Did you ever wonder at the lonely life the bird in a cuckoo clock has tolead—that it might possibly love and hate just as easily as a real animalof flesh and blood? Philip Dick used that idea for this brief fantasy tale.We're sure that after reading it you'll give cuckoo clocks more respect.
beyond
the
door
by ... Philip K. Dick
Larry Thomas bought a cuckoo clockfor his wife—without knowing theprice he would have to pay.
That night at the dinner tablehe brought it out and set it downbeside her plate. Doris stared atit, her hand to her mouth. "MyGod, what is it?" She looked upat him, bright-eyed.
"Well, open it."
Doris tore the ribbon and paperfrom the square package with hersharp nails, her bosom rising andfalling. Larry stood watching heras she lifted the lid. He lit acigarette and leaned against thewall.
"A cuckoo clock!" Doris cried."A real old cuckoo clock like mymother had." She turned theclock over and over. "Just likemy mother had, when Pete wasstill alive." Her eyes sparkledwith tears.
"It's made in Germany," Larrysaid. After a moment he added,"Carl got it for me wholesale. Heknows some guy in the clock business.Otherwise I wouldn't have—"He stopped.
Doris made a funny little sound.
"I mean, otherwise I wouldn'thave been able to afford it." Hescowled. "What's the matter withyou? You've got your clock,haven't you? Isn't that what youwant?"
Doris sat holding onto theclock, her fingers pressed againstthe brown wood.
"Well," Larry said, "what'sthe matter?"
He watched in amazement asshe leaped up and ran from theroom, still clutching the clock.He shook his head. "Never satisfied.They're all that way. Neverget enough."
He sat down at the table andfinished his meal.
The cuckoo clock was not verylarge. It was hand-made, however,and there were countlessfrets on it, little indentations andornaments scored in the softwood. Doris sat on the bed dryingher eyes and winding theclock. She set the hands by herwristwatch. Presently she carefullymoved the hands to twominutes of ten. She carried theclock over to the dresser andpropped it up.
Then she sat waiting, her handstwisted together in her lap—waitingfor the cuckoo to comeout, for the hour to strike.
As she sat she thought aboutLarry and what he had said. Andwhat she had said, too, for thatmatter—not that she could beblamed for any of it. After all,she couldn't keep listening to himforever without defending herself;you had to blow your owntrumpet in the world.
She touched her handkerchiefto her eyes suddenly. Why did hehave to say that, about getting itwholesale? Why did he have tospoil it all? If he felt that way heneedn't have got it in the firstplace. She clenched her fists. Hewas so mean, so damn mean.
But she was glad of the littleclock sitting there ticking to itself,with its funny grilled edgesand the door. Inside the doorwas the cuckoo, waiting to comeout. Was he listening, his headcocked on one side, listening tohear the clock strike so that hewould know to come out?
Did he sleep between hours?Well, she would soon see him:she could ask him. And she wouldshow the clock to Bob. He wouldlove it; Bob loved old things, evenold stamps and buttons. He likedto go with her to the stores. Ofcourse, it was a little awkward,but Larry had been staying at theoffice so much, and that helped.If only Larry didn't call up sometimesto—
There was a whirr. The clockshuddered and all at once the dooropened. The cuckoo came out,sliding sw