The Minority Report

by Philip K. Dick

  The voice faded out as he left the room and entered the tiny bathroom. There, he stripped off his coat, and shirt, and ran hot water in the wash bowl. He began bathing the cut on his cheek. At the drugstore on the corner he had bought iodine and Band-aids, a razor, comb, toothbrush, and other small things he would need. The next morning he intended to find a second-hand clothing store and buy more suitable clothing. After all, he was now an unemployed electrician, not an accident-damaged Commissioner of Police.

  In the other room the radio blared on. Only subconsciously aware of it, he stood in front of the cracked mirror, examining a broken tooth.

  “... the system of three precogs finds its genesis in the computers of the middle decades of this century. How are the results of an electronic computer checked? By feeding the data to a second computer of identical design. But two computers are not sufficient. If each computer arrived at a different answer it is impossible to tell a priori which is correct. The solution, based on a careful study of statistical method, is to utilize a third computer to check the results of the first two. In this manner, a so-called majority report is obtained. It can be assumed with fair probability that the agreement of two out of three computers indicates which of the alternative results is accurate. It would not be likely that two computers would arrive at identically incorrect solutions—”

  Anderton dropped the towel he was clutching and raced into the other room. Trembling, he bent to catch the blaring words of the radio.

  “... unanimity of all three precogs is a hoped-for but seldom-achieved phenomenon, acting-Commissioner Witwer explains. It is much more common to obtain a collaborative majority report of two precogs, plus a minority report of some slight variation, usually with reference to time and place, from the third mutant. This is explained by the theory of multiple-futures. If only one time-path existed, precognitive information would be of no importance, since no possibility would exist, in possessing this information, of altering the future. In the Precrime Agency’s work we must first of all assume—”

  Frantically, Anderton paced around the tiny room. Majority report—only two of the precogs had concurred on the material underlying the card. That was the meaning of the message enclosed with the packet. The report of the third precog, the minority report, was somehow of importance.

  Why?

  His watch told him that it was after midnight. Page would be off duty. He wouldn’t be back in the monkey block until the next afternoon. It was a slim chance, but worth taking. Maybe Page would cover for him, and maybe not. He would have to risk it.

  He had to see the minority report.

  VI

  BETWEEN NOON and one o’clock the rubbish-littered streets swarmed with people. He chose that time, the busiest part of the day, to make his call. Selecting a phonebooth in a patron-teeming super drugstore, he dialed the familiar police number and stood holding the cold receiver to his ear. Deliberately, he had selected the aud, not the vid line: in spite of his second-hand clothing and seedy, unshaven appearance, he might be recognized.

  The receptionist was new to him. Cautiously, he gave Page’s extension. If Witwer were removing the regular staff and putting in his satellites, he might find himself talking to a total stranger.

  “Hello,” Page’s gruff voice came.

  Relieved, Anderton glanced around. Nobody was paying any attention to him. The shoppers wandered among the merchandise, going about their daily routines. “Can you talk?” he asked. “Or are you tied up?”

  There was a moment of silence. He could picture Page’s mild face torn with uncertainty as he wildly tried to decide what to do. At last came halting words. “Why—are you calling here?”

  Ignoring the question, Anderton said, “I didn’t recognize the receptionist. New personnel?”

  “Brand-new,” Page agreed, in a thin, strangled voice. “Big turnovers, these days.”

  “So I hear.” Tensely, Anderton asked, “How’s your job? Still safe?”

  “Wait a minute.” The receiver was put down and the muffled sound of steps came in Anderton’s ear. It was followed by the quick slam of a door being hastily shut. Page returned. “We can talk better now,” he said hoarsely.

  “How much better?”

  “Not a great deal. Where are you?”

  “Strolling through Central Park,” Anderton said. “Enjoying the sunlight.” For all he knew, Page had gone to make sure the line-tap was in place. Right now, an airborne police team was probably on its way. But he had to take the chance. “I’m in a new field,” he said curtly. “I’m an electrician these days.”

  “Oh?” Page said, baffled.

  “I thought maybe you had some work for me. If it can be arranged, I’d like to drop by and examine your basic computing equipment. Especially the data and analytical banks in the monkey block.”

  After a pause, Page said: “It—might be arranged. If it’s really important.”

  “It is,” Anderton assured him. “When would be best for you?”

  “Well,” Page said, struggling. “I’m having a repair team come in to look at the intercom equipment. The acting-Commissioner wants it improved, so he can operate quicker. You might trail along.”

  “I’ll do that. About when?”

  “Say four o’clock. Entrance B, level 6. I’ll meet you.”

  “Fine,” Anderton agreed, already starting to hang up. “I hope you’re still in charge, when I get there.”

  He hung up and rapidly left the booth. A moment later he was pushing through the dense pack of people crammed into the nearby cafeteria. Nobody would locate him there.

  He had three and a half hours to wait. And it was going to seem a lot longer. It proved to be the longest wait of his life before he finally met Page as arranged.

  The first thing Page said was: “You’re out of your mind. Why in hell did you come back?”

  “I’m not back for long.” Tautly, Anderton prowled around the monkey block, systematically locking one door after another. “Don’t let anybody in. I can’t take chances.”

  “You should have quit when you were ahead.” In an agony of apprehension, Page followed after him. “Witwer is making hay, hand over fist. He’s got the whole country screaming for your blood.”

  Ignoring him, Anderton snapped open the main control bank of the analytical machinery. “Which of the three monkeys gave the minority report?”

  “Don’t question me—I’m getting out.” On his way to the door Page halted briefly, pointed to the middle figure, and then disappeared. The door closed; Anderton was alone.

  The middle one. He knew that one well. The dwarfed, hunched-over figure had sat buried in its wiring and relays for fifteen years. As Anderton approached, it didn’t look up. With eyes glazed and blank, it contemplated a world that did not yet exist, blind to the physical reality that lay around it.

  “Jerry” was twenty-four years old. Originally, he had been classified as a hydrocephalic idiot but when he reached the age of six the psych testers had identified the precog talent, buried under the layers of tissue corrosion. Placed in a government-operated training school, the latent talent had been cultivated. By the time he was nine the talent had advanced to a useful stage. “Jerry,” however, remained in the aimless chaos of idiocy; the burgeoning faculty had absorbed the totality of his personality.

  Squatting down, Anderton began disassembling the protective shields that guarded the tape-reels stored in the analytical machinery. Using schematics, he traced the leads back from the final stages of the integrated computers, to the point where “Jerry’s” individual equipment branched off. Within minutes he was shakily lifting out two half-hour tapes: recent rejected data not fused with majority reports. Consulting the code chart, he selected the section of tape which referred to his particular card.

  A tape scanner was mounted nearby. Holding his breath, he inserted the tape, activated the transport, and listened. It took only a second. From the first statement of the report it was clear what had happened. He
had what he wanted; he could stop looking.

  “Jerry’s” vision was misphased. Because of the erratic nature of precognition, he was examining a time-area slightly different from that of his companions. For him, the report that Anderton would commit a murder was an event to be integrated along with everything else. That assertion—and Anderton’s reaction—was one more piece of datum.

  Obviously, “Jerry’s” report superseded the majority report. Having been informed that he would commit a murder, Anderton would change his mind and not do so. The preview of the murder had cancelled out the murder; prophylaxis had occurred simply in his being informed. Already, a new time-path had been created. But “Jerry” was outvoted.

  Trembling, Anderton rewound the tape and clicked on the recording head. At high speed he made a copy of the report, restored the original, and removed the duplicate from the transport. Here was the proof that the card was invalid: obsolete. All he had to do was show it to Witwer. ...

  His own stupidity amazed him. Undoubtedly, Witwer had seen the report; and in spite of it, had assumed the job of Commissioner, had kept the police teams out. Witwer didn’t intend to back down; he wasn’t concerned with Anderton’s innocence.

  What, then, could he do? Who else would be interested?

  “You damn fool!” a voice behind him grated, wild with anxiety.

  Quickly, he turned. His wife stood at one of the doors, in her police uniform, her eyes frantic with dismay. “Don’t worry,” he told her briefly, displaying the reel of tape. “I’m leaving.”

  Her face distorted, Lisa rushed frantically up to him. “Page said you were here, but I couldn’t believe it. He shouldn’t have let you in. He just doesn’t understand what you are.”

  “What am I?” Anderton inquired caustically. “Before you answer, maybe you better listen to this tape.”

  “I don’t want to listen to it! I just want you to get out of here! Ed Witwer knows somebody’s down here. Page is trying to keep him occupied, but—” She broke off, her head turned stiffly to one side. “He’s here now! He’s going to force his way in.”

  “Haven’t you got any influence? Be gracious and charming. He’ll probably forget about me.”

  Lisa looked at him in bitter reproach. “There’s a ship parked on the roof. If you want to get away. ...” Her voice choked and for an instant she was silent. Then she said, “I’ll be taking off in a minute or so. If you want to come—”

  “I’ll come,” Anderton said. He had no other choice. He had secured his tape, his proof, but he hadn’t worked out any method of leaving. Gladly, he hurried after the slim figure of his wife as she strode from the block, through a side door and down a supply corridor, her heels clicking loudly in the deserted gloom.

  “It’s a good fast ship,” she told him over her shoulder. “It’s emergency-fueled—ready to go. I was going to supervise some of the teams.”

  VII

  BEHIND THE WHEEL of the high-velocity police cruiser, Anderton outlined what the minority report tape contained. Lisa listened without comment, her face pinched and strained, her hands clasped tensely in her lap. Below the ship, the war-ravaged rural countryside spread out like a relief map, the vacant regions between cities crater-pitted and dotted with the ruins of farms and small industrial plants.

  “I wonder,” she said, when he had finished, “how many times this has happened before.”

  “A minority report? A great many times.”

  “I mean, one precog misphased. Using the report of the others as data—superseding them.” Her eyes dark and serious, she added, “Perhaps a lot of the people in the camps are like you.”

  “No,” Anderton insisted. But he was beginning to feel uneasy about it, too. “I was in a position to see the card, to get a look at the report. That’s what did it.”

  “But—” Lisa gestured significantly. “Perhaps all of them would have reacted that way. We could have told them the truth.”

  “It would have been too great a risk,” he answered stubbornly.

  Lisa laughed sharply. “Risk? Chance? Uncertainty? With precogs around?”

  Anderton concentrated on steering the fast little ship. “This is a unique case,” he repeated. “And we have an immediate problem. We can tackle the theoretical aspects later on. I have to get this tape to the proper people—before your bright young friend demolishes it.”

  “You’re taking it to Kaplan?”

  “I certainly am.” He tapped the reel of tape which lay on the seat between them. “He’ll be interested. Proof that his life isn’t in danger ought to be of vital concern to him.”

  From her purse, Lisa shakily got out her cigarette case. “And you think he’ll help you.”

  “He may—or he may not. It’s a chance worth taking.”

  “How did you manage to go underground so quickly?” Lisa asked. “A completely effective disguise is difficult to obtain.”

  “All it takes is money,” he answered evasively.

  As she smoked, Lisa pondered. “Probably Kaplan will protect you,” she said. “He’s quite powerful.”

  “I thought he was only a retired general.”

  “Technically—that’s what he is. But Witwer got out the dossier on him. Kaplan heads an unusual kind of exclusive veterans’ organization. It’s actually a kind of club, with a few restricted members. High officers only—an international class from both sides of the war. Here in New York they maintain a great mansion of a house, three glossy-paper publications, and occasional TV coverage that costs them a small fortune.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Only this. You’ve convinced me that you’re innocent. I mean, it’s obvious that you won’t commit a murder. But you must realize now that the original report, the majority report, was not a fake. Nobody falsified it. Ed Witwer didn’t create it. There’s no plot against you, and there never was. If you’re going to accept this minority report as genuine you’ll have to accept the majority one, also.”

  Reluctantly, he agreed. “I suppose so.”

  “Ed Witwer,” Lisa continued, “is acting in complete good faith. He really believes you’re a potential criminal—and why not? He’s got the majority report sitting on his desk, but you have that card folded up in your pocket.”

  “I destroyed it,” Anderton said, quietly.

  Lisa leaned earnestly toward him. “Ed Witwer isn’t motivated by any desire to get your job,” she said. “He’s motivated by the same desire that has always dominated you. He believes in Precrime. He wants the system to continue. I’ve talked to him and I’m convinced he’s telling the truth.”

  Anderton asked, “Do you want me to take this reel to Witwer? If I do—he’ll destroy it.”

  “Nonsense,” Lisa retorted. “The originals have been in his hands from the start. He could have destroyed them any time he wished.”

  “That’s true.” Anderton conceded. “Quite possibly he didn’t know.”

  “Of course he didn’t. Look at it this way. If Kaplan gets hold of that tape, the police will be discredited. Can’t you see why? It would prove that the majority report was an error. Ed Witwer is absolutely right. You have to be taken in—if Precrime is to survive. You’re thinking of your own safety. But think, for a moment, about the system.” Leaning over, she stubbed out her cigarette and fumbled in her purse for another. “Which means more to you—your own personal safety or the existence of the system?”

  “My safety,” Anderton answered, without hesitation.

  “You’re positive?”

  “If the system can survive only by imprisoning innocent people, then it deserves to be destroyed. My personal safety is important because I’m a human being. And furthermore—”

  From her purse, Lisa got out an incredibly tiny pistol. “I believe,” she told him huskily, “that I have my finger on the firing release. I’ve never used a weapon like this before. But I’m willing to try.”

  After a pause, Anderton asked: “You want me to turn the ship aroun
d? Is that it?”

  “Yes, back to the police building. I’m sorry. If you could put the good of the system above your own selfish—”

  “Keep your sermon,” Anderton told her. “I’ll take the ship back. But I’m not going to listen to your defense of a code of behavior no intelligent man could subscribe to.”

  Lisa’s lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Holding the pistol tightly, she sat facing him, her eyes fixed intently on him as he swung the ship in a broad arc. A few loose articles rattled from the glove compartment as the little craft turned on a radical slant, one wing rising majestically until it pointed straight up.

  Both Anderton and his wife were supported by the constraining metal arms of their seats. But not so the third member of the party.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Anderton saw a flash of motion. A sound came simultaneously, the clawing struggle of a large man as he abruptly lost his footing and plunged into the reinforced wall of the ship. What followed happened quickly. Fleming scrambled instantly to his feet, lurching and wary, one arm lashing out for the woman’s pistol. Anderton was too startled to cry out. Lisa turned, saw the man—and screamed. Fleming knocked the gun from her hand, sending it clattering to the floor.

  Grunting, Fleming shoved her aside and retrieved the gun. “Sorry,” he gasped, straightening up as best he could. “I thought she might talk more. That’s why I waited.”

  “You were here when—” Anderton began—and stopped. It was obvious that Fleming and his men had kept him under surveillance. The existence of Lisa’s ship had been duly noted and factored in, and while Lisa had debated whether it would be wise to fly him to safety, Fleming had crept into the storage compartment of the ship.