The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories tcsopkd-4

by Philip Kindred Dick

  “Get your leaflets here,” Ackers parodied dryly. “And your slogans. Either or both. What would you suggest in place of the system?”

  Garth’s voice was proud with conviction. “Education.”

  Amused, Ackers asked: “Is that all? You think that would stop anti-social activity? Criminals just don’t—know better?”

  “And psychotherapy, of course.” His projected face bony and intense, Garth peered out of his booth like an aroused turtle. “They’re sick … that’s why they commit crimes, healthy men don’t commit crimes. And you compound it; you create a sick society of punitive cruelty.” He waggled an accusing finger. “You’re the real culprit, you and the whole Interior Department. You and the whole Banishment System.”

  Again and again the neon sign blinked BANISH it! Meaning, of course, the system of compulsory ostracism for felons, the machinery that projected a condemned human being into some random backwater region of the sidereal universe, into some remote and out-of-the-way corner where he would be of no harm.

  “No harm to us, anyhow,” Ackers mused aloud.

  Garth spoke the familiar argument. “Yes, but what about the local inhabitants?”

  Too bad about the local inhabitants. Anyhow, the banished victim spent his energy and time trying to find a way back to the Sol System. If he got back before old age caught up with him he was readmitted by society. Quite a challenge … especially to some cosmopolite who had never set foot outside Greater New York. There were—probably—many involuntary expatriates cutting grain in odd fields with primitive sickles. The remote sections of the universe seemed composed mostly of dank rural cultures, isolated agrarian enclaves typified by small-time bartering of fruit and vegetables and handmade artifacts.

  “Did you know,” Ackers said, “that in the Age of Monarchs, a pickpocket was usually hanged?”

  “Banish it,” Garth continued monotonously, sinking back into his booth. The sign revolved; leaflets were passed out. And Ackers impatiently watched the late-evening street for sign of the hospital truck.

  He knew Heimie Rosenburg. A sweeter little guy there never was… although Heimie had been mixed up in one of the sprawling slave combines that illegally transported settlers to outsystem fertile planets. Between them, the two largest slavers had settled virtually the entire Sirius System. Four out of six emigrants were hustled out in carriers registered as “freighters.” It was hard to picture gentle little Heimie Rosenburg as a business agent for Tirol Enterprises, but there it was.

  As he waited, Ackers conjectured on Heimie’s murder. Probably one element of the incessant subterranean war going on between Paul Tirol and his major rival, David Lantano, was a brilliant and energetic newcomer … but murder was anybody’s game. It all depended on how it was done; it could be commercial hack or the purest art.

  “Here comes something,” Garth’s voice sounded, carried to his inner ear by the delicate output transformers of the booth’s equipment. “Looks like a freezer.”

  It was; the hospital truck had arrived. Ackers stepped forward as the truck halted and the back was let down.

  “How soon did you get there?” he asked the cop who jumped heavily to the pavement.

  “Right away,” the cop answered, “but no sign of the killer. I don’t think we’re going to get Heimie back … they got him dead-center, right in the cerebellum. Expert work, no amateur stuff.”

  Disappointed, Ackers clambered into the hospital truck to inspect for himself.

  Very tiny and still, Heimie Rosenburg lay on his back, arms at his sides, gazing sightlessly up at the roof of the truck. On his face remained the expression of bewildered wonder. Somebody—one of the cops—had placed his bent glasses in his clenched hand. In falling he had cut his cheek. The destroyed portion of his skull was covered by a moist plastic web.

  “Who’s back at the apartment?” Ackers asked presently.

  “The rest of my crew,” the cop answered. “And an independent researcher. Leroy Beam.”

  “Him,” Ackers said, with aversion. “How is it he showed up?”

  “Caught the rattle, too, happened to be passing with his rig. Poor Heimie had an awful big booster on that rattle … I’m surprised it wasn’t picked up here at the main offices.”

  “They say Heimie had a high anxiety level,” Ackers said. “Bugs all over his apartment. You’re starting to collect evidence?”

  “The teams are moving in,” the cop said. “We should begin getting specifications in half an hour. The killer knocked out the vid bug set up in the closet. But—” He grinned. “He cut himself breaking the circuit. A drop of blood, right on the wiring; it looks promising.”

  At the apartment, Leroy Beam watched the Interior police begin their analysis. They worked smoothly and thoroughly, but Beam was dissatisfied.

  His original impression remained: he was suspicious. Nobody could have gotten away so quickly. Heimie had died, and his death—the cessation of his neural pattern—had triggered off an automatic squawk. A rattle didn’t particularly protect its owner, but its existence ensured (or usually ensured) detection of the murderer. Why had it failed Heimie?

  Prowling moodily, Leroy Beam entered the kitchen for the second time. There, on the floor by the sink, was a small portable TV unit, the kind popular with the sporting set: a gaudy little packet of plastic and knobs and multi-tinted lenses.

  “Why this?” Beam asked, as one of the cops plodded past him. “This TV unit sitting here on the kitchen floor. It’s out of place.”

  The cop ignored him. In the living room, elaborate police detection equipment was scraping the various surfaces inch by inch. In the half hour since Heimie’s death, a number of specifications had been logged. First, the drop of blood on the damaged vid wiring. Second, a hazy heel mark where the murderer had stepped. Third, a bit of burnt match in the ashtray. More were expected; the analysis had only begun.

  It usually took nine specifications to delineate the single individual. Leroy Beam glanced cautiously around him. None of the cops was watching, so he bent down and picked up the TV unit; it felt ordinary. He clicked the on switch and waited. Nothing happened; no image formed. Strange.

  He was holding it upside down, trying to see the inner chassis, when Edward Ackers from Interior entered the apartment. Quickly, Beam stuffed the TV unit into the pocket of his heavy overcoat.

  “What are you doing here?” Ackers said.

  “Seeking,” Beam answered, wondering if Ackers noticed his tubby bulge. “I’m in business, too.”

  “Did you know Heimie?”

  “By reputation,” Beam answered vaguely. “Tied in with Tirol’s combine, I hear; some sort of front man. Had an office on Fifth Avenue.”

  “Swank place, like the rest of those Fifth Avenue feather merchants.” Ackers went on into the living room to watch detectors gather up evidence.

  There was a vast nearsightedness to the wedge grinding ponderously across the carpet. It was scrutinizing at a microscopic level, and its field was sharply curtailed. As fast as material was obtained, it was relayed to the Interior offices, to the aggregate file banks where the civil population was represented by a series of punch cards, cross-indexed infinitely.

  Lifting the telephone, Ackers called his wife. “I won’t be home,” he told her. “Business.”

  A lag and then Ellen responded. “Oh?” she said distantly. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

  Over in the corner, two members of the police crew were delightedly examining a new discovery, valid enough to be a specification. “I’ll call you again,” he said hurriedly to Ellen, “before I leave. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” Ellen said curtly, and managed to hang up before he did. The new discovery was the undamaged aud bug, which was mounted under the floor lamp. A continuous magnetic tape—still in motion—gleamed amiably; the murder episode had been recorded sound-wise in its entirety.

  “Everything,” a cop said gleefully to Ackers. “It was going before Heimie got home.”


  “You played it back?”

  “A portion. There’s a couple words spoken by the murderer, should be enough.”

  Ackers got in touch with Interior. “Have the specifications on the Rosenburg case been fed, yet?”

  “Just the first,” the attendant answered. “The file discriminates the usual massive category—about six billion names.”

  Ten minutes later the second specification was fed to the files. Persons with type O blood, with size 11 1/2 shoes, numbered slightly over a billion. The third specification brought in the element of smoker-nonsmoker. That dropped the number to less than a billion, but not much less. Most adults smoked.

  “The aud tape will drop it fast,” Leroy Beam commented, standing beside Ackers, his arms folded to conceal his bulging coat. “Ought to be able to get age, at least.”

  The aud tape, analyzed, gave thirty to forty years as the conjectured age. And—timbre analysis—a man of perhaps two hundred pounds. A little later the bent steel window frame was examined, and the warp noted. It jibed with the specification of the aud tape. There were now six specifications, including that of sex (male). The number of persons in the in-group was falling rapidly.

  “It won’t be long,” Ackers said genially. “And if he tacked one of those little buckets to the building side, we’ll have a paint scrape.”

  Beam said: “I’m leaving. Good luck.”

  “Stick around.”

  “Sorry.” Beam moved toward the hall door. “This is yours, not mine. I’ve got my own business to attend to… I’m doing research for a hot-shot nonferrous mining concern.”

  Ackers eyed his coat. “Are you pregnant?”

  “Not that I know of,” Beam said, coloring. “I’ve led a good clean life.” Awkwardly, he patted his coat. “You mean this?”

  By the window, one of the police gave a triumphant yap. The two bits of pipe tobacco had been discovered: a refinement for the third specification. “Excellent,” Ackers said, turning away from Beam and momentarily forgetting him.

  Beam left.

  Very shortly he was driving across town toward his own labs, the small and independent research outfit that he headed, unsupported by a government grant. Resting on the seat beside him was the portable TV unit; it was still silent.

  “First of all,” Beam’s gowned technician declared, “it has a power supply approximately seventy times that of a portable TV pack. We picked up the Gamma radiation.” He displayed the usual detector. “So you’re right, it’s not a TV set”

  Gingerly, Beam lifted the small unit from the lab bench. Five hours had passed, and still he knew nothing about it. Taking firm hold of the back he pulled with all his strength. The back refused to come off. It wasn’t stuck: there were no seams. The back was not a back; it only looked like a back.

  “Then what is it?” he asked.

  “Could be lots of things,” the technician said noncommittally; he had been roused from the privacy of his home, and it was now two-thirty in the morning. “Could be some sort of scanning equipment. A bomb. A weapon. Any kind of gadget.” Laboriously, Beam felt the unit all over, searching for a flaw in the surface. “It’s uniform,” he murmured. “A single surface.”

  “You bet. The breaks are false—it’s a poured substance. And,” the technician added, “it’s hard. I tried to chip off a representative sample but—” He gestured. “No results.”

  “Guaranteed not to shatter when dropped,” Beam said absently. “New extra-tough plastic.” He shook the unit energetically; the muted noise of metal parts in motion reached his ear. “It’s full of guts.”

  “We’ll get it open,” the technician promised, “but not tonight.”

  Beam replaced the unit on the bench. He could, with bad luck, work days on this one item—to discover, after all, that it had nothing to do with the murder of Heimie Rosenburg. On the other hand …

  “Drill me a hole in it,” he instructed. “So we can see it.”

  His technician protested: “I drilled; the drill broke. I’ve sent out for an improved density. This substance is imported; somebody hooked it from a white dwarf system. It was conceived under stupendous pressure.”

  “You’re stalling,” Beam said, irritated. “That’s how they talk in the advertising media.”

  The technician shrugged. “Anyhow, it’s extra hard. A naturally-evolved element, or an artificially-processed product from somebody’s labs. Who has funds to develop a metal like this?”

  “One of the big slavers,” Beam said. “That’s where the wealth winds up. And they hop around to various systems … they’d have access to raw materials. Special ores.”

  “Can’t I go home?” the technician asked. “What’s so important about this?”

  “This device either killed or helped kill Heimie Rosenburg. We’ll sit here, you and I, until we get it open.” Beam seated himself and began examining the check sheet showing which tests had been applied. “Sooner or later it’ll fly open like a clam—if you can remember that far back.”

  Behind them, a warning bell sounded.

  “Somebody in the anteroom,” Beam said, surprised and wary. “At two-thirty?” He got up and made his way down the dark hall to the front of the building. Probably it was Ackers. His conscience stirred guiltily: somebody had logged the absence of the TV unit.

  But it was not Ackers.

  Waiting humbly in the cold, deserted anteroom was Paul Tirol; with him was an attractive young woman unknown to Beam. Tirol’s wrinkled face broke into smiles, and he extended a hearty hand. “Beam,” he said. They shook. “Your front door said you were down here. Still working?”

  Guardedly, wondering who the woman was and what Tirol wanted, Beam said: “Catching up on some slipshod errors. Whole firm’s going broke.”

  Tirol laughed indulgently. “Always a japer.” His deep-set eyes darted; Tirol was a powerfully-built person, older than most, with a somber, intensely-creased face. “Have room for a few contracts? I thought I might slip a few jobs your way… if you’re open.”

  “I’m always open,” Beam countered, blocking Tirol’s view of the lab proper. The door, anyhow, had slid itself shut. Tirol had been Heimie’s boss … he no doubt felt entitled to all extant information on the murder. Who did it? When? How? Why? But that didn’t explain why he was here.

  “Terrible thing,” Tirol said crudely. He made no move to introduce the woman; she had retired to the couch to light a cigarette. She was slender, with mahogany-colored hair; she wore a blue coat, and a kerchief tied around her head.

  “Yes,” Beam agreed. “Terrible.”

  “You were there, I understand.”

  That explained some of it. “Well,” Beam conceded, “I showed up.”

  “But you didn’t actually see it?”

  “No,” Beam admitted, “nobody saw it. Interior is collecting specification material. They should have it down to one card before morning.”

  Visibly, Tirol relaxed. “I’m glad of that. I’d hate to see the vicious criminal escape. Banishment’s too good for him. He ought to be gassed.”

  “Barbarism,” Beam murmured dryly. “The days of the gas chamber. Medieval.”

  Tirol peered past him. “You’re working on—” Now he was overtly beginning to pry. “Come now, Leroy. Heimie Rosenburg—God bless his soul—was killed tonight and tonight I find you burning the midnight oil. You can talk openly with me; you’ve got something relevant to his death, haven’t you?”

  “That’s Ackers you’re thinking of.”

  Tirol chuckled. “Can I take a look?”

  “Not until you start paying me; I’m not on your books yet.”

  In a strained, unnatural voice, Tirol bleated: “I want it.”

  Puzzled, Beam said: “You want what?”

  With a grotesque shudder, Tirol blundered forward, shoved Beam aside, and groped for the door. The door flew open and Tirol started noisily down the dark corridor, feeling his way by instinct toward the research labs.

  “Hey!” Beam
shouted, outraged. He sprinted after the older man, reached the inner door, and prepared to fight it out. He was shaking, partly with amazement, partly with anger. “What the hell?” he demanded breathlessly. “You don’t own me!”

  Behind him the door mysteriously gave way. Foolishly, he sprawled backward, half-falling into the lab. There, stricken with helpless paralysis, was his technician. And, coming across the floor of the lab was something small and metallic. It looked like an oversized box of crackers, and it was going lickety-split toward Tirol. The object—metal and gleaming—hopped up into Tirol’s arms, and the old man turned and lumbered back up the hall to the anteroom.

  “What was it?” the technician said, coming to life.

  Ignoring him, Beam hurried after Tirol. “He’s got it!” he yelled futilely.

  “It—” the technician mumbled. “It was the TV set. And it ran.”

  II

  The file banks at Interior were in agitated flux.

  The process of creating a more and more restricted category was tedious, and it took time. Most of the Interior staff had gone home to bed; it was almost three in the morning, and the corridors and offices were deserted. A few mechanical cleaning devices crept here and there in the darkness. The sole source of life was the study chamber of the file banks. Edward Ackers sat patiently waiting for the results, waiting for specifications to come in, and for the file machinery to process them.

  To his right a few Interior police played a benign lottery and waited stoically to be sent out for the pick-up. The lines of communication to Heimie Rosenburg’s apartment buzzed ceaselessly. Down the street, along the bleak sidewalk, Harvey Garth was still at his propaganda booth, still flashing his BANISH it! sign and muttering in people’s ears. There were virtually no passersby, now, but Garth went on. He was tireless; he never gave up.

  “Psychopath,” Ackers said resentfully. Even where he sat, six floors up, the tinny, carping voice reached his middle ear.