#PKD : Let the dead past bury its dead


Let the dead past bury its dead

The Unfolding Text – Episode 408

Dom Plaite really only had two favorite subjects: himself, and Phil.

At the moment he was discoursing on Phil for a British documentary crew.

“Well of course Phil was in the New Left, whether they wanted him or not. Mainly I think because where he grew up and especially his later life in Berkeley, radicalism was his mother’s milk. He is such a thoroughly bourgeois soul, trying so hard to be radical that with all that effort sometimes he crosses over, from conman to revolutionary…”

“I’m afraid we can’t use that,” Thomas Wickerby-Browne said. “It sounds defamatory. Whether it is or not, it sounds as though it is, and that’s the sort of thing Nigel, our producer, will have kittens over.”

“OK well fine, let me say this then instead. Phil is like the Magician card in the tarot. Flip it, and it’s the charlatan card. But people love to be fooled by magicians, whether they’re using illusion or cheating using actual magic.
And I’ll say this about Phil. He is about the last science fiction writer who has got the future right in big ways and important ways. The term visionary is appropriate for Phil. But the term charlatan could be used too, by people who think that when he writes about ad men playing tricks on people or aliens creating false realities, his sympathy and admiration is all with the people playing the tricks or fooling people.”

“Do you think he’s a self mythologiser?” asked the interviewer.

“Oh of course! In the grand tradition! One only has to look at all the different versions of his spiritual crisis to see that. Sometimes he says it was something like the holy spirit from catholicism sometimes it’s an alien radio station… And sometimes he says it’s just a drug trance.”

“Which do you-”

“And sometimes-” Plaite interrupted- “Phil says, and I think this might be closer to the truth, that it was drug induced, from what they gave him when he went to the dentists, but that when he was high off of that it let him have an experience of reality without the trimmings. The stage magician saw the backdrop fall and got to see the workings of the theater itself.”

“What do you think?”

“I think Phil is a truly great storyteller. And it’s a tragedy his best stories get told at random to the people around him instead of being written down.”

Daemon! The Unfolding Text – Episode 666



The Unfolding Text – Episode 666

In a forest clearing, you are accosted by a large blood-red daemon. Two extremely large pointy and sharp horns stick out of its forehead. Its eyes are pupilless glowing yellow orbs. Its teeth – pure nightmare fuel.

“What doth thou seek in this wode, mortal?”

#PKD #Zombienomicon #Eisegesis : Tony and the Beetles

Part of the interactive fiction component of Zombienomicon Eisegesis is extending and holographically interpreting the public domain works of Philip K Dick. This is an extension into choose your own adventure format of Tony and the Beetles:


Do read the prior chapters, or the original story, before adding to it though! Enjoy!


Black Knight Satellite – an excellent summary at long last


The Black Knight Satellite, Bracewell Probes, and Philip K. Dick

Here follows one of the most interesting and complex stories of Space Conspiracy in existence.  It’s the story of the Black Knight satellite, and so much more.  We’re about to go from a misreported news item from 1960, to theoretical science and radio transmission, to the writings of Philip K. Dick, but there’s much ground to cover in between.

It begins in the beginning, sort of.

In March of 1960, Time Magazine published a story in their hallowed rag, detailing the discovery of what ultimately became known as the Black Knight satellite.  As the story goes, three weeks prior to their publication, analysts working for the US ‘Dark Fence’ radar program detected an object orbiting above the continental United States.  It was labelled a ‘dark satellite’, in that it seemed to be a man-made object in a near-Earth orbit, but wasn’t transmitting any detectable signals.

The Dark Fence program’s purpose was to monitor known satellite objects, whether American or Russian, or otherwise, and to identify new objects, so as to stay abreast of Soviet spy satellites and other space-military operations that might have been undertaken over US airspace.  This, of course, was at the height of the Cold War, and the political climate around the world was focused on military secrecy and keeping up with the Russians.  It was also at the very beginning of the global Space Race.

What was strange about this ‘dark satellite’, was that it was neither American nor Russian, or at least it didn’t conform to any known American or Russian satellite at the time.  It was also in a ‘polar’ orbit, meaning that it passed over or near both the north and south poles once per revolution, which was reported to be impossible at the time.

The Time article attributed this ‘dark satellite’ to mismanagement of the Dark Fence program, and it was suggested that the object they detected was actually the Discoverer 1 Corona Reconnaissance satellite that was launched in February of the previous year.  Discover 1 was intended to have a low-Earth geocentric ‘polar’ orbit, but it failed to achieve such an orbital path and is believed to have crashed somewhere near the South Pole in short order.

Right from the start, Black Knight was an enigma, even though many accepted the idea that it was really just a misplaced American science project.  Others, of course, felt there was more to this than was reported.

On September 3, 1960, a camera at the Grumman Aircraft Corp. Long Island factory managed to capture an image of the object.  It was said to be a redish-pink glowing object moving in an east-to-west orbit, which is, apparently, the opposite of most other man-made satellites, and which doesn’t fit the polar orbit reported by Time.  Subsequent to this, astronaut Gordon Cooper Jr. allegedly caught a first-hand glimpse of the object during his 22-orbit Mercury-Atlas 9 flight, which was the final of the Mercury Program missions.  Cooper claimed that it was an object much larger than any other man-made satellite of the time, and that it glowed a neon green.

Cooper, who passed away in 2004, had long been sympathetic to the UFOlogy movement and had been vocal about not only the reality of extraterrestrial life, but also the idea that the US government had been and continues to be complicit in a cover-up of contact with such.

Then in 1998, during NASA mission STS-88 to the ISS, flown by the Space Shuttle Endeavour, images were captured of an unidentified object in orbit; an object that a great many people believe is the ever elusive Black Knight satellite.

Following Time’s publication, John Keel detailed the discovery in his book Disneyland of the Gods (1988), wherein he noted that around the same time that Dark Fence detected this mysterious object, ground based HAM operators were reporting having received strange radio signals.  According to Keel, one such HAM operator received and decoded a signal and claimed that the message corresponded to a star chart, plotted from Earth 13,000 years ago, and focused on a star system called Epsilon Boötis…and this is where things get really interesting.


That HAM operator was Duncan Lunan, a Scottish author of science fiction, with a focus on astronomy and spaceflight.  Lunan claimed, in an article in the British Interplanetary Society’s magazine, Spaceflight, that he had encountered and interpreted a signal from an alien probe somewhere in orbit around the Earth.  He said that the same signal had previously been detected by researchers in the 1920’s who were studying the long delayed echo effect (or LDE), but that they had disregarded the encoded message as having been an echo of an Earth-originating signal bouncing off of either the moon or Earth’s upper atmosphere.  In his article, Lunan relayed the decoded message as follows:

“Start here. Our home is Upsilon Bootes, which is a double star. We live on the sixth planet of seven, coming from the sun, which is the larger of the two. Our sixth planet has one moon. Our fourth planet has three. Our first and third planets each have one. Our probe is in the position of Arcturus, known in our maps.”

Many believe, including Lunan, that this message came from a Bracewell probe in orbit around Earth.  A Bracewell probe is a theoretical autonomous satellite built to remotely explore distant star systems with the expressed purpose of communicating with alien civilizations.  An interesting coincidence in all this, is that the concept of a Bracewell probe was first proposed by telecommunication and radioscience engineer Ronald Bracewell, in a paper published in 1960, the same year Black Knight was discovered.   A notable example of a Bracewell probe is the device that featured in the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode ‘The Inner Light’ (season five, episode 25).

It’s also interesting to note that one of the theoretical causes of the mysterious long delay echo effect, which is a strange anomaly experienced by radio operators, wherein transmitted signals echo back to the transceiver several seconds after transmission, is that alien technology is retransmitting those signals back in the direction of the transmitter in an effort to communicate…possibly by a probe located in orbit.

That isn’t the most widely accepted theory used to explain LDE of course, but it is listed as a possible cause for the effect, among electromagnetic interference and EME or Earth-Moon-Earth signal bounce (or even EMEME / double EME).

And now we’re about to dive into the real weirdness.

In 1980 Philip K. Dick published what many believe to be his magnum opus, VALIS.  VALIS is an almost autobiographical novel, wherein he detailed many of the strange and paranormal experiences he had over his lifetime (up to that point, obviously).  In that book he detailed an event that occurred on February 20, 1974 at his home in Chicago, Illinois.  He received a delivery at the hands of a beautiful young woman who wore a gold necklace with an odd fish-shaped pendant.  Dick recounted that the sun glinted off of the pendant, which caused what he called a ‘pink beam’ that penetrated his eye and imparted untold wisdom in the blink of an eye.

Dick claimed that this ‘pink beam’, which he claimed to have experienced on multiple occasions, was a transformative event in his life, and though most saw it as an hallucination, he used the experience, referred to as 2-3-74, as inspiration for the VALIS Trilogy.

There are a great many people who believe that the origin of that ‘pink beam’ was in fact, the Black Knight satellite, associating the ‘pink beam’ with the redish-pink colour of the satellite.  It’s fairly well known that certain academics view VALIS, as a result of comments made by Dick in his exegesis, as a sort of cipher key, needed to decode the true meaning behind Dick’s ten most important works, which are known as the ‘meta-novel’.  Those works are: Eye in the Sky, Time Out of Joint, The Man in the High Castle, The Game Players of Titan, Martian Time Slip, The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, UBIK, and A Maze of Death.


The fact that Eye in the Sky was written just three years before Black Knight was discovered, suggests to some that Dick was the recipient of otherworldly communication, possibly from a civilization hailing from the Epsilon Boötis star system.

You might be thinking that it should now be a fairly simple endeavour to confirm the existence of such a thing in orbit around Earth, if it’s still there that is, but consider this…

Right now there are somewhere in the neighbourhood of 100,000 man-made objects orbiting Earth.  Some are multi-billion dollar uber-sciencey military satellites, or telecomm satellites or even scientific instruments, but most are simple space junk, like parts off of old spacecraft or dead satellites etc.  A good portion of that space junk is ‘dark’, in the same way Black Knight was thought to be, making it very difficult to differentiate between one bit and another.  Black Knight may be lost among a cloud of garbage, which seems par for the course on our planet.


NASA and other space agencies around the world have put a great deal of thought into the issue of space junk, and the Chinese are currently in the process of developing a sort of net that will be used to collect space debris and safely bring it back to Earth for recycling or to otherwise be dealt with.  But what if they bring Black Knight down?

Here’s the thing about all of this.  The above may seem like a lot of conjecture and supposition, and perhaps some of it is – surely it’s a stretch to say that Philip K. Dick was a harbinger of tidings from an alien species using a Bracewell probe – but many of the facts are confirmed.  Black Knight does seem to exist, and while noting that certain governments do have a penchant for secret technology and clandestine operations, its origin and purpose seems to defy explanation.  If we are able to accept the stories and theories held therein, and the, at times tenuous, connections between them, can we accept that there’s a 13,000 year old alien probe orbiting our planet, sending literary inspiration to select people via the gold necklaces of attractive delivery people?


source: http://mysteriousuniverse.org/2014/02/the-black-knight-satellite-bracewell-probes-and-phillip-k-dick/

#PKD on the rise of Nixon and the #uniparty #kakistocracy

One asks, Why should such disparate groups as the Soviet Union and the US intelligence community back the same man? I am no political theoretician, but Nicholas one time said, ‘They both like figureheads who are corrupt. So they can govern from behind. The Soviets and the fuzz, they’re all for shadow governments. They always will be, because basically each of them is the man with the gun. The pistol to the head.’

No one had put a pistol to Ferris Fremont’s head. He, was the pistol itself, pointed at our head. Pointed at the people who had elected him. Behind him stood all the cops in the world, the left-wing cops in Russia, the right-wing cops in the United States. Cops are cops. There are only divisions of rank, into greater and lesser. The top cop is probably never seen.

However, Nicholas was no political theoretician either. In point of fact he had no idea how the coalition behind Fremont had formed; in fact he had no idea it existed. Like the rest of us over those years, he simply stood amazed as prominent politicians were murdered and Fremont rose rapidly to power. What was happening made no sense. No pattern could be discerned.

There is a Latin motto, when one is seeking to know who has committed a crime, that goes, Look to see who gains. When John Kennedy was murdered, and Dr King, and Bobby Kennedy, and the others, when George Wallace was crippled, we should have asked, Who gains? All men in America lost by these dreadful senseless murders except one second-rate man whose way was now clear to the White House: clear to get in and clear to remain. Who otherwise would have had no chance.

We should forgive ourselves, though, for not figuring out who was doing it and why; after all, it had never happened in the United States before, although the history of other countries is full of it. The Russians know it well; so do the English – take Crookback Dick, as Shakespeare calls Richard III. There was the paradigm for this: Richard, who murdered his way to the throne, killing even children, and all with the excuse that nature had made him ugly. Nature had made Ferris Fremont ugly too, inside and out. Personally, it never entered my mind. We thought of a lot of possibilities, but not really that. The Tartar mind had never schemed for the American throne until then.


Philip K. Dick, Radio Free Albemuth


other than his skipping over the kakistocrat murderer LBJ’s involvement #PKD lays it out pretty well. PKD fell for the red-blue puppet show as so many others did. Nothing Nixon did or was is in any way different to LBJ.


#PKD The Hanging Stranger

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hanging Stranger, by Philip K. Dick

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Hanging Stranger

Author: Philip K. Dick

Release Date: December 5, 2012 [EBook #41562]

Language: English
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net




[Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction
Adventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncover
any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something was wrong
he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw _it_ hanging in the town
Five o’clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his car
out and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. His
back and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement and
wheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had done
okay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and he
liked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!

It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying
commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and
packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks
and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red
light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him;
he’d arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the
records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove
slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the
town park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND
SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again
he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain
and bench and single lamppost.

From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,
swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled
down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of
some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the

Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park
and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn’t a dummy. And if it was a
display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he
swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.

It was a body. A human body.

* * * * *

“Look at it!” Loyce snapped. “Come on out here!”

Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe
coat with dignity. “This is a big deal, Ed. I can’t just leave the guy
standing there.”

“See it?” Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up
against the sky–the post and the bundle swinging from it. “There it is.
How the hell long has it been there?” His voice rose excitedly. “What’s
wrong with everybody? They just walk on past!”

Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. “Take it easy, old man. There must
be a good reason, or it wouldn’t be there.”

“A reason! What kind of a reason?”

Fergusson shrugged. “Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put that
wrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?”

Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. “What’s up, boys?”

“There’s a body hanging from the lamppost,” Loyce said. “I’m going to
call the cops.”

“They must know about it,” Potter said. “Or otherwise it wouldn’t be

“I got to get back in.” Fergusson headed back into the store. “Business
before pleasure.”

Loyce began to get hysterical. “You see it? You see it hanging there? A
man’s body! A dead man!”

“Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee.”

“You mean it’s been there all afternoon?”

“Sure. What’s the matter?” Potter glanced at his watch. “Have to run.
See you later, Ed.”

Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along the
sidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiously
at the dark bundle–and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid any

“I’m going nuts,” Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and
crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.
He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.

The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray
suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never
seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and
in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin
was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A
pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His
eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.

“For Heaven’s sake,” Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea
and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with
revulsion–and fear.

_Why?_ Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?

And–why didn’t anybody notice?

He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. “Watch it!” the
man grated, “Oh, it’s you, Ed.”

Ed nodded dazedly. “Hello, Jenkins.”

“What’s the matter?” The stationery clerk caught Ed’s arm. “You look

“The body. There in the park.”

“Sure, Ed.” Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND
SERVICE. “Take it easy.”

Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. “Something

“Ed’s not feeling well.”

Loyce yanked himself free. “How can you stand here? Don’t you see it?
For God’s sake–”

“What’s he talking about?” Margaret asked nervously.

“The body!” Ed shouted. “The body hanging there!”

More people collected. “Is he sick? It’s Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?”

“The body!” Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at
him. He tore loose. “Let me go! The police! Get the police!”


“Better get a doctor!”

“He must be sick.”

“Or drunk.”

Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.
Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men
and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them
toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,
showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service
counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.
His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.

“Do something!” he screamed. “Don’t stand there! Do something!
Something’s wrong! Something’s happened! Things are going on!”

The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving
efficiently toward Loyce.

* * * * *

“Name?” the cop with the notebook murmured.

“Loyce.” He mopped his forehead wearily. “Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me.
Back there–”

“Address?” the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through
traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the
seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.

“1368 Hurst Road.”

“That’s here in Pikeville?”

“That’s right.” Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. “Listen
to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost–”

“Where were you today?” the cop behind the wheel demanded.

“Where?” Loyce echoed.

“You weren’t in your shop, were you?”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, I was home. Down in the basement.”

“In the _basement_?”

“Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame.
Why? What has that to do with–”

“Was anybody else down there with you?”

“No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school.” Loyce looked from
one heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.
“You mean because I was down there I missed–the explanation? I didn’t
get in on it? Like everybody else?”

After a pause the cop with the notebook said: “That’s right. You missed
the explanation.”

“Then it’s official? The body–it’s _supposed_ to be hanging there?”

“It’s supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see.”

Ed Loyce grinned weakly. “Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep
end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like
the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking
over.” He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands
shaking. “I’m glad to know it’s on the level.”

“It’s on the level.” The police car was getting near the Hall of
Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights
had not yet come on.

“I feel better,” Loyce said. “I was pretty excited there, for a minute.
I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there’s no need to
take me in, is there?”

The two cops said nothing.

“I should be back at my store. The boys haven’t had dinner. I’m all
right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of–”

“This won’t take long,” the cop behind the wheel interrupted. “A short
process. Only a few minutes.”

“I hope it’s short,” Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a
stoplight. “I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting
excited like that and–”

Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled
to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light
changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people,
burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts,
people running.

They weren’t cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop in
Pikeville. A man couldn’t own a store, operate a business in a small
town for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.

They weren’t cops–and there hadn’t been any explanation. Potter,
Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn’t
know–and they didn’t care. _That_ was the strange part.

Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past the
startled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through the
back door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concrete
steps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side,
gasping and panting.

There was no sound behind him. He had got away.

He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and
ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street
light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.

And to his right–the police station.

He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery
store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred
windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the
darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to
keep moving, get farther away from them.


Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the
City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass
and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark
windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.

And–something else.

Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser than
the surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lost
into the sky.

He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made him
struggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound.
A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.

Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging over
the City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. _In the vortex
something moved._ Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky,
pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a dense
swarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.

Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness that
hung above him.

He was seeing–them.

* * * * *

For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a pool
of scummy water.

They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of the
City Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects of
some kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest–and then crawled
crab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.

He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and he
shuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of the
City Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out of
the building and halting for a moment before going on.

Were there more of them?

It didn’t seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasm
weren’t men. They were alien–from some other world, some other
dimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of the
universe. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realm
of being.

On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few moved
toward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enter
the City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.

Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,
clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptly
fluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk and
came to rest among them.

Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselves
as men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.

Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. The
alley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybe
darkness made no difference to them.

He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men and
women flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waiting
groups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in the
evening gloom.

Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the
bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A
moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.

* * * * *

Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired
faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them
paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats,
jiggling with the motion of the bus.

The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the
sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A
businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.

Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a
package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater.
Gazing absently ahead of her.

A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.

A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded with
packages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.

Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home to
their families. To dinner.

Going home–with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the mask
of an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, their
town, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep in
his cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked.
They had missed him. Their control wasn’t perfect, foolproof.

Maybe there were others.

Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren’t omnipotent. They had made a
mistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, had
passed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down.
Apparently their power-zone was limited.

A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off his
chain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache.
Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his small
hands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quickly

Loyce tensed. One of _them_? Or–another they had missed?

The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever.
Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them–or one of the things itself, an alien
insect from beyond.

The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token into
the box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.

The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man’s gaze. For a split second
something passed between them.

A look rich with meaning.

Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One step
down into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubber
door swung open.

“Hey!” the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. “What the hell–”

Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. A
residential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him,
the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet.
They were coming after him.

Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against
the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness.
Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid
down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.

Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in
the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed
before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.

Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The
man screamed and tried to roll away. “_Stop!_ For God’s sake listen–”

He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man’s voice cut off and
dissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The others
were there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk,
up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and were
bending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyed
man who had come after him.

Had he made a mistake?

But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out–away from
them. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent between
their world and his.

* * * * *

“Ed!” Janet Loyce backed away nervously. “What is it? What–”

Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.
“Pull down the shades. Quick.”

Janet moved toward the window. “But–”

“Do as I say. Who else is here besides you?”

“Nobody. Just the twins. They’re upstairs in their room. What’s
happened? You look so strange. Why are you home?”

Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen.
From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ran
his finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the living

“Listen to me,” he said. “I don’t have much time. They know I escaped
and they’ll be looking for me.”

“Escaped?” Janet’s face twisted with bewilderment and fear. “Who?”

“The town has been taken over. They’re in control. I’ve got it pretty
well figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and police
department. What they did with the _real_ humans they–”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’ve been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension.
They’re insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind.”

“My mind?”

“Their entrance is _here_, in Pikeville. They’ve taken over all of you.
The whole town–except me. We’re up against an incredibly powerful
enemy, but they have their limitations. That’s our hope. They’re
limited! They can make mistakes!”

Janet shook her head. “I don’t understand, Ed. You must be insane.”

“Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn’t been down in the basement I’d be
like all the rest of you.” Loyce peered out the window. “But I can’t
stand here talking. Get your coat.”

“My coat?”

“We’re getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We’ve got to get help.
Fight this thing. They _can_ be beaten. They’re not infallible. It’s
going to be close–but we may make it if we hurry. Come on!” He grabbed
her arm roughly. “Get your coat and call the twins. We’re all leaving.
Don’t stop to pack. There’s no time for that.”

White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.
“Where are we going?”

Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto the
floor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. “They’ll have the
highway covered, of course. But there’s a back road. To Oak Grove. I got
onto it once. It’s practically abandoned. Maybe they’ll forget about

“The old Ranch Road? Good Lord–it’s completely closed. Nobody’s
supposed to drive over it.”

“I know.” Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. “That’s our best
chance. Now call down the twins and let’s get going. Your car is full of
gas, isn’t it?”

Janet was dazed.

“The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon.” Janet moved toward
the stairs. “Ed, I–”

“Call the twins!” Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothing
stirred. No sign of life. All right so far.

“Come on downstairs,” Janet called in a wavering voice. “We’re–going
out for awhile.”

“Now?” Tommy’s voice came.

“Hurry up,” Ed barked. “Get down here, both of you.”

Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. “I was doing my home work.
We’re starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don’t get this done–”

“You can forget about fractions.” Ed grabbed his son as he came down the
stairs and propelled him toward the door. “Where’s Jim?”

“He’s coming.”

Jim started slowly down the stairs. “What’s up, Dad?”

“We’re going for a ride.”

“A ride? Where?”

Ed turned to Janet. “We’ll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turn
it on.” He pushed her toward the set. “So they’ll think we’re still–”

He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out.
Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur of
motion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy.
It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse–the thing hurtling at him,
cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellow
T-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strange
half-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing?

A stinger.

Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loyce
rolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still as
statues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again.
This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. It
bounced against the wall and fluttered down.

Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alien
mind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered his
own, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence,
settling over him–and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in a
broken heap on the rug.

It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly of
some kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy…. He closed his mind
tight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up his
knife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still,
neither of them moving.

The car was out. He’d never get through. They’d be waiting for him. It
was ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys and
open fields and hills of uncut forest. He’d have to go alone.

Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and
son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.

A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness
toward the edge of town.

* * * * *

The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for
breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing
was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled.
Ten miles–on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night.
His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly

But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.

He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and
fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything
receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from

A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in
wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a
gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens
pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.

The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up
to the station. “Thank God.” He caught hold of the wall. “I didn’t think
I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear
them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me.”

“What happened?” the attendant demanded. “You in a wreck? A hold-up?”

Loyce shook his head wearily. “They have the whole town. The City Hall
and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the
first thing I saw. They’ve got all the roads blocked. I saw them
hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond
them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun
came up.”

The attendant licked his lip nervously. “You’re out of your head. I
better get a doctor.”

“Get me into Oak Grove,” Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.
“We’ve got to get started–cleaning them out. Got to get started right

* * * * *

They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had
finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet.
He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his
cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.

“You don’t believe me,” Loyce said.

The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently
away. “Suit yourself.” The Commissioner moved over to the window and
stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. “I believe you,”
he said abruptly.

Loyce sagged. “Thank God.”

“So you got away.” The Commissioner shook his head. “You were down in
your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million.”

Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. “I have a
theory,” he murmured.

“What is it?”

“About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Starting
at the top–the highest level of authority. Working down from there in a
widening circle. When they’re firmly in control they go on to the next
town. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it’s been going on
for a long time.”

“A long time?”

“Thousands of years. I don’t think it’s new.”

“Why do you say that?”

“When I was a kid…. A picture they showed us in Bible League. A
religious picture–an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah.
Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth–”


“They were all represented by figures.” Loyce looked up at the
Commissioner. “Beelzebub was represented as–a giant fly.”

The Commissioner grunted. “An old struggle.”

“They’ve been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. They
make gains–but finally they’re defeated.”

“Why defeated?”

“They can’t get everyone. They didn’t get me. And they never got the
Hebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. The
realization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think they
understood. Had escaped, like I did.” He clenched his fists. “I killed
one of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance.”

The Commissioner nodded. “Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did.
Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control.” He
turned from the window. “Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured
everything out.”

“Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the
lamppost. I don’t understand that. _Why?_ Why did they deliberately hang
him there?”

“That would seem simple.” The Commissioner smiled faintly. “_Bait._”

Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. “Bait? What do you mean?”

“To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they’d know who was
under control–and who had escaped.”

Loyce recoiled with horror. “Then they _expected_ failures! They
anticipated–” He broke off. “They were ready with a trap.”

“And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known.” The
Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. “Come along, Loyce. There’s
a lot to do. We must get moving. There’s no time to waste.”

Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. “And the man. _Who was the
man?_ I never saw him before. He wasn’t a local man. He was a stranger.
All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed–”

There was a strange look on the Commissioner’s face as he answered.
“Maybe,” he said softly, “you’ll understand that, too. Come along with
me, Mr. Loyce.” He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a
glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a
platform of some sort. A telephone pole–and a rope! “Right this way,”
the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.

* * * * *

As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants’ Bank came
up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and
coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were
there, hurrying home to dinner.

“Good night,” the guard said, locking the door after him.

“Good night,” Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the street
toward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in the
vault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if there
was room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.

At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. The
street was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around–and froze.

From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something large
and shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.

What the hell was it?

Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired and
hungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinner
table. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominous
and ugly. The light was bad; he couldn’t tell what it was. Yet it drew
him on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing made
him uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened–and fascinated.

And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.

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Culmination, Fulmination, Fulcrum, Simulacrum

Back to writing and drawing the same story from inherited tigers through JT Neslo and Kid Celephais, reduced and refined, distilled if you like, to its purest form. A Platonic Ideal of the story concept? Not quite.

But sufficient and fit for purpose.

Whilst still no one’s idea of a top artist my artwork is now unobstructive to the story process, and helps the flow rather than crushing me. All in all, a good end to 2015, which has been a bugger of a year. 🙂