Autofac Philip K. Dick
TENSION HUNG OVER the three waiting men. They smoked, paced back and forth, kicked aimlessly at weeds growing by the side of the road. A hot noonday sun glared down on brown fields, rows of neat plastic houses, the distant line of mountains to the west.
“Almost time,” Earl Perine said, knotting his skinny hands together. “It varies according to the load, a half-second for every additional pound.”
Bitterly, Morrison answered. “You’ve got it plotted? You’re as bad as it is. Let’s pretend it just happens to be late.”
The third man said nothing. O’Neill was visiting from another settlement; he didn’t know Perine and Morrison well enough to argue with them. Instead, he crouched down and arranged the papers clipped to his aluminum checkboard. In the blazing sun, O’Neill’s arms were tanned, furry, glistening with sweat. Wiry, with tangled gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses, he was older than the other two. He wore slacks, a sports shirt and crepe-soled shoes. Between his fingers, his fountain pen glittered, metallic and efficient.
. . .
