Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick

  “What happened to you?” Witwer demanded. Then he caught sight of Fleming's inert form lying spread out inside. Facing Anderton squarely, he said: “Then you've finally stopped pretending this is some conspiracy of mine.”

  “I have.”

  “You don't think I'm—” He made a disgusted face. “Plotting to get your job.”

  “Sure you are. Everybody is guilty of that sort of thing. And I'm plotting to keep it. But this is something else—and you're not responsible.”

  “Why do you assert,” Witwer inquired, “that it's too late to turn yourself in? My God, we'll put you in the camp. The week will pass and Kaplan will still be alive.”

  “He'll be alive, yes,” Anderton conceded. “But he can prove he'd be just as alive if I were walking the streets. He has the information that proves the majority report obsolete. He can break the Precrime system.” He finished, “Heads or tails, he wins—and we lose. The Army discredits us; their strategy paid off.”

  “But why are they risking so much? What exactly do they want?”

  “After the Anglo-Chinese War, the Army lost out. It isn't what it was in the good old AFWA days. They ran the complete show, both military and domestic. And they did their own police work.”

  “Like Fleming,” Lisa said faintly.

  “After the war, the Westbloc was demilitarized. Officers like Kaplan were retired and discarded. Nobody likes that.” Anderton grimaced. “I can sympathize with him. He's not the only one. But we couldn't keep on running things that way. We had to divide up the authority.”

  “You say Kaplan has won,”Witwer said.“Isn't there anything we can do?”

  “I'm not going to kill him. We know it and he knows it. Probably he'll come around and offer us some kind of deal. We'll continue to function, but the Senate will abolish our real pull. You wouldn't like that, would you?”

  “I should say not,”Witwer answered emphatically.“One of these days I'm going to be running this agency.” He flushed. “Not immediately, of course.”

  Anderton's expression was somber. “It's too bad you publicized the majority report. If you had kept it quiet, we could cautiously draw it back in. But everybody's heard about it. We can't retract it now.”

  “I guess not,” Witwer admitted awkwardly. “Maybe I—don't have this job down as neatly as I imagined.”

  “You will, in time. You'll be a good police officer. You believe in the status quo. But learn to take it easy.” Anderton moved away from them. “I'm going to study the data tapes of the majority report. I want to find out exactly how I was supposed to kill Kaplan.” Reflectively, he finished: “It might give me some ideas.”

  The data tapes of the precogs “Donna” and “Mike” were separately stored. Choosing the machinery responsible for the analysis of “Donna,” he opened the protective shield and laid out the contents. As before, the code informed him which reels were relevant and in a moment he had the tape-transport mechanism in operation.

  It was approximately what he had suspected. This was the material utilized by “Jerry”—the superseded time-path. In it Kaplan's Military Intelligence agents kidnapped Anderton as he drove home from work. Taken to Kaplan's villa, the organization GHQ of the International Veterans' League. Anderton was given an ultimatum: voluntarily disband the Precrime system or face open hostilities with Army.

  In this discarded time-path, Anderton, as Police Commissioner, had turned to the Senate for support. No support was forthcoming. To avoid civil war, the Senate had ratified the dismemberment of the police system, and decreed a return to military law “to cope with the emergency.” Taking a corps of fanatic police, Anderton had located Kaplan and shot him, along with other officials of the Veterans' League. Only Kaplan had died. The others had been patched up. And the coup had been successful.

  This was “Donna.” He rewound the tape and turned to the material previewed by “Mike.” It would be identical; both precogs had combined to present a unified picture. “Mike” began as “Donna” had begun: Anderton had become aware of Kaplan's plot against the police. But something was wrong. Puzzled, he ran the tape back to the beginning. Incomprehensibly, it didn't jibe. Again he relayed the tape, listening intently.

  The “Mike” report was quite different from the “Donna” report.

  An hour later, he had finished his examination, put away the tapes, and left the monkey block. As soon as he emerged, Witwer asked, “What's the matter? I can see something's wrong.”

  “No,” Anderton answered slowly, still deep in thought. “Not exactly wrong.” A sound came to his ears. He walked vaguely over to the window and peered out.

  The street was crammed with people. Moving down the center lane was a four-column line of uniformed troops. Rifles, helmets … marching soldiers in their dingy wartime uniforms, carrying the cherished pennants of AFWA flapping in the cold afternoon wind.

  “An Army rally,” Witwer explained bleakly. “I was wrong. They're not going to make a deal with us. Why should they? Kaplan's going to make it public.”

  Anderton felt no surprise. “He's going to read the minority report?”

  “Apparently. They're going to demand the Senate disband us, and take away our authority. They're going to claim we've been arresting innocent men—nocturnal police raids, that sort of thing. Rule by terror.”

  “You suppose the Senate will yield?”

  Witwer hesitated. “I wouldn't want to guess.”

  “I'll guess,” Anderton said. “They will. That business out there fits with what I learned downstairs. We've got ourselves boxed in and there's only one direction we can go. Whether we like it or not, we'll have to take it.” His eyes had a steely glint.

  Apprehensively, Witwer asked: “What is it?”

  “Once I say it, you'll wonder why you didn't invent it. Very obviously, I'm going to have to fulfill the publicized report. I'm going to have to kill Kaplan. That's the only way we can keep them from discrediting us.”

  “But,” Witwer said, astonished, “the majority report has been superseded.”

  “I can do it,” Anderton informed him, “but it's going to cost. You're familiar with the statutes governing first-degree murder?”

  “Life imprisonment.”

  “At least. Probably, you could pull a few wires and get it commuted to exile. I could be sent to one of the colony planets, the good old frontier.”

  “Would you—prefer that?”

  “Hell, no,” Anderton said heartily.“But it would be the lesser of the two evils. And it's got to be done.”

  “I don't see how you can kill Kaplan.”

  Anderton got out the heavy-duty military weapon Fleming had tossed to him. “I'll use this.”

  “They won't stop you?”

  “Why should they? They've got that minority report that says I've changed my mind.”

  “Then the minority report is incorrect?”

  “No,” Anderton said, “it's absolutely correct. But I'm going to murder Kaplan anyhow.”

  IX

  He had never killed a man. He had never even seen a man killed. And he had been Police Commissioner for thirty years. For this generation, deliberate murder had died out. It simply didn't happen.

  A police car carried him to within a block of the Army rally. There, in the shadows of the back seat, he painstakingly examined the pistol Fleming had provided him. It seemed to be intact. Actually, there was no doubt of the outcome. He was absolutely certain of what would happen within the next half hour. Putting the pistol back together, he opened the door of the parked car and stepped warily out.

  Nobody paid the slightest attention to him. Surging masses of people pushed eagerly forward, trying to get within hearing distance of the rally. Army uniforms predominated and at the perimeter of the cleared area, a line of tanks and major weapons was displayed—formidable armament still in production.

  Army had erected a metal speaker's stand and ascending steps. Behind the stand hung the vast AFWA banner, emblem of the combined pow
ers that had fought in the war. By a curious corrosion of time, the AFWA Veterans' League included officers from the wartime enemy. But a general was a general and fine distinctions had faded over the years.

  Occupying the first rows of seats sat the high brass of the AFWA command. Behind them came junior commissioned officers. Regimental banners swirled in a variety of colors and symbols. In fact, the occasion had taken on the aspect of a festive pageant. On the raised stand itself sat stern-faced dignitaries of the Veterans' League, all of them tense with expectancy. At the extreme edges, almost unnoticed, waited a few police units, ostensibly to keep order. Actually, they were informants making observations. If order were kept, the Army would maintain it.

  The late-afternoon wind carried the muffled booming of many people packed tightly together. As Anderton made his way through the dense mob he was engulfed by the solid presence of humanity. An eager sense of anticipation held everybody rigid. The crowd seemed to sense that something spectacular was on the way. With difficulty, Anderton forced his way past the rows of seats and over to the tight knot of Army officials at the edge of the platform.

  Kaplan was among them. But he was now General Kaplan.

  The vest, the gold pocket watch, the cane, the conservative business suit—all were gone. For this event, Kaplan had got his old uniform from its mothballs. Straight and impressive, he stood surrounded by what had been his general staff. He wore his service bars, his medals, his boots, his decorative short-sword, and his visored cap. It was amazing how transformed a bald man became under the stark potency of an officer's peaked and visored cap.

  Noticing Anderton, General Kaplan broke away from the group and strode to where the younger man was standing. The expression on his thin, mobile countenance showed how incredulously glad he was to see the Commissioner of Police.

  “This is a surprise,” he informed Anderton, holding out his small gray-gloved hand. “It was my impression you had been taken in by the acting Commissioner.”

  “I'm still out,” Anderton answered shortly, shaking hands. “After all, Witwer has that same reel of tape.” He indicated the package Kaplan clutched in his steely fingers and met the man's gaze confidently.

  In spite of his nervousness, General Kaplan was in good humor. “This is a great occasion for the Army,” he revealed. “You'll be glad to hear I'm going to give the public a full account of the spurious charge brought against you.”

  “Fine,” Anderton answered noncommittally.

  “It will be made clear that you were unjustly accused.” General Kaplan was trying to discover what Anderton knew. “Did Fleming have an opportunity to acquaint you with the situation?”

  “To some degree,” Anderton replied. “You're going to read only the minority report? That's all you've got there?”

  “I'm going to compare it to the majority report.” General Kaplan signaled an aide and a leather briefcase was produced. “Everything is here— all the evidence we need,” he said. “You don't mind being an example, do you? Your case symbolizes the unjust arrests of countless individuals.” Stiffly, General Kaplan examined his wristwatch. “I must begin. Will you join me on the platform?”

  “Why?”

  Coldly, but with a kind of repressed vehemence, General Kaplan said: “So they can see the living proof. You and I together—the killer and his victim. Standing side by side, exposing the whole sinister fraud which the police have been operating.”

  “Gladly,” Anderton agreed. “What are we waiting for?”

  Disconcerted, General Kaplan moved toward the platform. Again, he glanced uneasily at Anderton, as if visibly wondering why he had appeared and what he really knew. His uncertainty grew as Anderton willingly mounted the steps of the platform and found himself a seat directly beside the speaker's podium.

  “You fully comprehend what I'm going to be saying?” General Kaplan demanded. “The exposure will have considerable repercussions. It may cause the Senate to reconsider the basic validity of the Precrime system.”

  “I understand,” Anderton answered, arms folded. “Let's go.”

  A hush had descended on the crowd. But there was a restless, eager stirring when General Kaplan obtained the briefcase and began arranging his material in front of him.

  “The man sitting at my side,” he began, in a clean, clipped voice, “is familiar to you all. You may be surprised to see him, for until recently he was described by the police as a dangerous killer.”

  The eyes of the crowd focused on Anderton. Avidly, they peered at the only potential killer they had ever been privileged to see at close range.

  “Within the last few hours, however,” General Kaplan continued, “the police order for his arrest has been canceled; because former Commissioner Anderton voluntarily gave himself up? No, that is not strictly accurate. He is sitting here. He has not given himself up, but the police are no longer interested in him. John Allison Anderton is innocent of any crime in the past, present, and future. The allegations against him were patent frauds, diabolical distortions of a contaminated penal system based on a false premise—a vast, impersonal engine of destruction grinding men and women to their doom.”

  Fascinated, the crowd glanced from Kaplan to Anderton. Everyone was familiar with the basic situation.

  “Many men have been seized and imprisoned under the so-called prophylactic Precrime structure,” General Kaplan continued, his voice gaining feeling and strength. “Accused not of crimes they have committed, but of crimes they will commit. It is asserted that these men, if allowed to remain free, will at some future time commit felonies.

  “But there can be no valid knowledge about the future. As soon as pre-cognitive information is obtained, it cancels itself out. The assertion that this man will commit a future crime is paradoxical. The very act of possessing this data renders it spurious. In every case, without exception, the report of the three police precogs has invalidated their own data. If no arrests had been made, there would still have been no crimes committed.”

  Anderton listened idly, only half-hearing the words. The crowd, however, listened with great interest. General Kaplan was now gathering up a summary made from the minority report. He explained what it was and how it had come into existence.

  From his coat pocket, Anderton slipped out his gun and held it in his lap. Already, Kaplan was laying aside the minority report, the precognitive material obtained from “Jerry.” His lean, bony fingers groped for the summary of first, “Donna,” and after that, “Mike.”

  “This was the original majority report,” he explained. “The assertion, made by the first two precogs, that Anderton would commit a murder. Now here is the automatically invalidated material. I shall read it to you.” He whipped out his rimless glasses, fitted them to his nose, and started slowly to read.

  A queer expression appeared on his face. He halted, stammered, and abruptly broke off. The papers fluttered from his hands. Like a cornered animal, he spun, crouched, and dashed from the speaker's stand.

  For an instant his distorted face flashed past Anderton. On his feet now, Anderton raised the gun, stepped quickly forward, and fired. Tangled up in the rows of feet projecting from the chairs that filled the platform, Kaplan gave a single shrill shriek of agony and fright. Like a ruined bird, he tumbled, fluttering and flailing, from the platform to the ground below. Anderton stepped to the railing, but it was already over.

  Kaplan, as the majority report had asserted, was dead. His thin chest was a smoking cavity of darkness, crumbling ash that broke loose as the body lay twitching.

  Sickened, Anderton turned away, and moved quickly between the rising figures of stunned Army officers. The gun, which he still held, guaranteed that he would not be interfered with. He leaped from the platform and edged into the chaotic mass of people at its base. Stricken, horrified, they struggled to see what had happened. The incident, occurring before their very eyes, was incomprehensible. It would take time for acceptance to replace blind terror.

  At the periphery
of the crowd, Anderton was seized by the waiting police. “You're lucky to get out,” one of them whispered to him as the car crept cautiously ahead.

  “I guess I am,” Anderton replied remotely. He settled back and tried to compose himself. He was trembling and dizzy. Abruptly, he leaned forward and was violently sick.

  “The poor devil,” one of the cops murmured sympathetically.

  Through the swirls of misery and nausea, Anderton was unable to tell whether the cop was referring to Kaplan or to himself.

  X

  Four burly policemen assisted Lisa and John Anderton in the packing and loading of their possessions. In fifty years, the ex-Commissioner of Police had accumulated a vast collection of material goods. Somber and pensive, he stood watching the procession of crates on their way to the waiting trucks.

  By truck they would go directly to the field—and from there to Centaurus X by inter-system transport. A long trip for an old man. But he wouldn't have to make it back.

  “There goes the second from the last crate,” Lisa declared, absorbed and preoccupied by the task. In sweater and slacks, she roamed through the barren rooms, checking on last-minute details. “I suppose we won't be able to use these new atronic appliances. They're still using electricity on Centten.”

  “I hope you don't care too much,” Anderton said.

  “We'll get used to it,” Lisa replied, and gave him a fleeting smile. “Won't we?”

  “I hope so. You're positive you'll have no regrets. If I thought—”

  “No regrets,” Lisa assured him. “Now suppose you help me with this crate.”

  As they boarded the lead truck, Witwer drove up in a patrol car. He leaped out and hurried up to them, his face looking strangely haggard. “Before you take off,” he said to Anderton, “you'll have to give me a breakdown on the situation with the precogs. I'm getting inquiries from the Senate. They want to find out if the middle report, the retraction, was an error—or what.” Confusedly, he finished: “I still can't explain it. The minority report was wrong, wasn't it?”