star-
light. Almost an hour had passed.
Along the street a shoot bug came. It went on.
Olham looked toward the house. The doctor should have already come. He should be in-
side, waiting with Mary. A thought struck him. Had she been able to leave the house? Perhaps
they had intercepted her. Maybe he was moving into a trap.
But what else could he do?
With a doctor's records, photographs and reports, there was a chance, a chance of proof.
If he could be examined, if he could remain alive long enough for them to study him --
He could prove it that way. It was probably the only way. His one hope lay inside the
house. Dr Chamberlain was a respected man. He was the staff doctor for the Project. He would

know, his word on the matter would have meaning. He could overcome their hysteria, their mad-
ness, with facts.
Madness -- that was what it was. If only they would wait, act slowly, take their time. But
they could not wait. He had to die, die at once, without proof, without any kind of trial or
examination.The simplest test would tell, but they had no time for the simplest test. They could
think only of the danger. Danger, and nothing more.
He stood up and moved toward the house. He came up on the porch. At the door he
paused, listening. Still no sound. The house was absolutely still.
Too still.
Olham stood on the porch, unmoving. They were trying to be silent inside. Why? It was a
small house; only a few feet away, beyond the door, Mary and Dr Chamberlain should be stand-
ing. Yet he could hear nothing, no sound of voices, nothing at all. He looked at the door. It was a
door he had opened and closed a thousand times, every morning and every night.
He put his hand on the knob. Then, all at once, he reached out and touched the bell in-
stead. The bell pealed, off some place in the back of the house. Olham smiled. He could hear
movement.
Mary opened the door. As soon as he saw her face he knew.
He ran, throwing himself into the bushes. A security officer shoved Mary out of the way,
firing past her. The bushes burst apart. Olham wriggled around the side of the house. He leaped
up and ran, racing frantically into the darkness. A searchlight snapped on, a beam of light circling
past him.
He crossed the road and squeezed over a fence. He jumped down and made his way
across a backyard. Behind him men were coming, security officers, shouting to each other as
they came. Olham gasped for breath, his chest rising and falling.
Her face -- he had known at once. The set lips, the terrified, wretched eyes. Suppose he
had gone ahead, pushed open the door and entered! They had tapped the call and come at once,
as soon as he had broken off. Probably she believed their account. No doubt she thought he was
the robot, too.
Olham ran on and on. He was losing the officers, dropping them behind. Apparently they
were not much good at running. He climbed a hill and made his way down the other side. In a
moment he would be back at the ship. But where to, this time? He slowed down, stopping. He
could see the ship already, outlined against the sky, where he had parked it. The settlement was
behind him; he was on the outskirts of the wilderness between the inhabited places, where the
forests and desolation began. He crossed a barren field and entered the trees.
As he came toward it, the door of the ship opened.
Peters stepped out, framed against the light. In his arms was a heavy Boris gun. Olham
stopped, rigid. Peters stared around him, into the darkness. "I know you're there, some place," he
said. "Come on up here, Olham. There are security men all around you."
Olham did not move.
"Listen to me. We will catch you very shortly. Apparently you still do not believe you're
the robot. Your call to the woman indicates that you are still under the illusion created by your
artificial memories.

"But you are the robot. You are the robot, and inside you is the bomb. Any moment the
trigger phrase may be spoken, by you, by someone else, by anyone. When that happens the bomb
will destroy everything for miles around. The Project, the woman, all of us will be killed. Do you
understand?"
Olham said nothing. He was listening. Men were moving toward him, slipping through
the woods.
"If you don't come out, we'll catch you. It will only be a matter of time. We no longer
plan to remove you to the Moon base. You will be destroyed on sight, and we will have to take
the chance that the bomb will detonate. I have ordered every available security officer into the
area. The whole county is being searched, inch by inch. There is no place you can go. Around
this wood is a cordon of armed men. You have about six hours left before the last inch is cov-
ered."
Olham moved away. Peters went on speaking; he had not seen him at all. It was too dark
to see anyone. But Peters was right. There was no place he could go. He was beyond the settle-
ment, on the outskirts where the woods began. He could hide for a time, but eventually they
would catch him.
Only a matter of time.
Olham walked quietly through the wood. Mile by mile, each part of the county was being
measured off, laid bare, searched, studied, examined. The cordon was coming all the time,
squeezing him into a smaller and smaller space.
What was there left? He had lost the ship, the one hope of escape. They were at his home;
his wife was with them, believing, no doubt, that the real Olham had been killed. He clenched his
fists. Some place there was a wrecked Outspace needle-ship, and in it the remains of the robot.
Somewhere nearby the ship had crashed and broken up.
And the robot lay inside, destroyed.
A faint hope stirred him. What if he could find the remains? If he could show them the
wreckage, the remains of the ship, the robot --
But where? Where would he find it?
He walked on, lost in thought. Some place, not too far off, probably. The ship would have
landed close to the Project; the robot would have expected to go the rest of the way on foot. He
went up the side of the hill and looked around. Crashed and burned. Was there some clue, some
hint? Had he read anything, heard anything? Some place close by, within walking distance. Some
wild place, a remote spot where there would be no people.
Suddenly Olham smiled. Crashed and burned --
Sutton Wood.
He increased his pace.
It was morning. Sunlight filtered down through the broken trees, onto the man crouching
at the edge of the clearing. Olham glanced up from time to time, listening. They were not far off,
only a few minutes away. He smiled.
Down below him, strewn across the clearing and into the charred stumps that had been
Sutton Wood, lay a tangled mass of wreckage. In the sunlight it glittered a little, gleaming darkly.
He had not had too much trouble finding it. Sutton Wood was a place he knew well; he had

climbed around it many times in his life, when he was younger. He had known where he would
find the remains. There was one peak that jutted up suddenly, without a warning.
A descending ship, unfamiliar with the Wood, had little chance of missing it. And now he
squatted, looking down at the ship, or what remained of it.
Olham stood up. He could hear them, only a little distance away, coming together, talking
in low tones. He tensed himself. Everything depended on who first saw him. If it was Nelson, he
had no chance. Nelson would fire at once. He would be dead before they saw the ship. But if he
had time to call out, hold them off for a moment -- that was all he needed. Once they saw the
ship he would be safe.
But if they fired first --
A charred branch cracked. A figure appeared, coming forward uncertainly. Olham took a
deep breath. Only a few seconds remained, perhaps the last seconds of his life. He raised his
arms, peering intently.
It was Peters.
"Peters!" Olham waved his arms. Peters lifted his gun, aiming. "Don't fire!" His voice
shook. "Wait a minute. Look past me, across the clearing."
"I've found him," Peters shouted. Security men came pouring out of the burned woods
around him.
"Don't shoot. Look past me. The ship, the needle-ship. The Outspace ship. Look!"
Peters hesitated. The gun wavered.
"It's down there," Olham said rapidly. "I knew I'd find it here. The burned wood. Now
you believe me. You'll find the remains of the robot in the ship. Look, will you?"
"There is something down there," one of the men said nervously.
"Shoot him!" a voice said. It was Nelson.
"Wait." Peters turned sharply. "I'm in charge. Don't anyone fire. Maybe he's telling the
truth."
"Shoot him," Nelson said. "He killed Olham. Any minute he may kill us all. If the bomb
goes off --"
"Shut up." Peters advanced toward the slope. He stared down. "Look at that." He waved
two men up to him. "Go down there and see what that is."
The men raced down the slope, across the clearing. They bent down, poking in the ruins
of the ship.
"Well?" Peters called.
Olham held his breath. He smiled a little. It must be there; he had not had time to look,
himself, but it had to be there. Suddenly doubt assailed him. Suppose the robot had lived long
enough to wander away? Suppose his body had been completely destroyed, burned to ashes by
the fire?
He licked his lips. Perspiration came out on his forehead. Nelson was staring at him, his
face still livid. His chest rose and fell.
"Kill him," Nelson said. "Before he kills us."
The two men stood up.
"What have you found?" Peters said. He held the gun steady. "Is there anything there?"
"Looks like something. It's a needle-ship, all right. There's something beside it.

"I'll look." Peters strode past Olham. Olham watched him go down the hill and up to the
men. The others were following after him, peering to see.
"It's a body of some sort," Peters said. "Look at it!"
Olham came along with them. They stood around in a circle, staring down.
On the ground, bent and twisted in a strange shape, was a grotesque form. It looked hu-
man, perhaps; except that it was bent so strangely, the arms and legs flung off in all directions.
The mouth was open; the eyes stared glassily.
"Like a machine that's run down," Peters murmured.
Olham smiled feebly. "Well?" he said.
Peters looked at him. "I can't believe it. You were telling the truth all the time."
"The robot never reached me," Olham said. He took out a cigarette and lit it. "It was de-
stroyed when the ship crashed. You were all too busy with the war to wonder why an out-of-the-
way wood would suddenly catch fire and burn. Now you know."
He stood smoking, watching the men. They were dragging the grotesque remains from
the ship. The body was stiff, the arms and legs rigid.
"You'll find the bomb now," Olham said. The men laid the body on the ground. Peters
bent down.
"I think I see the corner of it." He reached out, touching the body.
The chest of the corpse had been laid open. Within the gaping tear something glinted,
something metal. The men stared at the metal without speaking.
"That would have destroyed us all, if it had lived," Peters said. "That metal box there."
There was silence.
"I think we owe you something," Peters said to Olham. "This must have been a nightmare
to you. If you hadn't escaped, we would have --" He broke off.
Olham put out his cigarette. "I knew, of course, that the robot had never reached me. But
I had no way of proving it. Sometimes it isn't possible to prove a thing right away. That was the
whole trouble. There wasn't any way I could demonstrate that I was myself."
"How about a vacation?" Peters said. "I think we might work out a month's vacation for
you. You could take it easy, relax."
"I think right now I want to go home," Olham said.
"All right, then," Peters said. "Whatever you say."
Nelson had squatted down on the ground, beside the corpse. He reached out toward the
glint of metal visible within the chest.
"Don't touch it," Olham said. "It might still go off. We better let the demolition squad take
care of it later on."
Nelson said nothing. Suddenly he grabbed hold of the metal, reaching his hand inside the
chest. He pulled.
"What are you doing?" Olham cried.
Nelson stood up. He was holding on to the metal object. His face was blank with terror. It
was a metal knife, an Outspace needle-knife, covered with blood.
"This killed him," Nelson whispered. "My friend was killed with this." He looked at Ol-
ham. "You killed him with this and left him beside the ship."

Olham was trembling. His teeth chattered. He looked from the knife to the body. "This
can't be Olham," he said. His mind spun, everything was whirling. "Was I wrong?"
He gaped.
"But if that's Olham, then I must be --"
He did not complete the sentence, only the first phrase. The blast was visible all the way
to Alpha Centauri.

 

Philip Kindred Dick, Imposter.  Astounding Magazine, June 1953. 

https://youtu.be/sJ930zzYxl8

 

Maybe he wasn't crazy at all.