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

by Philip K. Dick

  "That stuff? That damn chemistry stuff?"

  Peter smiled again.

  Ed scowled, his face dark red. "Why are you smiling?" he demanded. His son did not answer. "What's the matter? What's so damn funny?"

  "Nothing," Peter said. "Don't become excited. We have a long walk down." He increased his pace slightly, his supple body swinging in long, even strides. "It's getting late. We have to hurry."

  Doctor Bish examined his wristwatch, pushing back his pinstriped coat sleeve. "I'm glad you're back."

  "He sent the surface car away," Peter murmured. "We had to walk down the hill on foot."

  It was dark outside. The Station lights were coming on automatically, along the rows of buildings and laboratories.

  Doctor Bish rose from his desk. "Sign this, Peter. Bottom of this form."

  Peter signed. "What is it?"

  "Certifies you saw him in accord with the provisions of the law. We didn't try to obstruct you in any way."

  Peter handed the paper back. Bish filed it away with the others. Peter moved toward the door of the doctor's office. "I'll go. Down to the cafeteria for dinner."

  "You haven't eaten?"

  "No."

  Doctor Bish folded his arms, studying the boy. "Well?" he said. "What do you think of him? This is the first time you've seen your father. It must have been strange for you. You've been around us so much, in all your training and work."

  "It was—unusual."

  "Did you gain any impressions? Was there anything you particularly noticed?"

  "He was very emotional. There was a distinct bias through everything he said and did. A distortion present, virtually uniform."

  "Anything else?"

  Peter hesitated, lingering at the door. He broke into a smile. "One other thing."

  "What was it?"

  "I noticed—" Peter laughed. "I noticed a distinct odor about him. A constant pungent smell, all the time I was with him."

  "I'm afraid that's true of all of them," Doctor Bish said. "Certain skin glands. Waste products thrown off from the blood. You'll get used to it, after you've been around them more."

  "Do I have to be around them?"

  "They're your own race. How else can you work with them? Your whole training is designed with that in mind. When we've taught you all we can, then you will—"

  "It reminded me of something. The pungent odor. I kept thinking about it, all the time I was with him. Trying to place it."

  "Can you identify it now?"

  Peter reflected. He thought hard, concentrating deeply. His small face wrinkled up. Doctor Bish waited patiently by his desk, arms folded. The automatic heating system clicked on for the night, warming the room with a soft glow that drifted gently around them.

  "I know!" Peter exclaimed suddenly.

  "What was it?"

  "The animals in the biology lab. It was the same smell. The same smell as the experimental animals."

  They glanced at each other, the robot doctor and the promising young boy. Both of them smiled, a secret, private smile. A smile of complete understanding.

  "I believe I know what you mean," Doctor Bish said. "In fact, I know exactly what you mean."

  SOME KINDS OF LIFE

  "JOAN, for heaven's sake!"

  Joan Clarke caught the irritation in her husband's voice, even through the wall-speaker. She left her chair by the vidscreen and hurried into the bedroom. Bob was rooting furiously around in the closet, pulling down coats and suits and tossing them on the bed. His face was flushed with exasperation.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "My uniform. Where is it? Isn't it here?"

  "Of course. Let me look."

  Bob got sullenly out of the way. Joan pushed past him and clicked on the automatic sorter. Suits bobbed by in quick succession, parading for her inspection.

  It was early morning, about nine o'clock. The sky was bright blue. Not a single cloud was visible. A warm spring day, late in April. The ground outside the house was damp and black from the rains of the day before. Green shoots were already beginning to poke their way up through the steaming earth. The sidewalk was dark with moisture. Wide lawns glittered in the sparkling sunlight.

  "Here it is." Joan turned off the sorter. The uniform dropped into her arms and she carried it over to her husband. "Now next time don't get so upset."

  "Thanks." Bob grinned, embarrassed. He patted the coat. "But look, it's all creased. I thought you were going to have the darn thing cleaned."

  "It'll be all right." Joan started up the bed-maker. The bed-maker smoothed out the sheets and blankets, folding them in place. The spread settled carefully around the pillows. "After you've had it on awhile it'll look just lovely. Bob, you're the fussiest man I know."

  "Sorry, honey," Bob murmured.

  "What's wrong?" Joan came up to him and put her hand on his broad shoulder. "Are you worried about something?"

  "No."

  "Tell me."

  Bob began to unfasten his uniform. "It's nothing important. I didn't want to bother you. Erickson called me at work yesterday to tell me my group is up again. Seems they're calling two groups at once now. I thought I wouldn't get jerked out for another six months."

  "Oh, Bob! Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Erickson and I talked a long time. 'For God's sake!' I told him. 'I was just up.' 'I know that, Bob,' he said, 'I'm sorry as hell about it but there's nothing I can do. We're all in the same boat. Anyhow, it won't last long. Might as well get it over with. It's the Martian situation. They're all hot and bothered about it.' That's what he said. He was nice about it. Erickson's a pretty good guy for a Sector Organizer."

  "When—when do you have to go?"

  Bob looked at his watch. "I have to get down to the field by noon. Gives me three hours."

  "When will you be back?"

  "Oh, I should be back in a couple of days—if everything goes all right. You know how these things are. It varies. Remember last October when I was gone a whole week? But that's unusual. They rotate the groups so fast now you're practically back before you start."

  Tommy came strolling in from the kitchen. "What's up, Dad?" He noticed the uniform. "Say, your group up again?"

  "That's right."

  Tommy grinned from ear to ear, a delighted teenage grin. "You going to get in on the Martian business? I was following it over the vidscreen. Those Martians look like a bunch of dry weeds tied together in a bundle. You guys sure ought to be able to blow them apart."

  Bob laughed, whacking his son on the back. "You tell 'em, Tommy."

  "I sure wish I was coming."

  Bob's expression changed. His eyes became hard like gray flint. "No, you don't, kid. Don't say that."

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  "I didn't mean anything," Tommy muttered.

  Bob laughed easily. "Forget it. Now all of you clear out so I can change."

  Joan and Tommy left the room. The door slid shut. Bob dressed swiftly, tossing his robe and pajamas on the bed and pulling his dark green uniform around him. He laced his boots up and then opened the door.

  Joan had got his suitcase from the hall closet. "You'll want this, won't you?" she asked.

  "Thanks." Bob picked up the suitcase. "Let's go out to the car." Tommy was already absorbed at the vidscreen, beginning his schoolwork for the day. A biology lesson moved slowly across the screen.

  Bob and Joan walked down the front steps and along the path to their surface car, parked at the edge of the road. The door opened as they approached. Bob threw his suitcase inside and sat down behind the wheel.

  "Why do we have to fight the Martians?" Joan asked suddenly. "Tell me, Bob. Tell me why."

  Bob lit a cigarette. He let the gray smoke drift around the cabin of the car. "Why? You know as well as I do." He reached out a big hand and thumped the handsome control board of the car. "Because of this."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The control mechanism needs rexeroid. And the only rexeroid d
eposits in the whole system are on Mars. If we lose Mars we lose this." He ran his hand over the gleaming control board. "And if we lose this how are we going to get around? Answer me that."

  "Can't we go back to manual steering?"

  "We could ten years ago. But ten years ago we were driving less than a hundred miles per hour. No human being could steer at the speeds these days. We couldn't go back to manual steering without slowing down our pace."

  "Can't we do that?"

  Bob laughed. "Sweetheart, it's ninety miles from here to town. You really think I could keep my job if I had to drive the whole way at thirty-five miles an hour? I'd be on the road all my life."

  Joan was silent.

  "You see, we must have the darn stuff—the rexeroid. It makes our control equipment possible. We depend on it. We need it. We must keep mining operations going on Mars. We can't afford to let the Martians get the rexeroid deposits away from us. See?"

  "I see. And last year it was kryon ore from Venus. We had to have that. So you went and fought on Venus."

  "Darling, the walls of our houses wouldn't maintain an even temperature without kryon. Kryon is the only non-living substance in the system that adjusts itself to temperature changes. Why, we'd—we'd all have to go back to floor furnaces again. Like my grandfather had."

  "And the year before it was lonolite from Pluto."

  "Lonolite is the only substance known that can be used in constructing the memory banks of the calculators. It's the only metal with true retentive ability. Without lonolite we'd lose all our big computing machines. And you know how far we'd get without them."

  "All right."

  "Sweetheart, you know I don't want to go. But I have to. We all have to." Bob waved toward the house. "Do you want to give that up? You want to go back to the old ways?"

  "No." Joan moved away from the car. "All right, Bob. I'll see you in a day or two then?"

  "I hope so. This trouble should be over soon. Most of the New York groups are being called. The Berlin and Oslo groups are already there. It shouldn't take long."

  "Good luck."

  "Thanks." Bob closed the door. The motor started up automatically. "Say goodbye to Tommy for me."

  The car drove off, gaining speed, the automatic control board guiding it expertly into the main stream of traffic flowing down the highway. Joan watched until the car blended with the endless tide of flashing metal hulls, racing across the countryside in a bright ribbon toward the distant city. Then she went slowly back inside the house.

  Bob never came back from Mars, so in a manner of speaking, Tommy became the man of the house. Joan got a release from school for him and after a while he began work as a lab technician at the Government Research Project a few miles down the road.

  Bryan Erickson, the Sector Organizer, stopped one evening to see how they were getting along. "Nice little place you have here," Erickson said, wandering around.

  Tommy swelled with pride. "Sure is, isn't it? Sit down and make yourself comfortable."

  "Thanks." Erickson peered into the kitchen. The kitchen was in the process of putting out a meal for the evening dinner. "Quite a kitchen."

  Tommy came up beside him. "See that unit there on top of the stove?"

  "What's it do?"

  "It's a selector on the kitchen. It sets up a new combination every day. We don't have to figure out what to eat."

  "Amazing." Erickson glanced at Tommy. "You seem to be doing all right."

  Joan looked up from the vidscreen. "As well as could be expected." Her voice was toneless, flat.

  Erickson grunted. He walked back into the living-room. "Well, I guess I'll be running along."

  "What did you come for?" Joan asked.

  "Nothing in particular, Mrs. Clarke." Erickson hesitated by the door, a big man, red-faced, in his late thirties. "Oh, there was one thing."

  "What is it?" Her voice was emotionless.

  "Tom, have you made out your Sector Unit card?"

  "My Sector Unit card!"

  "According to law you're supposed to be registered as part of this sector—my sector." He reached in his pocket. "I have a few blank cards with me."

  "Gee!" Tommy said, a little frightened. "So soon? I thought it wasn't until I got to be eighteen."

  "They've changed the ruling. We took quite a beating on Mars. Some of the sectors can't fill their quotas. Have to dig deeper from now on." Erickson grinned good-naturedly. "This is a good sector, you know. We have a lot of fun drilling and trying out the new equipment. I finally got Washington to consign us a whole squadron of the new double-jet small fighters. Each man in my sector gets the use of a fighter."

  Tommy's eyes lit up. "Really?"

  "In fact the user gets to bring the fighter home over the weekend. You can park it on your lawn."

  "No kidding?" Tommy sat down at the desk. He filled the Unit card out happily.

  "Yes, we have a pretty good time," Erickson murmured.

  "Between wars," Joan said quietly.

  "What's that, Mrs. Clarke?"

  "Nothing."

  Erickson accepted the filled-out card. He put it away in his wallet. "By the way," he said.

  Tommy and Joan turned toward him.

  "I guess you've been seeing the gleco-war on the vidscreen. I guess you know all about that."

  "The gleco-war?"

  "We get all our gleco from Callisto. It's made from the hides of some kind of animal. Well, there's been a little trouble with the natives. They claim—"

  "What is a gleco?" Joan said tightly.

  "That's the stuff that makes your front door open for you only. It's sensitive to your pressure pattern. Gleco is made from these animals."

  There was silence, the kind you can cut with a knife.

  "I guess I'll be going." Erickson moved toward the door. "We'll see you the next training session, Tom. Right?" He opened the door.

  "Right," Tommy murmured.

  "Goodnight." Erickson left, closing the door after him.

  "But I have to go!" Tommy exclaimed.

  "Why?"

  "The whole sector is going. It's required."

  Joan stared out the window. "It isn't right."

  "But if I don't go we'll lose Callisto. And if we lose Callisto…"

  "I know. Then we'll have to go back to carrying door keys. Like our grandfathers did."

  "That's right." Tommy stuck out his chest, turning from side to side. "How do I look?"

  Joan said nothing.

  "How do I look? Do I look all right?"

  Tommy looked fine in his deep green uniform. He was slim and straight, much better looking than Bob. Bob had been gaining weight. His hair had been thinning. Tommy's hair was thick and black. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, his blue eyes flashing. He pulled his helmet in place, snapping the strap.

  "Okay?" he demanded.

  Joan nodded. "Fine."

  "Kiss me goodbye. I'm off to Callisto. I'll be back in a couple of days."

  "Goodbye."

  "You don't sound very happy."

  "I'm not," Joan said. "I'm not very happy."

  Tommy came back from Callisto all right but during the trektone-war on Europa something went wrong with his double-jet small fighter and the Sector Unit came back without him.

  "Trektone," Bryan Erickson explained, "is used in vidscreen tubes. It's very important, Joan."

  "I see."

  "You know what the vidscreen means. Our whole education and information come over it. The kids learn from it. They get their schooling. And in the evening we use the pleasure-channels for entertainment. You don't want us to have to go back to—"

  "No, no—of course not. I'm sorry." Joan waved a signal and the coffee table slid into the living-room, bearing a pot of steaming coffee. "Cream? Sugar?"

  "Just sugar, thanks." Erickson took his cup and sat silently on the couch, sipping and stirring. The house was quiet. It was late evening, about eleven o'clock. The shades were down. The vidscreen played softly in the
corner. Outside the house the world was dark and unmoving except for a faint wind stirring among the cedar trees at the end of the grounds.

  "Any news from the various fronts?" Joan asked after a while, leaning back and smoothing down her skirt.

  "The fronts?" Erickson considered. "Well, some new developments in the iderium-war."

  "Where is that?"

  "Neptune. We get our iderium from Neptune."

  "What is iderium used for?" Joan's voice was thin and remote as if she were a long way off. Her face had a pinched look, a kind of strained whiteness. As if a mask had settled into place and remained, a mask through which she looked from a great distance.

  "All the newspaper machines require iderium," Erickson explained. "Iderium lining makes it possible for them to detect events as they occur and flash them over the vidscreen. Without iderium we'd have to go back to reporting news and writing it up by hand. That would introduce the personal bias. Slanted news. The iderium news machines are impartial."

  Joan nodded. "Any other news?"

  "Not much more. They say some trouble might be going to break out on Mercury."

  "What do we get from Mercury?"

  "That's where our ambroline comes from. We use ambroline in all kinds of selector units. In your kitchen—the selector you have in there. The meal selector that sets up the food combinations. That's an ambroline unit."

  Joan gazed vacantly into her coffee cup. "The natives on Mercury—they're attacking us?"

  "There's been some riots, agitation, that sort of thing. Some Sector Units have been called out already. The Paris unit and the Moscow unit. Big units, I believe."

  After a time, Joan said, "You know, Bryan, I can tell you came here with something on your mind."

  "Oh, no. Why do you say that?"

  "I can tell. What is it?"

  Erickson flushed, his good-natured face red. "You're pretty acute, Joan. As a matter of fact I did come for something."

  "What is it?"

  Erickson reached into his coat and brought out a folded mimeographed paper. He passed it to Joan. "It isn't my idea, understand. I'm just a cog in a big machine." He chewed his lip nervously. "It's because of the heavy losses in the trektone-war. They need to close ranks. They're up against it, so I hear."