The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report

by Philip K. Dick

  No one spoke.

  "You can see what has happened," Kramer said calmly. "The old man won't let go of it, now that he has it. I was afraid of this when I saw the wiring changes. Everything in this ship is centrally controlled, even the cooling system, the hatches, the garbage release. We're helpless."

  "Nonsense." Gross strode to the board. He took hold of the wheel and turned it. The ship continued on its course, moving away from the moon, leaving it behind.

  "Release!" Kramer said into the microphone. "Let go of the controls! We'll take it back. Release."

  "No good," the Pilot said. "Nothing." He spun the useless wheel. "It's dead, completely dead."

  "And we're still heading out," Winter said, grinning foolishly. "We'll be going through the first-line defense belt in a few minutes. If they don't shoot us down—"

  "We better radio back." The Pilot clicked the radio to send. "I'll contact the main bases, one of the observation stations."

  "Better get the defense belt, at the speed we're going. We'll be into it in a minute."

  "And after that," Kramer said, "we'll be in outer space. He's moving us toward outspace velocity. Is this ship equipped with baths?"

  "Baths?" Gross said.

  "The sleep tanks. For space-drive. We may need them if we go much faster."

  "But good God, where are we going?" Gross said. "Where—where's he taking us?"

  The Pilot obtained contact. "This is Dwight, on ship," he said. "We're entering the defense zone at high velocity. Don't fire on us."

  "Turn back," the impersonal voice came through the speaker. "You're not allowed in the defense zone."

  "We can't. We've lost control."

  "Lost control?"

  "This is an experimental ship."

  Gross took the radio. "This is Commander Gross, Security. We're being carried into outer space. There's nothing we can do. Is there any way that we can be removed from this ship?"

  A hesitation. "We have some fast pursuit ships that could pick you up if you wanted to jump. The chances are good that they'd find you. Do you have space flares?"

  "We do," the Pilot said. "Let's try it."

  "Abandon ship?" Kramer said. "If we leave now we'll never see it again."

  "What else can we do? We're gaining speed all the time. Do you propose that we stay here?"

  "No." Kramer shook his head. "Damn it, there ought to be a better solution."

  "Could you contact him?" Winter asked. "The Old Man? Try to reason with him?"

  "It's worth a chance," Gross said. "Try it."

  "All right." Kramer took the microphone. He paused a moment. "Listen! Can you hear me? This is Phil Kramer. Can you hear me, Professor? Can you hear me? I want you to release the controls."

  There was silence.

  "This is Kramer, Professor. Can you hear me? Do you remember who I am? Do you understand who this is?"

  Above the control panel the wall speaker made a sound, a sputtering static. They looked up.

  "Can you hear me, Professor? This is Philip Kramer. I want you to give the ship back to us. If you can hear me, release the controls! Let go, Professor. Let go!"

  Static. A rushing sound, like the wind. They gazed at each other. There was silence for a moment.

  "It's a waste of time," Gross said.

  "No—listen!"

  The sputter came again. Then, mixed with the sputter, almost lost in it, a voice came, toneless, without inflection, a mechanical, lifeless voice from the metal speaker in the wall, above their heads.

  "…Is it you, Philip? I can't make you out. Darkness… Who's there? With you…"

  "It's me, Kramer." His fingers tightened against the microphone handle. "You must release the controls, Professor. We have to get back to Terra. You must."

  Silence. Then the faint, faltering voice came again, a little stronger than before. "Kramer. Everything so strange. I was right, though. Consciousness result of thinking. Necessary result. Cogito ergo sum. Retain conceptual ability. Can you hear me?"

  "Yes, Professor—"

  "I altered the wiring. Control. I was fairly certain… I wonder if I can do it. Try…"

  Suddenly the air-conditioning snapped into operation. It snapped abruptly off again. Down the corridor a door slammed. Something thudded. The men stood listening. Sounds came from all sides of them, switches shutting, opening. The lights blinked off; they were in darkness. The lights came back on, and at the same time the heating coils dimmed and faded.

  "Good God!" Winter said.

  Water poured down on them, the emergency fire-fighting system. There was a screaming rush of air. One of the escape hatches had slid back, and the air was roaring frantically out into space.

  The hatch banged closed. The ship subsided into silence. The heating coils glowed into life. As suddenly as it had begun the weird exhibition ceased.

  "I can do—everything," the dry, toneless voice came from the wall speaker. "It is all controlled. Kramer, I wish to talk to you. I've been—been thinking. I haven't seen you in many years. A lot to discuss. You've changed, boy. We have much to discuss. Your wife—"

  The Pilot grabbed Kramer's arm. "There's a ship standing off our bow. Look."

  They ran to the port. A slender pale craft was moving along with them, keeping pace with them. It was signal blinking.

  "A Terran pursuit ship," the Pilot said. "Let's jump. They'll pick us up. Suits—"

  He ran to a supply cupboard and turned the handle. The door opened and he pulled the suits out onto the floor.

  "Hurry," Gross said. A panic seized them. They dressed frantically, pulling the heavy garments over them. Winter staggered to the escape hatch and stood by it, waiting for the others. They joined him, one by one.

  "Let's go!" Gross said. "Open the hatch."

  Winter tugged at the hatch. "Help me."

  They grabbed hold, tugging together. Nothing happened. The hatch refused to budge.

  "Get a crowbar," the Pilot said.

  "Hasn't anyone got a blaster?" Gross looked frantically around. "Damn it, blast it open!"

  "Pull," Kramer grated. "Pull together."

  "Are you at the hatch?" The toneless voice came, drifting and eddying through the corridors of the ship. They looked up, staring around them. "I sense something nearby, outside. A ship? You are leaving, all of you? Kramer, you are leaving, too? Very unfortunate. I had hoped we could talk. Perhaps at some other time you might be induced to remain."

  "Open the hatch!" Kramer said, staring up at the impersonal walls of the ship. "For God's sake, open it!"

  There was silence, an endless pause. Then, very slowly, the hatch slid back. The air screamed out, rushing past them into space.

  One by one they leaped, one after the other, propelled away by the repulsive material of the suits. A few minutes later they were being hauled aboard the pursuit ship. As the last one of them was lifted through the port, their own ship pointed itself suddenly upward and shot off at tremendous speed. It disappeared.

  Kramer removed his helmet, gasping. Two sailors held onto him and began to wrap him in blankets. Gross sipped a mug of coffee, shivering.

  "It's gone," Kramer murmured.

  "I'll have an alarm sent out," Gross said.

  "What's happened to your ship?" a sailor asked curiously. "It sure took off in a hurry. Who's on it?"

  "We'll have to have it destroyed," Gross went on, his face grim. "It's got to be destroyed. There's no telling what it—what he has in mind." Gross sat down weakly on a metal bench. "What a close call for us. We were so damn trusting."

  "What could he be planning," Kramer said, half to himself. "It doesn't make sense. I don't get it."

  As the ship sped back toward the moon base they sat around the table in the dining room, sipping hot coffee and thinking, not saying very much.

  "Look here," Gross said at last. "What kind of man was Professor Thomas? What do you remember about him?"

  Kramer put his coffee mug down. "It was ten years ago. I don't re
member much. It's vague."

  He let his mind run back over the years. He and Dolores had been at Hunt College together, in physics and the life sciences. The College was small and set back away from the momentum of modern life. He had gone there because it was his home town, and his father had gone there before him.

  Professor Thomas had been at the College a long time, as long as anyone could remember. He was a strange old man, keeping to himself most of the time. There were many things that he disapproved of, but he seldom said what they were.

  "Do you recall anything that might help us?" Gross asked. "Anything that would give us a clue as to what he might have in mind?"

  Kramer nodded slowly. "I remember one thing…"

  One day he and the Professor had been sitting together in the school chapel, talking leisurely.

  "Well, you'll be out of school, soon," the Professor had said. "What are you going to do?"

  "Do? Work at one of the Government Research Projects, I suppose."

  "And eventually? What's your ultimate goal?"

  Kramer had smiled. "The question is unscientific. It presupposes such things as ultimate ends."

  "Suppose instead along these lines, then: What if there were no war and no Government Research Projects? What would you do, then?"

  "I don't know. But how can I imagine a hypothetical situation like that? There's been war as long as I can remember. We're geared for war. I don't know what I'd do. I suppose I'd adjust, get used to it."

  The Professor had stared at him. "Oh, you do think you'd get accustomed to it, eh? Well, I'm glad of that. And you think you could find something to do?"

  Gross listened intently. "What do you infer from this, Kramer?"

  "Not much. Except that he was against war."

  "We're all against war," Gross pointed out.

  "True. But he was withdrawn, set apart. He lived very simply, cooking his own meals. His wife died many years ago. He was born in Europe, in Italy. He changed his name when he came to the United States. He used to read Dante and Milton. He even had a Bible."

  "Very anachronistic, don't you think?"

  "Yes, he lived quite a lot in the past. He found an old phonograph and records and he listened to the old music. You saw his house, how old-fashioned it was."

  "Did he have a file?" Winter asked Gross.

  "With Security? No, none at all. As far as we could tell he never engaged in political work, never joined anything or even seemed to have strong political convictions."

  "No," Kramer agreed. "About all he ever did was walk through the hills. He liked nature."

  "Nature can be of great use to a scientist," Gross said. "There wouldn't be any science without it."

  "Kramer, what do you think his plan is, taking control of the ship and disappearing?" Winter said.

  "Maybe the transfer made him insane," the Pilot said. "Maybe there's no plan, nothing rational at all."

  "But he had the ship rewired, and he had made sure that he would retain consciousness and memory before he even agreed to the operation. He must have had something planned from the start. But what?"

  "Perhaps he just wanted to stay alive longer," Kramer said. "He was old and about to die. Or—"

  "Or what?"

  "Nothing." Kramer stood up. "I think as soon as we get to the moon base I'll make a vidcall to earth. I want to talk to somebody about this."

  "Who's that?" Gross asked.

  "Dolores. Maybe she remembers something."

  "That's a good idea," Gross said.

  "Where are you calling from?" Dolores asked, when he succeeded in reaching her.

  "From a moon base."

  "All kinds of rumors are running around. Why didn't the ship come back? What happened?"

  "I'm afraid he ran off with it."

  "He?"

  "The Old Man. Professor Thomas." Kramer explained what had happened.

  Dolores listened intently. "How strange. And you think he planned it all in advance, from the start?"

  "I'm certain. He asked for the plans of construction and the theoretical diagrams at once."

  "But why? What for?"

  "I don't know. Look, Dolores. What do you remember about him? Is there anything that might give a clue to all this?"

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know. That's the trouble."

  On the vidscreen Dolores knitted her brow. "I remember he raised chickens in his back yard and once he had a goat." She smiled. "Do you remember the day the goat got loose and wandered down the main street of town? Nobody could figure out where it came from."

  "Anything else?"

  "No." He watched her struggling, trying to remember. "He wanted to have a farm, sometime, I know."

  "All right. Thanks." Kramer touched the switch. "When I get back to Terra maybe I'll stop and see you."

  "Let me know how it works out."

  He cut the line and the picture dimmed and faded. He walked slowly back to where Gross and some officers of the Military were sitting at a chart table, talking.

  "Any luck?" Gross said, looking up.

  "No. All she remembers is that he kept a goat."

  "Come over and look at this detail chart." Gross motioned him around to his side. "Watch!"

  Kramer saw the record tabs moving furiously, the little white dots racing back and forth.

  "What's happening?" he asked.

  "A squadron outside the defense zone has finally managed to contact the ship. They're maneuvering now, for position. Watch."

  The white counters were forming a barrel formation around a black dot that was moving steadily across the board, away from the central position. As they watched, the white dots constructed around it.

  "They're ready to open fire," a technician at the board said. "Commander, what shall we tell them to do?"

  Gross hesitated. "I hate to be the one who makes the decision. When it comes right down to it—"

  "It's not just a ship," Kramer said. "It's a man, a living person. A human being is up there, moving through space. I wish we knew what—"

  "But the order has to be given. We can't take any chances. Suppose he went over to them, to the yuks."

  Kramer's jaw dropped. "My God, he wouldn't do that."

  "Are you sure? Do you know what he'll do?"

  "He wouldn't do that."

  Gross turned to the technician. "Tell them to go ahead."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but now the ship has gotten away. Look down at the board."

  Gross stared down, Kramer over his shoulder. The black dot had slipped through the white dots and had moved off at an abrupt angle. The white dots were broken up, dispersing in confusion.

  "He's an unusual strategist," one of the officers said. He traced the line. "It's an ancient maneuver, an old Prussian device, but it worked."

  The white dots were turning back. "Too many yuk ships out that far," Gross said. "Well, that's what you get when you don't act quickly." He looked up coldly at Kramer. "We should have done it when we had him. Look at him go!" He jabbed a finger at the rapidly moving black dot. The dot came to the edge of the board and stopped. It had reached the limit of the charted area. "See?"

  Now what? Kramer thought, watching. So the Old Man had escaped the cruisers and gotten away. He was alert, all right; there was nothing wrong with his mind. Or with ability to control his new body.

  Body—The ship was a new body for him. He had traded in the old dying body, withered and frail, for this hulking frame of metal and plastic, turbines and rocket jets. He was strong, now. Strong and big. The new body was more powerful than a thousand human bodies. But how long would it last him? The average life of a cruiser was only ten years. With careful handling he might get twenty out of it, before some essential part failed and there was no way to replace it.

  And then, what then? What would he do, when something failed and there was no one to fix it for him? That would be the end. Someplace, far out in the cold darkness of space, the ship would slow down, silent and lifeless, to exh
aust its last heat into the eternal timelessness of outer space. Or perhaps it would crash on some barren asteroid, burst into a million fragments.

  It was only a question of time.

  "Your wife didn't remember anything?" Gross said.

  "I told you. Only that he kept a goat, once."

  "A hell of a lot of help that is."

  Kramer shrugged. "It's not my fault."

  "I wonder if we'll ever see him again." Gross stared down at the indicator dot, still hanging at the edge of the board. "I wonder if he'll ever move back this way."

  "I wonder, too," Kramer said.

  That night Kramer lay in bed, tossing from side to side, unable to sleep. The moon gravity, even artificially increased, was unfamiliar to him and it made him uncomfortable. A thousand thoughts wandered loose in his head as he lay, fully awake.

  What did it all mean? What was the Professor's plan? Maybe they would never know. Maybe the ship was gone for good: the Old Man had left forever, shooting into outer space. They might never find out why he had done it, what purpose—if any—had been in his mind.

  Kramer sat up in bed. He turned on the light and lit a cigarette. His quarters were small, a metal-lined bunk room, part of the moon station base.

  The Old Man had wanted to talk to him. He had wanted to discuss things, hold a conversation, but in the hysteria and confusion all they had been able to think of was getting away. The ship was rushing off with them, carrying them into outer space. Kramer set his jaw. Could they be blamed for jumping? They had no idea where they were being taken, or why. They were helpless, caught in their own ship, and the pursuit ship standing by waiting to pick them up was their only chance. Another half hour and it would have been too late.

  But what had the Old Man wanted to say? What had he intended to tell him, in those first confusing moments when the ship around them had come alive, each metal strut and wire suddenly animate, the body of a living creature, a vast metal organism?

  It was weird, unnerving. He could not forget it, even now. He looked around the small room uneasily. What did it signify, the coming to life of metal and plastic? All at once they had found themselves inside a living creature, in its stomach, like Jonah inside the whale.