The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories

by Philip K. Dick

  Army had erected a metal speaker’s stand and ascending steps. Behind the stand hung the vast AFWA banner, emblem of the combined powers 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 signalled 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 cancelled; 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 precog-nitive 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 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.

  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 break-down 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 recreate 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 mould 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 set-up?”

  “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.”

  Recall Mechanism

  The analyst said: “I’m Humphrys, the man you came to see.” There were fear and hostility on the patient’s face, so Humphrys said: “I could tell a joke about analysts. Would that make you feel better? Or I could remind you that the National Health Trust is paying my fee; it’s not going to cost you a cent. Or I could cite the case of Psychoanalyst Y, who committed suicide last year because of overburdening anxiety resulting from a fraudulently filled out income tax.”

  Grudgingly, the patient smiled. “I heard about that. So psychologists are fallible.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. “My name is Paul Sharp. My secretary made the arrangements with you. I have a little problem, nothing important, but I’d like to clear it up.”

  The expression on his face showed that it was no small problem, and that, if he didn’t clear it up, it would probably destroy him.

  “Come inside,” Humphrys said genially, opening the door to his office, “so we can both sit down.”

  Sinking down in a soft easy chair, Sharp stretched his legs out in front of him. “No couch,” he observed.

  “The couch vanished back around 1980,” Humphrys said. “Post-war analysts feel enough confidence to face their patients on an equal level.” He offered a pack of cigarettes to Sharp and then lit up himself. “Your secretary gave me no details; she just said you wanted a conference.”

  Sharp said: “I can talk frankly?”

  “I’m bonded,” Humphrys said, with pride. “If any of the material you tell me gets into the hands of security organizations, I forfeit approximately ten thousand dollars in Westbloc silver—hard cash, not paper stuff.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Sharp said, and began. “I’m an economist, working for the Department of Agriculture—the Division of War Destruction Salvage. I poke around H-bomb craters seeing what’s worth rebuilding.” He corrected himself. “Actually, I analyze reports on H-bomb craters and make recommendations. It was my recommendation to reclaim the farm lands around Sacramento and the industrial ring here at Los Angeles.”

  In spite of himself, Humphrys was impressed. Here was a man in the policy-planning level of the Government. It gave him an odd feeling to realize that Sharp, like any other anxiety-ridden citizen, had come to the Psych Front for therapy.

  “My sister-in-law got a nice advantage from the Sacramento reclamation,” Humphrys commented. “She had a small walnut orchard up there. The Government hauled off the ash, rebuilt the house and outbuildings, even staked her to a few dozen new trees. Except for her leg injury, she’s as well off as before the war.”

  “We’re pleased with our Sacramento project,” Sharp said. He had begun to perspire; his smooth, pale forehead was
streaked, and his hands, as he held his cigarette, shook. “Of course, I have a personal interest in Northern California. I was born there myself, up around Petaluma, where they used to turn out hens’ eggs by the million …” His voice trailed off huskily. “Humphrys,” he muttered, “what am I going to do?”

  “First,” Humphrys said, “give me more information.”

  “I—” Sharp grinned inanely. “I have some kind of hallucination. I’ve had it for years, but it’s getting worse. I’ve tried to shake it, but—” he gestured—“it comes back, stronger, bigger, more often.”

  Beside Humphrys’ desk the vid and aud recorders were scanning covertly. “Tell me what the hallucination is,” he instructed. “Then maybe I can tell you why you have it.”

  He was tired. In the privacy of his living room, he sat dully examining a series of reports on carrot mutation. A variety, externally indistinguishable from the norm, was sending people in Oregon and Mississippi to the hospital with convulsions, fever and partial blindness. Why Oregon and Mississippi? Here with the report were photographs of the feral mutation; it did look like an ordinary carrot. And with the report came an exhaustive analysis of the toxic agent and recommendation for a neutralizing antidote.

  Sharp wearily tossed the report aside and selected the next in order.

  According to the second report, the notorious Detroit rat had shown up in St. Louis and Chicago, infesting the industrial and agricultural settlements replacing the destroyed cities. The Detroit rat—he had seen one once. That was three years ago; coming home one night, he had unlocked the door and seen, in the darkness, something scuttle away to safety. Arming himself with a hammer, he had pushed furniture around until he found it. The rat, huge and gray, had been in the process of building itself a wall-to-wall web. As it leaped up, he killed it with the hammer. A rat that spun webs …