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

by Philip K. Dick

"All right, Claude," Harvey said. "Anything you say. After all, it was you who finally found Louis's body; I have complete faith in you."

  In a way, St. Cyr thought, I wish I hadn't found it. I wish I didn't know what I know now; we were better off believing it was old Louis talking to us from every phone, newspaper and TV set.

  That was bad—but this is far worse. Although, he thought, it seems to me that the answer is there, somewhere, just waiting.

  I must try, he told himself. Try to get it. TRY!

  Off by himself in a side room, Johnny Barefoot tensely watched the events of the Convention on closed-circuit TV. The distortion, the invading presence from one light-week away, had cleared for a time, and he could see and hear the delegate from Montana delivering the nominating speech for Alfonse Gam.

  He felt tired. The whole process of the Convention, its speeches and parades, its tautness, grated on his nerves, ran contrary to his disposition. So damn much show, he thought. Display for what? If Gam wanted to gain the nomination he could get it, and all the rest of this was purposeless.

  His own thoughts were on Kathy Egmont Sharp.

  He had not seen her since her departure for U.C. Hospital in San Francisco. At this point he had no idea of her condition, whether she had responded to therapy or not.

  The deep intuition could not be evaded that she had not.

  How sick really was Kathy? Probably very sick, with or without drugs; he felt that strongly. Perhaps she would never be discharged from U.C. Hospital; he could imagine that.

  On the other hand—if she wanted out, he decided, she would find a way to get out. That he intuited, too, even more strongly.

  So it was up to her. She had committed herself, gone into the hospital voluntarily. And she would come out—if she ever did—the same way. No one could compel Kathy … she was simply not that sort of person. And that, he realized, could well be a symptom of the illness-process.

  The door to the room opened. He glanced up from the TV screen.

  And saw Claude St. Cyr standing in the entrance. St. Cyr held a heat gun in his hand, pointed at Johnny. He said, "Where's Kathy?"

  "I don't know," Johnny said. He got slowly, warily, to his feet.

  "You do. I'll kill you if you don't tell me."

  "Why?" he said, wondering what had brought St. Cyr to this point, this extreme behavior.

  St. Cyr said, "Is it on Earth?" Still holding the gun pointed at Johnny he came toward him.

  "Yes," Johnny said, with reluctance.

  "Give me the name of the city."

  "What are you going to do?" Johnny said. "This isn't like you, Claude; you used to always work within the law."

  St. Cyr said, "I think the voice is Kathy. I know it's not Louis, now; we have that to go on but beyond that it's just a guess. Kathy is the only one I know deranged enough, deteriorated enough. Give me the name of the hospital."

  "The only way you could know it isn't Louis," Johnny said, "would be to destroy the body."

  "That's right," St. Cyr said, nodding.

  Then you have, Johnny realized. You found the correct mortuary; you got to Herb Schoenheit van Vogelsang. So that was that.

  The door to the room burst open again; a group of cheering delegates, Gam supporters, marched in, blowing horns and hurling streamers, carrying huge hand-painted placards. St. Cyr turned toward them, waving his gun at them—and Johnny Barefoot sprinted past the delegates, to the door and out into the corridor.

  He ran down the corridor and a moment later emerged at the great central hall in which Gam's demonstration was in full swing. From the loudspeakers mounted at the ceiling a voice boomed over and over.

  "Vote for Gam, the man what am. Gam, Gam, vote for Gam, vote for Gam, the one fine man; vote for Gam who really am. Gam, Gam, Gam, he really am—"

  Kathy, he thought. It can't be you; it just can't. He ran on, out of the hall, squeezing past the dancing, delirious delegates, past the glazed-eyed men and women in their funny hats, their banners wiggling … he reached the street, the parked 'copters and cars, throngs of people clustered about, trying to push inside.

  If it is you, he thought, then you're too sick ever to come back. Even if you want to, will yourself to. Had you been waiting for Louis to die, is that it? Do you hate us? Or are you afraid of us? What explains what it is you're doing … what's the reason for it?

  He hailed a 'copter marked TAXI. "To San Francisco," he instructed the driver.

  Maybe you're not conscious that you're doing it, he thought. Maybe it's an autonomous process, rising out of your unconscious mind. Your mind split into two portions, one on the surface which we see, the other one—

  The one we hear.

  Should we feel sorry for you? he wondered. Or should we hate you, fear you? HOW MUCH HARM CAN YOU DO? I guess that's the real issue. I love you, he thought. In some fashion, at least. I care about you, and that's a form of love, not such as I feel toward my wife or my children, but it is a concern. Damn it, he thought, this is dreadful. Maybe St. Cyr is wrong; maybe it isn't you.

  The 'copter swept upward into the sky, cleared the buildings and turned west, its blade spinning at peak velocity.

  On the ground, standing in front of the convention hall, St. Cyr and Phil Harvey watched the 'copter go.

  "Well, so it worked," St. Cyr said. "I got him started moving. I'd guess he's on his way either to Los Angeles or to San Francisco."

  A second 'copter slid up before them, hailed by Phil Harvey; the two men entered it and Harvey said, "You see the taxi that just took off? Stay behind it, just within sight. But don't let it catch a glimpse of you if you can help it."

  "Heck," the driver said, "If I can see it, it can see me." But he clicked on his meter and began to ascend. Grumpily, he said to Harvey and St. Cyr, "I don't like this kind of stuff; it can be dangerous."

  "Turn on your radio," St. Cyr told him. "If you want to hear something that's dangerous."

  "Aw hell," the driver said, disgusted. "The radio don't work; some kind of interference, like sun spots or maybe some amateur operator—I lost a lot of fares because the dispatcher can't get hold of me. I think the police ought to do something about it, don't you?"

  St. Cyr said nothing. Beside him, Harvey peered at the 'copter ahead.

  When he reached U.C. Hospital at San Francisco, and had landed at the field on the main building's roof, Johnny saw the second ship circling, not passing on, and he knew that he was right; he had been followed all the way. But he did not care. It didn't matter.

  Descending by means of the stairs, he came out on the third floor and approached a nurse. "Mrs. Sharp," he said. "Where is she?"

  "You'll have to ask at the desk," the nurse said. "And visiting hours aren't until—"

  He rushed on until he found the desk.

  "Mrs. Sharp's room is 309," the bespectacled, elderly nurse at the desk said. "But you must have Doctor Gross's permission to visit her. And I believe Doctor Gross is having lunch right now and probably won't be back until two o'clock, if you'd care to wait." She pointed to a waiting room.

  "Thanks," he said. "I'll wait." He passed through the waiting room and out the door at the far end, down the corridor, watching the numbers on the doors until he saw room number 309. Opening the door he entered the room, shut the door after him and looked around for her.

  There was the bed, but it was empty.

  "Kathy," he said.

  At the window, in her robe, she turned, her face sly, bound up by hatred; her lips moved and, staring at him, she said with loathing, "I want Gam because he am." Spitting at him, she crept toward him, her hands raised, her fingers writhing. "Gam's a man, a real man," she whispered, and he saw, in her eyes, the dissolved remnants of her personality expire even as he stood there. "Gam, gam, gam," she whispered, and slapped him.

  He retreated. "It's you," he said. "Claude St. Cyr was right. Okay. I'll go." He fumbled for the door behind him, trying to get it open. Panic passed through him, like a wind, then; he wanted nothin
g but to get away. "Kathy," he said, "let go." Her nails had dug into him, into his shoulder, and she hung onto him, peering sideways into his face, smiling at him.

  "You're dead," she said. "Go away. I smell you, the dead inside you."

  "I'll go," he said, and managed to find the handle of the door. She let go of him, then; he saw her right hand flash up, the nails directed at his face, possibly his eyes—he ducked, and her blow missed him. "I want to get away," he said, covering his face with his arms.

  Kathy whispered, "I am Gam, I am. I'm the only one who am. Am alive. Gam, alive." She laughed. "Yes, I will," she said, mimicking his voice perfectly. "Claude St. Cyr was right; okay, I'll go. I'll go. I'll go." She was now between him and the door. "The window," she said. "Do it now, what you wanted to do when I stopped you." She hurried toward him, and he retreated, backward, step by step, until he felt the wall behind him.

  "It's all in your mind," he said, "this hate. Everyone is fond of you; I am, Gam is, St. Cyr and Harvey are. What's the point of this?"

  "The point," Kathy said, "is that I show you what you're really like. Don't you know yet? You're even worse than me. I'm just being honest."

  "Why did you pretend to be Louis?" he said.

  "I am Louis," Kathy said. "When he died he didn't go into half-life because I ate him; he became me. I was waiting for that. Alfonse and I had it all worked out, the transmitter out there with the recorded tape ready—we frightened you, didn't we? You're all scared, too scared to stand in his way. He'll be nominated; he's been nominated already, I feel it, I know it."

  "Not yet," Johnny said.

  "But it won't be long," Kathy said. "And I'll be his wife." She smiled at him. "And you'll be dead, you and the others." Coming at him she chanted, "I am Gam, I am Louis and when you're dead I'll be you, Johnny Barefoot, and all the rest; I'll eat you all." She opened her mouth wide and he saw the sharp, jagged, pale-as-death teeth.

  "And rule over the dead," Johnny said, and hit her with all his strength, on the side of her face, near the jaw. She spun backward, fell, and then at once was up and rushing at him. Before she could catch him he sprinted away, to one side, caught then a glimpse of her distorted, shredded features, ruined by the force of his blow—and then the door to the room opened, and St. Cyr and Phil Harvey, with two nurses, stood there. Kathy stopped. He stopped, too.

  "Come on, Barefoot," St. Cyr said, jerking his head.

  Johnny crossed the room and joined them.

  Tying the sash of her robe, Kathy said matter-of-factly, "So it was planned; he was to kill me, Johnny was to. And the rest of you would all stand and watch and enjoy it."

  "They have an immense transmitter out there," Johnny said. "They placed it a long time ago, possibly years back. All this time they've been waiting for Louis to die; maybe they even killed him, finally. The idea's to get Gam nominated and elected, while keeping everyone terrorized with that transmission. She's sick, much sicker than we realized, even sicker than you realized. Most of all it was under the surface where it didn't show."

  St. Cyr shrugged. "Well, she'll have to be certified." He was calm but unusually slow-spoken. "The will named me as trustee; I can represent the estate against her, file the commitment papers and then come forth at the sanity hearing."

  "I'll demand a jury trial," Kathy said. "I can convince a jury of my sanity; it's actually quite easy and I've been through it before."

  "Possibly," St. Cyr said. "But anyhow the transmitter will be gone; by that time the authorities will be out there."

  "It'll take months to reach it," Kathy said. "Even by the fastest ship. And by then the election will be over; Alfonse will be President."

  St. Cyr glanced at Johnny Barefoot. "Maybe so," he murmured.

  "That's why we put it out so far," Kathy said. "It was Alfonse's money and my ability; I inherited Louis's ability, you see. I can do anything. Nothing is impossible for me if I want it; all I have to do is want it enough."

  "You wanted me to jump," Johnny said. "And I didn't."

  "You would have," Kathy said, "in another minute. If they hadn't come in." She seemed quite poised, now. "You will, eventually; I'll keep after you. And there's no place you can hide; you know I'll follow you and find you. All three of you." Her gaze swept from one of them to the next, taking them all in.

  Harvey said, "I've got a little power and wealth, too. I think we can defeat Gam, even if he's nominated."

  "You have power," Kathy said, "but not imagination. What you have isn't enough. Not against me." She spoke quietly, with complete confidence.

  "Let's go," Johnny said, and started down the hall, away from room 309 and Kathy Egmont Sharp.

  Up and down San Francisco's hilly streets Johnny walked, hands in his pockets, ignoring the buildings and people, seeing nothing, merely walking on and on. Afternoon faded, became evening; the lights of the city came on and he ignored that, too. He walked block after block until his feet ached, burned, until he became aware that he was very hungry—that it was now ten o'clock at night and he had not eaten anything since morning. He stopped, then, and looked around him.

  Where were Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey? He could not remember having parted from them; he did not even remember leaving the hospital. But Kathy; he remembered that. He could not forget it even if he wanted to. And he did not want to. It was too important ever to be forgotten, by any of them who had witnessed it, understood it.

  At a newsstand he saw the massive, thick-black headlines.

  GAM WINS NOMINATION, PROMISES BATTLING CAMPAIGN

  FOR NOVEMBER ELECTION

  So she did get that, Johnny thought. They did, the two of them; they got what they're after exactly. And now—all they have to do is defeat Kent Margrave. And that thing out there, a light-week away; it's still yammering. And will be for months.

  They'll win, he realized.

  At a drugstore he found a phone booth; entering it he put money into the slot and dialed Sarah Belle, his own home phone number.

  The phone clicked in his ear. And then the familiar monotonous voice chanted, "Gam in November, Gam in November; win with Gam, President Alfonse Gam, our man—I am for Gam. I am for Gam. For GAM!" He rang off, then, and left the phone booth. It was hopeless.

  At the counter of the drugstore he ordered a sandwich and coffee; he sat eating mechanically, filling the requirements of his body without pleasure or desire, eating by reflex until the food was gone and it was time to pay the bill. What can I do? he asked himself. What can anyone do? All the means of communication are gone; the media have been taken over. They have the radio, TV, newspapers, phone, wire services … everything that depends on microwave transmission or open-gap electric circuitry. They've captured it all, left nothing for us, the opposition, by which to fight back.

  Defeat, he thought. That's the dreary reality that lies ahead for us. And then, when they enter office, it'll be our—death.

  "That'll be a dollar ten," the counter girl said.

  He paid for his meal and left the drugstore.

  When a 'copter marked TAXI came spiraling by, he hailed it.

  "Take me home," he said.

  "Okay," the driver said amiably. "Where is home, buddy?"

  He gave him the address in Chicago and then settled back for the long ride. He was giving up; he was quitting, going back to Sarah Belle, to his wife and children. The fight—for him—apparently was over.

  When she saw him standing in the doorway, Sarah Belle said, "Good God, Johnny—you look terrible." She kissed him, led him inside, into the warm, familiar living room. "I thought you'd be out celebrating."

  "Celebrating?" he said hoarsely.

  "Your man won the nomination." She went to put the coffee pot on for him.

  "Oh yeah," he said, nodding. "That's right. I was his P.R. man; I forgot."

  "Better lie down," Sarah Belle said. "Johnny, I've never seen you look so beaten; I can't understand it. What happened to you?"

  He sat down on the couch and lit a cigar
ette.

  "What can I do for you?" she asked, with anxiety.

  "Nothing," he said.

  "Is that Louis Sarapis on all the TV and phones? It sounds like him. I was talking with the Nelsons and they said it's Louis's exact voice."

  "No," he said. "It's not Louis. Louis is dead."

  "But his period of half-life—"

  "No," he said. "He's dead. Forget about it."

  "You know who the Nelsons are, don't you? They're the new people who moved into the apartment that—"

  "I don't want to talk," he said. "Or be talked at."

  Sarah Belle was silent, for a minute. And then she said, "One thing they said—you won't like to hear it, I guess. The Nelsons are plain, quite commonplace people … they said even if Alfonse Gam got the nomination they wouldn't vote for him. They just don't like him."

  He grunted.

  "Does that made you feel bad?" Sarah Belle asked. "I think they're reacting to the pressure, Louis's pressure on the TV and phones; they just don't care for it. I think you've been excessive in your campaign, Johnny." She glanced at him hesitantly. "That's the truth; I have to say it."

  Rising to his feet, he said, "I'm going to visit Phil Harvey. I'll be back later on."

  She watched him go out the door, her eyes darkened with concern.

  When he was admitted to Phil Harvey's house he found Phil and Gertrude Harvey and Claude St. Cyr sitting together in the living room, each with a glass in hand, but no one speaking. Harvey glanced up briefly, saw him, and then looked away.

  "Are we going to give up?" he asked Harvey.

  Harvey said, "I'm in touch with Kent Margrave. We're going to try to knock out the transmitter. But it's a million to one shot, at that distance. And with even the fastest missile it'll take a month."

  "But that's at least something," Johnny said. It would at least be before the election; it would give them several weeks in which to campaign. "Does Margrave understand the situation?"

  "Yes," Claude St. Cyr said. "We told him virtually everything."

  "But that's not enough," Phil Harvey said. "There's one more thing we must do. You want to be in on it? Draw for the shortest match?" He pointed to the coffee table; on it Johnny saw three matches, one of them broken in half. Now Phil Harvey added a fourth match, a whole one.