By Philip K. Dick
Bob Arctor is a broker of the lethally addictive drug Substance D. Fred is the police agent assigned to tail and at last bust him. to take action, Fred takes at the id of a drug broker named Bob Arctor. and because Substance D--which Arctor takes in sizeable doses--gradually splits the user's mind into detailed, combative entities, Fred doesn't notice he's narcing on himself.
Caustically humorous, eerily exact in its depiction of junkies, rip-off artists, and the strolling brain-dead, Philip ok. Dick's industrial-grade rigidity try of identification is as unnerving because it is mesmerizing.
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Extra info for A Scanner Darkly
Sample text
I wonder what. ” Cop signals to other cop in prowl car. ” Charles Freck in his horror-fantasy number induced by the sight of the black-and-white pacing him. ” To survive in this fascist police state, he thought, you gotta always be able to come up with a name, your name. At all times. That’s the first sign they look for that you’re wired, not being able to figure out who the hell you are. What I’ll do, he decided, is I’ll pull off soon as I see a parking slot, pull off voluntarily before he flashes his light, or does anything, and then when he glides up beside me I’ll say I got a loose wheel or something mechanical.
He said. He managed to get in front of her to examine her face. “No,” she said. ” She came toward him, directly at him; he retreated backward, because she held a short knife pointed at his stomach. “Get lost,” she said, continuing to move forward without slowing or hesitating. “Sure you are,” he said. ” He could hardly see the knife, only a tiny section of blade metal, but he knew it was there. She would stab him and walk on. He continued to retreat backward, protesting. The girl held the knife so well concealed that probably no one else, the others walking along, could notice.
They’d deliver probably real early, and with armed guards—the Man standing there with Laser rifles looking mean, the way the Man always did. Anybody rip off my slow death, he thought through the Man’s head, I’ll snuff them. Probably Substance D is an ingredient in every legal medication that’s worth anything, he thought. A little pinch here and there according to the secret exclusive formula at the issuing house in Germany or Switzerland that invented it. But in actuality he knew better; the authorities snuffed or sent up everybody selling or transporting or using, so in that case the Thrifty Drugstore—all the millions of Thrifty Drugstores—would get shot or bombed out of business or anyhow fined.
