Ubik by Philip K. Dick

beside him lounged a long-legged girl with brilliant, tumbling black hair and eyes; her intense, distilled beauty illuminated that part of the room, igniting it with heavy, sullen fire. It was, he thought, as if the girl resisted being attractive, disliked the smoothness of her skin and the sensual, swollen, dark quality of her lips.
    She looks, he thought, as if she just now got out of bed. Still disordered. Resentful of the day—in fact, of every day.
    Walking over to the two of them, Runciter said, “I gather G.G. is back from Topeka.”
    “This is Pat,” Joe Chip said. “No last name.” He indicated Runciter, then sighed. He had a peculiar defeated quality hanging over him, and yet, underneath, he did not seem to have given up. A vague and ragged hint of vitality lurked behind the resignation; it seemed to Runciter that Joe most nearly could be accused of feigning spiritual downfall…the real article, however, was not there.
    “Anti what?” Runciter asked the girl, who still sat sprawling in her chair, legs extended.
    The girl murmured, “Anti-ketogenesis.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “The prevention of ketosis,” the girl said remotely. “As by the administration of glucose.”
    To Joe, Runciter said, “Explain.”
    “Give Mr. Runciter your test sheet,” Joe said to the girl.
    Sitting up, the girl reached for her purse, rummaged, then produced one of Joe’s wrinkled yellow score sheets, which she unfolded, glanced at and passed to Runciter.
    “Amazing score,” Runciter said. “Is she really this good?” he asked Joe. And then he saw the two underlined crosses, the graphic symbol of indictment—of, in fact, treachery.
    “She’s the best so far,” Joe said.
    “Come into my office,” Runciter said to the girl; he led the way, and, behind them, the two of them followed.
    Fat Miss Wirt, all at once, breathless, her eyes rolling, appeared. “I phoned Mr. Howard,” she informed Runciter. “He has now given me my instructions.” She thereupon perceived Joe Chip and the girl named Pat; for an instant she hesitated, then plunged on, “Mr. Howard would like the formal arrangements made right away. So may we go ahead now? I’ve already acquainted you with the urgency, the time factor.” She smiled her glassy, determined smile. “Do you two mind waiting?” she asked them. “My business with Mr. Runciter is of a priority nature.”
    Glancing at her, Pat laughed, a low, throaty laugh of contempt.
    “You’ll have to wait, Miss Wirt,” Runciter said. He felt afraid; he looked at Pat, then at Joe, and his fear quickened. “Sit down, Miss Wirt,” he said to her, and indicated one of the outer-office chairs.
    Miss Wirt said, “I can tell you exactly, Mr. Runciter, how many inertials we intend to take. Mr. Howard feels he can make an adequate determination of our needs, of our problem.”
    “How many?” Runciter asked.
    “Eleven,” Miss Wirt said.
    “We’ll sign the contract in a little while,” Runciter said. “As soon as I’m free.” With his big, wide hand he guided Joe and the girl into his inner office; he shut the door behind them and seated himself. “They’ll never make it,” he said to Joe. “With eleven. Or fifteen. Or twenty. Especially not with S. Dole Melipone involved on the other side.” He felt tired as well as afraid. “This is, as I assumed, the potential trainee that G.G. scouted in Topeka? And you believe we should hire her? Both you and G.G. agree? Then we’ll hire her, naturally.” Maybe I’ll turn her over to Mick, he said to himself. Make her one of the eleven. “Nobody has managed to tell me yet,” he said, “which of the psi talents she counters.”
    “Mrs. Frick says you flew to Zürich,” Joe said. “What did Ella suggest?”
    “More ads,” Runciter said. “On TV. Every hour.” Into his intercom he said, “Mrs. Frick, draw up an agreement of employment between ourselves and a Jane Doe; specify the starting salary that we and the union