The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories

by Philip K. Dick

  “You,” the man said, “are in the wrong century.”

  Slade gulped.

  Striding toward him, the dark-haired man said, “I am Manville, sir.” He held out his hand and they shook. “You must go away,” Manville said. “Do you understand, sir? As soon as possible.”

  “But I want to use your services,” Slade mumbled.

  Manville’s eyes flashed. “I mean away into the past. What’s your name?” He gestured emphatically. “Wait, it’s coming to me. Jesse Slade, of Concord, up the street, there.”

  “Right,” Slade said, impressed.

  “All right, now down to business,” Mr. Manville said. “Into my office.” To the exceptionally-constructed girl at the counter he said, “No one is to disturb us, Miss Frib.”

  “Yes, Mr. Manville,” Miss Frib said. “I’ll see to that, don’t you fear, sir.”

  “I know that, Miss Frib.” Mr. Manville ushered Slade into a well-furnished inner office. Old maps and prints decorated the walls; the furniture—Slade gaped. Early American, with wood pegs instead of nails. New England maple and worth a fortune.

  “Is it all right…” he began.

  “Yes, you may actually sit on that Directorate chair,” Mr. Manville told him. “But be careful; it scoots out from under you if you lean forward. We keep meaning to put rubber casters on it or some such thing.” He looked irritated now, at having to discuss such trifles. “Mr. Slade,” he said brusquely, “I’ll speak plainly; obviously you’re a man of high intellect and we can skip the customary circumlocutions.”

  “Yes,” Slade said, “please do.”

  “Our time-travel arrangements are of a specific nature; hence the name ‘Muse.’ Do you grasp the meaning, here?”

  “Urn,” Slade said, at a loss but trying. “Let’s see. A muse is an organism that functions to—”

  “That inspires,” Mr. Manville broke in impatiently. “Slade, you are—let’s face it—not a creative man. That’s why you feel bored and unfulfilled. Do you paint? Compose? Make welded iron sculpture out of spaceship bodies and discarded lawn chairs? You don’t. You do nothing; you’re utterly passive. Correct?”

  Slade nodded. “You’ve hit it, Mr. Manville.”

  “I’ve hit nothing,” Mr. Manville said irritably. “You don’t follow me, Slade. Nothing will make you creative because you don’t have it within you. You’re too ordinary. I’m not going to get you started finger-painting or basket-weaving; I’m no Jungian analyst who believes art is the answer.” Leaning back he pointed his finger at Slade. “Look, Slade. We can help you, but you must be willing to help yourself first. Since you’re not creative, the best you can hope for—and we can assist you here—is to inspire others who are creative. Do you see?”

  After a moment Slade said, “I see, Mr. Manville. I do.”

  “Right,” Manville said, nodding. “Now, you can inspire a famous musician, like Mozart or Beethoven, or a scientist such as Albert Einstein, or a sculptor such as Sir Jacob Epstein—any one of a number of people, writers, musicians, poets. You could, for example, meet Sir Edward Gibbon during his travels to the Mediterranean and fall into a casual conversation with him and say something to this order… Hmmm, look at the ruins of this ancient civilization all around us. I wonder, how does a mighty empire such as Rome come to fall into decay? Fall into ruin… fall apart…”

  “Good Lord,” Slade said fervently, “I see, Manville; I get it. I repeat the word ‘fall’ over and over again to Gibbon, and due to me he gets the idea of his great history of Rome, the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. And—” He felt himself tremble. “I helped.”

  “ ‘Helped’?” Manville said. “Slade, that’s hardly the word. Without you there would have been no such work. You, Slade, could be Sir Edward’s muse.” He leaned back, got out an Upmann cigar, circa 1915, and lit up.

  “I think,” Slade said, “I’d like to mull this over. I want to be sure I inspire the proper person; I mean, they all deserve to be inspired, but—”

  “But you want to find the person in terms of your own psychic needs,” Manville agreed, puffing fragrant blue smoke. “Take our brochure.” He passed a large shiny multi-color 3-D pop-up booklet to Slade. “Take this home, read it, and come back to us when you’re ready.”

  Slade said, “God bless you, Mr. Manville.”

  “And calm down,” Manville said. “The world isn’t going to end… we know that here at Muse because we’ve looked.” He smiled, and Slade managed to smile back.

  Two days later Jesse Slade returned to Muse Enterprises. “Mr. Manville,” he said, “I know whom I want to inspire.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve thought and thought and what would mean to the most to me would be if I could go back to Vienna and inspire Ludwig van Beethoven with the idea for the Choral Symphony, you know, that theme in the fourth movement that the baritone sings that goes bum-bum de-da de-da bum-bum, daughters of Elysium; you know.” He flushed. “I’m no musician, but all my life I’ve admired the Beethoven Ninth and especially—

  “It’s been done,” Manville said.

  “Eh?” He did not understand.

  “It’s been taken, Mr. Slade.” Manville looked impatient as he sat at his great oak rolltop desk, circa 1910. Bringing out a thick metal-staved black binder he turned the pages. “Two years ago a Mrs. Ruby Welch of Montpelier, Idaho went back to Vienna and inspired Beethoven with the theme for the choral movement of his Ninth.” Manville slammed the binder shut and regarded Slade. “Well? What’s your second choice?”

  Stammering, Slade said, “I’d—have to think. Give me time.”

  Examining his watch, Manville said shortly, “I’ll give you two hours. Until three this afternoon. Good day, Slade.” He rose to his feet, and Slade automatically rose, too.

  An hour later, in his cramped office at Concord Military Service Consultants, Jesse Slade realized in a flashing single instant who and what he wanted to inspire. At once he put on his coat, excused himself to sympathetic Mr. Hnatt, and hurried down the street to Muse Enterprises.

  “Well, Mr. Slade,” Manville said, seeing him enter. “Back so soon. Come into the office.” He strode ahead, leading the way. “All right, let’s have it.” He shut the door after the two of them.

  Jesse Slade licked his dry lips and then, coughing, said, “Mr. Manville, I want to go back and inspire—well, let me explain. You know the great science fiction of the golden age, between 1930 and 1970?”

  “Yes, yes,” Manville said impatiently, scowling as he listened.

  “When I was in college,” Slade said, “getting my M.A. in English lit, I had to read a good deal of twentieth century science fiction, of course. Of the greats there were three writers who stood out. The first was Robert Heinlein with his future history. The second, Isaac Asimov with his Foundation epic series. And—” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “The man I did my paper on. Jack Dowland. Of the three of them, Dowland was considered the greatest. His future history of the world began to appear in 1957, in both magazine form—as short stories—and in book form, as complete novels. By 1963, Dowland was regarded as—”

  Mr. Manville said, “Hmmm.” Getting out the black binder, he began to thumb through it. “Twentieth century science fiction… a rather specialized interest—fortunately for you. Let’s see.”

  “I hope,” Slade said quietly, “it hasn’t been taken.”

  “Here is one client,” Mr. Manville said. “Leo Parks of Vacaville, California. He went back and inspired A. E. van Vogt to avoid love stories and westerns and try science fiction.” Turning more pages, Mr. Manville said, “And last year a client of Muse Enterprises, Miss Julie Oxenblut of Kansas City, Kansas asked to be permitted to inspire Robert Heinlein in his future history… was it Heinlein you said, Mr. Slade?”

  “No,” Slade said, “it was Jack Dowland, the greatest of the three. Heinlein was great, but I did much research on this, Mr. Manville, and Dowland was greater.”

  “No, it hasn’t been done,” Manville decided,
closing up the black binder. From his desk drawer he brought out a form. “You fill this out, Mr. Slade,” he said, “and then we’ll begin to roll on this matter. Do you know the year and the place at which Jack Dowland began work on his future history of the world?”

  “I do,” Slade said. “He was living in a little town on the then Route 40 in Nevada, a town called Purpleblossom, consisted of three gas stations, a cafe, a bar, and a general store. Dowland had moved there to get atmosphere; he wanted to write stories of the Old West in the form of TV scripts. He hoped to make a good deal of money.”

  “I see you know your subject,” Manville said, impressed.

  Slade continued, “While living in Purpleblossom he did write a number of TV western scripts but somehow he found them unsatisfactory. In any case, he remained there, trying other fields such as children’s books and articles on teen-age pre-marital sex for the slick magazines of the times… and then, all at once, in the year 1956, he suddenly turned to science fiction and immediately produced the greatest novelette seen to date in that field. That was the consensus gentium of the time, Mr. Manville, and I have read the story and I agree. It was called THE FATHER ON THE WALL and it still appears in anthologies now and then; it’s the kind of story that will never die. And the magazine in which it appeared, Fantasy & Science Fiction, will always be remembered for having published Dowland’s first epic in its August 1957 issue.”

  Nodding, Mr. Manville said, “And this is the magnus opus which you wish to inspire. This, and all that followed.”

  “You have it right, sir,” Mr. Slade said.

  “Fill out your form,” Manville said, “and we’ll do the rest.” He smiled at Slade and Slade, confident, smiled back.

  The operator of the time-ship, a short, heavy-set, crew-cut young man with strong features, said briskly to Slade, “Okay, bud; you ready or not? Make up your mind.”

  Slade, for one last time, inspected his twentieth century suit which Muse Enterprises had provided him—one of the services for the rather high fee which he had found himself paying. Narrow necktie, cuffless trousers, and Ivy League striped shirt… yes, Slade decided, from what he knew of the period it was authentic, right down to the sharp-pointed Italian shoes and the colorful stretch socks. He would pass without any difficulty as a citizen of the U.S. of 1956, even in Purpleblossom, Nevada.

  “Now listen,” the operator said, as he fastened the safety belt around Slade’s middle, “you got to remember a couple of things. First of all, the only way you can get back to 2040 is with me; you can’t walk back. And second, you got to be careful not to change the past—I mean, stick to your one simple task of inspiring this individual, this Jack Dowland, and let it go at that.”

  “Of course,” Slade said, puzzled at the admonition.

  “Too many clients,” the operator said, “you’d be surprised how many, go wild when they get back into the past; they get delusions of power and want to make all sorts of changes—eliminate wars, hunger and poverty—you know. Change history.”

  “I won’t do that,” Slade said. “I have no interest in abstract cosmic ventures on that order.” To him, inspiring Jack Dowland was cosmic enough. And yet he could empathize enough to understand the temptation. In his own work he had seen all kinds of people.

  The operator slammed shut the hatch of the time-ship, made certain that Slade was strapped in properly, and then took his own seat at the controls. He snapped a switch and a moment later Slade was on his way to his vacation from monotonous office work—back to 1956 and the nearest he would come to a creative act in his life.

  The hot midday Nevada sun beat down, blinding him; Slade squinted, peered about nervously for the town of Purpleblossom. All he saw was dull rock and sand, the open desert with a single narrow road passing among the Joshua plants.

  “To the right,” the operator of the time-ship said, pointing. “You can walk there in ten minutes. You understand your contract, I hope. Better get it out and read it.”

  From the breast pocket of his 1950-style coat, Slade brought the long yellow contract form with Muse Enterprises. “It says you’ll give me thirty-six hours. That you’ll pick me up in this spot and that it’s my responsibility to be here; if I’m not, and can’t be brought back to my own time, the company is not liable.”

  “Right,” the operator said, and re-entered the time-ship. “Good luck, Mr. Slade. Or, as I should call you, Jack Dowland’s muse.” He grinned, half in derision, half in friendly sympathy, and then the hatch shut after him.

  Jesse Slade was alone on the Nevada desert, a quarter mile outside the tiny town of Purpleblossom.

  He began to walk, perspiring, wiping his neck with his handkerchief.

  There was no problem to locating Jack Dowland’s house, since only seven houses existed in the town. Slade stepped up onto the rickety wooden porch, glancing at the yard with its trash can, clothes line, discarded plumbing fixtures… parked in the driveway he saw a dilapidated car of some archaic sort—archaic even for the year 1956.

  He rang the bell, adjusted his tie nervously, and once more in his mind rehearsed what he intended to say. At this point in his life, Jack Dowland had written no science fiction; that was important to remember—it was in fact the entire point. This was the critical nexus in his life—history, this fateful ringing of his doorbell. Of course Dowland did not know that. What was he doing within the house? Writing? Reading the funnies of a Reno newspaper? Sleeping?

  Footsteps. Tautly, Slade prepared himself.

  The door opened. A young woman wearing light-weight cotton trousers, her hair tied back with a ribbon, surveyed him calmly. What small, pretty feet she had, Slade noticed. She wore slippers; her skin was smooth and shiny, and he found himself gazing intently, unaccustomed to seeing so much of a woman exposed. Both ankles were completely bare.

  “Yes?” the woman asked pleasantly but a trifle wearily. He saw now that she had been vacuuming; there in the living room was a tank type G.E. vacuum cleaner… its existence here proving that historians were wrong; the tank type cleaner had not vanished in 1950 as was thought.

  Slade, thoroughly prepared, said smoothly, “Mrs. Dowland?” The woman nodded. Now a small child appeared to peep at him past its mother. “I’m a fan of your husband’s monumental—” Oops, he thought, that wasn’t right. “Ahem,” he corrected himself, using a twentieth century expression often found in books of that period. “Tsk-tsk,” he said. “What I mean to say is this, madam. I know well the works of your husband Jack. I am here by means of a lengthy drive across the desert badlands to observe him in his habitat.” He smiled hopefully.

  “You know Jack’s work?” She seemed surprised, but thoroughly pleased.

  “On the telly,” Slade said. “Fine scripts of his.” He nodded.

  “You’re English, are you?” Mrs. Dowland said. “Well, did you want to come in?” She held the door wide. “Jack is working right now up in the attic… the children’s noise bothers him. But I know he’d like to stop and talk to you, especially since you drove so far. You’re Mr.—”

  “Slade,” Slade said. “Nice abode you possess, here.”

  “Thank you.” She led the way into a dark, cool kitchen in the center of which he saw a round plastic table with wax milk carton, melmac plate, sugar bowl, two coffee cups and other amusing objects thereon. “JACK!” she called at the foot of a flight of stairs. “THERE’S A FAN OF YOURS HERE; HE WANTS TO SEE YOU!”

  Far off above them a door opened. The sound of a person’s steps, and then, as Slade stood rigidly, Jack Dowland appeared, young and good-looking, with slightly-thinning brown hair, wearing a sweater and slacks, his lean, intelligent face beclouded with a frown. “I’m at work,” he said curtly. “Even though I do it at home it’s a job like any other.” He gazed at Slade. “What do you want? What do you mean you’re a ‘fan’ of my work? What work? Christ, it’s been two months since I sold anything; I’m about ready to go out of my mind.”

  Slade said, “Jack Dowland, that
is because you have yet to find your proper genre.” He heard his voice tremble; this was the moment.

  “Would you like a beer, Mr. Slade?” Mrs. Dowland asked.

  “Thank you, miss,” Slade said. “Jack Dowland,” he said, “I am here to inspire you.”

  “Where are you from?” Dowland said suspiciously. “And how come you’re wearing your tie that funny way?”

  “Funny in what respect?” Slade asked, feeling nervous.

  “With the knot at the bottom instead of up around your adam’s apple.” Dowland walked around him, now, studying him critically. “And why’s your head shaved? You’re too young to be bald.”

  “The custom of this period,” Slade said feebly. “Demands a shaved head. At least in New York.”

  “Shaved head my ass,” Dowland said. “Say, what are you, some kind of a crank? What do you want?”

  “I want to praise you,” Slade said. He felt angry now; a new emotion, indignation, filled him—he was not being treated properly and he knew it.

  “Jack Dowland,” he said, stuttering a little, “I know more about your work than you do; I know your proper genre is science fiction and not television westerns. Better listen to me; I’m your muse.” He was silent, then, breathing noisily and with difficulty.

  Dowland stared at him, and then threw back his head and laughed.

  Also smiling, Mrs. Dowland said, “Well, I knew Jack had a muse but I assumed it was female. Aren’t all muses female?”

  “No,” Slade said angrily. “Leon Parks of Vacaville, California, who inspired A. E. van Vogt, was male.” He seated himself at the plastic table, his legs being too wobbly, now, to support him. “Listen to me, Jack Dowland—”

  “For God’s sake,” Dowland said, “either call me Jack or Dowland but not both; it’s not natural the way you’re talking. Are you on tea or something?” He sniffed intently.

  “Tea,” Slade echoed, not understanding. “No, just a beer, please.”