Dead Planet XXV

Dead Planet XXV

“The function served by
a tool can be inferred
by its design.” —John C. Wright,
Null-A Continuum: Continuing
A. E. van Vogt’s World of Null-A

Creepazoid Hoodlum #1: “You jerk, you clown!”
[strikes Rick Deckard]

Creepazoid Hoodlum #2: “Come on, clown, sing us a chorus from "Pagliacci! Before we off you…"

Rick: “You'd be killing a horse—that's not first degree murder, in fact it's not murder at all, in fact I don't know what it is…”

Rick: “A friend of mine will be stopping soon to pick me up. He's a Nexus droid kid.”

Creepazoid Hoodlum #1: “A droid kid? That's a funny kind of a friend?”

Rick: “Well, he's a funny kind of a droid.”

Rick: “You like money. You've got a great big dollar sign there where most humans have a heart.”

Creepazoid Hoodlum #1: “Alright sister, that's a mighty pretty head you got on your shoulders. You want to keep it there or start carrying it around in your hands?”

Rick: “Maybe we could compromise and keep it on my shoulders. I think that'd be nice, don't you?”

Tyrell (Lizard Lord): “You have my sympathies, Mr. Deckard. You have not yet learned that in this life you have to be like everyone else—the perfect mediocrity; no better, no worse. Individuality's a monster and it must be strangled in it's cradle to make our friends feel confident. You know, I've often thought that the gangster and the artist are the same in the eyes of the masses. They are admired and hero-worshipped—but there is always present the underlying wish to see them destroyed at the peak of their glory.”

Rick: “I'd like you to call this number and ask for Mr. Teoxi will you? He’s at Uaxactun 666, Tikal City, Belize. Tell him that Maurice requires his services.”

Tyrell: “Sounds pretty mysterious. What's it all about?”

Rick: Oh, just a couple of minor things, Tyrell. Which hardly bear much looking into. You’ve undoubtedly heard of the Saturnian god Zydd-Zod who tried to discover the true nature of the Oort Belt Cloud; he stares up at the dark-hole heavenly body until it makes him blind. There are many things like this—including love, death, and... maybe we'll discuss this later someday. Please remember to make that call—if I'm not around anymore.”

Rachael: “Rickie, you've got to run!”

Rick: “Eh, what's the difference?”

Narrator: “At exactly 3:45 PM on that Saturday afternoon in the last week of September, Rick Deckard was, perhaps, the only one among the hundred thousand people at the track who felt no thrill at the running of the fifth race. He was totally disinterested in horse racing and held a lifelong contempt for gambling. Nevertheless, he had a $5 thousand win bet on every horse in the fifth race. He knew, of course, that this rather unique system of betting would more than likely result in a loss, but he didn't care. For after all, he thought, what would the loss of fifty or sixty thousand dollars mean in comparison to the vast sum of money ultimately at stake.”

Creepazoid Prison Ship Guard: “Somethin' wrong?”

Rick: “Yeah, you're wrong, creep.”

[Zaps the guard with the zoid-gun Rachael slips to him]

Rachael: “It isn't fair, Rick. I never had anybody but you. Not a real husband. Not even a man. Just a bad joke without a punch line.”

Rick: “That’s okay, kid. Thank gawd, you’ve got a little bit of Rachael in you. I was sure you'd see it my way—if I just kept cool. Take good care of yourself, sweetheart. Maybe next time…”

Rachael: “I'll take care of myself, Rick. That's my specialty.”

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