The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories tcsopkd-4

by Philip Kindred Dick

  “Attorney General,” Max said to his cousin Leon Lait, “get me dossiers on all of Hada’s wives, all seven or eight, whatever it is. I guess I got to take a drastic course.”

  When, later in the day, the eight dossiers had been put before him, he began to read carefully, chewing on his El Producto alta cigar and frowning, his lips moving with the effort of comprehending the intricate, detailed material.

  Jeez, what a mess some of these dames must be, he realized. Ought to be getting chemical psychotherapy, have their brain metabolisms straightened out. But he was not displeased; it had been his hunch that a man like Sebastian Hada would attract an unstable sort of woman.

  One in particular, Hada’s fourth wife, interested him. Zoe Martin Hada, thirty-one years old, now living on Io with her ten-year-old son.

  Zoe Hada had definite psychotic traits.

  “Attorney General,” he said to his cousin, “this dame is living on a pension supplied by the U.S. Department of Mental Health. Hada isn’t contributing a dime to her support. You get her here to the White House, you understand? I got a job for her.”

  The following morning Zoe Martin Hada was brought to his office.

  He saw, between the two FBI men, a scrawny woman, attractive, but with wild, animosity-filled eyes. “Hello, Mrs. Zoe Hada,” Max said. “Listen, I know sumpthin’ about you; you’re the only genuine Mrs. Hada—the others are imposters, right? And Sebastian’s done you dirt.” He waited, and saw the expression on her face change.

  “Yes,” Zoe said. “I’ve been in courts for six years trying to prove what you just said. I can hardly believe it; are you really going to help me?”

  “Sure,” Max said. “But you got to do it my way; I mean, if you’re waiting for that skunk Hada to change, you’re wasting your time. About all you can do”—he paused—“is even up the score.”

  The violence which had left her face crept back as she understood, gradually, what he meant.

  Frowning, Dr. Ito Yasumi said, “I have now made my examination, Hada.” He began putting away his battery of cards. “This Rags Park is neither telepath or precog; he neither reads my mind nor cognates what is to be and, frankly, Hada, although I still sense psi power about him, I have no idea what it might be.”

  Hada listened in silence. Now Rags Park, this time with a guitar over his shoulder, wandered in from the other room. It seemed to amuse him that Dr. Yasumi could make nothing of him; he grinned at both of them and then seated himself. “I’m a puzzle,” he said to Hada. “Either you got too much when you hired me or not enough… but you don’t know which and neither does Dr. Yasumi or me.”

  “I want you to start at once over CULTURE,” Hada told him impatiently. “Make up and sing folk ballads that depict the unfair imprisonment and harassment of Jim-Jam Briskin by Leon Lait and his FBI. Make Lait appear a monster; make Fischer appear a scheming, greedy boob. Understand?”

  “Sure,” Rags Park said, nodding. “We got to get public opinion aroused. I knew that when I signed; I ain’t just entertaining no more.”

  Dr. Yasumi said to Rags, “Listen, I have favor to ask. Make up folk-style ballad telling how Jim-Jam Briskin get out of jail.”

  Both Hada and Rags Park glanced at him.

  “Not about what is,” Yasumi explained, “but about that which we want to be.”

  Shrugging, Park said, “Okay.”

  The door to Hada’s office burst open and the chief of his bodyguards, Dieter Saxton, put his head excitedly in. “Mr. Hada, we just gunned down a woman who was trying to get through to you with a homemade bomb. Do you have a moment to identify her? We think maybe it’s—I mean it was—one of your wives.”

  “God in heaven,” Hada said, and hurried along with Saxton from the office and down the corridor.

  There on the floor, near the front entrance of the demesne, lay a woman he knew. Zoe, he thought. He knelt down, touched her.

  “Sorry,” Saxton mumbled. “We had to, Mr. Hada.”

  “All right,” he said. “I believe you if you say so.” He greatly trusted Saxton; after all, he had to.

  Saxton said, “I think from now on you better have one of us close by you at all times. I don’t mean outside your office; I mean within physical touch.”

  “I wonder if Max Fischer sent her here,” Hada said.

  “The chances are good,” Saxton said. “I’d make book on it.”

  “Just because I’m trying to get Jim-Jam Briskin released.” Hada was thoroughly shaken. “It really amazes me.” He rose to his feet unsteadily.

  “Let me go after Fischer,” Saxton urged in a low voice. “For your protection. He has no right to be President; Unicephalon 40-D is our only legal President and we all know Fischer put it out of commission.”

  “No,” Hada murmured. “I don’t like murder.”

  “It’s not murder,” Saxton said. “It’s protection for you and your wives and children.”

  “Maybe so,” Hada said, “but I still can’t do it. At least not yet.” He left Saxton and made his way with difficulty back to his office, where Rags Park and Dr. Yasumi waited.

  “We heard,” Yasumi said to him. “Bear up, Hada. The woman was a paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of persecution; without psychotherapy it was inevitable that she would meet a violent death. Do not blame yourself or Mr. Saxton.”

  Hada said, “And at one time I loved that woman.”

  Dolefully strumming on his guitar, Rags Park sang to himself; the words were not audible. Perhaps he was practicing on his ballad of Jim Briskin’s escape from jail.

  “Take Mr. Saxton’s advice,” Dr. Yasumi said. “Protect yourself at all times.” He patted Hada on the shoulder.

  Rags spoke up, “Mr. Hada, I think I’ve got my ballad now. About—”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Hada said harshly. “Not now.” He wished the two of them would leave; he wanted to be by himself.

  Maybe I should fight back, he thought. Dr. Yasumi recommends it; now Dieter Saxton recommends it. What would Jim-Jam recommend? He has a sound mind… he would say, Don’t employ murder. I know that would be his answer; I know him.

  And if he says not to, I won’t.

  Dr. Yasumi was instructing Rags Park, “A ballad, please, about that vase of gladioli over there on the bookcase. Tell how it rise up straight in the air and hover; all right?”

  “What kind of ballad is that?” Rags said. “Anyhow, I got my work cut out for me; you heard what Mr. Hada said.”

  “But I’m still testing you,” Dr. Yasumi grumbled.

  To his cousin the Attorney General, Max Fischer said disgustedly, “Well, we didn’t get him.”

  “No, Max,” Leon Lait agreed. “He’s got good men in his employ; he’s not an individual like Briskin, he’s a whole corporation.”

  Moodily, Max said, “I read a book once that said if three people are competing, eventually two of them will join together and gang up on the third one. It’s inevitable. That’s exactly what’s happened; Hada and Briskin are buddies, and I’m alone. We have to split them apart, Leon, and get one of them on our side against the other. Once Briskin liked me. Only he disapproved of my methods.”

  Leon said, “Wait’ll he hears about Zoe Hada trying to kill her ex-husband; then Briskin’ll really disapprove of you.”

  “You think it’s impossible to win him over now?”

  “I sure do, Max. You’re in a worse position than ever, regarding him. Forget about winning him over.”

  “There’s some idea in my mind, though,” Max said. “I can’t quite make out what it is yet, but it has to do with freeing Jim-Jam in the hopes that he’ll feel gratitude.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Leon said. “How come you ever thought of an idea like that? It isn’t like you.”

  “I don’t know,” Max groaned. “But there it is.”

  To Sebastian Hada, Rags Park said, “Uh, I think maybe I got me a ballad now, Mr. Hada. Like Dr. Yasumi suggested. It has to do with telling how Jim-Jam Bris
kin gets out of jail. You want to hear it?”

  Dully, Hada nodded. “Go ahead.” After all, he was paying the folksinger; he might as well get something for his money.

  Twanging away, Rags sang:

  “Jim-Jam Briskin languished in jail,

  Couldn’t find no one to put up his bail.

  Blame Max Fischer! Blame Max Fischer!”

  Rags explained, “That’s the chorus, ‘Blame Max Fischer!’ Okay?”

  “All right,” Hada said, nodding.

  “The Lord came along, said, Max, I’m mad.

  Casting that man in jail, that was bad.

  Blame Max Fischer! the good Lord cried.

  Poor Jim Briskin, his rights denied.

  Blame Max Fischer! I’m here to tell;

  Good Lord say, Him go straight to hell.

  Repent, Max Fischer! There’s only one route:

  Get on my good side; let Jim-Jam out.”

  Rags explained to Hada, “Now here’s what’s going to happen.” He cleared his throat:

  “Bad Max Fischer, he saw the light,

  Told Leon Lait, We got to do right.

  Sent a message down to turn that key,

  Open that door and let Jim-Jam free.

  Old Jim Briskin saw an end to his plight;

  Jail door open now, lets in the light.

  “That’s all,” Rags informed Hada. “It’s a sort of holler type of folk song, a spiritual where you tap your foot. Do you like it?”

  Hada managed to nod. “Oh sure. Anything’s fine.”

  “Shall I tell Mr. Kaminsky you want me to air it over CULTURE?”

  “Air away,” Hada said. He did not care; the death of Zoe still weighed on his mind—he felt responsible, because after all it had been his bodyguards who had done it, and the fact that Zoe had been insane, had been trying to destroy him, did not seem to matter. It was still a human life; it was still murder. “Listen,” he said to Rags on impulse, “I want you to make up another song, now.”

  With sympathy, Rags said, “I know, Mr. Hada. A ballad about the sad death of your former wife Zoe. I been thinking about that and I have a ballad all ready. Listen:

  “There once was a lady fair to see and hear;

  Wander, spirit, over field and star,

  Sorrowful, but forgiving from afar.

  That spirit knows who did her in.

  It was a stranger, not her kin.

  It was Max Fischer who knew her not—”

  Hada interrupted, “Don’t whitewash me, Rags; I’m to blame. Don’t put everything on Max as if he’s a whipping boy.”

  Seated in the corner of the office, listening quietly, Dr. Yasumi now spoke up. “And also too much credit to President Fischer in your ballads, Rags. In ballad of Jim-Jam’s release from jail, you specifically give credit to Max Fischer for ethical change of heart. This will not do. The credit for Jim-Jam’s release must go to Hada. Listen, Rags; I have composed a poem for this occasion.”

  Dr. Yasumi chanted:

  “News clown nestles not in jail.

  A friend, Sebastian Hada, got him free.

  He loves that friend, regards him well.

  Knows whom to honor, and to seek.”

  “Exactly thirty-two syllables,” Dr. Yasumi explained modestly. “Old-style Japanese-type haiku poetry does not have to rhyme as do U.S.-English ballads, however must get right to the point, which in this matter is all-important.” To Rags he said, “You make my haiku into ballad, okay? In your typical fashion, in rhythmic, rhyming couplets, et cetera, and so on.”

  “I counted thirty-three syllables,” Rags said. “Anyhow, I’m a creative artist; I’m not used to being told what to compose.” He turned to Hada. “Who’m I working for, you or him? Not him, as far as I know.”

  “Do as he says,” Hada told Rags. “He’s a brilliant man.”

  Sullenly, Rags murmured, “Okay, but I didn’t expect this sort of job when I signed the contract.” He retired to a far corner of the office to brood, think, and compose.

  “What are you involved with, here, Doctor?” Hada asked.

  “We’ll see,” Dr. Yasumi said mysteriously. “Theory about psi power of this balladeer, here. May pay off, may not.”

  “You seem to feel that the exact wording of Rags’s ballads is very important,” Hada said.

  “That’s right,” Dr. Yasumi agreed. “As in legal document. You wait, Hada; you find out—if I right—eventually. If I wrong, doesn’t matter anyhow.” He smiled encouragingly at Hada.

  The phone in President Max Fischer’s office rang. It was the Attorney General, his cousin, calling in agitation. “Max, I went over to the federal pen where Jim-Jam is, to see about quashing the charges against him like you were talking about—” Leon hesitated. “He’s gone, Max. He’s not in there anymore.” Leon sounded wildly nervous.

  “How’d he get out?” Max said, more baffled than angry.

  “Art Heaviside, Hada’s attorney, found a way; I don’t know yet what it is—I have to see Circuit Court Judge Dale Winthrop, about it; he signed the release order an hour or so ago. I have an appointment with Winthrop… as soon as I’ve seen him, I’ll call you back.”

  “I’ll be darned,” Max said slowly. “Well, we were too late.” He hung up the phone reflexively and then stood deep in thought. What has Hada got going for him? he asked himself. Something I don’t understand.

  And now the thing to watch for, he realized, is Jim Briskin showing up on TV. On CULTURE’s network.

  With relief he saw on the screen—not Jim Briskin but a folksinger plucking away on a banjo.

  And then he realized that the folksinger was singing about him.

  “Bad Max Fischer, he saw the light,

  Told Leon Lait, We got to do right.

  Sent a message down to turn that key.”

  Listening, Max Fischer said aloud, “My God, that’s exactly what happened! That’s exactly what I did!” Eerie, he thought. What’s it mean, this ballad singer on CULTURE who sings about what I’m doing—secret matters that he couldn’t possibly know about!

  Telepathic maybe, Max thought. That must be it.

  Now the folksinger was narrating and plucking about Sebastian Hada, how Hada had been personally responsible for getting Jim-Jam Briskin out of jail. And it’s true, Max said to himself. When Leon Lait got there to the federal pen, he found Briskin gone because of Art Heaviside’s activity… I better listen pretty carefully to this singer, because for some reason he seems to know more than I do.

  But the singer now had finished.

  The CULTURE announcer was saying, “That was a brief interlude of political ballads by the world-renowned Ragland Park. Mr. Park, you’ll be pleased to hear, will appear on this channel every hour for five minutes of new ballads, composed here in culture’s studios for the occasion. Mr. Park will be watching the teletypers and will compose his ballads to—”

  Max switched the set off then.

  Like calypso, Max realized. New ballads. God, he thought dismally. Suppose Parks sings about Unicephalon 40-D coming back.

  I have a feeling, he thought, that what Ragland Park sings turns out to be true. It’s one of those psionic talents.

  And they, the opposition, are making use of this.

  On the other hand, he thought, I might have a few psionic talents of my own. Because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I have.

  Seated before the TV set, he switched it on once again and waited, chewing his lower lip and pondering what he should do. As yet he could come up with nothing. But I will, sooner or later, he said to himself. And before they come up with the idea of bringing Unicephalon 40-D back…

  Dr. Yasumi said, “I have solved what Ragland Park’s psi talent is, Hada. You care to know?”

  “I’m more interested in the fact that Jim-Jam is out of jail,” Hada answered. He put down the receiver of the telephone, almost unable to believe the news. “He’ll be here right away,” he said to Dr. Yasumi. “He’s on his way direc
t, by monorail. We’ll see that he gets to Callisto, where Max has no jurisdiction, so they can’t possibly rearrest him.” His mind swirled with plans. Rubbing his hands together, he said rapidly, “Jim-Jam can broadcast from our transmitter on Callisto. And he can live at my demesne there—that’ll be beer and skittles for him—I know he’ll agree.”

  “He is out,” Dr. Yasumi said dryly, “because of Rags’s psi talent, so you had better listen. Because this psi talent is not understood even by Rags and, honestly to God, it could rebound on you any time.”

  Reluctantly, Hada said, “Okay, give me your opinion.”

  “Relationship between Rags’s made-up ballads and reality is one of cause and effect. What Rags describes then takes place. The ballad precedes the event and not by much. You see? This could be dangerous, if Rags understood it and made use of it for own advantage.”

  “If this is true,” Hada said, “then we want him to compose a ballad about Unicephalon 40-D returning to action.” That was obvious to him instantly. Max Fischer would be merely the standby President once more, as he had originally been. Without authority of any kind.

  “Correct,” Dr. Yasumi said. “But problem is, now that he is making up these political-type ballads, Ragland Park is apt to discover this fact, too. For if he makes up song about Unicephalon and then it actually—”

  “You’re right,” Hada said. “Even Park couldn’t miss that.” He was silent then, deep in thought. Ragland Park was potentially even more dangerous than Max Fischer. On the other hand, Ragland seemed like a good egg; there was no reason to assume that he would misuse his power, as Max Fischer had his.

  But it was a great deal of power for one human being to have. Much too much.

  Dr. Yasumi said, “Care must be taken as to exactly what sort of ballads Ragland makes up. Contents must be edited in advance, maybe by you.”

  “I want as little as possible—” Hada began, and then ceased. The receptionist had buzzed him; he switched on the intercom.