Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick (34 page)

“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?”

“Which minority report?” Anderton inquired, amused.

Witwer blinked. “Then that
is
it. I might have known.”

Seated in the cabin of the truck, Anderton got out his pipe and shook tobacco into it. With Lisa's lighter he ignited the tobacco and began operations. Lisa had gone back to the house, wanting to be sure nothing vital had been overlooked.

“There were three minority reports,” he told Witwer, enjoying the young man's confusion. Someday, Witwer would learn not to wade into situations he didn't fully understand. Satisfaction was Anderton's final emotion. Old and worn out as he was, he had been the only one to grasp the real nature of the problem.

“The three reports were consecutive,” he explained. “The first was ‘Donna.' In that time-path, Kaplan told me of the plot, and I promptly murdered him. ‘Jerry,' phased slightly ahead of ‘Donna,' used her report as data. He factored in my knowledge of the report. In that, the second time-path, all I wanted to do was to keep my job. It wasn't Kaplan I wanted to kill. It was my own position and life I was interested in.”

“And ‘Mike' was the third report? That came
after
the minority report?” Witwer corrected himself. “I mean, it came last?”

“‘Mike' was the last of the three, yes. Faced with the knowledge of the first report, I had decided
not
to kill Kaplan. That produced report two. But faced with
that
report, I changed my mind back. Report two, situation two, was the situation Kaplan wanted to create. It was to the advantage of the police to re-create position one. And by that time I was thinking of the police. I had figured out what Kaplan was doing. The third report invalidated the second one in the same way the second one invalidated the first. That brought us back where we started from.”

Lisa came over, breathless and gasping. “Let's go—we're all finished here.” Lithe and agile, she ascended the metal rungs of the truck and squeezed in beside her husband and the driver. The latter obediently started up his truck and the others followed.

“Each report was different,” Anderton concluded. “Each was unique. But two of them agreed on one point. If left free,
I would kill Kaplan.
That created the illusion of a majority report. Actually, that's all it was—an illusion. ‘Donna' and ‘Mike' previewed the same event—but in two totally different time-paths, occurring under totally different situations. ‘Donna' and ‘Jerry,' the so-called minority report and half of the majority report, were incorrect. Of the three, ‘Mike' was correct—since no report came after his, to invalidate him. That sums it up.”

Anxiously, Witwer trotted along beside the truck, his smooth, blond face creased with worry.“Will it happen again? Should we overhaul the setup?”

“It can happen in only one circumstance,” Anderton said. “My case was unique, since I had access to the data. It
could
happen again—but only to the next Police Commissioner. So watch your step.” Briefly, he grinned, deriving no inconsiderable comfort from Witwer's strained expression. Beside him, Lisa's red lips twitched and her hand reached out and closed over his.

“Better keep your eyes open,” he informed young Witwer. “It might happen to you at any time.”

THE DAYS OF PERKY PAT

At ten in the morning a terrific horn, familiar to him, hooted Sam Regan out of his sleep, and he cursed the careboy upstairs; he knew the racket was deliberate. The careboy, circling, wanted to be certain that flukers—and not merely wild animals—got the care parcels that were to be dropped.

We'll get them, we'll get them, Sam Regan said to himself as he zipped his dust-proof overalls, put his feet into boots, and then grumpily sauntered as slowly as possible toward the ramp. Several other flukers joined him, all showing similar irritation.

“He's early today,” Tod Morrison complained. “And I'll bet it's all staples, sugar and flour and lard—nothing interesting like say candy.”

“We ought to be grateful,” Norman Schein said.

“Grateful!” Tod halted to stare at him. “GRATEFUL?”

“Yes,” Schein said. “What do you think we'd be eating without them: If they hadn't seen the clouds ten years ago.”

“Well,” Tod said sullenly,“I just don't like them to come
early;
I actually don't exactly mind their coming, as such.”

As he put his shoulders against the lid at the top of the ramp, Schein said genially, “That's mighty tolerant of you, Tod boy. I'm sure the careboys would be pleased to hear your sentiments.”

Of the three of them, Sam Regan was the last to reach the surface; he did not like the upstairs at all, and he did not care who knew it. And anyhow, no one could compel him to leave the safety of the Pinole Fluke-pit; it was entirely his business, and he noted now that a number of his fellow flukers had elected to remain below in their quarters, confident that those who did answer the horn would bring them back something.

“It's bright,” Tod murmured, blinking in the sun.

The care ship sparkled close overhead, set against the gray sky as if hanging from an uneasy thread. Good pilot, this drop, Tod decided. He, or rather
it,
just lazily handles it, in no hurry. Tod waved at the care ship, and once more the huge horn burst out its din, making him clap his hands to his ears. Hey, a joke's a joke, he said to himself. And then the horn ceased; the careboy had relented.

“Wave to him to drop,” Norm Schein said to Tod. “You've got the wigwag.”

“Sure,” Tod said, and began laboriously flapping the red flag, which the Martian creatures had long ago provided, back and forth, back and forth.

A projectile slid from the underpart of the ship, tossed out stabilizers, spiraled toward the ground.

“Sheoot,” Sam Regan said with disgust. “It is staples; they don't have the parachute.” He turned away, not interested.

How miserable the upstairs looked today, he thought as he surveyed the scene surrounding him. There, to the right, the uncompleted house which someone—not far from their pit—had begun to build out of lumber salvaged from Vallejo, ten miles to the north. Animals or radiation dust had gotten the builder, and so his work remained where it was; it would never be put to use. And, Sam Regan saw, an unusually heavy precipitate had formed since last he had been up here, Thursday morning or perhaps Friday; he had lost exact track. The darn dust, he thought. Just rocks, pieces of rubble, and the dust. World's becoming a dusty object with no one to whisk it off regularly. How about you? he asked silently of the Martian careboy flying in slow circles overhead. Isn't your technology limitless? Can't you appear some morning with a dust rag a million miles in surface area and restore our planet to pristine newness?

Or rather, he thought, to pristine
oldness,
the way it was in the “ol-days,” as the children call it. We'd like that. While you're looking for something to give to us in the way of further aid, try that.

The careboy circled once more, searching for signs of writing in the dust: a message from the flukers below. I'll write that, Sam thought.
BRING DUST RAG, RESTORE OUR CIVILIZATION
. Okay, careboy?

All at once the care ship shot off, no doubt on its way back home to its base on Luna or perhaps all the way to Mars.

From the open fluke-pit hole, up which the three of them had come, a further head poked, a woman. Jean Regan, Sam's wife, appeared, shielded by a bonnet against the gray, blinding sun, frowning and saying, “Anything important? Anything
new
?”

“‘Fraid not,” Sam said. The care parcel projectile had landed and he walked toward it, scuffing his boots in the dust. The hull of the projectile had cracked open from the impact and he could see the canisters already. It looked to be five thousand pounds of salt—might as well leave it up here so the animals wouldn't starve, he decided. He felt despondent.

How peculiarly anxious the careboys were. Concerned all the time that the mainstays of existence be ferried from their own planet to Earth. They must think we eat all day long, Sam thought. My God … the pit was filled to capacity with stored foods. But of course it had been one of the smallest public shelters in Northern California.

“Hey,” Schein said, stooping down by the projectile and peering into the crack opened along its side. “I believe I see something we can use.” He found a rusted metal pole—once it had helped reinforce the concrete side of an ol-days public building—and poked at the projectile, stirring its release mechanism into action. The mechanism, triggered off, popped the rear half of the projectile open … and there lay the contents.

“Looks like radios in that box,” Tod said. “Transistor radios.” Thoughtfully stroking his short black beard he said, “Maybe we can use them for something new in our layouts.”

“Mine's already got a radio,” Schein pointed out.

“Well, build an electronic self-directing lawn mower with the parts,” Tod said. “You don't have that, do you?” He knew the Scheins' Perky Pat layout fairly well; the two couples, he and his wife with Schein and his, had played together a good deal, being almost evenly matched.

Sam Regan said, “Dibs on the radios, because I can use them.” His layout lacked the automatic garage-door opener that both Schein and Tod had; he was considerably behind them.

“Let's get to work,” Schein agreed. “We'll leave the staples here and just cart back the radios. If anybody wants the staples, let them come here and get them. Before the do-cats do.”

Nodding, the other two men fell to the job of carting the useful contents of the projectile to the entrance of their fluke-pit ramp. For use in their precious, elaborate Perky Pat layouts.

Seated cross-legged with his whetstone, Timothy Schein, ten years old and aware of his many responsibilities, sharpened his knife, slowly and expertly. Meanwhile, disturbing him, his mother and father noisily quarreled with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, on the far side of the partition. They were playing Perky Pat again. As usual.

How many times today they have to play that dumb game? Timothy asked himself. Forever, I guess. He could see nothing in it, but his parents played on anyhow. And they weren't the only ones; he knew from what other kids said, even from other fluke-pits, that their parents, too, played Perky Pat most of the day, and sometimes even on into the night.

His mother said loudly, “Perky Pat's going to the grocery store and it's got one of those electric eyes that opens the door. Look.” A pause. “See, it opened for her, and now she's inside.”

“She pushes a cart,” Timothy's dad added, in support.

“No, she doesn't,” Mrs. Morrison contradicted. “That's wrong. She gives her list to the grocer and he fills it.”

“That's only in little neighborhood stores,” his mother explained. “And this is a supermarket, you can tell because of the electric eye door.”

“I'm sure all grocery stores had electric eye doors,” Mrs. Morrison said stubbornly, and her husband chimed in with his agreement. Now the voices rose in anger; another squabble had broken out. As usual.

Aw, cung to them, Timothy said to himself, using the strongest word which he and his friends knew. What's a supermarket anyhow? He tested the blade of his knife—he had made it himself, originally, out of a heavy metal pan—and then hopped to his feet. A moment later he had sprinted silently down the hall and was rapping his special rap on the door of the Chamberlains' quarters.

Fred, also ten years old, answered. “Hi. Ready to go? I see you got that ol' knife of yours sharpened; what do you think we'll catch?”

“Not a do-cat,” Timothy said. “A lot better than that; I'm tired of eating do-cat. Too peppery.”

“Your parents playing Perky Pat?”

“Yeah.”

Fred said, “My mom and dad have been gone for a long time, off playing with the Benteleys.” He glanced sideways at Timothy, and in an instant they had shared their mute disappointment regarding their parents. Gosh, and maybe the darn game was all over the world, by now; that would not have surprised either of them.

“How come your parents play it?” Timothy asked.

“Same reason yours do,” Fred said.

Hesitating, Timothy said, “Well, why? I don't know why they do; I'm asking you, can't you say?”

“It's because—” Fred broke off. “Ask them. Come on; let's get upstairs and start hunting.” His eyes shone. “Let's see what we can catch and kill today.”

Shortly, they had ascended the ramp, popped open the lid, and were crouching amidst the dust and rocks, searching the horizon. Timothy's heart pounded; this moment always overwhelmed him, the first instant of reaching the upstairs. The thrilling initial sight of the expanse. Because it was never the same. The dust, heavier today, had a darker gray color to it than before; it seemed denser, more mysterious.

Here and there, covered by many layers of dust, lay parcels dropped from past relief ships—dropped and left to deteriorate. Never to be claimed. And, Timothy saw, an additional new projectile which had arrived that morning. Most of its cargo could be seen within; the grown-ups had not had any use for the majority of the contents, today.

“Look,” Fred said softly.

Two do-cats—mutant dogs or cats; no one knew for sure—could be seen, lightly sniffing at the projectile. Attracted by the unclaimed contents.

“We don't want them,” Timothy said.

“That one's sure nice and fat,” Fred said longingly. But it was Timothy who had the knife; all he himself had was a string with a metal bolt on the end, a bull-roarer that could kill a bird or a small animal at a distance—but useless against a do-cat, which generally weighed fifteen to twenty pounds and sometimes more.

High up in the sky a dot moved at immense speed, and Timothy knew that it was a care ship heading for another fluke-pit, bringing supplies to it. Sure are busy, he thought to himself. Those careboys always coming and going; they never stop, because if they did, the grown-ups would die. Wouldn't that be too bad? he thought ironically. Sure be sad.

Fred said, “Wave to it and maybe it'll drop something.” He grinned at Timothy, and then they both broke out laughing.

“Sure,” Timothy said. “Let's see; what do I want?” Again the two of them laughed at the idea of them wanting something. The two boys had the entire upstairs, as far as the eye could see … they had even more than the careboys had, and that was plenty, more than plenty.

“Do you think they know,” Fred said, “that our parents play Perky Pat with furniture made out of what they drop? I bet they don't know about Perky Pat; they never have seen a Perky Pat doll, and if they did they'd be really mad.”

“You're right,” Timothy said. “They'd be so sore they'd probably stop dropping stuff.” He glanced at Fred, catching his eye.

“Aw no,” Fred said. “We shouldn't tell them; your dad would beat you again if you did that, and probably me, too.”

Even so, it was an interesting idea. He could imagine first the surprise and then the anger of the careboys; it would be fun to see that, see the reaction of the eight-legged Martian creatures who had so much charity inside their warty bodies, the cephalopodic univalve mollusk-like organisms who had voluntarily taken it upon themselves to supply succor to the waning remnants of the human race … this was how they got paid back for their charity, this utterly wasteful, stupid purpose to which their goods were being put. This stupid Perky Pat game that all the adults played.

And anyhow it would be very hard to tell them; there was almost no communication between humans and careboys. They were too different. Acts, deeds, could be done, conveying something … but not mere words, not mere
signs
. And anyhow—

A great brown rabbit bounded by to the right, past the half-completed house. Timothy whipped out his knife. “Oh boy!” he said aloud in excitement. “Let's go!” He set off across the rubbly ground, Fred a little behind him. Gradually they gained on the rabbit; swift running came easy to the two boys: they had done much practicing.

“Throw the knife!” Fred panted, and Timothy, skidding to a halt, raised his right arm, paused to take aim, and then hurled the sharpened, weighted knife. His most valuable, self-made possession.

It cleaved the rabbit straight through its vitals. The rabbit tumbled, slid, raising a cloud of dust.

“I bet we can get a dollar for that!” Fred exclaimed, leaping up and down. “The hide alone—I bet we can get fifty cents just for the darn hide!”

Together, they hurried toward the dead rabbit, wanting to get there before a red-tailed hawk or a day-owl swooped on it from the gray sky above.

Bending, Norman Schein picked up his Perky Pat doll and said sullenly, “I'm quitting; I don't want to play anymore.”

Distressed, his wife protested,“But we've got Perky Pat all the way downtown in her new Ford hardtop convertible and parked and a dime in the meter and she's shopped and now she's in the analyst's office reading
Fortune
—we're way ahead of the Morrisons! Why do you want to quit, Norm?”

“We just don't agree,” Norman grumbled. “You say analysts charged twenty dollars an hour and I distinctly remember them charging only ten; nobody could charge twenty. So you're penalizing our side, and for what? The Morrisons agree it was only ten. Don't you?” he said to Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, who squatted on the far side of the layout which combined both couples' Perky Pat sets.