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

by Philip K. Dick

"Thanks," he said, and took hold of the handles.

  A voice said in his ear, "We'll use the girl. She'll lead us to Meritan. I was right to hire her in the first place."

  Ray Meritan did not recognize the voice. It was not that of Wilbur Mercer. But even so, bewildered, he held tightly onto the handles, listening; he remained frozen there, hands extended, clutching.

  "The non-T force has appealed to the most credulous segment of our community, but this segment—I firmly believe—is being manipulated by a cynical minority of opportunists at the top, such as Meritan. They're cashing in on this Wilbur Mercer craze for their own pocketbooks." The voice, self-assured, droned on.

  Ray Meritan felt fear as he heard it. For this was someone on the other side, he realized. Somehow he had gotten into empathic contact with him, and not with Wilbur Mercer.

  Or had Mercer done this deliberately, arranged this? He listened on, and now he heard:

  "…have to get the Hiashi girl out of New York and back here, where we can quiz her further." The voice added, "As I told Herrick…"

  Herrick, the Secretary of State. This was someone in the State Department thinking, Meritan realized, thinking about Joan. Perhaps this was the official at State who had hired her.

  Then she wasn't in Cuba. She was in New York. What had gone wrong? The whole implication was that State had merely made use of Joan to get at him.

  He released the handles and the voice faded from his presence.

  "Did you find him?" the middle-aged woman asked.

  "Y-yes," Meritan said, disconcerted, trying to orient himself in the unfamiliar room.

  "How is he? Is he well?"

  "I—don't know right now," Meritan answered, truthfully. He thought, I must go to New York. And try to help Joan. She's in this because of me; I have no choice. Even if they catch me because of it … how can I desert her?

  Bogart Crofts said, "I didn't get Mercer."

  He walked away from the empathy box, then turned to glare at it, balefully. "I got Meritan. But I don't know where he is. At the moment I took hold of the handles of this box, Meritan took hold somewhere else. We were connected and now he knows everything I know. And we know everything he knows, which isn't much." Dazed he turned to Secretary Herrick. "He doesn't know any more about Wilbur Mercer than we do; he was trying to reach him. He definitely is not Mercer." Crofts was silent then.

  "There's more," Herrick said, turning to Mr. Lee. "What else did he get from Meritan, Mr. Lee?"

  "Meritan is coming to New York to try to find Joan Hiashi," Mr. Lee said, obligingly reading Crofts' mind. "He got that from Mr. Meritan during the moment their minds were fused."

  "We'll prepare to receive Mr. Meritan," Secretary Herrick said, with a grimace.

  "Did I experience what you telepaths engage in all the time?" Crofts asked Mr. Lee.

  "Only when one of us comes close to another telepath," Mr. Lee said. "It can be unpleasant. We avoid it, because if the two minds are thoroughly dissimilar and hence clash, it is psychologically harmful. I would assume you and Mr. Meritan clashed."

  Crofts said, "Listen, how can we continue with this? I know now that Meritan is innocent. He doesn't know a damn thing about Mercer or the organization that distributes these boxes except its name."

  There was momentary silence.

  "But he is one of the few celebrities who has joined the Mercerites," Secretary Herrick pointed out. He handed a teletype dispatch to Crofts. "And he has done it openly. If you'll take the trouble to read this—"

  "I know he affirmed his loyalty to Mercer on this evening's TV program," Crofts said, trembling.

  "When you're dealing with a non-T force originating from another solar system entirely," Secretary Herrick said, "you must move with care. We will still try to take Meritan, and definitely through Miss Hiashi. We'll release her from jail and have her followed. When Meritan makes contact with her—"

  To Crofts, Mr. Lee said, "Don't say what you intend, Mr. Crofts. It will permanently damage your career."

  Crofts said, "Herrick, this is wrong. Meritan is innocent and so is Joan Hiashi. If you try to trap Meritan I'll resign from State."

  "Write out your resignation and hand it to me," Secretary Herrick said. His face was dark.

  "This is unfortunate," Mr. Lee said. "I would guess that your contact with Mr. Meritan warped your judgment, Mr. Crofts. He has influenced you malignly; shake it off, for the sake of your long career and country, not to mention your family."

  "What we're doing is wrong," Crofts repeated.

  Secretly Herrick stared at him angrily. "No wonder those empathy boxes have done harm! Now I've seen it with my own eyes. I wouldn't turn back on any condition now."

  He picked up the empathy box which Crofts had used. Lifting it high he dropped it to the floor. The box cracked open and then settled in a heap of irregular surfaces. "Don't consider that a childish act," he said. "I want any contact between us and Meritan broken. It can only be harmful."

  "If we capture him," Crofts said, "he may continue to exert influence over us." He amended his statement: "Or rather, over me."

  "Be that as it may, I intend to continue," Secretary Herrick said. "And please present your resignation. Mr. Crofts, I intend to act on that matter as well." He looked grim and determined.

  Mr. Lee said, "Secretary, I can read Mr. Crofts' mind and I see that he is stunned at this moment. He is the innocent victim of a situation, arranged perhaps by Wilbur Mercer to spread confusion among us. And if you accept Mr. Crofts' resignation, Mercer will have succeeded."

  "It doesn't matter whether he accepts it or not," Crofts said. "Because in any case I'm resigning."

  Sighing, Mr. Lee said, "The empathy box made you suddenly into an involuntary telepath and it was just too much." He patted Mr. Crofts on the shoulder. "Telepathic power and empathy are two versions of the same thing. It should be called 'telepathic box.' Amazing, those non-T individuals; they can build what we can only evolve."

  "Since you can read my mind," Crofts said to him, "you know what I'm planning to do. I have no doubt you'll tell Secretary Herrick."

  Grinning blandly, Mr. Lee said, "The Secretary and I are cooperating in the interest of world peace. We both have our instructions." To Herrick he said, "This man is so upset that he now actually considers switching over. Joining the Mercerites before all the boxes are destroyed. He liked being an involuntary telepath."

  "If you switch," Herrick said, "you'll be arrested. I promise it."

  Crofts said nothing.

  "He has not changed his mind," Mr. Lee said urbanely, nodding to both men, apparently amused by the situation.

  But underneath, Mr. Lee was thinking, A brilliant bold type of stroke by the thing that calls itself Wilbur Mercer, this hooking up of Crofts with Meritan direct. It undoubtedly foresaw that Crofts would receive the strong emanations from the movement's core. The next step is that Crofts will again consult an empathy box—if he can find one—and this time Mercer itself will address him personally. Address its new disciple.

  They have gained a man, Mr. Lee realized. They are ahead.

  But ultimately we will win. Because ultimately we will manage to destroy all the empathy boxes, and without them Wilbur Mercer can do nothing. This is the only way he has—or it has—of reaching and controlling people, as it has done here with unfortunate Mr. Crofts. Without the empathy boxes the movement is helpless.

  VI

  At the UWA desk, at Rocky Field in New York City, Joan Hiashi said to the uniformed clerk, "I want to buy a one-way ticket to Los Angeles on the next flight. Jet or rocket; it doesn't matter. I just want to get there."

  "First class or tourist?" the clerk asked.

  "Aw, hell," Joan said wearily, "just sell me a ticket. Any kind of a ticket." She opened her purse.

  As she started to pay for the ticket a hand stopped hers. She turned—and there stood Ray Meritan, his face twisting with relief.

  "What a place to try to pick up your thoughts," he said.
"Come on, let's go where it's quiet. You have ten minutes before your flight."

  They hurried together through the building until they came to a deserted ramp. There they stopped, and Joan said, "Listen, Ray, I know it's a trap for you. That's why they let me out. But where else can I go except to you?"

  Ray said, "Don't worry about it. They were bound to pick me up sooner or later. I'm sure they know I left California and came here." He glanced around. "No FBI agents near us yet. At least I don't pick up anything suggesting it." He lit a cigarette.

  "I don't have any reason to go back to L.A.," Joan said, "now that you're here. I might as well cancel my flight."

  "You know they're picking up and destroying all the empathy boxes they can," Ray said.

  "No," she said. "I didn't know; I was just released half an hour ago. That's dreadful. They really mean business."

  Ray laughed. "Let's say they're really frightened." He put his arm around her and kissed her. "I tell you what we'll do. We'll try to sneak out of this place, go to the lower East Side and rent a little cold-water walk-up. We'll hide out and find an empathy box they missed." But, he thought, it's unlikely; they probably have them all by now. There weren't that many to start with.

  "Anything you say," Joan said drably.

  "Do you love me?" he asked her. "I can read your mind; you do." And then he said quietly, "I can also read the mind of a Mr. Lewis Scanlan, an FBI man who's now at the UWA desk. What name did you give?"

  "Mrs. George McIsaacs," Joan said. "I think." She examined her ticket and envelope. "Yes, that's right."

  "But Scanlan is asking if a Japanese woman has been at the desk in the last fifteen minutes," Ray said. "And the clerk remembers you. So—" He took hold of Joan's arm. "We better get started."

  They hurried down the deserted ramp, passed through an electric-eye operated door and came out in a baggage lobby. Everyone there was far too busy to pay any attention as Ray Meritan and Joan threaded their way to the street door and, a moment later, stepped out onto the chill gray sidewalk where cabs had parked in a long double row. Joan started to hail a cab…

  "Wait," Ray said, pulling her back. "I'm getting a jumble of thoughts. One of the cab drivers is an FBI man but I can't tell which." He stood uncertainly, not knowing what to do.

  "We can't get away, can we?" Joan said.

  "It's going to be hard." To himself he thought, More like impossible; you're right. He experienced the girl's confused, frightened thoughts, her anxiety about him, that she had made it possible for them to locate and capture him, her fierce desire not to return to jail, her pervasive bitterness at having been betrayed by Mr. Lee, the Chinese Communist bigshot who had met her in Cuba.

  "What a life," Joan said, standing close to him.

  And still he did not know which cab to take. One precious second after another escaped as he stood there. "Listen," he said to Joan, "maybe we should separate."

  "No," she said clinging to him. "I can't stand to do it alone any more. Please."

  A bewhiskered peddler walked up to them with a tray suspended by a cord which ran about his neck. "Hi, folks," he mumbled.

  "Not now," Joan said to him.

  "Free sample of breakfast cereal," the peddler said. "No cost. Just take a box, miss. You mister. Take one." He extended the tray of small, gaily colored cartons toward Ray.

  Strange, Ray thought. I'm not picking up anything from this man's mind. He stared at the peddler, saw—or thought he saw—a peculiar insubstantiality to the man. A diffused quality.

  Ray took one of the samples of breakfast cereal.

  "Merry Meal, it's called," the peddler said. "A new product they're introducing to the public. There's a coupon inside. Entitles you to—"

  "Okay," Ray said, sticking the box in his pocket. He took hold of Joan and led her along the line of cabs. He chose one at random and opened the rear door. "Get in," he said urgently to her.

  "I took a sample of Merry Meal, too," she said with a wan smile as he seated himself beside her. The cab started up, left the line and pulled past the entrance of the airfield terminal. "Ray, there was something strange about that salesman. It was as if he wasn't actually there, as if he was nothing more than—a picture."

  As the cab drove down the auto ramp, away from the terminal, another cab left the line and followed after them. Twisting, Ray saw riding in the back of it two well-fed men in dark business suits. FBI men, he said to himself.

  Joan said, "Didn't that cereal salesman remind you of anyone?"

  "Who?"

  "A little of Wilbur Mercer. But I haven't seen him enough to—"

  Ray grabbed the cereal box from her hand, tore the cardboard top from it. Poking up from the dry cereal he saw the corner of the coupon the peddler had spoken about; he lifted out the coupon, held it up and studied it. The coupon said in large clear printing:

  HOW TO ASSEMBLE AN EMPATHY BOX

  FROM ORDINARY HOUSEHOLD OBJECTS

  "It was them," he said to Joan.

  He put the coupon carefully away in his pocket, then he changed his mind. Folding it up, he tucked it in the cuff of his trousers. Where the FBI possibly wouldn't find it.

  Behind them, the other cab came closer, and now he picked up the thoughts of the two men. They were FBI agents; he had been right. He settled back against the seat.

  There was nothing to do but wait.

  Joan said, "Could I have the other coupon?"

  "Sorry." He got out the other cereal package. She opened it, found the coupon inside and, after a pause, folded it and hid it in the hem of her skirt.

  "I wonder how many there are of those so-called peddlers," Ray said musingly. "I'd be interested to know how many free samples of Merry Meal they're going to manage to give away before they're caught."

  The first ordinary household object needed was a common radio set; he had noticed that. The second, the filament from a five-year light-bulb. And next—he'd have to look again, but now was not the time. The other cab had drawn abreast with theirs.

  Later. And if the authorities found the coupon in the cuff of his trousers, they, he knew, would somehow manage to bring him another.

  He put his arm around Joan. "I think we'll be all right."

  The other cab, now, was nosing theirs to the curb and the two FBI men were waving in a menacing, official manner to the driver to stop.

  "Shall I stop?" the driver said tensely to Ray.

  "Sure," he said. And, taking a deep breath, prepared himself.

  THE WAR WITH THE FNOOLS

  CAPTAIN EDGAR LIGHTFOOT of CIA said, "Darn it, the Fnools are back again, Major. They've taken over Provo, Utah."

  With a groan, Major Hauk signaled his secretary to bring him the Fnool dossier from the locked archives. "What form are they assuming this time?" he asked briskly.

  "Tiny real-estate salesmen," Lightfoot said.

  Last time, Major Hauk reflected, it had been filling station attendants. That was the thing about the Fnools. When one took a particular shape they all took that shape. Of course, it made detection for CIA fieldmen much easier. But it did make the Fnools look absurd, and Hauk did not enjoy fighting an absurd enemy; it was a quality which tended to diffuse over both sides and even up to his own office.

  "Do you think they'd come to terms?" Hauk said, half-rhetorically. "We could afford to sacrifice Provo, Utah, if they'd be willing to circumscribe themselves there. We could even add those portions of Salt Lake City which are paved with hideous old red brick."

  Lightfoot said, "Fnools never compromise, Major. Their goal is Sol System domination. For all time."

  Leaning over Major Hauk's shoulder, Miss Smith said, "Here is the Fnool dossier, sir." With her free hand she pressed the top of her blouse against herself in a gesture indicating either advanced tuberculosis or advanced modesty. There were certain indications that it was the latter.

  "Miss Smith," Major Hauk complained, "here are the Fnools trying to take over the Sol System and I'm handed their dossier by a woman w
ith a forty-two inch bosom. Isn't that a trifle schizophrenic—for me, at least?" He carefully averted his eyes from her, remembering his wife and the two children. "Wear something else from here on out," he told her. "Or swaddle yourself. I mean, my God, let's be reasonable: let's be realistic."

  "Yes, Major," Miss Smith said. "But remember, I was selected at random from the CIA employees pool. I didn't ask to be your secretary."

  With Captain Lightfoot beside him, Major Hauk laid out the documents that made up the Fnool dossier.

  In the Smithsonian there was a huge Fnool, standing three feet high, stuffed and preserved in a natural habitat-type cubicle. School children for years had marveled at this Fnool, which was shown with pistol aimed at Terran innocents. By pressing a button, the school children caused the Terrans (not stuffed but imitation) to flee, whereupon the Fnool extinguished them with its advanced solar-powered weapon … and the exhibit reverted to its original stately scene, ready to begin all over again.

  Major Hauk had seen the exhibit, and it made him uneasy. The Fnools, he had declared time and time again, were no joke. But there was something about a Fnool that—well, a Fnool was an idiotic life form. That was the basis of it. No matter what it imitated it retained its midget aspect; a Fnool looked like something given away free at supermarket openings, along with balloons and moist purple orchids. No doubt, Major Hauk had ruminated, it was a survival factor. It disarmed the Fnool's opponents. Even the name. It was just not possible to take them seriously, even at this very moment when they were infesting Provo, Utah, in the form of miniature real-estate salesmen.

  Hauk instructed, "Capture a Fnool in this current guise, Lightfoot, bring it to me and I'll parley. I feel like capitulating, this time. I've been fighting them for twenty years now. I'm worn out."

  "If you get one face to face with you," Lightfoot cautioned, "it may successfully imitate you and that would be the end. We would have to incinerate both of you, just to be on the safe side."

  Gloomily, Hauk said, "I'll set up a key password situation with you right now, Captain. The word is masticate. I'll use it in a sentence … for instance, 'I've got to thoroughly masticate these data.' The Fnool won't know that—correct?"