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

by Philip K. Dick

  "Somewhere around," Patterson muttered. "Under guard." He turned toward V-Stephens and briefly their eyes met. "You see?" he said huskily. "This is what happens. Is this what you really want?"

  "Come on, Mr. Patterson," Francis Gannet boomed impatiently. "I don't have much time to waste. From your description this sounds like something important."

  "It is," V-Stephens answered calmly. He wiped at the trickle of mouth-blood with his pocket handkerchief. "It's worth the trip from Luna. Take my word for it—I know."

  The man who sat on Gannet's right was a lieutenant. He gazed in mute awe at the vidscreen. His young, handsome blond face was alive with amazement as from the bank of gray haze a huge battleship lumbered, one reactor smashed, its forward turrets crumpled, hull twisted open.

  "Good God," Lieutenant Nathan West said faintly. "That's the Wind Giant. The biggest battleship we have. Look at it—it's out of commission. Totally disabled."

  "That will be your ship," Patterson said. "You'll be commander of it in '87 when it's destroyed by the combined Venusian and Martian fleets. David Unger will be serving under you. You'll be killed, but Unger will escape. The few survivors of your ship will watch from Luna as Earth is systematically demolished by C-missiles from Venus and Mars."

  On the screen, the figures leaped and swirled like fish in the bottom of a dirt-saturated tank. A violent maelstrom surged in the center, a vortex of energy that lashed the ships on vast spasms of motion. The silver Earth ships hesitated, then broke. Flashing black Mars battleships swept through the wide breach—and the Earth flank was turned simultaneously by the waiting Venusians. Together, they caught the remnants of the Earth ships in steel pincers and crunched them out of existence. Brief puffs of light, as the ships winked out of being. In the distance, the solemn blue and green orb that was Earth slowly and majestically revolved.

  Already, it showed ugly pocks. Bomb craters from the C-missiles that had penetrated the defense network.

  LeMarr snapped off the projector and the screen died. "That ends that brain-sequence. All we can get are visual fragments like this, brief instants that left strong impressions on him. We can't get continuity. The next one takes up years later, on one of the artificial satellites."

  The lights came on, and the group of spectators moved stiffly to their feet. Gannet's face was a sickly putty-gray. "Doctor LeMarr, I want to see that shot again. The one of Earth." He gestured helplessly. "You know which one I mean."

  The lights dimmed and again the screen came to life. This time it showed only Earth, a receding orb that fell behind as the high-velocity torpedo on which David Unger rode hurtled toward outer space. Unger had placed himself so his dead world would be visible to the last.

  Earth was a ruin. Involuntarily, a gasp rose from the group of watching officers. Nothing lived. Nothing moved. Only dead clouds of radioactive ash billowed aimlessly over the crater-pocked surface. What had been a living planet of three billion people was a charred cinder of ash. Nothing remained but heaps of debris, dispersed and blown dismally across vacant seas by the howling, ceaseless wind.

  "I suppose some kind of vegetable life will take over," Evelyn Cutter said harshly, as the screen faded and the overhead lights returned. She shuddered violently and turned away.

  "Weeds, maybe," LeMarr said. "Dark dry weeds poking up through the slag. Maybe some insects, later on. Bacteria, of course. I suppose in time bacterial action will transform the ash into usable soil. And it'll rain for a billion years."

  "Let's face it," Gannet said. "The webfoots and crows will resettle it. They'll be living here on Earth after we're all dead."

  "Sleeping in our beds?" LeMarr inquired mildly. "Using our bathrooms and sitting rooms and transports?"

  "I don't understand you," Gannet answered impatiently. He waved Patterson over. "You're sure nobody knows but we here in this room?"

  "V-Stephens knows," Patterson said. "But he's locked up in the psychotic ward. V-Rafia knew. She's dead."

  Lieutenant West came over to Patterson. "Could we interview him?"

  "Yes, where's Unger?" Gannet demanded. "My staff is eager to meet him face to face."

  "You have all the essential facts," Patterson answered. "You know how the war is going to come out. You know what's going to happen to Earth."

  "What do you suggest?" Gannet asked warily.

  "Avoid the war."

  Gannet shrugged his plump well-fed body. "After all, you can't change history. And this is future history. We have no choice but to go ahead and fight."

  "At least we'll get our share of them," Evelyn Cutter said icily.

  "What are you talking about?" LeMarr stuttered excitedly. "You work in a hospital and you talk like that?"

  The woman's eyes blazed. "You saw what they did to Earth. You saw them cut us to ribbons."

  "We have to stand above this," LeMarr protested. "If we allow ourselves to get dragged into this hate and violence—" He appealed to Patterson. "Why is V-Stephens locked up? He's no crazier than she is."

  "True," Patterson agreed. "But she's crazy on our side. We don't lock up that kind of lunatic."

  LeMarr moved away from him. "Are you going out and fight, too? Alongside Gannet and his soldiers?"

  "I want to avoid the war," Patterson said dully.

  "Can it be done?" Gannet demanded. An avid glow winked briefly behind his pale, blue eyes and then faded out.

  "Maybe it can be done. Why not? Unger coming back here adds a new element."

  "If the future can be changed," Gannet said slowly, "then maybe we have a choice of various possibilities. If there's two possible futures there may be an infinite number. Each branching off at a different point." A granite mask slid over his face. "We can use Unger's knowledge of the battles."

  "Let me talk to him," Lieutenant West interrupted excitedly. "Maybe we can get a clear idea of the webfoot battle-strategy. He's probably gone over the battles in his mind a thousand times."

  "He'd recognize you," Gannet said. "After all, he served under your command."

  Patterson was deep in thought. "I don't think so," he said to West. "You're a lot older than David Unger."

  West blinked. "What do you mean? He's a broken-down old man and I'm still in my twenties."

  "David Unger is fifteen," Patterson answered. "At this point you're almost twice his age. You're already a commissioned officer on the Lunar policy-level staff. Unger isn't even in the Military Service. He'll volunteer when war breaks out, as a buck private without experience or training. When you're an old man, commanding the Wind Giant, David Unger will be a middle-aged nonentity working one of the gun turrets, a name you won't even know."

  "Then Unger is already alive?" Gannet said, puzzled.

  "Unger is someplace around, waiting to step onto the stage." Patterson filed the thought away for future study; it might have valuable possibilities. "I don't think he'll recognize you, West. He may never even have seen you. The Wind Giant is a big ship."

  West quickly agreed. "Put a bug-system on me, Gannet. So the command staff can have the aud and vid images of what Unger says."

  In the bright mid-morning sunlight, David Unger sat moodily on his park bench, gnarled fingers gripping his aluminum cane, gazing dully at the passers-by.

  To his right a robot gardener worked over the same patch of grass again and again, its metallic eye-lenses intently fastened on the wizened, hunched-over figure of the old man. Down the gravel path a group of loitering men sent random comments to the various monitors scattered through the park, keeping the relay system open. A bare-bosomed young woman sunbathing by the pool nodded faintly to a pair of soldiers pacing around the park, within constant sight of David Unger.

  That morning there were a hundred people in the park. All were integrated elements of the screen surrounding the half-dozing, resentful old man.

  "All right," Patterson said. His car was parked at the edge of the plot of green trees and lawns. "Remember not to overexcite him. V-Stephens revived him originally. I
f something goes wrong with his heart we can't get V-Stephens to pump him back."

  The blond young lieutenant nodded, straightened his immaculate blue tunic and slid onto the sidewalk. He pushed his helmet back and briskly strode down the gravel path, toward the center of the park. As he approached, the lounging figures moved imperceptibly. One by one they took up positions on the lawns, on the benches, in groups here and there around the pool.

  Lieutenant West stopped at a drinking-fountain and allowed the robot water-brain to find his mouth with a jet of ice-cold spray. He wandered slowly away and stood for a moment, arms loose at his sides, vacantly watching a young woman as she removed her clothes and stretched out languidly on a multi-colored blanket. Her eyes shut, red lips parted, the woman relaxed with a grateful sigh.

  "Let him speak to you first," she said faintly, to the lieutenant standing a few feet from her, one black boot on the edge of a bench. "Don't start the conversation."

  Lieutenant West watched her a moment longer and then continued along the path. A passing heavy-set man said swiftly in his ear. "Not so fast. Take your time and don't appear to hurry."

  "You want to give the impression you have all day," a hatchet-faced nurse greeted, as she passed him wheeling a baby carriage.

  Lieutenant West slowed almost to a halt. He aimlessly kicked a bit of gravel from the path into the wet bushes. Hands deep in his pockets he wandered over to the central pool and stood gazing absently into its depths. He lit a cigarette, then bought an ice cream bar from a passing robot salesman.

  "Spill some on your tunic, sir," the robot's speaker instructed faintly. "Swear and start dabbing at it."

  Lieutenant West let the ice cream melt in the warm summer sun. When some had dripped down his wrist onto his starched blue tunic he scowled, dug out his handkerchief, dipped it in the pool, and began clumsily to wipe the ice cream away.

  On his bench, the scar-faced old man watched with his one good eye, gripping his aluminum cane and cackling happily. "Watch out," he wheezed. "Look out there!"

  Lieutenant West glanced up in annoyance.

  "You're dripping more," the old man cackled, and lay back in weak amusement, toothless mouth slack with pleasure.

  Lieutenant West grinned good-naturedly. "I guess so," he admitted. He dropped the melting half-eaten ice cream bar into a disposal slot and finished cleaning his tunic. "Sure is warm," he observed, wandering vaguely over.

  "They do a good job," Unger agreed, nodding his bird-like head. He peered and craned his neck, trying to make out the insignia markings on the young soldier's shoulder. "You with the rocketeers?"

  "Demolition," Lieutenant West said. As of that morning his insignia had been changed. "Ba-3."

  The old man shuddered. He hawked and spat feverishly into the nearby bushes. "That so?" He half-rose, excited and fearful, as the lieutenant started to move away. "Say, you know, I was in the Ba-3 years ago." He tried to make his voice sound calm and casual. "Long before your time."

  Amazement and disbelief slid over Lieutenant West's handsome blond face. "Don't kid me. Only a couple guys from the old group are still alive. You're pulling my leg."

  "I was, I was," Unger wheezed, fumbling with trembling haste at his coat pocket. "Say, look at this. Stop a minute and I'll show you something." Reverent and awed, he held out his Crystal Disc. "See? You know what this is?"

  It Lieutenant West gazed down at the metal a long time. Real emotion welled up inside him; he didn't have to counterfeit it. "Can I examine it?" he asked finally.

  Unger hesitated. "Sure," he said. "Take it."

  Lieutenant West took the medal and held it for a long moment, weighing it and feeling its cold surface against his smooth skin. Finally he returned it. "You got that back in '87?"

  "That's right," Unger said. "You remember?" He returned it to his pocket. "No, you weren't even alive, then. But you heard about it, haven't you?"

  "Yes," West said. "I've heard about it many times."

  "And you haven't forgotten? A lot of people forgot that, what we did there."

  "I guess we took a beating that day," West said. He sat down slowly on the bench beside the old man. "That was a bad day for Earth."

  "We lost," Unger agreed. "Only a few of us got out of there. I got to Luna. I saw Earth go, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. It broke my heart. I cried until I lay like a dead thing. We were all weeping, soldiers, workmen, standing there helpless. And then they turned their missiles on us."

  The lieutenant licked his dry lips. "Your Commander didn't get out, did he?"

  "Nathan West died on his ship," Unger said. "He was the finest commander in the line. They didn't give him the Wind Giant for nothing." His ancient, withered features dimmed in recollection. "There'll never be another man like West. I saw him, once. Big stern-faced man, wide-shouldered. A giant himself. He was a great old man. Nobody could have done better."

  West hesitated. "You think if somebody else had been in command—"

  "No!" Unger shrieked. "Nobody could have done better! I've heard it said—I know what some of those fat-bottomed armchair strategists say. But they're wrong! Nobody could have won that battle. We didn't have a chance. We were outnumbered five to one—two huge fleets, one straight at our middle and the other waiting to chew us up and swallow us."

  "I see," West said thickly. Reluctantly he continued, in an agony of turmoil, "These armchair men, what the hell is it they say? I never listen to the brass." He tried to grin but his face refused to respond. "I know they're always saying we could have won the battle and maybe even saved the Wind Giant, but I—"

  "Look here," Unger said fervently, his sunken eye wild and glittering. With the point of his aluminum cane he began gouging harsh, violent ditches in the gravel by his feet. "This line is our fleet. Remember how West had it drawn up? It was a mastermind arranged our fleet, that day. A genius. We held them off for twelve hours before they busted through. Nobody thought we'd have a chance of even doing that." Savagely, Unger gouged another line. "That's the crow fleet."

  "I see," West muttered. He leaned over so his chest-lens would vid the rough lines in the gravel back to the scanning center in the mobile unit circling lazily overhead. And from there to main headquarters on Luna. "And the webfoot fleet?"

  Unger glanced cagily at him, suddenly shy. "I'm not boring you, am I? I guess an old man likes to talk. Sometimes I bother people, trying to take up their time."

  "Go on," West answered. He meant what he said. "Keep drawing—I'm watching."

  Evelyn Cutter paced restlessly around her softly-lit apartment, arms folded, red lips tight with anger. "I don't understand you!" She paused to lower the heavy drapes. "You were willing to kill V-Stephens a little while ago. Now you won't even help block LeMarr. You know LeMarr doesn't grasp what's happening. He dislikes Gannet and he prattles about the interplan community of scientists, our duty to all mankind and that sort of stuff. Can't you see if V-Stephens gets hold of him—"

  "Maybe LeMarr is right," Patterson said. "I don't like Gannet either."

  Evelyn exploded. "They'll destroy us! We can't fight a war with them—we don't have a chance." She halted in front of him, eyes blazing. "But they don't know that yet. We've got to neutralize LeMarr, at least for a while. Every minute he's walking around free puts our world in jeopardy. Three billion lives depend on keeping this suppressed."

  Patterson was brooding. "I suppose Gannet briefed you on the initial exploration West conducted today."

  "No results so far. The old man knows every battle by heart, and we lost them all." She rubbed her forehead wearily. "I mean, we will lose them all." With numb fingers she gathered up the empty coffee cups. "Want some more coffee?"

  Patterson didn't hear her; he was intent on his own thoughts. He crossed over to the window and stood gazing out until she returned with fresh coffee, hot and black and steaming.

  "You didn't see Gannet kill that girl," Patterson said.

  "What girl? That webfoot?" Evelyn stirred s
ugar and cream into her coffee. "She was going to kill you. V-Stephens would have lit out for Color-Ad and the war would begin." Impatiently, she pushed his coffee cup to him—"Anyhow, that was the girl we saved."

  "I know," Patterson said. "That's why it bothers me." He took the coffee automatically and sipped without tasting. "What was the point of dragging her from the mob? Gannet's work. We're employees of Gannet."

  "So?"

  "You know what kind of game he's playing!"

  Evelyn shrugged. "I'm just being practical. I don't want Earth destroyed. Neither does Gannet—he wants to avoid the war."

  "He wanted war a few days ago. When he expected to win."

  Evelyn laughed sharply. "Of course! Who'd fight a war they knew they'd lose? That's irrational."

  "Now Gannet will hold off the war," Patterson admitted slowly. "He'll let the colony planets have their independence. He'll recognize Color-Ad. He'll destroy David Unger and everybody who knows. He'll pose as a benevolent peacemaker."

  "Of course. He's already making plans for a dramatic trip to Venus. A last minute conference with Color-Ad officials, to prevent war. He'll put pressure on the Directorate to back down and let Mars and Venus sever. He'll be the idol of the system. But isn't that better than Earth destroyed and our race wiped out?"

  "Now the big machine turns around and roars against war." Patterson's lips twisted ironically. "Peace and compromise instead of hate and destructive violence."

  Evelyn perched on the arm of a chair and made rapid calculations. "How old was David Unger when he joined the Military?"

  "Fifteen or sixteen."

  "When a man joins the Service he gets his i.d. number, doesn't he?"

  "That's right. So?"

  "Maybe I'm wrong, but according to my figures—" She glanced up. "Unger should appear and claim his number, soon. That number will be coming up any day, according to how fast the enlistments pour in."

  A strange expression crossed Patterson's face. "Unger is already alive … a fifteen year old kid. Unger the youth and Unger the senile old war veteran. Both alive at once."