BY PHILIP K. DICK ILLUSTRATED BY EBEL He fixed things—clocks, refrigerators, vidsenders and destinies. But he had no business in the future, where the calculators could not handle him. He was Earth’s only hope—and its sure failure! Security Commissioner Reinhart rapidly climbed the front steps and entered the Council building. Council guards stepped quickly aside and he entered the familiar place of great whirring machines. His thin face rapt, eyes alight with emotion, Reinhart gazed intently up

Thomas Cole was sharpening a knife with his whetstone when the tornado hit. The knife belonged to the lady in the big green house. Every time Cole came by with his Fixit cart the lady had something to be sharpened. Once in awhile she gave him a cup of coffee, hot black coffee from an old bent pot. He liked that fine; he enjoyed good coffee. The day was drizzly and overcast. Business had been bad. An automobile had scared his two horses. On bad days less people were outside and he had to get down

Eric Reinhart examined the vidsender box carefully, turning it around and around. “Then he did escape from the blast,” Dixon admitted reluctantly. “He must have leaped from the cart just before the concussion.” Reinhart nodded. “He escaped. He got away from you—twice.” He pushed the vidsender box away and leaned abruptly toward the man standing uneasily in front of his desk. “What’s your name again?” “Elliot. Richard Elliot.” “And your son’s name?” “Steven.” “It was last night this happened?” “A

Three days later Joseph Dixon slid a closed-circuit message plate across the desk to his boss. “Here. You might be interested in this.” Reinhart picked the plate up slowly. “What is it? You came all the way here to show me this?” “That’s right.” “Why didn’t you vidscreen it?” Dixon smiled grimly. “You’ll understand when you decode it. It’s from Proxima Centaurus.” “Centaurus!” “Our counter-intelligence service. They sent it direct to me. Here, I’ll decode it for you. Save you the trouble.” Dixon