THE HOOD MAKER
"A HOOD!"
"Somebody with a hood!"
Workers and shoppers hurried down the sidewalk, joining the forming crowd. A sallow-faced youth dropped his bike and raced over. The crowd grew, businessmen in gray coats, tired-faced secretaries, clerks and workmen.
"Get him!" the crowd swarmed forward. "The old man!"
The sallow-faced youth scooped up a rock from the gutter and hurled it. The rock missed the old man, crashing against a store front.
"He's got a hood, all right!"
"Take it away!"
More rocks fell. The old man gasped in fear, trying to push past two soldiers blocking his way. A rock struck him on the back.
"What you got to hide?" The sallow-faced youth ran up in front of him. "Why you afraid of a probe?"
"He's got something to hide!" A worker grabbed the old man's hat. Eager hands groped for the thin metal band around his head.
"Nobody's got a right to hide!"
The old man fell, sprawling to his hands and knees, umbrella rolling. A clerk caught hold of the hood and tugged. The crowd surged, struggling to get to the metal band. Suddenly the youth gave a cry. He backed off, the hood held up. "I got it! I got it!" He ran to his bike and pedaled off rapidly, gripping the bent hood.
A robot police car pulled up to the curb, siren screaming. Robot cops leaped out, clearing the mob away.
"You hurt?" They helped the old man up.
The old man shook his head, dazed. His glasses hung from one ear. Blood and saliva streaked his face.
"All right." The cop's metal fingers released. "Better get off the street. Inside someplace. For your own good."
Clearance Director Ross pushed the memo plate away. "Another one. I'll be glad when the Anti-Immunity Bill is passed."
Peters glanced up. "Another?"
"Another person wearing a hood—a probe shield. That makes ten in the last forty-eight hours. They're mailing more out all the time."
"Mailed, slipped under doors, in pockets, left at desks—countless ways of distribution."
"If more of them notified us—"
Peters grinned crookedly. "It's a wonder any of them do. There's a reason why hoods are sent to these people. They're not picked out at random."
"Why are they picked?"
"They have something to hide. Why else would hoods be sent to them?"
"What about those who do notify us?"
"They're afraid to wear them. They pass the hoods on to us—to avoid suspicion."
Ross reflected moodily. "I suppose so."
"An innocent man has no reason to conceal his thoughts. Ninety-nine per cent of the population is glad to have its mind scanned. Most people want to prove their loyalty. But this one per cent is guilty of something."
Ross opened a manila folder and took out a bent metal band. He studied it intently. "Look at it. Just a strip of some alloy. But it effectively cuts off all probes. The teeps go crazy. It buzzes them when they try to get past. Like a shock."
"You've sent samples to the lab, of course."
"No. I don't want any of the lab workers turning out their own hoods. We have trouble enough!"
"Who was this taken from?"
Ross stabbed a button on his desk. "We'll find out. I'll have the teep make a report."
The door melted and a lank sallow-faced youth came into the room. He saw the metal band in Ross's hand and smiled, a thin, alert smile. "You wanted me?"
Ross studied the youth. Blond hair, blue eyes. An ordinary-looking kid, maybe a college sophomore. But Ross knew better. Ernest Abbud was a telepathic mutant—a teep. One of several hundred employed by Clearance for its loyalty probes.
Before the teeps, loyalty probes had been haphazard. Oaths, examinations, wire-tappings, were not enough. The theory that each person had to prove his loyalty was fine—as a theory. In practice few people could do it. It looked as if the concept of guilty until proved innocent might have to be abandoned and the Roman law restored.
The problem, apparently insoluble, had found its answer in the Madagascar Blast of 2004. Waves of hard radiation had lapped over several thousand troops stationed in the area. Of those who lived, few produced subsequent progeny. But of the several hundred children born to the survivors of the blast, many showed neural characteristics of a radically new kind. A human mutant had come into being—for the first time in thousands of years.
The teeps appeared by accident. But they solved the most pressing problem the Free Union faced: the detection and punishment of disloyalty. The teeps were invaluable to the Government of the Free Union—and the teeps knew it.
"You got this?" Ross asked, tapping the hood.
Abbud nodded. "Yes."
The youth was following his thoughts, not his spoken words. Ross flushed angrily. "What was the man like?" he demanded harshly. "The memo plate gives no details."
"Doctor Franklin is his name. Director of the Federal Resources Commission. Sixty-seven years of age. Here on a visit to a relative."
"Walter Franklin! I've heard of him." Ross stared up at Abbud. "Then you already—"
"As soon as I removed the hood I was able to scan him."
"Where did Franklin go after the assault?"
"Indoors. Instructed by the police."
"They arrived?"
"After the hood had been taken, of course. It went perfectly. Franklin was spotted by another telepath, not myself. I was informed Franklin was coming my way. When he reached me I shouted that he was wearing a hood. A crowd collected and others took up the shout. The other telepath arrived and we manipulated the crowd until we were near him. I took the hood myself—and you know the rest."
Ross was silent for a moment. "Do you know how he got the hood? Did you scan that?"
"He received it by mail."
"Does he—"
"He has no idea who sent it or where it came from."
Ross frowned. "Then he can't give us any information about them. The senders."
"The Hood Makers," Abbud said icily.
Ross glanced quickly up. "What?"
"The Hood Makers. Somebody makes them." Abbud's face was hard. "Somebody is making probe screens to keep us out."
"And you're sure—"
"Franklin knows nothing! He arrived in the city last night. This morning his mail machine brought the hood. For a time he deliberated. Then he purchased a hat and put it on over the hood. He set out on foot toward his niece's house. We spotted him several minutes later, when he entered range."
"There seem to be more of them, these days. More hoods being sent out. But you know that." Ross set his jaw. "We've got to locate the senders."
"It'll take time. They apparently wear hoods constantly." Abbud's face twisted. "We have to get so damn close! Our scanning range is extremely limited. But sooner or later we'll locate one of them. Sooner or later we'll tear a hood off somebody—and find him…"
"In the last year five thousand hood-wearers have been detected," Ross stated. "Five thousand—and not one of them knows anything. Where the hoods come from or who makes them."
"When there are more of us, we'll have a better chance," Abbud said grimly. "Right now there are too few of us. But eventually—"
"You're going to have Franklin probed, aren't you?" Peters said to Ross. "As a matter of course."
"I suppose so." Ross nodded to Abbud. "You might as well go ahead on him. Have one of your group run the regular total probe and see if there's anything of interest buried down in his non-conscious neural area. Report the results to me in the usual way."
Abbud reached into his coat. He brought out a tape spool and tossed it down on the desk in front of Ross. "Here you are."
"What's this?"
"The total probe on Franklin. All levels—completely searched and recorded."
Ross stared up at the youth. "You—"
"We went ahead with it." Abbud moved toward the door. "It's a good job. Cummings did it. We found considerable disloyalty. M
ostly ideological rather than overt. You'll probably want to pick him up. When he was twenty-four he found some old books and musical records. He was strongly influenced. The latter part of the tape discusses fully our evaluation of his deviation."
The door melted and Abbud left.
Ross and Peters stared after him. Finally Ross took the tape spool and put it with the bent metal hood.
"I'll be damned," Peters said. "They went ahead with the probe."
Ross nodded, deep in thought. "Yeah. And I'm not sure I like it."
The two men glanced at each other—and knew, as they did so, that outside the office Ernest Abbud was scanning their thoughts.
"Damn it!" Ross said futilely. "Damn it!"
Walter Franklin breathed rapidly, peering around him. He wiped nervous sweat from his lined face with a trembling hand.
Down the corridor the echoing clang of Clearance agents sounded, growing louder.
He had got away from the mob—spared for a while. That was four hours ago. Now the sun had set and evening was settling over greater New York. He had managed to make his way half across the city, almost to the outskirts—and now a public alarm was out for his arrest.
Why? He had worked for the Free Union Government all his life. He had done nothing disloyal. Nothing, except open the morning mail, find the hood, deliberate about it, and finally put it on. He remembered the small instruction tag:
GREETINGS!
This probe screen is sent to you with the compliments of the maker and the earnest hope that it will be of some value to you. Thank you.
Nothing else. No other information. For a long time he had pondered. Should he wear it? He had never done anything. He had nothing to hide—nothing disloyal to the Union. But the thought fascinated him. If he wore the hood his mind would be his own. Nobody could look into it. His mind would belong to him again, private, secret, to think as he wished, endless thoughts for no one else's consumption but his own.
Finally he had made up his mind and put on the hood, fitting his old Homburg over it. He had gone outside—and within ten minutes a mob was screaming and yelling around him. And now a general alarm was out for his arrest.
Franklin wracked his brain desperately. What could he do? They could bring him up before a Clearance Board. No accusation would be brought: it would be up to him to clear himself, to prove he was loyal. Had he ever done anything wrong? Was there something he had done he was forgetting? He had put on the hood. Maybe that was it. There was some sort of an Anti-Immunity bill up in Congress to make wearing of a probe screen a felony, but it hadn't been passed yet—
The Clearance agents were near, almost on him. He retreated down the corridor of the hotel, glancing desperately around him. A red sign glowed: EXIT. He hurried toward it and down a flight of basement stairs, out onto a dark street. It was bad to be outside, where the mobs were. He had tried to remain indoors as much as possible. But now there was no choice.
Behind him a voice shrilled loudly. Something cut past him, smoking away a section of the pavement. A Slem-ray. Franklin ran, gasping for breath, around a corner and down a side street. People glanced at him curiously as he rushed past.
He crossed a busy street and moved with a surging group of theater goers. Had the agents seen him? He peered nervously around. None in sight.
At the corner he crossed with the lights. He reached the safety zone in the center, watching a sleek Clearance car cruising toward him. Had it seen him go out to the safety zone? He left the zone, heading toward the curb on the far side. The Clearance car shot suddenly forward, gaining speed. Another appeared, coming the other way.
Franklin reached the curb.
The first car ground to a halt. Clearance agents piled out, swarming up onto the sidewalk.
He was trapped. There was no place to hide. Around him tired shoppers and office workers gazed curiously, their faces devoid of sympathy. A few grinned at him in vacant amusement. Franklin peered frantically around. No place, no door, no person—
A car pulled up in front of him, its doors sliding open. "Get in." A young girl leaned toward him, her pretty face urgent. "Get in, damn it!"
He got in. The girl slammed the doors and the car picked up speed. A Clearance car swung in ahead of them, its sleek bulk blocking the street. A second Clearance car moved in behind them.
The girl leaned forward, gripping the controls. Abruptly the car lifted. It left the street, clearing the cars ahead, gaining altitude rapidly. A flash of violet lit up the sky behind them.
"Get down!" the girl snapped. Franklin sank down in his seat. The car moved in a wide arc, passing beyond the protective columns of a row of buildings. On the ground, the Clearance cars gave up and turned back.
Franklin settled back, mopping his forehead shakily. "Thanks," he muttered.
"Don't mention it." The girl increased the car's speed. They were leaving the business section of the city, moving above the residential outskirts. She steered silently, intent on the sky ahead.
"Who are you?" Franklin asked.
The girl tossed something back to him. "Put that on."
A hood. Franklin unfastened it and slipped it awkwardly over his head. "It's in place."
"Otherwise they'll get us with a teep scan. We have to be careful all the time."
"Where are we going?"
The girl turned to him, studying him with calm gray eyes, one hand resting on the wheel. "We're going to the Hood Maker," she said. "The public alarm for you is top priority. If I let you off you won't last an hour."
"But I don't understand." Franklin shook his head, dazed. "Why do they want me? What have I done?"
"You're being framed." The girl brought the car around in a wide arc, wind whistling shrilly through its struts and fenders. "Framed by the teeps. Things are happening fast. There's no time to lose."
The little bald-headed man removed his glasses and held out his hand to Franklin, peering near-sightedly. "I'm glad to meet you, Doctor. I've followed your work at the Board with great interest."
"Who are you?" Franklin demanded.
The little man grinned self-consciously. "I'm James Cutter. The Hood Maker, as the teeps call me. This is our factory." He waved around the room. "Take a look at it."
Franklin gazed around him. He was in a warehouse, an ancient wooden building of the last century. Giant worm-scored beams rose up, dry and cracking. The floor was concrete. Old-fashioned fluorescent lights glinted and flickered from the roof. The walls were streaked with water stains and bulging pipes.
Franklin moved across the room, Cutter beside him. He was bewildered. Everything had happened fast. He seemed to be outside New York, in some dilapidated industrial suburb. Men were working on all sides of him, bent over stampers and molds. The air was hot. An archaic fan whirred. The warehouse echoed and vibrated with a constant din.
"This—" Franklin murmured. "This is—"
"This is where we make the hoods. Not very impressive, is it? Later on we hope to move to new quarters. Come along and I'll show you the rest."
Cutter pushed a side door open and they entered a small laboratory, bottles and retorts everywhere in cluttered confusion. "We do our research in here. Pure and applied. We've learned a few things. Some we may use, some we hope won't be needed. And it keeps our refugees busy."
"Refugees?"
Cutter pushed some equipment back and seated himself on a lab table. "Most of the others are here for the same reason as you. Framed by the teeps. Accused of deviation. But we got to them first."
"But why—"
"Why were you framed? Because of your position. Director of a Government Department. All these men were prominent—and all were framed by teep probes." Cutter lit a cigarette, leaning back against the water-stained wall. "We exist because of a discovery made ten years ago in a Government lab." He tapped his hood. "This alloy—opaque to probes. Discovered by accident, by one of these men. Teeps came after him instantly, but he escaped. He made a number of hoods and passed them to othe
r workers in his field. That's how we got started."
"How many are here?"
Cutter laughed. "Can't tell you that. Enough to turn out hoods and keep them circulating. To people prominent in Government. People holding positions of authority. Scientists, officials, educators—"
"Why?"
"Because we want to get them first, before the teeps. We got to you too late. A total probe report had already been made out on you, before the hood was even in the mail.
"The teeps are gradually getting a stranglehold over the Government. They're picking off the best men, denouncing them and getting them arrested. If a teep says a man is disloyal Clearance has to haul him in. We tried to get a hood to you in time. The report couldn't be passed on to Clearance if you were wearing a hood. But they outsmarted us. They got a mob after you and snatched the hood. As soon as it was off they served the report to Clearance."
"So that's why they wanted it off."
"The teeps can't file a framed report on a man whose mind is opaque to probes. Clearance isn't that stupid. The teeps have to get the hoods off. Every man wearing a hood is a man out of bounds. They've managed so far by stirring up mobs—but that's ineffectual. Now they're working on this bill in Congress. Senator Waldo's Anti-Immunity Bill. It would outlaw wearing hoods." Cutter grinned ironically. "If a man is innocent why shouldn't he want his mind probed? The bill makes wearing a probe shield a felony. People who receive hoods will turn them over to Clearance. There won't be a man in ten thousand who'll keep his hood, if it means prison and confiscation of property."
"I met Waldo, once. I can't believe he understands what his bill would do. If he could be made to see—"
"Exactly! If he could be made to see. This bill has to be stopped. If it goes through we're licked. And the teeps are in. Somebody has to talk to Waldo and make him see the situation." Cutter's eyes were bright. "You know the man. He'll remember you."
"What do you mean?"
"Franklin, we're sending you back again—to meet Waldo. It's our only chance to stop the bill. And it has to be stopped."
The cruiser roared over the Rockies, brush and tangled forest flashing by below. "There's a level pasture over to the right," Cutter said. "I'll set her down, if I can find it."
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 83
