The Minority Report

by Philip K. Dick

  “Perhaps,” Fleming said, “you’d better give me that reel of tape.” His moist, clumsy fingers groped for it. “You’re right—Witwer would have melted it down to a puddle.”

  “Kaplan, too?” Anderton asked numbly, still dazed by the appearance of the man.

  “Kaplan is working directly with Witwer. That’s why his name showed on line five of the card. Which one of them is the actual boss, we can’t tell. Possibly neither.” Fleming tossed the tiny pistol away and got out his own heavy-duty military weapon. “You pulled a real flub in taking off with this woman. I told you she was back of the whole thing.”

  “I can’t believe that,” Anderton protested. “If she—”

  “You’ve got no sense. This ship was warmed up by Witwer’s order. They wanted to fly you out of the building so that we couldn’t get to you. With you on your own, separated from us, you didn’t stand a chance.”

  A strange look passed over Lisa’s stricken features. “It’s not true,” she whispered. “Witwer never saw this ship. I was going to supervise—”

  “You almost got away with it,” Fleming interrupted inexorably. “We’ll be lucky if a police patrol ship isn’t hanging on us. There wasn’t time to check.” He squatted down as he spoke, directly behind the woman’s chair. “The first thing is to get this woman out of the way. We’ll have to drag you completely out of this area. Page tipped off Witwer on your new disguise, and you can be sure it has been widely broadcast.”

  Still crouching, Fleming seized hold of Lisa. Tossing his heavy gun to Anderton, he expertly tilted her chin up until her temple was shoved back against the seat. Lisa clawed frantically at him; a thin, terrified wail rose in her throat. Ignoring her, Fleming closed his great hands around her neck and began relentlessly to squeeze.

  “No bullet wound,” he explained, gasping. “She’s going to fall out—natural accident. It happens all the time. But in this case, her neck will be broken first.”

  It seemed strange that Anderton waited so long. As it was, Fleming’s thick ringers were cruelly embedded in the woman’s pale flesh before he lifted the butt of the heavy-duty pistol and brought it down on the back of Fleming’s skull. The monstrous hands relaxed. Staggered, Fleming’s head fell forward and he sagged against the wall of the ship. Trying feebly to collect himself, he began dragging his body upward. Anderton hit him again, this time above the left eye. He fell back, and lay still.

  Struggling to breathe, Lisa remained for a moment huddled over, her body swaying back and forth. Then, gradually, the color crept back into her face.

  “Can you take the controls?” Anderton asked, shaking her, his voice urgent.

  “Yes, I think so.” Almost mechanically she reached for the wheel. “I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me.”

  “This pistol,” Anderton said, “is Army ordnance issue. But it’s not from the war. It’s one of the useful new ones they’ve developed. I could be a long way off but there’s just a chance—”

  He climbed back to where Fleming lay spread out on the deck. Trying not to touch the man’s head, he tore open his coat and rummaged in his pockets. A moment later Fleming’s sweat-sodden wallet rested in his hands.

  Tod Fleming, according to his identification, was an Army Major attached to the Internal Intelligence Department of Military Information. Among the various papers was a document signed by General Leopold Kaplan, stating that Fleming was under the special protection of his own group—the International Veterans’ League.

  Fleming and his men were operating under Kaplan’s orders. The bread truck, the accident, had been deliberately rigged.

  It meant that Kaplan had deliberately kept him out of police hands. The plan went back to the original contact in his home, when Kaplan’s men had picked him up as he was packing. Incredulous, he realized what had really happened. Even then, they were making sure they got him before the police. From the start, it had been an elaborate strategy to make certain that Witwer would fail to arrest him.

  “You were telling the truth,” Anderton said to his wife, as he climbed back in the seat. “Can we get hold of Witwer?”

  Mutely, she nodded. Indicating the communications circuit of the dashboard, she asked: “What—did you find?”

  “Get Witwer for me. I want to talk to him as soon as I can. It’s very urgent.”

  Jerkily, she dialed, got the closed-channel mechanical circuit, and raised police headquarters in New York. A visual panorama of petty police officials flashed by before a tiny replica of Ed Witwer’s features appeared on the screen.

  “Remember me?” Anderton asked him.

  Witwer blanched. “Good God. What happened? Lisa, are you bringing him in?” Abruptly his eyes fastened on the gun in Anderton’s hands. “Look,” he said savagely, “don’t do anything to her. Whatever you may think, she’s not responsible.”

  “I’ve already found that out,” Anderton answered. “Can you get a fix on us? We may need protection getting back.”

  “Back!” Witwer gazed at him unbelievingly. “You’re coming in? You’re giving yourself up?”

  “I am, yes.” Speaking rapidly, urgently, Anderton added, “There’s something you must do immediately. Close off the monkey block. Make certain nobody gets it—Page or anyone else. Especially Army people.”

  “Kaplan,” the miniature image said.

  “What about him?”

  “He was here. He—he just left.”

  Anderton’s heart stopped beating. “What was he doing?”

  “Picking up data. Transcribing duplicates of our precog reports on you. He insisted he wanted them solely for his protection.”

  “Then he’s already got it,” Anderton said. “It’s too late.”

  Alarmed, Witwer almost shouted: “Just what do you mean? What’s happening?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Anderton said heavily, “when I get back to my office.”

  VIII

  WITWER MET HIM on the roof on the police building. As the small ship came to rest, a cloud of escort ships dipped their fins and sped off. Anderton immediately approached the blond-haired young man.

  “You’ve got what you wanted,” he told him. “You can lock me up, and send me to the detention camp. But that won’t be enough.”

  Witwer’s blue eyes were pale with uncertainty. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

  “It’s not my fault. I should never have left the police building. Where’s Wally Page?”

  “We’ve already clamped down on him,” Witwer replied. “He won’t give us any trouble.”

  Anderton’s face was grim.

  “You’re holding him for the wrong reason,” he said. “Letting me into the monkey block was no crime. But passing information to Army is. You’ve had an Army plant working here.” He corrected himself, a little lamely, “I mean, I have.”

  “I’ve called back the order on you. Now the teams are looking for Kaplan.”

  “Any luck?”

  “He left here in an Army truck. We followed him, but the truck got into a militarized Barracks. Now they’ve got a big wartime R-3 tank blocking the street. It would be civil war to move it aside.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, Lisa made her way from the ship. She was still pale and shaken and on her throat an ugly bruise was forming.

  “What happened to you?” Witwer demanded. Then he caught sight of Fleming’s inert form lying spread out inside. Facing Anderton squarely, he said: “Then you’ve finally stopped pretending this is some conspiracy of mine.”

  “I have.”

  “You don’t think I’m—” He made a disgusted face. “Plotting to get your job.”

  “Sure you are. Everybody is guilty of that sort of thing. And I’m plotting to keep it. But this is something else—and you’re not responsible.”

  “Why do you assert,” Witwer inquired, “that it’s too late to turn yourself in? My God, we’ll put you in the camp. The week will pass and Kaplan will still be alive.”

  “He’ll be alive, yes
,” Anderton conceded. “But he can prove he’d be just as alive if I were walking the streets. He has the information that proves the majority report obsolete. He can break the Precrime system.” He finished, “Heads or tails, he wins—and we lose. The Army discredits us; their strategy paid off.”

  “But why are they risking so much? What exactly do they want?”

  “After the Anglo-Chinese War, the Army lost out. It isn’t what it was in the good old AFWA days. They ran the complete show, both military and domestic. And they did their own police work.”

  “Like Fleming,” Lisa said faintly.

  “After the war, the Westbloc was demilitarized. Officers like Kaplan were retired and discarded. Nobody likes that.” Anderton grimaced. “I can sympathize with him. He’s not the only one. But we couldn’t keep on running things that way. We had to divide up the authority.”

  “You say Kaplan has won,” Witwer said. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  “I’m not going to kill him. We know it and he knows it. Probably he’ll come around and offer us some kind of deal. We’ll continue to function, but the Senate will abolish our real pull. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

  “I should say not,” Witwer answered emphatically. “One of these days I’m going to be running this agency.” He flushed. “Not immediately, of course.”

  Anderton’s expression was somber. “It’s too bad you publicized the majority report. If you had kept it quiet, we could cautiously draw it back in. But everybody’s heard about it. We can’t retract it now.”

  “I guess not,” Witwer admitted awkwardly. “Maybe I—don’t have this job down as neatly as I imagined.”

  “You will, in time. You’ll be a good police officer. You believe in the status quo. But learn to take it easy.” Anderton moved away from them. “I’m going to study the data tapes of the majority report. I want to find out exactly how I was supposed to kill Kaplan.” Reflectively, he finished: “It might give me some ideas.”

  The data tapes of the precogs “Donna” and “Mike” were separately stored. Choosing the machinery responsible for the analysis of “Donna,” he opened the protective shield and laid out the contents. As before, the code informed him which reels were relevant and in a moment he had the tape-transport mechanism in operation.

  It was approximately what he had suspected. This was the material utilized by “Jerry”—the superseded time-path. In it Kaplan’s Military Intelligence agents kidnapped Anderton as he drove home from work. Taken to Kaplan’s villa, the organization GHQ of the International Veterans’ League. Anderton was given an ultimatum: voluntarily disband the Precrime system or face open hostilities with Army.

  In this discarded time-path, Anderton, as Police Commissioner, had turned to the Senate for support. No support was forthcoming. To avoid civil war, the Senate had ratified the dismemberment of the police system, and decreed a return to military law “to cope with the emergency.” Taking a corps of fanatic police, Anderton had located Kaplan and shot him, along with other officials of the Veterans’ League. Only Kaplan had died. The others had been patched up. And the coup had been successful.

  This was “Donna.” He rewound the tape and turned to the material previewed by “Mike.” It would be identical; both precogs had combined to present a unified picture. “Mike” began as “Donna” had begun: Anderton had become aware of Kaplan’s plot against the police. But something was wrong. Puzzled, he ran the tape back to the beginning. Incomprehensibly, it didn’t jibe. Again he relayed the tape, listening intently.

  The “Mike” report was quite different from the “Donna” report. An hour later, he had finished his examination, put away the tapes, and left the monkey block. As soon as he emerged, Witwer asked. “What’s the matter? I can see something’s wrong.”

  “No,” Anderton answered slowly, still deep in thought. “Not exactly wrong.” A sound came to his ears. He walked vaguely over to the window and peered out.

  The street was crammed with people. Moving down the center lane was a four-column line of uniformed troops. Rifles, helmets ... marching soldiers in their dingy wartime uniforms, carrying the cherished pennants of AFWA flapping in the cold afternoon wind.

  “An Army rally,” Witwer explained bleakly. “I was wrong. They’re not going to make a deal with us. Why should they? Kaplan’s going to make it public.”

  Anderton felt no surprise. “He’s going to read the minority report?”

  “Apparently. They’re going to demand the Senate disband us, and take away our authority. They’re going to claim we’ve been arresting innocent men—nocturnal police raids, that sort of thing. Rule by terror.”

  “You suppose the Senate will yield?”

  Witwer hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to guess.”

  “I’ll guess,” Anderton said. “They will. That business out there fits with what I learned downstairs. We’ve got ourselves boxed in and there’s only one direction we can go. Whether we like it or not, we’ll have to take it.” His eyes had a steely glint.

  Apprehensively, Witwer asked: “What is it?”

  “Once I say it, you’ll wonder why you didn’t invent it. Very obviously, I’m going to have to fulfill the publicized report. I’m going to have to kill Kaplan. That’s the only way we can keep them from discrediting us.”

  “But,” Witwer said, astonished, “the majority report has been superseded.”

  “I can do it,” Anderton informed him, “but it’s going to cost. You’re familiar with the statutes governing first-degree murder?”

  “Life imprisonment.”

  “At least. Probably, you could pull a few wires and get it commuted to exile. I could be sent to one of the colony planets, the good old frontier.”

  “Would you—prefer that?”

  “Hell, no,” Anderton said heartily. “But it would be the lesser of the two evils. And it’s got to be done.”

  “I don’t see how you can kill Kaplan.”

  Anderton got out the heavy-duty military weapon Fleming had tossed to him. “I’ll use this.”

  “They won’t stop you?”

  “Why should they? They’ve got that minority report that says I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Then the minority report is incorrect?”

  “No,” Anderton said, “it’s absolutely correct. But I’m going to murder Kaplan anyhow.”

  IX

  HE HAD NEVER killed a man. He had never even seen a man killed. And he had been Police Commissioner for thirty years. For this generation, deliberate murder had died out. It simply didn’t happen.

  A police car carried him to within a block of the Army rally. There, in the shadows of the back seat, he painstakingly examined the pistol Fleming had provided him. It seemed to be intact. Actually, there was no doubt of the outcome. He was absolutely certain of what would happen within the next half hour. Putting the pistol back together, he opened the door of the parked car and stepped warily out.

  Nobody paid the slightest attention to him. Surging masses of people pushed eagerly forward, trying to get within hearing distance of the rally. Army uniforms predominated and at the perimeter of the cleared area, a line of tanks and major weapons was displayed—formidable armament still in production.

  Army had erected a metal speaker’s stand and ascending steps. Behind the stand hung the vast AFWA banner, emblem of the combined powers that had fought in the war. By a curious corrosion of time, the AFWA Veterans’ League included officers from the wartime enemy. But a general was a general and fine distinctions had faded over the years.

  Occupying the first rows of seats sat the high brass of the AFWA command. Behind them came junior commissioned officers. Regimental banners swirled in a variety of colors and symbols. In fact, the occasion had taken on the aspect of a festive pageant. On the raised stand itself sat stern-faced dignitaries of the Veterans’ League, all of them tense with expectancy. At the extreme edges, almost unnoticed, waited a few police units, ostensibly to keep order. Actual
ly, they were informants making observations. If order were kept, the Army would maintain it.

  The late-afternoon wind carried the muffled booming of many people packed tightly together. As Anderton made his way through the dense mob he was engulfed by the solid presence of humanity. An eager sense of anticipation held everybody rigid. The crowd seemed to sense that something spectacular was on the way. With difficulty, Anderton forced his way past the rows of seats and over to the tight knot of Army officials at the edge of the platform. Kaplan was among them. But he was now General Kaplan. The vest, the gold pocket watch, the cane, the conservative business suit—all were gone. For this event, Kaplan had got his old uniform from its mothballs. Straight and impressive, he stood surrounded by what had been his general staff. He wore his service bars, his medals, his boots, his decorative short-sword, and his visored cap. It was amazing how transformed a bald man became under the stark potency of an officer’s peaked and visored cap.

  Noticing Anderton, General Kaplan broke away from the group and strode to where the younger man was standing. The expression on his thin, mobile countenance showed how incredulously glad he was to see the Commissioner of Police.

  “This is a surprise,” he informed Anderton, holding out his small gray-gloved hand. “It was my impression you had been taken in by the acting Commissioner.”

  “I’m still out,” Anderton answered shortly, shaking hands. “After all, Witwer has that same reel of tape.” He indicated the package Kaplan clutched in his steely fingers and met the man’s gaze confidently.

  In spite of his nervousness, General Kaplan was in good humor. “This is a great occasion for the Army,” he revealed. “You’ll be glad to hear I’m going to give the public a full account of the spurious charge brought against you.”

  “Fine,” Anderton answered noncommittally.

  “It will be made clear that you were unjustly accused.” General Kaplan was trying to discover what Anderton knew. “Did Fleming have an opportunity to acquaint you with the situation?”

  “To some degree,” Anderton replied. “You’re going to read only the minority report? That’s all you’ve got there?”