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

by Philip K. Dick

  Presently Johnny said, "I understand."

  "Louis didn't use to be like that," Gam said plaintively. "He just drones on, now. Even if he can swing the nomination to me … do I want it? I'm tired, Mr. Barefoot. Very tired." He was silent, then.

  "If you're asking me to give you pep," Johnny said, "you've got the wrong man." The voice from the phone and the TV affected him much the same way. Much too much for him to say anything encouraging to Gam.

  "You're in P.R.," Gam said. "Can't you generate enthusiasm where there is none? Convince me, Barefoot, and then I'll convince the world." From his pocket he brought a folded-up telegram. "This is what came from Louis, the other day. Evidently he can interfere with the telegraph lines as well as the other media." He passed it over and Johnny read it.

  "Louis was more coherent then," Johnny said. "When he wrote this."

  "That's what I mean! He's deteriorating rapidly. When the Convention begins—and it's only one more day, now—what'll he be like? I sense something dreadful, here. And I don't care to get mixed up in it." He added, "And yet I want to run. So Barefoot—you deal with Louis for me; you can be the go-between." He added, "The psychopomp."

  "What's that mean?"

  "The go-between God and man," Gam said.

  Johnny said, "If you use words like that you won't get the nomination; I can promise you that."

  Smiling wryly, Gam said, "How about a drink?" He started from his living room, toward the kitchen. "Scotch? Bourbon?"

  "Bourbon," Johnny said.

  "What do you think of the girl, Louis's granddaughter?"

  "I like her," he said. And that was true; he certainly did.

  "Even though she's a psychotic, a drug addict, been in jail and on top of that a religious nut?"

  "Yes," Johnny said tightly.

  "I think you're crazy," Gam said, returning with the drinks. "But I agree with you. She's a good person. I've known her for some time, as a matter of fact. Frankly, I don't know why she took the bent that she has. I'm not a psychologist … probably though it has something to do with Louis. She has a peculiar sort of devotion to him, a kind of loyalty that's both infantile and fanatic. And, to me, touchingly sweet."

  Sipping his drink, Johnny said, "This is terrible bourbon."

  "Old Sir Muskrat," Gam said, grimacing. "I agree."

  "You better serve a better drink," Johnny said, "or you really are through in politics."

  "That's why I need you," Gam said. "You see?"

  "I see," Johnny said, carrying his drink into the kitchen to pour it back in the bottle—and to take a look at the Scotch instead.

  "How are you going about getting me elected?" Alfonse Gam asked.

  Johnny said, "I think our best approach, our only approach, is to make use of the sentimentality people feel about Louis's death. I saw the lines of mourners; it was impressive, Alfonse. Day after day they came. When he was alive, many persons feared him, feared his power. But now they can breathe easier; he's gone, and the frightening aspects of—"

  Gam interrupted. "But Johnny, he's not gone; that's the whole point. You know that gibbering thing on the phones and on TV—that's him!"

  "But they don't know it," Johnny said. "The public is baffled—just as the first person to pick it up was baffled. That technician at Kennedy Slough." Emphatically, he said, "Why should they connect an electrical emanation one light-week away from Earth with Louis Sarapis?"

  After a moment Gam said, "I think you're making an error, Johnny. But Louis said to hire you, and I'm going to. And you have a free hand; I'll depend on your expertise."

  "Thanks," Johnny said. "You can depend on me." But inside, he was not so sure. Maybe the public is smarter than I realize, he thought. Maybe I'm making a mistake. But what other approach was there? None that he could dream up; either they made use of Gam's tie with Louis or they had absolutely nothing by which to recommend him.

  A slender thread on which to base the campaign for nomination—and only a day before the Convention convened. He did not like it.

  The telephone in Gam's living room rang.

  "That's probably him," Gam said. "You want to talk to him? To be truthful, I'm afraid to take it off the hook."

  "Let it ring," Johnny said. He agreed with Gam; it was just too damn unpleasant.

  "But we can't evade him," Gam pointed out. "If he wants to get in touch with us; if it isn't the phone it's the newspaper. And yesterday I tried to use my electric typewriter … instead of the letter I intended to compose I got the same mishmash—I got a text from him."

  Neither of them moved to take the phone, however. They let it ring on.

  "Do you want an advance?" Gam asked. "Some cash?"

  "I'd appreciate it," Johnny said. "Since today I quit my job with Archimedean."

  Reaching into his coat for his wallet, Gam said, "I'll give you a check." He eyed Johnny. "You like her but you can't work with her; is that it?"

  "That's it," Johnny said. He did not elaborate, and Gam did not press him any further. Gam was, if nothing else, gentlemanly. And Johnny appreciated it.

  As the check changed hands the phone stopped ringing.

  Was there a link between the two? Johnny wondered. Or was it just chance? No way to tell. Louis seemed to know everything … anyhow, this was what Louis had wanted; he had told both of them that.

  "I guess we did the right thing," Gam said tartly. "Listen, Johnny. I hope you can get back on good terms with Kathy Egmont Sharp. For her sake; she needs help. Lots of it."

  Johnny grunted.

  "Now that you're not working for her, make one more try," Gam said. "Okay?"

  "I'll think about it," Johnny said.

  "She's a very sick girl, and she's got a lot of responsibility now. You know that, too. Whatever caused the rift between you—try to come to some kind of understanding before it's too late. That's the only proper way."

  Johnny said nothing. But he knew, inside him, that Gam was right.

  And yet—how did he do it? He didn't know how. How to you approach a psychotic person? he wondered. How do you repair such a deep rift? It was hard enough in regular situations … and this had so many overtones.

  If nothing else, this had Louis mixed in it. And Kathy's feelings about Louis. Those would have to change. The blind adoration—that would have to cease.

  "What does your wife think of her?" Gam asked.

  Startled, he said, "Sarah Belle? She's never met Kathy." He added, "Why do you ask?"

  Gam eyed him and said nothing.

  "Damn odd question," Johnny said.

  "Damn odd girl, that Kathy," Gam said. "Odder than you think, my friend. There's a lot you don't know." He did not elaborate.

  To Claude St. Cyr, Phil Harvey said, "There's something I want to know. Something we must have the answer to, or we'll never get control of the voting stock of Wilhelmina. Where's the body?"

  "We're looking," St. Cyr said patiently. "We're trying all of the mortuaries, one by one. But money's involved; undoubtedly someone's paying them to keep quiet, and if we want them to talk—"

  "That girl," Harvey said, "is going on instructions from beyond the grave. Despite the fact that Louis is devolving … she still pays attention to him. It's—unnatural." He shook his head, repelled.

  "I agree," St. Cyr said. "In fact, you expressed it perfectly. This morning when I was shaving I picked him up on the TV." He shuddered visibly. "I mean, it's coming at us from every side, now."

  "Today," Harvey said, "is the first day of the Convention." He looked out of the window, at the cars and people. "Louis's attention will be tied up there, trying to swing the vote onto Alfonse Gam. That's where Johnny is, working for Gam—that was Louis's idea. Now perhaps we can operate with more success. Do you see? Maybe he's forgotten about Kathy; my God, he can't watch everything at once."

  St. Cyr said quietly, "But Kathy is not at Archimedean now."

  "Where is she, then? In Delaware? At Wilhelmina Securities? It ought to be easy to find her."r />
  "She's sick," St. Cyr said. "In a hospital, Phil. She was admitted during the late evening, last night. For her drug addiction, I presume."

  There was silence.

  "You know a lot," Harvey said finally. "Where'd you learn this, anyhow?"

  "From listening to the phone and the TV. But I don't know where the hospital is. It could even be off Earth, on Luna or on Mars, even back where she came from. I got the impression she's extremely ill. Johnny's abandoning her set her back greatly." He gazed at his employer somberly. "That's all I know, Phil."

  "Do you think Johnny Barefoot knows where she is?"

  "I doubt it."

  Pondering, Harvey said, "I'll bet she tries to call him. I'll bet he either knows or will know, soon. If we only could manage to put a snoop-circuit on his phone … get his calls routed through here."

  "But the phones," St. Cyr said wearily. "All it is now—just the gibberish. The interference from Louis." He wondered what became of Archimedean Enterprises if Kathy was declared unable to manage her affairs, if she was forcibly committed. Very complicated, depending on whether Earth law or—

  Harvey was saying, "We can't find her and we can't find the body. And meanwhile the Convention's on, and they'll nominate that wretched Gam, that creature of Louis's. And next we know, he'll be President." He eyed St. Cyr with antagonism. "So far you haven't done me much good, Claude."

  "We'll try all the hospitals. But there's tens of thousands of them. And if it isn't in this area it could be anywhere." He felt helpless. Around and around we go, he thought, and we get nowhere.

  Well, we can keep monitoring the TV, he decided. That's some help.

  "I'm going to the Convention," Harvey announced. "I'll see you later. If you should come up with something—which I doubt—you can get in touch with me there." He strode to the door, and a moment later St. Cyr found himself alone.

  Doggone it, St. Cyr said to himself. What'll I do now? Maybe I ought to go to the Convention, too. But there was one more mortuary he wanted to check; his men had been there, but he also wanted to give it a try personally. It was just the sort that Louis would have liked, run by an unctuous individual named, revoltingly, Herbert Schoenheit von Vogelsang, which meant, in German, Herbert Beauty of the Bird's Song—a fitting name for a man who ran the Beloved Brethren Mortuary in downtown Los Angeles, with branches in Chicago and New York and Cleveland.

  When he reached the mortuary, Claude St. Cyr demanded to see Schoenheit von Vogelsang personally. The place was doing a rush business; Resurrection Day was just around the corner and the petite bourgeoisie, who flocked in great numbers to just such ceremonies, were lined up waiting to retrieve their half-lifer relatives.

  "Yes sir," Schoenheit von Vogelsang said, when at last he appeared at the counter in the mortuary's business office. "You asked to speak to me."

  St. Cyr laid his business card down on the counter; the card still described him as legal consultant for Archimedean Enterprises. "I am Claude St. Cyr," he declared. "You may have heard of me."

  Glancing at the card, Schoenheit von Vogelsang blanched and mumbled, "I give you my word, Mr. St. Cyr, we're trying, we're really trying. We've spent out of our own funds over a thousand dollars in trying to make contact with him; we've had high-gain equipment flown in from Japan where it was developed and made. And still no results." Tremulously, he backed away from the counter. "You can come and see for yourself. Frankly, I believe someone's doing it on purpose; a complete failure like this can't occur naturally, if you see what I mean."

  St. Cyr said, "Let me see him."

  "Certainly." The mortuary owner, pale and agitated, led the way through the building into the chill bin, until, at last, St. Cyr saw ahead the casket which had lain in state, the casket of Louis Sarapis. "Are you planning any sort of litigation?" the mortuary owner asked fearfully. "I assure you, we—"

  "I'm here," St. Cyr stated, "merely to take the body. Have your men load it onto a truck for me."

  "Yes, Mr. St. Cyr," Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang said in meek obedience; he waved two mortuary employees over and began giving them instructions. "Do you have a truck with you, Mr. St. Cyr?" he asked.

  "You may provide it," St. Cyr said, in a forbidding voice.

  Shortly, the body in its casket was loaded onto a mortuary truck, and the driver turned to St. Cyr for instructions.

  St. Cyr gave him Phil Harvey's address.

  "And the litigation," Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang was murmuring, as St. Cyr boarded the truck to sit beside the driver. "You don't infer malpractice on our part, do you, Mr. St. Cyr? Because if you do—"

  "The affair is closed as far as we're concerned," St. Cyr said to him laconically, and signaled the driver to drive off.

  As soon as they left the mortuary, St. Cyr began to laugh.

  "What strikes you so funny?" the mortuary driver asked.

  "Nothing," St. Cyr said, still chuckling.

  When the body in its casket, still deep in its original quick-pack, had been left off at Harvey's home and the driver had departed, St. Cyr picked up the telephone and dialed. But he found himself unable to get through to the Convention Hall. All he heard, for his trouble, was the weird distant drumming, the monotonous litany of Louis Sarapis—he hung up, disgusted but at the same time grimly determined.

  We've had enough of that, St. Cyr said to himself. / won't wait for Harvey's approval; I don't need it.

  Searching the living room he found, in a desk drawer, a heat gun. Pointing it at the casket of Louis Sarapis he pressed the trigger.

  The envelope of quick-pack steamed up, the casket itself fizzed as the plastic melted. Within, the body blackened, shriveled, charred away at last into a baked, coal-like clinker, small and nondescript.

  Satisfied, St. Cyr returned the heat gun to the desk drawer.

  Once more he picked up the phone and dialed.

  In his ear the monotonous voice intoned, "…no one but Gam can do it; Gam's the man what am—good slogan for you, Johnny. Gam's the man what am; remember that. I'll do the talking. Give me the mike and I'll tell them; Gam's the man what am. Gam's—"

  Claude St. Cyr slammed down the phone, turned to the blackened deposit that had been Louis Sarapis; he gaped mutely at what he could not comprehend. The voice, when St. Cyr turned on the television set, emanated from that, too, just as it had been doing; nothing had changed.

  The voice of Louis Sarapis was not originating in the body. Because the body was gone. There simply was no connection between them.

  Seating himself in a chair, Claude St. Cyr got out his cigarettes and shakily lit up, trying to understand what this meant. It seemed almost as if he had it, almost had the explanation.

  But not quite.

  V

  By monorail—he had left his 'copter at the Beloved Brethren Mortuary—Claude St. Cyr numbly made his way to Convention Hall. The place, of course, was packed; the noise was terrible. But he managed to obtain the services of a robot page; over the public address system, Phil Harvey's presence was requested in one of the side rooms used as meeting places by delegations wishing to caucus in secret.

  Harvey appeared, disheveled from shoving through the dense pack of spectators and delegates. "What is it, Claude?" he asked, and then he saw his attorney's face. "You better tell me," he said quietly.

  St. Cyr blurted, "The voice we hear. It isn't Louis! It's someone else trying to sound like Louis!"

  "How do you know?"

  He told him.

  Nodding, Harvey said, "And it definitely was Louis's body you destroyed; there was no deceit there at the mortuary—you're positive of that."

  "I'm not positive," St. Cyr said. "But I think it was; I believe it now and I believed it at the time." It was too late to find out now, in any case, not enough remained of the body for such an analysis to be successfully made.

  "But who could it be, then?" Harvey said. "My God, it's coming to us from beyond the solar system—could it be nonterrestrials of some kind? Some sort
of echo or mockery, a non-living reaction unfamiliar to us? An inert process without intent?"

  St. Cyr laughed. "You're babbling, Phil. Cut it out."

  Nodding, Harvey said, "Whatever you say, Claude. If you think it's someone here—"

  "I don't know," St. Cyr said candidly. "But I'd guess it's someone right on this planet, someone who knew Louis well enough to have introjected his characteristics sufficiently thoroughly to imitate them." He was silent, then. That was as far as he could carry his logical processes … beyond that he saw nothing. It was a blank, and a frightening one at that.

  There is, he thought, an element of the deranged in it. What we took to be decay—it's more a form of madness than degeneration. Or is madness itself degeneration? He did not know; he wasn't trained in the field of psychiatry, except regarding its legal aspects. And the legal aspects had no application, here.

  "Has anyone nominated Gam yet?" he asked Harvey.

  "Not yet. It's expected to come sometime today, though. There's a delegate from Montana who'll do it, the rumor is."

  "Johnny Barefoot is here?"

  "Yes." Harvey nodded. "Busy as can be, lining up delegates. In and out of the different delegations, very much in evidence. No sign of Gam, of course. He won't come in until the end of the nominating speech and then of course all hell will break loose. Cheering and parading and waving banners … the Gam supporters are all prepared."

  "Any indication of—" St. Cyr hesitated. "What we've assumed to be Louis? His presence?" Or its presence, he thought. Whatever it is.

  "None as yet," Harvey said.

  "I think we'll hear from it," St. Cyr said. "Before the day is over."

  Harvey nodded; he thought so, too.

  "Are you afraid of it?" St. Cyr asked.

  "Sure," Harvey said. "A thousand times more so than ever, now that we don't even know who or what it is."

  "You're right to take that attitude," St. Cyr said. He felt the same way.

  "Perhaps we should tell Johnny," Harvey said.

  St. Cyr said, "Let him find out on his own."