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

by Philip K. Dick

  "Take it easy," Eric protested, his mind racing frantically. He patted the toad nervously. "Matson is perfectly safe—as long as nobody steps on him. We can rig up some sort of protective shield and an automatic communication system that'll enable him to spell out words. He can continue his work. With a few adjustments here and there everything should speed along perfectly."

  "Answer me!" Bradshaw roared. "Are you responsible for this? Is this your doing?"

  Eric squirmed helplessly. "In a way, I suppose. Not exactly. Not directly." His voice wavered. "But I guess you'd say if it hadn't been for me…"

  Bradshaw's face set in a rigid mask of rage. "Blake, you're fired." He yanked a heap of forms from his desk dispenser. "Get out of here and never come back. And get your hand off that toad. It belongs to Terran Metals." He shoved a paper across the desk. "Here's your paycheck. And don't bother looking for work elsewhere. I'm listing you on the inter-system blacklist. Good day."

  "But, Mr. Bradshaw—"

  "Don't plead." Bradshaw waved his hand. "Just go. Jennings, get your biology staff busy at once. This problem must be licked. I want you to rearrange this toad back to its original shape. Matson is a vital part of Terran Metals. There's work to be done, work only Matson can do. We can't have this sort of thing holding up our research."

  "Mr. Bradshaw," Eric begged desperately. "Please listen. I want to see Tom back as he was. But there's only one way we can get him back his original shape. We—"

  Bradshaw's eyes were cold with hostility. "You still here, Blake? Must I call my guards and have you dismembered? I'm giving you one minute to be off Company land. Understand?"

  Eric nodded miserably. "I understand." He turned and shuffled unhappily toward the door. "So long, Jennings. So long, Tom. I'll be home if you want me, Mr. Bradshaw."

  "Sorcerer," Bradshaw snapped. "Good riddance."

  "What would you do," Eric asked the robot cabdriver, "if your wife had turned to stone, your best friend were a toad, and you had lost your job?"

  "Robots have no wives," the driver said. "They are nonsexual. Robots have no friends, either. They are incapable of emotional relationships."

  "Can robots be fired?"

  "Sometimes." The robot drew his cab up before Eric's modest six-room bungalow. "But consider. Robots are frequently melted down and new robots made from the remains. Recall Ibsen's Peer Gynt, the section concerning the Button Molder. The lines clearly anticipate in symbolic form the trauma of robots to come."

  "Yeah." The door opened and Eric got out. "I guess we all have our problems."

  "Robots have worse problems than anybody." The door shut and the cab zipped off, back down the hill.

  Worse? Hardly. Eric entered his home slowly, the front door automatically opening for him.

  "Welcome, Mr. Blake," the door greeted him.

  "I suppose Pat's still here."

  "Mrs. Blake is here, but she is in a cataleptic state, or some similar condition."

  "She's been turned to stone." Eric kissed the cold lips of the statue gloomily. "Hi, honey."

  He got some meat from the refrigerator and crumbled it into the belly-cup of the god. Presently digestive fluid rose and covered the food. In a short time the single eye of the god opened, blinked a few times, and focused on Eric.

  "Have a good sleep?" Eric inquired icily.

  "I wasn't asleep. My mind was turned toward matters of cosmic import. I detect a hostile quality in your voice. Has something unfavorable occurred?"

  "Nothing. Nothing at all. I just lost my job, on top of everything else."

  "Lost your job? Interesting. What else do you refer to?"

  Eric exploded in rage. "You've messed up my whole life, damn you!" He jabbed at the silent, unmoving figure of his wife. "Look! My wife! Turned to granite. And my best friend, a toad!"

  Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo yawned. "So?"

  "Why? What did I ever do to you? Why do you treat me this way? Look at all I've done for you. I only brought you here to Terra. Fed you. Fixed you up a box with straw and water and newspapers. That's all."

  "True. You did bring me to Terra." Again an odd gleam flickered across the god's dark face. "All right. I'll restore your wife."

  "You will?" Pathetic joy surged through Eric. Tears came to his eyes. He was too relieved to ask any questions. "Gosh, I sure would appreciate it!"

  The god concentrated. "Stand out of the way. It's easier to distort the molecular arrangement of a body than to restore the original configuration. I hope I can get it exactly as it was." It made a faint motion.

  Around Pat's silent figure the air stirred. The pale granite shuddered. Slowly, color seeped back into her features. She gasped sharply, her dark eyes flashing with fear. Color filled her arms, shoulders, breasts, spreading through her trim body. She cried out, tottering unsteadily. "Eric!"

  Eric caught her, hugging her tight. "Gosh, honey. I'm sure glad you're all right." He crushed her against him, feeling her heart thump with terror. He kissed her soft lips again and again. "Welcome back."

  Pat pulled abruptly away. "That little snake. That miserable particle of waste. Wait until I get my hands on it." She advanced toward the god, eyes blazing. "Listen, you. What's the idea? How dare you!"

  "See?" the god said. "They never change."

  Eric pulled his wife back. "You better shut up or you'll be granite again. Understand?"

  Pat caught the urgent rasp in his voice. She subsided reluctantly. "All right, Eric, I give up."

  "Listen," Eric said to the god. "How about Tom? How about restoring him?"

  "The toad? Where is he?"

  "In the Biology Lab. Jennings and his staff are working on him."

  The god considered. "I don't like the sound of that. The Biology Lab? Where is that? How far away?"

  "Terran Metals. Main Building." Eric was impatient. "Maybe five miles. "How about it? Maybe if you restore him Bradshaw will give me my job back. You owe it to me. Set things back the way they were."

  "I can't."

  "You can't! Why the hell not?"

  "I thought gods were omnipotent," Pat sniffed petulantly.

  "I can do anything—at short range. The Terran Metals Biology Lab is too far. Five miles is beyond my limit. I can distort molecular arrangements within a limited circle only."

  Eric was incredulous. "What? You mean you can't turn Tom back?"

  "That's the way it is. You shouldn't have taken him out of the house. Gods are subject to natural law just as you are. Our laws are different, but they are still laws."

  "I see," Eric murmured. "You should have said."

  "As far as your job goes, don't worry about that. Here, I'll create some gold." The god made a motion with its scaly hands. A section of curtain flashed suddenly yellow and crashed to the floor with a metallic tinkle. "Solid gold. That ought to keep you a few days."

  "We're no longer on the gold standard."

  "Well, whatever you need. I can do anything."

  "Except turn Tom back into a human being," Pat said. "Fine god you are."

  "Shut up, Pat," Eric muttered, deep in thought.

  "If there was some way I could be closer to him," the god said cautiously. "If he were within range…"

  "Bradshaw will never let him go. And I can't set foot around there. The guards will tear me to bits."

  "How about some platinum?" The god made a pass and a section of the wall glowed white. "Solid platinum. A simple change of atomic weight. Will that help?"

  "No!" Eric paced back and forth. "We've got to get that toad away from Bradshaw. If we can get him back here—"

  "I have an idea," the god said.

  "What?"

  "Perhaps you could get me in there. Perhaps if I could get onto the Company grounds, within range of the Biology Lab."

  "It's worth a try," Pat said, putting her hand on Eric's shoulder. "After all, Tom's your best friend. It's a shame to treat him this way. It's—it's un-Terran."

  Eric grabbed his coat. "It's settled. I'll driv
e as close as I can to the Company grounds. I ought to be able to get near enough before the guards catch sight of me to—"

  A crash. The front door collapsed abruptly in a heap of ash. Teams of robot police surged into the room, blastguns ready.

  "All right," Jennings said. "That's him." He strode quickly into the house. "Get him. And get that thing in the box."

  "Jennings!" Eric swallowed in alarm. "What the hell is this?"

  Jennings's lip curled. "Cut out the pretense, Blake. You're not fooling me." He tapped a small metal case under his arm. "The toad revealed all. So you've got a non-Terrestrial in this house, have you?" He laughed coldly. "There's a law against bringing non-Terrans to Earth. You're under arrest, Blake. You'll probably get life."

  "Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo!" Eric Blake squeaked. "Don't forsake me at a time like this!"

  "I'm coming," the god grunted. It heaved violently. "How's this?"

  The robot police jerked as a torrent of force erupted from the box. Abruptly they disappeared, winking out of existence. Where they had stood a horde of mechanical mice milled aimlessly, spilling frantically through the doorway, out into the yard.

  Jennings's face showed astonishment and then panic. He retreated, waving his blaster menacingly. "See here, Blake. Don't think you can scare me. We've got this house surrounded."

  A bolt of force hit him in the stomach. The bolt lifted him and shook him like a rag doll. His blaster skidded from his fingers, falling to the floor. Jennings groped for it desperately. The blaster turned into a spider and crawled rapidly off, out of his reach.

  "Set him down," Eric urged.

  "All right." The god released Jennings. He crashed to the floor, stunned and frightened. He scrambled wildly to his feet and ran from the house, down the path to the sidewalk.

  "Oh dear," Pat said.

  "What is it?"

  "Look."

  Pulled up in a circle around the house was a solid line of atomic cannon. Their snouts gleamed wickedly in the late afternoon sunlight. Groups of robot police stood around each cannon, waiting alertly for instructions.

  Eric groaned. "We're sunk. One blast and we're finished."

  "Do something!" Pat gasped. She prodded the box. "Enchant them. Don't just sit there."

  "They are out of range," the god replied. "As I explained, my power is limited by distance."

  "You in there!" a voice came, magnified by a hundred loudspeakers. "Come out with your hands up. Or we open fire!"

  "Bradshaw," Eric groaned. "He's out there. We're trapped. You sure you can't do something?"

  "Sorry," the god said. "I can put up a shield against the cannon." It concentrated. Outside the house a dull surface formed, a globe rapidly hardening around them.

  "All right," Bradshaw's magnified voice came, muffled by the shield. "You asked for it."

  The first shell hit. Eric found himself lying on the floor, his ears ringing, everything going around and around. Pat lay beside him, dazed and frightened. The house was a shambles. Walls, chairs, furniture, all was in ruins.

  "Fine shield," Pat gasped.

  "The concussion," the god protested. Its box lay in the corner on its side. "The shield stops the shells, but the concussion—"

  A second shell struck. A wall of pressure rolled over Eric, stunning him. He skidded, tossed by a violent wind, crashing against heaps of debris that had been his house.

  "We can't last," Pat said faintly. "Tell them to stop, Eric. Please!"

  "Your wife is right," the god's calm voice came up, from its overturned box. "Surrender, Eric. Give yourself up."

  "I guess I better." Eric pulled himself up on his knees. "But golly, I don't want to spend the rest of my life in prison. I knew I was breaking the law when I smuggled the damn thing in here, but I never thought—"

  A third shell hit. Eric tumbled down, his chin smacking the floor. Plaster and rubble rained down on him, choking and blinding him. He fought his way up, grabbing hold of a jutting beam.

  "Stop!" he shouted.

  There was sudden silence.

  "Are you willing to surrender?" the magnified voice boomed.

  "Surrender," the god murmured.

  Eric's mind raced desperately. "I—I have a deal. A compromise." He thought fast, his brain in high gear. "I have a proposal."

  There was a long pause. "What's the proposal?"

  Eric stepped warily through the rubble to the edge of the shield. The shield was almost gone. Only a shimmering haze remained, through which the circle of atomic cannon was visible, the cannon and the robot police.

  "Matson," Eric gasped, getting his breath. "The toad. We'll make the following deal. We'll restore Matson to his original shape. We'll return the non-Terrestrial to Ganymede. In return, you waive prosecution and I get my job back."

  "Absurd! My labs can easily restore Matson without your help."

  "Oh yeah? Ask Matson. He'll tell you. If you don't agree, Matson will be a toad for the next two hundred years—at least!"

  A long silence followed. Eric could see figures moving back and forth, conferring behind the guns.

  "All right," Bradshaw's voice came at last. "We agree. Drop the shield and come forward. I'll send Jennings with the toad. No tricks, Blake!"

  "No tricks." Eric sagged with relief. "Come along," he said to the god, picking up the dented box. "Drop the shield and let's get this over with. Those cannon make me nervous."

  The god relaxed. The shield—what was left of it—wavered and faded, blinking off.

  "Here I come." Eric advanced warily, the box in his hands. "Where's Matson?"

  Jennings came toward him. "I have him." His curiosity overcame his suspicion. "This ought to be interesting. We should make a close study of all extra-dimensional life. Apparently they possess science much in advance of our own."

  Jennings squatted down, placing the small green toad carefully on the grass.

  "There he is," Eric said to the god.

  "Is this close enough?" Pat asked icily.

  "This is sufficient," the god said. "This is exactly right." It turned its single eye on the toad and made a few brief motions with its scaly claws.

  A shimmer hovered over the toad. Extra-dimensional forces were at work, fingering and plucking at the toad molecules. Abruptly the toad twitched. For a second it shuddered, an insistent vibration lapped over it. Then—

  Matson ballooned into existence, the familiar bean-pole figure, towering over Eric and Jennings and Pat.

  "Lord," Matson breathed shakily. He got out his handkerchief and wiped his face. "I'm glad that's over. Wouldn't want to go through that again."

  Jennings retreated hurriedly toward the circle of cannon. Matson turned and headed after him. Eric and his wife and god were suddenly alone in the center of the lawn.

  "Hey!" Eric demanded, cold alarm plucking at him. "What is this? What the hell's going on?"

  "Sorry, Blake," Bradshaw's voice came. "It was essential to restore Matson. But we can't alter the law. The law is above any man, even me. You're under arrest."

  Robot police swarmed forward, grimly surrounding Eric and Pat. "You skunk," Eric choked, struggling feebly.

  Bradshaw came out from behind the cannon, hands in his pockets, grinning calmly. "Sorry, Blake. You should be out of jail in ten or fifteen years, though. Your job will be waiting for you—I promise. As for this extra-dimensional being, I'm quite interested in seeing it. I've heard of such things." He peered toward the box. "I'm happy to take charge of it. Our labs will perform experiments and tests on it which will…"

  Bradshaw's words died. His face turned a sickly hue. His mouth opened and closed, but no sounds came.

  From the box came a swelling, frenzied buzz of rage. Nar Dolk! I knew I'd find you!"

  Bradshaw retreated, trembling violently. "Why, of all persons. Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo! What are you doing on Terra?" He stumbled, half falling. "How did you, that is, after so long, how could—"

  Then Bradshaw was running, scattering robot police i
n all directions, rushing wildly past the atomic cannon.

  "Nar Dolk!" the god screamed, swelling with fury. "Scourge of the Seven Temples! Flotsam of Space! I knew you were on this miserable planet! Come back and take your punishment!"

  The god burst upward, flashing into the air. It raced past Eric and Pat, growing as it flew. A sickening, nauseous wind, warm and damp, lapped at their faces, as the god gained speed.

  Bradshaw—Nar Dolk—ran frantically. And as he ran he changed. Immense wings sprouted from him. Great leathery wings, beating the air in frantic haste. His body oozed and altered. Tentacles replaced his legs. Scaly claws replaced arms. Gray hide rippled as he flew up, wings flapping noisily.

  Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo struck. For a brief moment the two locked together, twisting and rolling in the air, wings and claws raking and flapping.

  Then Nar Dolk broke away, fluttering up. A blazing flash, a pop, and he was gone.

  For a moment Tinokuknoi Arevulopapo hovered in the air. The scaly head turned, the single eye glancing back and down at Eric and Pat. It nodded briefly. Then, with a curious shimmy, it vanished.

  The sky was empty except for a few feathers and the dull stench of burning scales.

  Eric was the first to speak. "Well," he said. "So that's why it wanted to come to Terra. I guess I was sort of exploited." He grinned sheepishly. "The first Terran ever to be exploited."

  Matson gawked, still peering up. "They're gone. Both of them. Back to their own dimension, I guess."

  A robot policeman plucked at Jennings's sleeve. "Shall we arrest anyone, sir? With Mr. Bradshaw gone you are next in charge."

  Jennings glanced at Eric and Pat. "I suppose not. The evidence has departed. It seems somewhat silly, anyhow." He shook his head. "Bradshaw. Imagine! And we worked for him for years. Damn strange business."

  Eric put his arm around his wife. He pulled her against him, hugging her tight. "I'm sorry, honey," he said softly.

  "Sorry?"

  "Your present. It's gone. I guess I'll have to get you something else."

  Pat laughed, pressing against him. "That's all right. I'll let you in on a secret."

  "What?"

  Pat kissed him, her lips warm against his cheek. "As a matter of fact—I'm just as glad."