The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report

by Philip K. Dick

  "Yeah," Tim said heavily. "It was the hot water heater."

  "I thought so!" Foley breathed. A sigh of relief swept through them all. Murmurs, shaky laughs. Nods, grins.

  "I should have got it fixed," Tim went on. "I should have had it looked at a long time ago. Before it got in such bad shape." Tim looked around at the circle of anxious people, hanging on his words. "I should have had it looked at. Before it was too late."

  A PRESENT FOR PAT

  "WHAT IS IT?" Patricia Blake demanded eagerly.

  "What's what?" Eric Blake murmured.

  "What did you bring? I know you brought me something!" Her bosom rose and fell excitedly under her mesh blouse. "You brought me a present. I can tell!"

  "Honey, I went to Ganymede for Terran Metals, not to find you curios. Now let me unpack my things. Bradshaw says I have to report to the office early tomorrow. He says I better report some good ore deposits."

  Pat snatched up a small box, heaped with all the other luggage the robot porter had deposited at the door. "Is it jewelry? No, it's too big for jewelry." She began to tear the cord from the box with her sharp fingernails.

  Eric frowned uneasily. "Don't be disappointed, honey. It's sort of strange. Not what you expect." He watched apprehensively. "Don't get mad at me. I'll explain all about it."

  Pat's mouth fell open. She turned pale. She dropped the box quickly on the table, eyes wide with horror. "Good Lord! What is it?"

  Eric twisted nervously. "I got a good buy on it, honey. You can't usually pick one of them up. The Ganymedeans don't like to sell them, and I—"

  "What is it?"

  "It's a god," Eric muttered. "A minor Ganymedean deity. I got it practically at cost."

  Pat gazed down at the box with fear and growing disgust. That? That's a—a god?"

  In the box was a small, motionless figure, perhaps ten inches high. It was old, terribly old. Its tiny clawlike hands were pressed against its scaly breast. Its insect face was twisted in a scowl of anger—mixed with cynical lust. Instead of legs it rested on a tangle of tentacles. The lower portion of its face dissolved in a complex beak, mandibles of some hard substance. There was an odor to it, as of manure and stale beer. It appeared to be bisexual.

  Eric had thoughtfully put a little water dish and some straw in the box. He had punched air holes in the lid and crumpled up newspaper fragments.

  "You mean it's an idol." Pat regained her poise slowly. "An idol of a deity."

  "No." Eric shook his head stubbornly. "This is a genuine deity. There's a warranty, or something."

  "Is it—dead?"

  "Not at all."

  "Then why doesn't it move?"

  "You have to arouse it." The bottom of the figure's belly cupped outward in a hollow bowl. Eric tapped the bowl. "Place an offering here and it comes to life. I'll show you."

  Pat retreated. "No thanks."

  "Come on! It's interesting to talk to. Its name is—" He glanced at some writing on the box. "Its name is Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo. We talked most of the way back from Ganymede. It was glad of the opportunity. And I learned quite a few things about gods."

  Eric searched his pockets and brought out the remains of a ham sandwich. He wadded up a bit of the ham and stuffed it into the protruding belly-cup of the god.

  "I'm going in the other room," Pat said.

  "Stick around." Eric caught her arm. "It only takes a second. It begins to digest right away."

  The belly-cup quivered. The god's scaly flesh rippled. Presently the cup filled with a sluggish dark-colored substance. The ham began to dissolve.

  Pat snorted in disgust. "Doesn't it even use its mouth?"

  "Not for eating. Only for talking. It's a lot different from usual life-forms."

  The tiny eye of the god was focused on them now. A single, unwinking orb of icy malevolence. The mandibles twitched.

  "Greetings," the god said.

  "Hi." Eric nudged Pat forward. "This is my wife. Mrs. Blake. Patricia."

  "How do you do," the god grated.

  Pat gave a squeal of dismay. "It talks English."

  The god turned to Eric in disgust. "You were right. She is stupid."

  Eric colored. "Gods can do anything they want, honey. They're omnipotent."

  The god nodded. "That is so. This is Terra, I presume."

  "Yes. How does it look?"

  "As I expected. I have already heard reports. Certain reports about Terra."

  "Eric, are you sure it's safe?" Pat whispered uneasily. "I don't like its looks. And there's something about the way it talks." Her bosom quivered nervously.

  "Don't worry, honey," Eric said carelessly. "It's a nice god. I checked before I left Ganymede."

  "I'm benevolent," the god explained matter-of-factly. "My capacity has been that of Weather Deity to the Ganymedean aborigines. I have produced rain and allied phenomena when the occasion demanded."

  "But that's all in the past," Eric added.

  "Correct. I have been a Weather Deity for ten thousand years. There is a limit to even a god's patience. I craved new surroundings." A peculiar gleam flickered across the loathsome face. "That is why I arranged to be sold and brought to Terra."

  "You see," Eric said, "the Ganymedeans didn't want to sell it. But it whipped up a thunderstorm and they sort of had to. That's partly why it was so cheap."

  "Your husband made a good purchase," the god said. Its single eye roved around curiously. "This is your dwelling? You eat and sleep here?"

  That's right," Eric said. "Pat and I both—"

  The front door chimed. "Thomas Matson stands on the threshold," the door stated. "He wishes admission."

  "Golly," Eric said. "Good old Tom. I'll go let him in."

  Pat indicated the god. "Hadn't you better—"

  "Oh, no. I want Tom to see it." Eric stepped to the door and opened it.

  "Hello," Tom said, striding in. "Hi, Pat. Nice day." He and Eric shook hands. "The Lab has been wondering when you'd get back. Old Bradshaw is leaping up and down to hear your report." Matson's beanpole body bent forward in sudden interest. "Say, what's in the box?"

  "That's my god," Eric said modestly.

  "Really? But God is an unscientific concept."

  "This is a different god. I didn't invent it. I bought it. On Ganymede. It's a Ganymedean Weather Deity."

  "Say something," Pat said to the god. "So he'll believe your owner."

  "Let's debate my existence," the god said sneeringly. "You take the negative. Agreed?"

  Matson grinned. "What is this, Eric? A little robot? Sort of hideous looking."

  "Honest. It's a god. On the way it did a couple of miracles for me. Not big miracles, of course, but enough to convince me."

  "Hearsay," Matson said. But he was interested. "Pass a miracle, god. I'm all ears."

  "I am not a vulgar showpiece," the god growled.

  "Don't get it angry," Eric cautioned. "There's no limit to its powers, once aroused."

  "How does a god come into being?" Tom asked. "Does a god create itself? If it's dependent on something prior then there must be a more ultimate order of being which—"

  "Gods," the tiny figure stated, "are inhabitants of a higher level, a greater plane of reality. A more advanced dimension. There are a number of planes of existence. Dimensional continuums, arranged in a hierarchy. Mine is one above yours."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Occasionally beings pass from one dimensional continuum to another. When they pass from a superior continuum to an inferior—as I have done—they are worshipped as gods."

  Tom was disappointed. "You're not a god at all. You're just a life-form of a slightly different dimensional order that's changed phase and entered our vector."

  The little figure glowered. "You make it sound simple. Actually, such a transformation requires great cunning and is seldom done. I came here because a member of my race, a certain malodorous Nar Dolk, committed a heinous crime and escaped into this continuum. Our law obliged me to fol
low in hot pursuit. In the process this flotsam, this spawn of dampness, escaped and assumed some disguise or other. I continually search, but he has not yet been apprehended." The small god broke off suddenly. "Your curiosity is idle. It annoys me."

  Tom turned his back on the god. "Pretty weak stuff. We do more down at the Terran Metals Lab than this character ever—"

  The air crackled, ozone flashing. Tom Matson shrieked. Invisible hands lifted him bodily and propelled him to the door. The door swung open and Matson sailed down the walk, tumbling in a heap among the rose bushes, arms and legs flailing wildly.

  "Help!" Matson yelled, struggling to get up.

  "Oh, dear," Pat gasped.

  "Golly." Eric shot a glance at the tiny figure. "You did that?"

  "Help him," Pat urged, white-faced. "I think he's hurt. He looks funny."

  Eric hurried outside and helped Matson to his feet. "You okay? It's your own fault. I told you if you kept annoying it something might happen."

  Matson's face was ablaze with rage. "No little pipsqueak god is going to treat me like this!" He pushed Eric aside, heading back for the house. "I'll take it down to the Lab and pop it in a bottle of formaldehyde. I'll dissect it and skin it and hang it up on the wall. I'll have the first specimen of a god known to—"

  A ball of light glowed around Matson. The ball enveloped him, settling in place around his lean body so that he looked like a filament in an incandescent light.

  "What the hell!" Matson muttered. Suddenly he jerked. His body faded. He began to shrink. With a faint whoosh he diminished rapidly. Smaller and smaller he dwindled. His body shuddered, altering strangely.

  The light winked out. Sitting stupidly on the walk was a small green toad.

  "See?" Eric said wildly. "I told you to keep quiet! Now look what it's done!"

  The toad hopped feebly toward the house. At the porch it sagged into immobility, defeated by the steps. It uttered a pathetic, hopeless chug.

  Pat's voice rose in a wail of anguish. "Oh, Eric! Look what it's done! Poor Tom!"

  "His own fault," Eric said. "He deserves it." But he was beginning to get nervous. "Look here," he said to the god. "That's not a very nice thing to do to a grown man. What'll his wife and kids think?"

  "What'll Mr. Bradshaw think?" Pat cried. "He can't go to work like that!"

  "True," Eric admitted. He appealed to the god. "I think he's learned his lesson. How about turning him back? Okay?"

  "You just better undo him!" Pat shrieked, clenching her small fists. "If you don't undo him you'll have Terran Metals after you. Even a god can't stand up to Horace Bradshaw."

  "Better change him back," Eric said.

  "It'll do him good," the god said. "I'll leave him that way for a couple of centuries—"

  "Centuries!" Pat exploded. "Why, you little blob of slime!" She advanced ominously toward the box, shaking with wrath. "See here! You turn him back or I'll take you out of your box and drop you into the garbage disposal unit!"

  "Make her be still," the god said to Eric.

  "Calm down, Pat," Eric implored.

  "I will not calm down! Who does it think it is? A present! How dare you bring this moldy bit of refuse into our house? Is this your idea of a—"

  Her voice ceased abruptly.

  Eric turned apprehensively. Pat stood rigid, her mouth open, a word still on her lips. She did not move. She was white all over. A solid gray-white that made cold chills leap up Eric's spine. "Good Lord," he said.

  "I turned her to stone," the god explained. "She made too much noise." It yawned. "Now, I think I'll retire. I'm a little tired, after my trip."

  "I can't believe it," Eric Blake said. He shook his head numbly. "My best friend a toad. My wife turned to stone."

  "It's true," the god said. "We deal out justice according to how people act. They both got what they deserved."

  "Can—can she hear me?"

  "I suppose."

  Eric went over to the statue. "Pat," he begged imploringly. "Please don't be mad. It isn't my fault." He gripped her ice-cold shoulders. "Don't blame me! I didn't do it." The granite was hard and smooth under his fingers. Pat stared blankly ahead.

  "Terran Metals indeed," the god grumbled sourly. Its single eye studied Eric intently. "Who is this Horace Bradshaw? Some local deity, perhaps?"

  "Horace Bradshaw owns Terran Metals," Eric said gloomily. He sat down and shakily lit a cigarette. "He's about the biggest man on Terra. Terran Metals owns half the planets in the system."

  "Kingdoms of this world do not interest me," the god said noncommittally, subsiding and shutting its eye. "I will retire now. I wish to contemplate certain matters. You may wake me later, if you wish. We can converse on theological subjects, as we did on the ship coming here."

  "Theological subjects," Eric said bitterly. "My wife a stone block and it wants to talk about religion."

  But the god was already withdrawn, retired into itself.

  "A lot you care," Eric muttered. Anger flickered in him. "This is the thanks I get for taking you off Ganymede. Ruin my household and my social life. Fine god you are!"

  No response.

  Eric concentrated desperately. Maybe when the god awoke it would be in a better mood. Maybe he could persuade it to turn Matson and Pat back to their usual forms. Faint hope stirred. He could appeal to the god's better side. After it had rested and slept for a few hours…

  If nobody came looking for Matson.

  The toad sat disconsolately on the walk, drooping with misery. Eric leaned toward it. "Hey, Matson!"

  The toad looked slowly up.

  "Don't worry, old man. I'll get it to turn you back. It's a cinch." The toad didn't stir. "A lead-pipe cinch," Eric repeated nervously.

  The toad drooped a little more. Eric looked at his watch. It was late afternoon, almost four. Tom's shift at Terran began in half an hour. Sweat came out on his forehead. If the god went on sleeping and didn't wake up in half an hour—

  A buzz. The vidphone.

  Eric's heart sank. He hurried over and clicked the screen on, steeling himself. Horace Bradshaw's sharp, dignified features faded into focus. His keen glance bored into Eric, penetrating his depths.

  "Blake," he grunted. "Back from Ganymede, I see."

  "Yes, sir." Eric's mind raced frantically. He moved in front of the screen, cutting off Bradshaw's view of the room. "I'm just starting to unpack."

  "Forget that and get over here! We're waiting to hear your report."

  "Right now? Gosh, Mr. Bradshaw. Give me a chance to get my things away." He fought desperately for time. "I'll be over tomorrow morning bright and early."

  "Is Matson there with you?"

  Eric swallowed. "Yes, sir. But—"

  "Put him on. I want to talk to him."

  "He—he can't talk to you right now, sir."

  "What? Why not?"

  "He's in no shape to—that is, he—"

  Bradshaw snarled impatiently. "Then bring him along with you. And he better be sober when he gets here. I'll see you at my office in ten minutes." He broke the circuit. The screen faded abruptly.

  Eric sank wearily down in a chair. His mind reeled. Ten minutes! He shook his head, stunned.

  The toad hopped a little, stirring on the walk. It emitted a faint, despondent sound.

  Eric got heavily to his feet. "I guess we have to face the music," he murmured. He bent down and picked up the toad, putting it gingerly in his coat pocket. "I guess you heard. That was Bradshaw. We're going down to the lab."

  The toad stirred uneasily.

  "I wonder what Bradshaw is going to say when he sees you." Eric kissed his wife's cold granite cheek. "Good-bye, honey." He moved numbly down the walk to the street. A moment later he hailed a robot cab and entered it. "I have a feeling this is going to be hard to explain." The cab zipped off down the street. "Hard as hell to explain."

  Horace Bradshaw stared in dumbfounded amazement. He removed his steel-rimmed glasses and wiped them slowly. He fitted them back on his
hard, hawklike face and peered down. The toad rested silently in the center of the immense mahogany desk.

  Bradshaw pointed shakily at the toad. "This—this is Thomas Matson?"

  "Yes, sir," Eric said.

  Bradshaw blinked in wonder. "Matson! What in the world has happened to you?"

  "He's a toad," Eric explained.

  "So I see. Incredible." Bradshaw pressed a stud on his desk. "Send in Jennings from the Biology Lab," he ordered. "A toad." He poked the toad with his pencil. "Is that really you, Matson?"

  The toad chugged.

  "Good Lord." Bradshaw sat back, wiping his forehead. His grim expression faded into sympathetic concern. He shook his head sadly. "I can't believe it. Some kind of bacterial blight, I suppose. Matson was always experimenting on himself. He took his work seriously. A brave man. A good worker. He did much for Terran Metals. Too bad he had to end this way. We'll extend full pension to him, of course."

  Jennings entered the office. "You wanted me, sir?"

  "Come in." Bradshaw beckoned him impatiently in. "We have a problem for your department. You know Eric Blake here."

  "Hi, Blake."

  "And Thomas Matson." Bradshaw indicated the toad. "From the Nonferrous Lab."

  "I know Matson," Jennings said slowly. "That is, I know a Matson from Nonferrous. But I don't recall—that is, he was taller than this. Almost six feet."

  "This is him," Eric said gloomily. "He's a toad now."

  "What happened?" Jennings's scientific curiosity was aroused. "What's the lowdown?"

  "It's a long story," Eric said evasively.

  "Can't you tell it?" Jennings scrutinized the toad professionally. "Looks like a regular type of toad. You're sure this is Tom Matson? Come clean, Blake. You must know more than you're telling!"

  Bradshaw studied Eric intently. "Yes, what did happen, Blake? You have a strange, shifty look. Are you responsible for this?" Bradshaw half rose from his chair, his grim face bleak. "See here. If it's your fault one of my best men has been incapacitated for further work—"