Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick (30 page)

Lisa gazed up at him, bewildered. “But he seems like such a nice young man.”

“Nice as a water moccasin.”

Lisa's dismay turned to disbelief. “I don't believe it. Darling, all this strain you've been under—” Smiling uncertainly, she faltered: “It's not really credible that Ed Witwer is trying to frame you. How could he, even if he wanted to? Surely Ed wouldn't—”

“Ed?”

“That's his name, isn't it?”

Her brown eyes flashed in startled, wildly incredulous protest. “Good heavens, you're suspicious of everybody. You actually believe I'm mixed up with it in some way, don't you?”

He considered. “I'm not sure.”

She drew closer to him, her eyes accusing. “That's not true. You really believe it. Maybe you
ought
to go away for a few weeks. You desperately need a rest. All this tension and trauma, a younger man coming in. You're acting paranoiac. Can't you see that? People plotting against you. Tell me, do you have any actual proof?”

Anderton removed his wallet and took out the folded card. “Examine this carefully,” he said, handing it to her.

The color drained out of her face, and she gave a little harsh, dry gasp.

“The setup is fairly obvious,” Anderton told her, as levelly as he could. “This will give Witwer a legal pretext to remove me right now. He won't have to wait until I resign.” Grimly, he added: “They know I'm good for a few years yet.”

“But—”

“It will end the check and balance system. Precrime will no longer be an independent agency. The Senate will control the police, and after that—” His lips tightened.“They'll absorb the Army too. Well, it's outwardly logical enough.
Of course
I feel hostility and resentment toward Witwer—
of course
I have a motive.

“Nobody likes to be replaced by a younger man, and find himself turned out to pasture. It's all really quite plausible—except that I haven't the remotest intention of killing Witwer. But I can't prove that. So what can I do?”

Mutely, her face very white, Lisa shook her head. “I—I don't know. Darling, if only—”

“Right now,” Anderton said abruptly, “I'm going home to pack my things. That's about as far ahead as I can plan.”

“You're really going to—to try to hide out?”

“I am. As far as the Centaurian-colony planets, if necessary. It's been done successfully before, and I have a twenty-four-hour start.” He turned resolutely. “Go back inside. There's no point in your coming with me.”

“Did you imagine I would?” Lisa asked huskily.

Startled, Anderton stared at her. “Wouldn't you?” Then with amazement, he murmured: “No, I can see you don't believe me. You still think I'm imagining all this.” He jabbed savagely at the card.“Even with that evidence you still aren't convinced.”

“No,” Lisa agreed quickly,“I'm not. You didn't look at it closely enough, darling. Ed Witwer's name isn't on it.”

Incredulous, Anderton took the card from her.

“Nobody says you're going to kill Ed Witwer,” Lisa continued rapidly, in a thin, brittle voice. “The card
must
be genuine, understand? And it has nothing to do with Ed. He's not plotting against you and neither is anybody else.”

Too confused to reply, Anderton stood studying the card. She was right. Ed Witwer was not listed as his victim. On line five, the machine had neatly stamped another name.

LEOPOLD KAPLAN

Numbly, he pocketed the card. He had never heard of the man in his life.

III

The house was cool and deserted, and almost immediately Anderton began making preparations for his journey. While he packed, frantic thoughts passed through his mind.

Possibly he was wrong about Witwer—but how could he be sure? In any event, the conspiracy against him was far more complex than he had realized. Witwer, in the overall picture, might be merely an insignificant puppet animated by someone else—by some distant, indistinct figure only vaguely visible in the background.

It had been a mistake to show the card to Lisa. Undoubtedly, she would describe it in detail to Witwer. He'd never get off Earth, never have an opportunity to find out what life on a frontier planet might be like.

While he was thus preoccupied, a board creaked behind him. He turned from the bed, clutching a weather-stained winter sports jacket, to face the muzzle of a gray-blue A-pistol.

“It didn't take you long,” he said, staring with bitterness at the tight-lipped, heavyset man in a brown overcoat who stood holding the gun in his gloved hand. “Didn't she even hesitate?”

The intruder's face registered no response. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. “Come along with me.”

Startled, Anderton laid down the sports jacket. “You're not from my agency? You're not a police officer?”

Protesting and astonished, he was hustled outside the house to a waiting limousine. Instantly three heavily armed men closed in behind him. The door slammed and the car shot off down the highway, away from the city. Impassive and remote, the faces around him jogged with the motion of the speeding vehicle as open fields, dark and somber, swept past.

Anderton was still trying futilely to grasp the implications of what had happened, when the car came to a rutted side road, turned off, and descended into a gloomy sub-surface garage. Someone shouted an order. The heavy metal lock grated shut and overhead lights blinked on. The driver turned off the car motor.

“You'll have reason to regret this,” Anderton warned hoarsely, as they dragged him from the car. “Do you realize who I am?”

“We realize,” the man in the brown overcoat said.

At gunpoint, Anderton was marched upstairs, from the clammy silence of the garage into a deep-carpeted hallway. He was, apparently, in a luxurious private residence, set out in the war-devoured rural area. At the far end of the hallway he could make out a room—a book-lined study simply but tastefully furnished. In a circle of lamplight, his face partly in shadows, a man he had never met sat waiting for him.

As Anderton approached, the man nervously slipped a pair of rimless glasses in place, snapped the case shut, and moistened his dry lips. He was elderly, perhaps seventy or older, and under his arm was a slim silver cane. His body was thin, wiry, his attitude curiously rigid. What little hair he had was dusty brown—a carefully smoothed sheen of neutral color above his pale, bony skull. Only his eyes seemed really alert.

“Is this Anderton?” he inquired querulously, turning to the man in the brown overcoat. “Where did you pick him up?”

“At his home,” the other replied. “He was packing—as we expected.”

The man at the desk shivered visibly. “Packing.” He took off his glasses and jerkily returned them to their case. “Look here,” he said bluntly to Anderton, “what's the matter with you? Are you hopelessly insane? How could you kill a man you've never met?”

The old man, Anderton suddenly realized, was Leopold Kaplan.

“First, I'll ask you a question,” Anderton countered rapidly. “Do you realize what you've done? I'm Commissioner of Police. I can have you sent up for twenty years.”

He was going to say more, but a sudden wonder cut him short.

“How did you find out?”
he demanded. Involuntarily, his hand went to his pocket, where the folded card was hidden. “It won't be for another—”

“I wasn't notified through your agency,” Kaplan broke in, with angry impatience. “The fact that you've never heard of me doesn't surprise me too much. Leopold Kaplan, General of the Army of the Federated Westbloc Alliance.” Begrudgingly, he added, “Retired, since the end of the Anglo-Chinese War, and the abolishment of AFWA.”

It made sense. Anderton had suspected that the Army processed its duplicate cards immediately, for its own protection. Relaxing somewhat, he demanded: “Well? You've got me here. What next?”

“Evidently,” Kaplan said, “I'm not going to have you destroyed, or it would have shown up on one of those miserable little cards. I'm curious about you. It seemed incredible to me that a man of your stature could contemplate the cold-blooded murder of a total stranger. There must be something more here. Frankly, I'm puzzled. If it represented some kind of Police strategy—” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Surely you wouldn't have permitted the duplicate card to reach us.”

“Unless,” one of his men suggested, “it's a deliberate plant.”

Kaplan raised his bright, bird-like eyes and scrutinized Anderton. “What do you have to say?”

“That's exactly what it is,” Anderton said, quick to see the advantage of stating frankly what he believed to be the simple truth. “The prediction on the card was deliberately fabricated by a clique inside the police agency. The card is prepared and I'm netted. I'm relieved of my authority automatically. My assistant steps in and claims he prevented the murder in the usual efficient Precrime manner. Needless to say, there is no murder or intent to murder.”

“I agree with you that there will be no murder,” Kaplan affirmed grimly. “You'll be in police custody. I intend to make certain of that.”

Horrified, Anderton protested: “You're taking me back there? If I'm in custody I'll never be able to prove—”

“I don't care what you prove or don't prove,” Kaplan interrupted. “All I'm interested in is having you out of the way.” Frigidly, he added: “For my own protection.”

“He was getting ready to leave,” one of the men asserted.

“That's right,” Anderton said, sweating.“As soon as they get hold of me I'll be confined in the detention camp. Witwer will take over—lock, stock, and barrel.” His face darkened. “And my wife. They're acting in concert, apparently.”

For a moment Kaplan seemed to waver. “It's possible,” he conceded, regarding Anderton steadily. Then he shook his head. “I can't take the chance. If this is a frame against you, I'm sorry. But it's simply not my affair.” He smiled slightly. “However, I wish you luck.” To the men he said: “Take him to the police building and turn him over to the highest authority.” He mentioned the name of the acting commissioner, and waited for Anderton's reaction.

“Witwer!” Anderton echoed, incredulous.

Still smiling slightly, Kaplan turned and clicked on the console radio in the study. “Witwer has already assumed authority. Obviously, he's going to create quite an affair out of this.”

There was a brief static hum, and then, abruptly, the radio blared out into the room—a noisy professional voice, reading a prepared announcement.

“… all citizens are warned not to shelter or in any fashion aid or assist this dangerous marginal individual. The extraordinary circumstance of an escaped criminal at liberty and in a position to commit an act of violence is unique in modern times. All citizens are hereby notified that legal statutes still in force implicate any and all persons failing to cooperate fully with the police in their task of apprehending John Allison Anderton. To repeat: The Precrime Agency of the Federal Westbloc Government is in the process of locating and neutralizing its former Commissioner, John Allison Anderton, who, through the methodology of the Precrime system, is hereby declared a potential murderer and as such forfeits his rights to freedom and all its privileges.”

“It didn't take him long,”Anderton muttered, appalled. Kaplan snapped off the radio and the voice vanished.

“Lisa must have gone directly to him,” Anderton speculated bitterly.

“Why should he wait?” Kaplan asked. “You made your intentions clear.”

He nodded to his men. “Take him back to town. I feel uneasy having him so close. In that respect I concur with Commissioner Witwer. I want him neutralized as soon as possible.”

IV

Cold, light rain beat against the pavement, as the car moved through the dark streets of New York City toward the police building.

“You can see his point,” one of the men said to Anderton. “If you were in his place you'd act just as decisively.”

Sullen and resentful, Anderton stared straight ahead.

“Anyhow,” the man went on, “you're just one of many. Thousands of people have gone to that detention camp. You won't be lonely. As a matter of fact, you may not want to leave.”

Helplessly, Anderton watched pedestrians hurrying along the rain-swept sidewalks. He felt no strong emotion. He was aware only of an overpowering fatigue. Dully, he checked off the street numbers: they were getting near the police station.

“This Witwer seems to know how to take advantage of an opportunity,” one of the men observed conversationally. “Did you ever meet him?”

“Briefly,” Anderton answered.

“He wanted your job—so he framed you. Are you sure of that?”

Anderton grimaced. “Does it matter?”

“I was just curious.” The man eyed him languidly. “So you're the ex-Commissioner of Police. People in the camp will be glad to see you coming. They'll remember you.”

“No doubt,” Anderton agreed.

“Witwer sure didn't waste any time. Kaplan's lucky—with an official like that in charge.” The man looked at Anderton almost pleadingly.“You're really convinced it's a plot, eh?”

“Of course.”

“You wouldn't harm a hair of Kaplan's head? For the first time in history, Precrime goes wrong? An innocent man is framed by one of those cards. Maybe there've been other innocent people—right?”

“It's quite possible,” Anderton admitted listlessly.

“Maybe the whole system can break down. Sure, you're not going to commit a murder—and maybe none of them were. Is that why you told Kaplan you wanted to keep yourself outside? Were you hoping to prove the system wrong? I've got an open mind, if you want to talk about it.”

Another man leaned over, and asked, “Just between the two of us, is there really anything to this plot stuff? Are you really being framed?”

Anderton sighed. At that point he wasn't certain, himself. Perhaps he was trapped in a closed, meaningless time-circle with no motive and no beginning. In fact, he was almost ready to concede that he was the victim of a weary, neurotic fantasy, spawned by growing insecurity. Without a fight, he was willing to give himself up. A vast weight of exhaustion lay upon him. He was struggling against the impossible—and all the cards were stacked against him.