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This is a shorter collection than ISBN 9781857989472 and is not a part of "Collected Short Stories" series.
This volume covers a wide span, from late 1954 through to 1963, the years during which Dick began writing novels prolifically and his short story output lessened. The title story of this collection has been made into the Steven Spielberg-directed movie of the same name, while "The Days of Perky Pat" inspired one of Dick's greatest works, the novel The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch; The Penultimate Truth grew from "The Mold of Yancy". Philip K. Dick is shown at his incomparable prime in this fourth volume of the definitive collection of short fiction.
A fitting tribute to a great philosophical writer who found science fiction the ideal form for the expression of his ideas - The Independent
My literary hero - Fay Weldon
An elusive and incomparable artist - Ursula K. Le Guin
No other writer of his generation had such a powerful intellectual presence. He stamped himself not only on our memories but in our imaginations - Brian Aldiss
This collection includes the following stories:>
- Minority Report
- Imposter
- Second Variety
- War Game
- What the Dead Men Say
- Oh, to Be a Blobel!
- The Electric Ant
- Faith of Our Fathers
- We Can Remember it for You Wholesale (the basis for "Total Recall")
293 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1956


All day long the idiots babbled, imprisoned in their special high-backed chairs, held in one rigid position by metal bands, and bundles of wiring, clamps. Their physical needs were taken care of automatically. They had no spiritual needs. Vegetable-like, they muttered and dozed and existed. Their minds were dull, confused, lost in shadows.
But not the shadows of today. The three gibbering, fumbling creatures, with their enlarged heads and wasted bodies, were contemplating the future. The analytical machinery was recording prophecies, and as the three precog idiots talked, the machinery carefully listened.
For the first time Witwer's face lost its breezy confidence. A sick, dismayed expression crept into his eyes, a mixture of shame and moral shock. "It's not -- pleasant," he murmured. "I didn't realize they were so --" He groped in his mind for the right word, gesticulating. "So -- deformed."
"Deformed and retarded," Anderton instantly agreed. "Especially the girl, there. Donna is forty-five years old. But she looks about ten. The talent absorbs everything; the esp-lobe shrivels the balance of the frontal area. But what do we care? We get their prophecies. They pass on what we need. They don't understand any of it, but we do."





