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

by Philip K. Dick

  "War. Mining. And it's old. The pits are probably bomb craters. Some of the long trenches may be scoop gouges. Looks like they really exhausted this place."

  A crooked row of broken mountain peaks shot past under them. They were nearing the remains of an ocean. Dark, unhealthy water lapped below, a vast sea, crusted with salt and waste, its edges disappearing into banks of piled debris.

  "Why is it that way?" Mrs. Gordon said suddenly. Doubt crossed her features. "Why?"

  "What do you mean?" Andrews said.

  "I don't understand." She stared uncertainly down at the surface below. "It isn't supposed to be this way. Earth is green. Green and alive. Blue water and…" Her voice trailed off uneasily. "Why?"

  Andrews grabbed some paper and wrote:

  COMMERCIAL OPERATIONS EXHAUSTED SURFACE

  Mrs. Gordon studied his words, her lips twitching. A spasm moved through her, shaking the thin, dried-out body. "Exhausted…" Her voice rose in shrill dismay. "It's not supposed to be this way! I don't want it this way!"

  The robant took her arm. "She had better rest. I'll return her to her quarters. Please notify us when the landing has been made."

  "Sure." Andrews nodded awkwardly as the robant led the old woman from the viewscreen. She clung to the guide rail, face distorted with fear and bewilderment.

  "Something's wrong!" she wailed. "Why is it this way? Why…"

  The robant led her from the control room. The closing of the hydraulic safety doors cut off her thin cry abruptly.

  Andrews relaxed, his body sagging. "God." He lit a cigarette shakily. "What a racket she makes."

  "We're almost down," Norton said frigidly.

  Cold wind lashed at them as they stepped out cautiously. The air smelled bad—sour and acrid. Like rotten eggs. The wind brought salt and sand blowing up against their faces.

  A few miles off the thick sea lay. They could hear it swishing faintly, gummily. A few birds passed silently overhead, great wings flapping soundlessly.

  "Depressing damn place," Andrews muttered.

  "Yeah. I wonder what the old lady's thinking."

  Down the descent ramp came the glittering robant, helping the little old woman. She moved hesitantly, unsteady, gripping the robant's metal arm. The cold wind whipped around her frail body. For a moment she tottered—and then came on, leaving the ramp and gaining the uneven ground.

  Norton shook his head. "She looks bad. This air. And the wind."

  "I know." Andrews moved back toward Mrs. Gordon and the robant. "How is she?" he asked.

  "She is not well, sir," the robant answered.

  "Captain," the old woman whispered.

  "What is it?"

  "You must tell me the truth. Is this—is this really Earth?"

  She watched his lips closely. "You swear it is? You swear?" Her voice rose in shrill terror.

  "It's Earth!" Andrews snapped irritably. "I told you before. Of course it's Earth."

  "It doesn't look like Earth." Mrs. Gordon clung to his answer, panic-stricken. "It doesn't look like Earth, Captain. Is it really Earth?"

  "Yes!"

  Her gaze wandered toward the ocean. A strange look flickered across her tired face, igniting her faded eyes with sudden hunger. "Is that water? I want to see."

  Andrews turned to Norton. "Get the launch out. Drive her where she wants."

  Norton pulled back angrily. "Me?"

  "That's an order."

  "Okay." Norton returned reluctantly to the ship. Andrews lit a cigarette moodily and waited. Presently the launch slid out of the ship, coasting across the ash toward them.

  "You can show her anything she wants," Andrews said to the robant. "Norton will drive you."

  "Thank you, sir," the robant said. "She will be grateful. She has wanted all her life to stand on Earth. She remembers her grandfather telling her about it. She believes that he came from Earth, a long time ago. She is very old. She is the last living member of her family."

  "But Earth is just a—" Andrews caught him. "I mean—"

  "Yes, sir. But she is very old. And she has waited many years." The robant turned to the old woman and led her gently toward the launch. Andrews stared after them sullenly, rubbing his jaw and frowning.

  "Okay," Norton's voice came from the launch. He slid the hatch open and the robant led the old woman carefully inside. The hatch closed after them.

  A moment later the launch shot away across the salt flat, toward the ugly, lapping ocean.

  Norton and Captain Andrews paced restlessly along the shore. The sky was darkening. Sheets of salt blew against them. The mud flats stank in the gathering gloom of night. Dimly, off in the distance, a line of hills faded into the silence and vapors.

  "Go on," Andrews said. "What then?"

  "That's all. She got out of the launch. She and the robant. I stayed inside. They stood looking across the ocean. After a while the old woman sent the robant back to the launch."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. She wanted to be alone, I suppose. She stood for a time by herself. On the shore. Looking over the water. The wind rising. All at once she just sort of settled down. She sank down in a heap, into the salt ash."

  "Then what?"

  "While I was pulling myself together, the robant leaped out and ran to her. It picked her up. It stood for a second and then it started for the water. I leaped out of the launch, yelling. It stepped into the water and disappeared. Sank down in the mud and filth. Vanished." Norton shuddered. "With her body."

  Andrews tossed his cigarette savagely away. The cigarette rolled off, glowing behind them. "Anything more?"

  "Nothing. It all happened in a second. She was standing there, looking over the water. Suddenly she quivered—like a dead branch. Then she just sort of dwindled away. And the robant was out of the launch and into the water with her before I could figure out what was happening."

  The sky was almost dark. Huge clouds drifted across the faint stars. Clouds of unhealthy night vapors and particles of waste. A flock of immense birds crossed the horizon, flying silently.

  Against the broken hills the moon was rising. A diseased, barren globe, tinted faintly yellow. Like old parchment.

  "Let's get back in the ship," Andrews said. "I don't like this place."

  "I can't figure out why it happened. The old woman." Norton shook his head.

  "The wind. Radioactive toxins. I checked with Centaurus II. The War devastated the whole system. Left the planet a lethal wreck."

  "Then we won't—"

  "No. We won't have to answer for it." They continued for a time in silence. "We won't have to explain. It's evident enough. Anybody coming here, especially an old person—"

  "Only nobody would come here," Norton said bitterly. "Especially an old person."

  Andrews didn't answer. He paced along, head down, hands in pockets. Norton followed silently behind. Above them, the single moon grew brighter as it escaped the mists and entered a patch of clear sky.

  "By the way," Norton said, his voice cold and distant behind Andrews. "This is the last trip I'll be making with you. While I was in the ship I filed a formal request for new papers."

  "Oh."

  "Thought I'd let you know. And my share of the kilo positives. You can keep it."

  Andrews flushed and increased his pace, leaving Norton behind. The old woman's death had shaken him. He lit another cigarette and then threw it away.

  Damn it—the fault wasn't his. She had been old. Three hundred and fifty years. Senile and deaf. A faded leaf, carried off by the wind. By the poisonous wind that lashed and twisted endlessly across the ruined face of the planet.

  The ruined face. Salt ash and debris. The broken line of crumbling hills. And the silence. The eternal silence. Nothing but the wind and the lapping of the thick stagnant water. And the dark birds overhead.

  Something glinted. Something at his feet, in the salt ash. Reflecting the sickly pallor of the moon.

  Andrews bent down and groped in the darkness. His f
ingers closed over something hard. He picked the small disc up and examined it.

  "Strange," he said.

  It wasn't until they were out in deep space, roaring back towards Fomalhaut, that he remembered the disc.

  He slid away from the control panel, searching his pockets for it.

  The disc was worn and thin. And terribly old. Andrews rubbed it and spat on it until it was clean enough to make out. A faint impression—nothing more. He turned it over. A token? Washer? Coin?

  On the back were a few meaningless letters. Some ancient, forgotten script. He held the disc to the light until he made the letters out.

  E PLURIBUS UNUM

  He shrugged, tossed the ancient bit of metal into a waste disposal unit beside him, and turned his attention to the star charts, and home…

  IMPOSTER

  "ONE OF THESE DAYS I'm going to take time off," Spence Olham said at first-meal. He looked around at his wife. "I think I've earned a rest. Ten years is a long time."

  "And the Project?"

  "The war will be won without me. This ball of clay of ours isn't really in much danger." Olham sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. "The newsmachines alter dispatches to make it appear the Outspacers are right on top of us. You know what I'd like to do on my vacation? I'd like to take a camping trip to those mountains outside of town, where we went that time. Remember? I got poison oak and you almost stepped on a gopher snake."

  "Sutton Wood?" Mary began to clear away the food dishes. "The Wood was burned a few weeks ago. I thought you knew. Some kind of flash fire."

  Olham sagged. "Didn't they even try to find the cause?" His lips twisted. "No one cares anymore. All they can think of is the war." He clamped his jaws together, the whole picture coming up in his mind, the Outspacers, the war, the needle-ships.

  "How can we think about anything else?"

  Olham nodded. She was right, of course. The dark little ships out of Alpha Centauri had bypassed the Earth cruisers easily, leaving them like helpless turtles. It had been one-way fights, all the way back to Terra.

  All the way, until the protec-bubble was demonstrated by Westinghouse Labs. Thrown around the major Earth cities and finally the planet itself, the bubble was the first real defense, the first legitimate answer to the Outspacers—as the news-machines labeled them.

  But to win the war, that was another thing. Every lab, every project was working night and day, endlessly, to find something more: a weapon for positive combat. His own project, for example. All day long, year after year.

  Olham stood up, putting out his cigarette. "Like the Sword of Damocles. Always hanging over us. I'm getting tired. All I want to do is take a long rest. But I guess everybody feels that way."

  He got his jacket from the closet and went out on the front porch. The shoot would be along any moment, the fast little bug that would carry him to the Project.

  "I hope Nelson isn't late." He looked at his watch. "It's almost seven."

  "Here the bug comes," Mary said, gazing between the rows of houses. The sun glittered behind the roofs, reflecting against the heavy lead plates. The settlement was quiet; only a few people were stirring. "I'll see you later. Try not to work beyond your shift, Spence."

  Olham opened the car door and slid inside, leaning back against the seat with a sigh. There was an older man with Nelson.

  "Well?" Olham said, as the bug shot ahead. "Heard any interesting news?"

  The usual," Nelson said. "A few Outspace ships hit, another asteroid abandoned for strategic reasons."

  "It'll be good when we get the Project into final stage. Maybe it's just the propaganda from the newsmachines, but in the last month I've gotten weary of all this. Everything seems so grim and serious, no color to life."

  "Do you think the war is in vain?" the older man said suddenly. "You are an integral part of it, yourself."

  "This is Major Peters," Nelson said. Olham and Peters shook hands. Olham studied the older man.

  "What brings you along so early?" he said. "I don't remember seeing you at the Project before."

  "No, I'm not with the Project," Peters said, "but I know something about what you're doing. My own work is altogether different."

  A look passed between him and Nelson. Olham noticed it and he frowned. The bug was gaining speed, flashing across the barren, lifeless ground toward the distant rim of the Project building.

  "What is your business?" Olham said. "Or aren't you permitted to talk about it?"

  "I'm with the government," Peters said. "With FSA, the security organ."

  "Oh?" Olham raised an eyebrow. "Is there any enemy infiltration in this region?"

  "As a matter of fact I'm here to see you, Mr. Olham."

  Olham was puzzled. He considered Peters" words, but he could make nothing of them. "To see me? Why?"

  "I'm here to arrest you as an Outspace spy. That's why I'm up so early this morning. Grab him Nelson—"

  The gun drove into Olham's ribs. Nelson's hands were shaking, trembling with released emotion, his face pale. He took a deep breath and let it out again.

  "Shall we kill him now?" he whispered to Peters. "I think we should kill him now. We can't wait."

  Olham stared into his friend's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Both men were staring at him steadily, rigid and grim with fright. Olham felt dizzy. His head ached and spun.

  "I don't understand," he murmured.

  At that moment the shoot car left the ground and rushed up, heading into space. Below them the Project fell away, smaller and smaller, disappearing. Olham shut his mouth.

  "We can wait a little," Peters said. "I want to ask him some questions first."

  Olham gazed dully ahead as the bug rushed through space.

  "The arrest was made all right," Peters said into the vidscreen. On the screen the features of the security chief showed. "It should be a load off everyone's mind."

  "Any complications?"

  "None. He entered the bug without suspicion. He didn't seem to think my presence was too unusual."

  "Where are you now?"

  "On our way out, just inside the protec-bubble. We're moving at a maximum speed. You can assume that the critical period is past. I'm glad the takeoff jets in this craft were in good working order. If there had been any failure at that point—"

  "Let me see him," the security chief said. He gazed directly at Olham where he sat, his hands in his lap, staring ahead.

  "So that's the man." He looked at Olham for a time. Olham said nothing. At last the chief nodded to Peters. "All right. That's enough." A faint trace of disgust wrinkled his features. "I've seen all I want. You've done something that will be remembered for a long time. They're preparing some sort of citation for both of you."

  "That's not necessary," Peters said.

  "How much danger is there now? Is there still much chance that—"

  "There is some chance, but not too much. According to my understanding it requires a verbal key phrase. In any case we'll have to take the risk."

  "I'll have the Moon base notified you're coming."

  "No." Peters shook his head. "I'll land the ship outside, beyond the base. I don't want it in jeopardy."

  "Just as you like." The chief's eyes flickered as he glanced again at Olham. Then his image faded. The screen blanked.

  Olham shifted his gaze to the window. The ship was already through the protec-bubble, rushing with greater and greater speed all the time. Peters was in a hurry; below him, rumbling under the floor, the jets were wide-open. They were afraid, hurrying frantically, because of him.

  Next to him on the seat, Nelson shifted uneasily. "I think we should do it now," he said. "I'd give anything if we could get it over with."

  "Take it easy," Peters said. "I want you to guide the ship for a while so I can talk to him."

  He slid over beside Olham, looking into his face. Presently he reached out and touched him gingerly, on the arm and then on the cheek.

  Olham said nothing. If
I could let Mary know, he thought again. If I could find some way of letting her know. He looked around the ship. How? The vidscreen? Nelson was sitting by the board, holding the gun. There was nothing he could do. He was caught, trapped.

  But why?

  "Listen," Peters said, "I want to ask you some questions. You know where we're going. We're moving Moonward. In an hour we'll land on the far side, on the desolate side. After we land you'll be turned over immediately to a team of men waiting there. Your body will be destroyed at once. Do you understand that?" He looked at his watch. "Within two hours your parts will be strewn over the landscape. There won't be anything left of you."

  Olham struggled out of his lethargy. "Can't you tell me—"

  "Certainly, I'll tell you." Peters nodded. "Two days ago we received a report that an Outspace ship had penetrated the protec-bubble. The ship let off a spy in the form of a humanoid robot. The robot was to destroy a particular human being and take his place."

  Peters looked calmly at Olham.

  "Inside the robot was a U-Bomb. Our agent did not know how the bomb was to be detonated, but he conjectured that it might be by a particular spoken phrase, a certain group of words. The robot would live the life of the person he killed, entering into his usual activities, his job, his social life. He had been constructed to resemble that person. No one would know the difference."

  Olham's face went sickly chalk.

  "The person whom the robot was to impersonate was Spence Olham, a high-ranking official at one of the research Projects. Because this particular Project was approaching crucial stage, the presence of an animate bomb, moving toward the center of the Project—"

  Olham stared down at his hands. "But I'm Olham."

  "Once the robot had located and killed Olham it was a simple matter to take over his life. The robot was released from the ship eight days ago. The substitution was probably accomplished over the last weekend, when Olham went for a short walk in the hills."

  "But I'm Olham." He turned to Nelson, sitting at the controls. "Don't you recognize me? You've known me for twenty years. Don't you remember how we went to college together?" He stood up. "You and I were at the University. We had the same room." He went toward Nelson.