Newsgroup: it.arti.cinema
Titolo: [LUNGO] "Minority Report" di Philip K. Dick

Cosi' la smettiamo di discutere una volta per tutte. Chi vuole legga.
DOPO aver trovato il film superficiale, ho trovato nel racconto il
rigore che cercavo. Io, ora, sono contento e altrettanto spero di voi.
Spiacente per i corsivi, che ovviamente saltano: questo megapost vale
come sostegno di emergenza in attesa di procurarvi il libro.
A.
The Minority Report
Philip K. Dick
I
        The first thought Anderton had when he saw the young man was:
I'm getting bald. Bald and fat and old. But he didn't say it aloud.
Instead, he pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and came resolutely
around the side of his desk, his right hand rigidly extended. Smiling
with forced amiability, he shook hands with the young man.
        "Witwer?" he asked, managing to make this query sound gracious.
"That's right," the young man said. "But the name's Ed to you, of
course. That is, if you share my dislike for needless formality." The
look on his blond, overly-confident face showed that he considered the
matter settled. It would be Ed and John: Everything would be agreeably
cooperative right from the start.
        "Did you have much trouble finding the building?" Anderton asked
guardedly, ignoring the too-friendly overture. Good God, he had to hold
on to something. Fear touched him and he began to sweat. Witwer was
moving around the office as if he already owned it - as if he were
measuring it for size. Couldn't he wait a couple of days - a decent
interval?
        "No trouble," Witwer answered blithely, his hands in his
pockets. Eagerly, he examined the voluminous files that lined the wall.
"I'm not coming into your agency blind, you understand. I have quite a
few ideas of my own about the way Precrime is run."
        Shakily, Anderton lit his pipe. "How is it run? I should like to
know." "Not badly," Witwer said. "In fact, quite well."
        Anderton regarded him steadily. "Is that your private opinion?
Or is it just cant?"
        Witwer met his gaze guilelessly. "Private and public. The
Senate's pleased with your work. In fact, they're enthusiastic." He
added, "As enthusiastic as very old men can be."
        Anderton winced, but outwardly he remained impassive. It cost
him an effort, though. He wondered what Witwer really thought. What was
actually going on in that closecropped skull? The young man's eyes were
blue, bright - and disturbingly clever. Witwer was nobody's fool. And
obviously he had a great deal of ambition.
        "As I understand it," Anderton said cautiously, "you're going to
be my assistant until I retire."
        "That's my understanding, too," the other replied, without an
instant's hesitation.
        "Which may be this year, or next year - or ten years from now."
The pipe in Anderton's hand trembled. "I'm under no compulsion to
retire. I founded Precrime and I can stay on here as long as I want.
It's purely my decision."
        Witwer nodded, his expression still guileless. "Of course."
        With an effort, Anderton cooled down a trifle. "I merely wanted
to get things straight."
        "From the start," Witwer agreed. "You're the boss. What you say
goes." With every evidence of sincerity, he asked: "Would you care to
show me the organization? I'd like to familiarize myself with the
general routine as soon as possible."
        As they walked along the busy, yellow-lit tiers of offices,
Anderton said: "You're acquainted with the theory of precrime, of
course. I presume we can take that for granted."
        "I have the information publicly available," Witwer replied.
"With the aid of your precog mutants, you've boldly and successfully
abolished the post-crime punitive system of jails and fines. As we all
realize, punishment was never much of a deterrent, and could scarcely
have afforded comfort to a victim already dead."
        They had come to the descent lift. As it carried them swiftly
downward, Anderton said: "You've probably grasped the basic legalistic
drawback to precrime methodology. We're taking in individuals who have
broken no law."
        "But they surely will," Witwer affirmed with conviction.
        "Happily they don't - because we get them first, before they can
commit an act of violence. So the commission of the crime itself is
absolute metaphysics. We claim they're culpable. They, on the other
hand, eternally claim they're innocent. And, in a sense, they are
innocent."
        The lift let them out, and they again paced down a yellow
corridor. "In our society we have no major crimes," Anderton went on,
"but we do have a detention camp full of would-be criminals."
        Doors opened and closed, and they were in the analytical wing.
Ahead of them rose impressive banks of equipment - the data-receptors,
and the computing mechanisms that studied and restructured the incoming
material. And beyond the machinery sat the three precogs, almost lost to
view in the maze of wiring.
        "There they are," Anderton said dryly. "What do you think of
them?" In the gloomy half-darkness the three idiots sat babbling. Every
incoherent utterance, every random syllable, was analyzed, compared,
reassembled in the form of visual symbols, transcribed on conventional
punchcards, and ejected into various coded slots. All day long the
idiots babbled, imprisoned in their special high-backed chairs, held in
one rigid position by metal bands, and bundles of wiring, clamps. Their
physical needs were taken care of automatically. They had no spiritual
needs. Vegetable-like, they muttered and dozed and existed. Their minds
were dull, confused, lost in shadows.
        But not the shadows of today. The three gibbering, fumbling
creatures, with their enlarged heads and wasted bodies, were
contemplating the future. The analytical machinery was recording
prophecies, and as the three precog idiots talked, the machinery
carefully listened.
        For the first time Witwer's face lost its breezy confidence. A
sick, dismayed expression crept into his eyes, a mixture of shame and
moral shock. "It's not - pleasant," he murmured. "I didn't realize they
were so - " He groped in his mind for the right word, gesticulating. "So
- deformed."
        "Deformed and retarded," Anderton instantly agreed. "Especially
the girl, there. Donna is forty-five years old. But she looks about ten.
The talent absorbs everything; the esp-lobe shrivels the balance of the
frontal area. But what do we care? We get their prophecies. They pass on
what we need. They don't understand any of it, but we do."
        Subdued, Witwer crossed the room to the machinery. From a slot
he collected a stack of cards. "Are these names that have come up?" he
asked.
        "Obviously." Frowning, Anderton took the stack from him. "I
haven't had a chance to examine them," he explained, impatiently
concealing his annoyance.
        Fascinated, Witwer watched the machinery pop a fresh card into
the now empty slot. It was followed by a second - and a third. From the
whirring disks came one card after another. "The precogs must see quite
far into the future," Witwer exclaimed.
        "They see a quite limited span," Anderton informed him. "One
week or two ahead at the very most. Much of their data is worthless to
us - simply not relevant to our line. We pass it on to the appropriate
agencies. And they in turn trade data with us. Every important bureau
has its cellar of treasured monkeys."
        "Monkeys?" Witwer stared at him uneasily. "Oh, yes, I
understand. See no evil, speak no evil, et cetera. Very amusing."
        "Very apt." Automatically, Anderton collected the fresh cards
which had been turned up by the spinning machinery. "Some of these names
will be totally discarded. And most of the remainder record petty
crimes: thefts, income tax evasion, assault, extortion. As I'm sure you
know, Precrime has cut down felonies by ninety-nine and decimal point
eight percent. We seldom get actual murder or treason. After all, the
culprit knows we'll confine him in the detention camp a week before he
gets a chance to commit the crime."
        "When was the last time an actual murder was committed?" Witwer
asked.
        "Five years ago," Anderton said, pride in his voice.
        "How did it happen?"
        "The criminal escaped our teams. We had his name - in fact, we
had all the details of the crime, including the victim's name. We knew
the exact moment, the location of the planned act of violence. But in
spite of us he was able to carry it out." Anderton shrugged. "After all,
we can't get all of them." He riffled the cards. "But we do get most."
        "One murder in five years." Witwer's confidence was returning.
"Quite an impressive record. . . something to be proud of."
        Quietly Anderton said: "I am proud. Thirty years ago I worked
out the theory - back in the days when the self-seekers were thinking in
terms of quick raids on the stock market. I saw something legitimate
ahead - something of tremendous social value."
        He tossed the packet of cards to Wally Page, his subordinate in
charge of the monkey block. "See which ones we want," he told him. "Use
your own judgment."
        As Page disappeared with the cards, Witwer said thoughtfully:
"It's a big responsibility."
        "Yes, it is," agreed Anderton. "If we let one criminal escape -
as we did five years ago - we've got a human life on our conscience.
We're solely responsible. If we slip up, somebody dies." Bitterly, he
jerked three new cards from the slot. "It's a public trust."
        "Are you ever tempted to - " Witwer hesitated. "I mean, some of
the men you pick up must offer you plenty."
        "It wouldn't do any good. A duplicate file of cards pops out at
Army GHQ. It's check and balance. They can keep their eye on us as
continuously as they wish." Anderton glanced briefly at the top card.
"So even if we wanted to accept a - "
        He broke off, his lips tightening.
        "What's the matter?" Witwer asked curiously.
        Carefully, Anderton folded up the top card and put it away in
his pocket. "Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing at all."
        The harshness in his voice brought a flush to Witwer's face.
"You really don't like me," he observed.
        "True," Anderton admitted. "I don't. But - "
        He couldn't believe he disliked the young man that much. It
didn't seem possible: it wasn't possible. Something was wrong. Dazed, he
tried to steady his tumbling mind.
        On the card was his name. Line one - an already accused future
murderer! According to the coded punches, Precrime Commissioner John A.
Anderton was going to kill a man - and within the next week.
        With absolute, overwhelming conviction, he didn't believe it.
II
        In the outer office, talking to Page, stood Anderton's slim and
attractive young wife, Lisa. She was engaged in a sharp, animated
discussion of policy, and barely glanced up as Witwer and her husband
entered.
        "Hello, darling," Anderton said.
        Witwer remained silent. But his pale eyes flickered slightly as
they rested on the brown-haired woman in her trim police uniform. Lisa
was now an executive official of Precrime but once, Witwer knew, she had
been Anderton's secretary.
        Noticing the interest on Witwer's face Anderton paused and
reflected. To plant the card in the machines would require an accomplice
on the inside - someone who was closely connected with Precrime and had
access to the analytical equipment. Lisa was an improbable element. But
the possibility did exist.
        Of course, the conspiracy could be large-scale and elaborate,
involving far more than a "rigged" card inserted somewhere along the
line. The original data itself might have been tampered with. Actually,
there was no telling how far back the alteration went. A cold fear
touched him as he began to see the possibilities. His original impulse -
to tear open the machines and remove all the data - was uselessly
primitive. Probably the tapes agreed with the card: He would only
incriminate himself further.
        He had approximately twenty-four hours. Then, the Army people
would check over their cards and discover the discrepancy. They would
find in their files a duplicate of the card he had appropriated. He had
only one of two copies, which meant that the folded card in his pocket
might just as well be lying on Page's desk in plain view of everyone.
        From outside the building came the drone of police cars starting
out on their routine round-ups. How many hours would elapse before one
of them pulled up in front of his house?
        "What's the matter, darling?" Lisa asked him uneasily. "You look
as if you've just seen a ghost. Are you all right?"
        "I'm fine," he assured her.
        Lisa suddenly seemed to become aware of Ed Witwer's admiring
scrutiny. "Is this gentleman your new co-worker, darling?" she asked.
        Warily, Anderton introduced his new associate. Lisa smiled in
friendly greeting. Did a covert awareness pass between them? He couldn't
tell. God, he was beginning to suspect everybody - not only his wife and
Witwer, but a dozen members of his staff.
        "Are you from New York?" Lisa asked.
        "No," Witwer replied. "I've lived most of my life in Chicago.
I'm staying at a hotel - one of the big downtown hotels. Wait - I have
the name written on a card somewhere."
        While he self-consciously searched his pockets, Lisa suggested:
"Perhaps you'd like to have dinner with us. We'll be working in close
cooperation, and I really think we ought to get better acquainted."
        Startled, Anderton backed off. What were the chances of his
wife's friendliness being benign, accidental? Witwer would be present
the balance of the evening, and would now have an excuse to trail along
to Anderton's private residence. Profoundly disturbed, he turned
impulsively, and moved toward the door.
        "Where are you going?" Lisa asked, astonished.
        "Back to the monkey block," he told her. "I want to check over
some rather puzzling data tapes before the Army sees them." He was out
in the corridor before she could think of a plausible reason for
detaining him.
        Rapidly, he made his way to the ramp at its far end. He was
striding down the outside stairs toward the public sidewalk, when Lisa
appeared breathlessly behind him.
        "What on earth has come over you?" Catching hold of his arm, she
moved quickly in front of him. "I knew you were leaving," she exclaimed,
blocking his way. "What's wrong with you? Everybody thinks you're - "
She checked herself. "I mean, you're acting so erratically."
        People surged by them - the usual afternoon crowd. Ignoring
them, Anderton pried his wife's fingers from his arm. "I'm getting out,"
he told her. "While there's still time."
        "But - why?"
        "I'm being framed - deliberately and maliciously. This creature
is out to get my job. The Senate is getting at me through him."
        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 set-up 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 over-all 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 till 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 gun-point, 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.
        The sharp squeal of tires roused him. Frantically, the driver
struggled to control the car, tugging at the wheel and slamming on the
brakes, as a massive bread truck loomed up from the fog and ran directly
across the lane ahead. Had he gunned the motor instead he might have
saved himself. But too late he realized his error. The car skidded,
lurched, hesitated for a brief instant, and then smashed head on into
the bread truck.
        Under Anderton the seat lifted up and flung him face-forward
against the door. Pain, sudden, intolerable, seemed to burst in his
brain as he lay gasping and trying feebly to pull himself to his knees.
Somewhere the crackle of fire echoed dismally, a patch of hissing
brilliance winking in the swirls of mist making their way into the
twisted hulk of the car.
        Hands from outside the car reached for him. Slowly he became
aware that he was being dragged through the rent that had been the door.
A heavy seat cushion was shoved brusquely aside, and all at once he
found himself on his feet, leaning heavily against a dark shape and
being guided into the shadows of an alley a short distance from the car.
In the distance, police sirens wailed.
        "You'll live," a voice grated in his ear, low and urgent. It was
a voice he had never heard before, as unfamiliar and harsh as the rain
beating into his face. "Can you hear what I'm saying?"
        "Yes," Anderton acknowledged. He plucked aimlessly at the ripped
sleeve of his shirt. A cut on his cheek was beginning to throb.
Confused, he tried to orient himself. "You're not - "
        "Stop talking and listen." The man was heavyset, almost fat. Now
his big hands held Anderton propped against the wet brick wall of the
building, out of the rain and the flickering light of the burning car.
"We had to do it that way," he said. "It was the only alternative. We
didn't have much time. We thought Kaplan would keep you at his place
longer." "Who are you?" Anderton managed.
        The moist, rain-streaked face twisted into a humorless grin. "My
name's Fleming. You'll see me again. We have about five seconds before
the police get here. Then we're back where we started." A flat packet
was stuffed into Anderton's hands. "That's enough loot to keep you
going. And there's a full set of identification in there. We'll contact
you from time to time." His grin increased and became a nervous chuckle.
"Until you've proved your point."
        Anderton blinked. "It is a frameup, then?"
        "Of course." Sharply, the man swore. "You mean they got you to
believe it, too?"
        "I thought - " Anderton had trouble talking; one of his front
teeth seemed to be loose. "Hostility toward Witwer . . . replaced, my
wife and a younger man, natural resentment. ..."
        "Don't kid yourself," the other said. "You know better than
that. This whole business was worked out carefully. They had every phase
of it under control. The card was set to pop the day Witwer appeared.
They've already got the first part wrapped up. Witwer is Commissioner,
and you're a hunted criminal."
        "Who's behind it?"
        "Your wife."
        Anderton's head spun. "You're positive?"
        The man laughed. "You bet your life." He glanced quickly around.
"Here come the police. Take off down this alley. Grab a bus, get
yourself into the slum section, rent a room and buy a stack of magazines
to keep you busy. Get other clothes - You're smart enough to take care
of yourself. Don't try to leave Earth. They've got all the intersystem
transports screened. If you can keep low for the next seven days, you're
made."
        "Who are you?" Anderton demanded.
        Fleming let go of him. Cautiously, he moved to the entrance of
the alley and peered out. The first police car had come to rest on the
damp pavement; its motor spinning tinnily, it crept suspiciously toward
the smouldering ruin that had been Kaplan's car. Inside the wreck the
squad of men were stirring feebly, beginning to creep painfully through
the tangle of steel and plastic out into the cold rain.
        "Consider us a protective society," Fleming said softly, his
plump, expressionless face shining with moisture. "A sort of police
force that watches the police. To see," he added, "that everything stays
on an even keel."
        His thick hand shot out. Stumbling, Anderton was knocked away
from him, half-falling into the shadows and damp debris that littered
the alley.
        "Get going," Fleming told him sharply. "And don't discard that
packet." As Anderton felt his way hesitantly toward the far exit of the
alley, the man's last words drifted to him. "Study it carefully and you
may still survive."
V
        The identification cards described him as Ernest Temple, an
unemployed electrician, drawing a weekly subsistence from the State of
New York, with a wife and four children in Buffalo and less than a
hundred dollars in assets. A sweat-stained green card gave him
permission to travel and to maintain no fixed address. A man looking for
work needed to travel. He might have to go a long way.
        As he rode across town in the almost empty bus, Anderton studied
the description of Ernest Temple. Obviously, the cards had been made out
with him in mind, for all the measurements fitted. After a time he
wondered about the fingerprints and the brain-wave pattern. They
couldn't possibly stand comparison. The walletful of cards would get him
past only the most cursory examinations.
        But it was something. And with the ID cards came ten thousand
dollars in bills. He pocketed the money and cards, then turned to the
neatly-typed message in which they had been enclosed.
        At first he could make no sense of it. For a long time he
studied it, perplexed.
        The existence of a majority logically implies a corresponding
minority.
        The bus had entered the vast slum region, the tumbled miles of
cheap hotels and broken-down tenements that had sprung up after the mass
destruction of the war. It slowed to a stop, and Anderton got to his
feet. A few passengers idly observed his cut cheek and damaged clothing.
Ignoring them, he stepped down onto the rain-swept curb.
        Beyond collecting the money due him, the hotel clerk was not
interested. Anderton climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered
the narrow, musty-smelling room that now belonged to him. Gratefully, he
locked the door and pulled down the window shades. The room was small
but clean. Bed, dresser, scenic calendar, chair, lamp, a radio with a
slot for the insertion of quarters.
        He dropped a quarter into it and threw himself heavily down on
the bed. All main stations carried the police bulletin. It was novel,
exciting, something unknown to the present generation. An escaped
criminal! The public was avidly interested.
        "... this man has used the advantage of his high position to
carry out an initial escape," the announcer was saying, with
professional indignation. "Because of his high office he had access to
the previewed data and the trust placed in him permitted him to evade
the normal process of detection and re-location. During the period of
his tenure he exercised his authority to send countless potentially
guilty individuals to their proper confinement, thus sparing the lives
of innocent victims. This man, John Allison Anderton, was instrumental
in the original creation of the Precrime system, the prophylactic
pre-detection of criminals through the ingenious use of mutant precogs,
capable of previewing future events and transferring orally that data to
analytical machinery. These three precogs, in their vital function...."
        The voice faded out as he left the room and entered the tiny
bathroom. There, he stripped off his coat, and shirt, and ran hot water
in the wash bowl. He began bathing the cut on his cheek. At the
drugstore on the corner he had bought iodine and Band-aids, a razor,
comb, toothbrush, and other small things he would need. The next morning
he intended to find a second-hand clothing store and buy more suitable
clothing. After all, he was now an unemployed electrician, not an
accident-damaged Commissioner of Police.
        In the other room the radio blared on. Only subconsciously aware
of it, he stood in front of the cracked mirror, examining a broken
tooth.
        "... the system of three precogs finds its genesis in the
computers of the middle decades of this century. How are the results of
an electronic computer checked? By feeding the data to a second computer
of identical design. But two computers are not sufficient. If each
computer arrived at a different answer it is impossible to tell a priori
which is correct. The solution, based on a careful study of statistical
method, is to utilize a third computer to check the results of the first
two. In this manner, a so-called majority report is obtained. It can be
assumed with fair probability that the agreement of two out of three
computers indicates which of the alternative results is accurate. It
would not be likely that two computers would arrive at identically
incorrect solutions - "
        Anderton dropped the towel he was clutching and raced into the
other room. Trembling, he bent to catch the blaring words of the radio.
        "... unanimity of all three precogs is a hoped-for but
seldom-achieved phenomenon, acting-Commissioner Witwer explains. It is
much more common to obtain a collaborative majority report of two
precogs, plus a minority report of some slight variation, usually with
reference to time and place, from the third mutant. This is explained by
the theory of multiple-futures. If only one time-path existed,
precognitive information would be of no importance, since no possibility
would exist, in possessing this information, of altering the future. In
the Precrime Agency's work we must first of all assume - "
        Frantically, Anderton paced around the tiny room. Majority
report - only two of the precogs had concurred on the material
underlying the card. That was the meaning of the message enclosed with
the packet. The report of the third precog, the minority report, was
somehow of importance.
        Why?
        His watch told him that it was after midnight. Page would be off
duty. He wouldn't be back in the monkey block until the next afternoon.
It was a slim chance, but worth taking. Maybe Page would cover for him,
and maybe not. He would have to risk it.
        He had to see the minority report.
VI
        Between noon and one o'clock the rubbish-littered streets
swarmed with people. He chose that time, the busiest part of the day, to
make his call. Selecting a phonebooth in a patron-teeming super
drugstore, he dialed the familiar police number and stood holding the
cold receiver to his ear. Deliberately, he had selected the aud, not the
vid line: in spite of his second-hand clothing and seedy, unshaven
appearance, he might be recognized.
        The receptionist was new to him. Cautiously, he gave Page's
extension. If Witwer were removing the regular staff and putting in his
satellites, he might find himself talking to a total stranger.
        "Hello," Page's gruff voice came.
        Relieved, Anderton glanced around. Nobody was paying any
attention to him. The shoppers wandered among the merchandise, going
about their daily routines. "Can you talk?" he asked. "Or are you tied
up?"
        There was a moment of silence. He could picture Page's mild face
torn with uncertainty as he wildly tried to decide what to do. At last
came halting words. "Why - are you calling here?"
        Ignoring the question, Anderton said, "I didn't recognize the
receptionist. New personnel?"
        "Brand-new," Page agreed, in a thin, strangled voice. "Big
turnovers, these days."
        "So I hear." Tensely, Anderton asked, "How's your job? Still
safe?"
        "Wait a minute." The receiver was put down and the muffled sound
of steps came in Anderton's ear. It was followed by the quick slam of a
door being hastily shut. Page returned. "We can talk better now," he
said hoarsely.
        "How much better?"
        "Not a great deal. Where are you?"
        "Strolling through Central Park," Anderton said. "Enjoying the
sunlight." For all he knew, Page had gone to make sure the line-tap was
in place. Right now, an airborne police team was probably on its way.
But he had to take the chance. "I'm in a new field," he said curtly.
"I'm an electrician these days."
        "Oh?" Page said, baffled.
        "I thought maybe you had some work for me. If it can be
arranged, I'd like to drop by and examine your basic computing
equipment. Especially the data and analytical banks in the monkey
block."
        After a pause, Page said: "It - might be arranged. If it's
really important."
        "It is," Anderton assured him. "When would be best for you?"
        "Well," Page said, struggling. "I'm having a repair team come in
to look at the intercom equipment. The acting-Commissioner wants it
improved, so he can operate quicker. You might trail along."
        "I'll do that. About when?"
        "Say four o'clock. Entrance B, level 6. I'll meet you."
        "Fine," Anderton agreed, already starting to hang up. "I hope
you're still in charge, when I get there."
        He hung up and rapidly left the booth. A moment later he was
pushing through the dense pack of people crammed into the nearby
cafeteria. Nobody would locate him there.
        He had three and a half hours to wait. And it was going to seem
a lot longer. It proved to be the longest wait of his life before he
finally met Page as arranged.
        The first thing Page said was: "You're out of your mind. Why in
hell did you come back?"
        "I'm not back for long." Tautly, Anderton prowled around the
monkey block, systematically locking one door after another. "Don't let
anybody in. I can't take chances."
        "You should have quit when you were ahead." In an agony of
apprehension, Page followed after him. "Witwer is making hay, hand over
fist. He's got the whole country screaming for your blood."
        Ignoring him, Anderton snapped open the main control bank of the
analytical machinery. "Which of the three monkeys gave the minority
report?"
        "Don't question me - I'm getting out." On his way to the door
Page halted briefly, pointed to the middle figure, and then disappeared.
The door closed; Anderton was alone.
        The middle one. He knew that one well. The dwarfed, hunched-over
figure had sat buried in its wiring and relays for fifteen years. As
Anderton approached, it didn't look up. With eyes glazed and blank, it
contemplated a world that did not yet exist, blind to the physical
reality that lay around it.
"Jerry" was twenty-four years old. Originally, he had been classified as
a hydrocephalic idiot but when he reached the age of six the psych
testers had identified the precog talent, buried under the layers of
tissue corrosion. Placed in a government-operated training school, the
latent talent had been cultivated. By the time he was nine the talent
had advanced to a useful stage. "Jerry," however, remained in the
aimless chaos of idiocy; the burgeoning faculty had absorbed the
totality of his personality.
        Squatting down, Anderton began disassembling the protective
shields that guarded the tape-reels stored in the analytical machinery.
Using schematics, he traced the leads back from the final stages of the
integrated computers, to the point where "Jerry's" individual equipment
branched off. Within minutes he was shakily lifting out two half-hour
tapes: recent rejected data not fused with majority reports. Consulting
the code chart, he selected the section of tape which referred to his
particular card.
        A tape scanner was mounted nearby. Holding his breath, he
inserted the tape, activated the transport, and listened. It took only a
second. From the first statement of the report it was clear what had
happened. He had what he wanted; he could stop looking.
        "Jerry's" vision was misphased. Because of the erratic nature of
precog-nition, he was examining a time-area slightly different from that
of his companions. For him, the report that Anderton would commit a
murder was an event to be integrated along with everything else. That
assertion - and Anderton's reaction - was one more piece of datum.
        Obviously, "Jerry's" report superseded the majority report.
Having been informed that he would commit a murder, Anderton would
change his mind and not do so. The preview of the murder had cancelled
out the murder; prophylaxis had occurred simply in his being informed.
Already, a new time-path had been created. But "Jerry" was outvoted.
        Trembling, Anderton rewound the tape and clicked on the
recording head. At high speed he made a copy of the report, restored the
original, and removed the duplicate from the transport. Here was the
proof that the card was invalid: obsolete. All he had to do was show it
to Witwer....
        His own stupidity amazed him. Undoubtedly, Witwer had seen the
report; and in spite of it, had assumed the job of Commissioner, had
kept the police teams out. Witwer didn't intend to back down; he wasn't
concerned with Anderton's innocence.
        What, then, could he do? Who else would be interested?
        "You damn fool!" a voice behind him grated, wild with anxiety.
        Quickly, he turned. His wife stood at one of the doors, in her
police uniform, her eyes frantic with dismay. "Don't worry," he told her
briefly, displaying the reel of tape. "I'm leaving."
        Her face distorted, Lisa rushed frantically up to him. "Page
said you were here, but I couldn't believe it. He shouldn't have let you
in. He just doesn't understand what you are."
        "What am I?" Anderton inquired caustically. "Before you answer,
maybe you better listen to this tape."
        "I don't want to listen to it! I just want you to get out of
here! Ed Witwer knows somebody's down here. Page is trying to keep him
occupied, but - " She broke off, her head turned stiffly to one side.
"He's here now! He's going to force his way in."
        "Haven't you got any influence? Be gracious and charming. He'll
probably forget about me."
        Lisa looked at him in bitter reproach. "There's a ship parked on
the roof. If you want to get away...." Her voice choked and for an
instant she was silent. Then she said, "I'll be taking off in a minute
or so. If you want to come - "
        "I'll come," Anderton said. He had no other choice. He had
secured his tape, his proof, but he hadn't worked out any method of
leaving. Gladly, he hurried after the slim figure of his wife as she
strode from the block, through a side door and down a supply corridor,
her heels clicking loudly in the deserted gloom.
        "It's a good fast ship," she told him over her shoulder. "It's
emergency-fueled - ready to go. I was going to supervise some of the
teams."
VII
        Behind the wheel of the high-velocity police cruiser, Anderton
outlined what the minority report tape contained. Lisa listened without
comment, her face pinched and strained, her hands clasped tensely in her
lap. Below the ship, the war-ravaged rural countryside spread out like a
relief map, the vacant regions between cities crater-pitted and dotted
with the ruins of farms and small industrial plants.
        "I wonder," she said, when he had finished, "how many times this
has happened before."
        "A minority report? A great many times."
        "I mean, one precog misphased. Using the report of the others as
data - superseding them." Her eyes dark and serious, she added, "Perhaps
a lot of the people in the camps are like you."
        "No," Anderton insisted. But he was beginning to feel uneasy
about it, too. "I was in a position to see the card, to get a look at
the report. That's what did it."
        "But-" Lisa gestured significantly. "Perhaps all of them would
have reacted that way. We could have told them the truth."
        "It would have been too great a risk," he answered stubbornly.
        Lisa laughed sharply. "Risk? Chance? Uncertainty? With precogs
around?"
        Anderton concentrated on steering the fast little ship. "This is
a unique case," he repeated. "And we have an immediate problem. We can
tackle the theoretical aspects later on. I have to get this tape to the
proper people - before your bright young friend demolishes it."
        "You're taking it to Kaplan?"
        "I certainly am." He tapped the reel of tape which lay on the
seat between them. "He'll be interested. Proof that his life isn't in
danger ought to be of vital concern to him."
        From her purse, Lisa shakily got out her cigarette case. "And
you think he'll help you."
        "He may - or he may not. It's a chance worth taking."
        "How did you manage to go underground so quickly?" Lisa asked.
"A completely effective disguise is difficult to obtain."
        "All it takes is money," he answered evasively.
        As she smoked, Lisa pondered. "Probably Kaplan will protect
you," she said. "He's quite powerful."
        "I thought he was only a retired general."
        "Technically - that's what he is. But Witwer got out the dossier
on him. Kaplan heads an unusual kind of exclusive veterans'
organization. It's actually a kind of club, with a few restricted
members. High officers only - an international class from both sides of
the war. Here in New York they maintain a great mansion of a house,
three glossy-paper publications, and occasional TV coverage that costs
them a small fortune."
        "What are you trying to say?"
        "Only this. You've convinced me that you're innocent. I mean,
it's obvious that you won't commit a murder. But you must realize now
that the original report, the majority report, was not a fake. Nobody
falsified it. Ed Witwer didn't create it. There's no plot against you,
and there never was. If you're going to accept this minority report as
genuine you'll have to accept the majority one, also."
        Reluctantly, he agreed. "I suppose so."
        "Ed Witwer," Lisa continued, "is acting in complete good faith.
He really believes you're a potential criminal - and why not? He's got
the majority report sitting on his desk, but you have that card folded
up in your pocket."
        "I destroyed it," Anderton said, quietly.
        Lisa leaned earnestly toward him. "Ed Witwer isn't motivated by
any desire to get your job," she said. "He's motivated by the same
desire that has always dominated you. He believes in Precrime. He wants
the system to continue. I've talked to him and I'm convinced he's
telling the truth."
        Anderton asked, "Do you want me to take this reel to Witwer? If
I do - he'll destroy it."
        "Nonsense," Lisa retorted. "The originals have been in his hands
from the start. He could have destroyed them any time he wished."
        "That's true." Anderton conceded. "Quite possibly he didn't
know."
        "Of course he didn't. Look at it this way. If Kaplan gets hold
of that tape, the police will be discredited. Can't you see why? It
would prove that the majority report was an error. Ed Witwer is
absolutely right. You have to be taken in - if Precrime is to survive.
You're thinking of your own safety. But think, for a moment, about the
system." Leaning over, she stubbed out her cigarette and fumbled in her
purse for another. "Which means more to you - your own personal safety
or the existence of the system?"
        "My safety," Anderton answered, without hesitation.
        "You're positive?"
        "If the system can survive only by imprisoning innocent people,
then it deserves to be destroyed. My personal safety is important
because I'm a human being. And furthermore - "
        From her purse, Lisa got out an incredibly tiny pistol. "I
believe," she told him huskily, "that I have my finger on the firing
release. I've never used a weapon like this before. But I'm willing to
try."
        After a pause, Anderton asked: "You want me to turn the ship
around? Is that it?"
        "Yes, back to the police building. I'm sorry. If you could put
the good of the system above your own selfish - "
        "Keep your sermon," Anderton told her. "I'll take the ship back.
But I'm not going to listen to your defense of a code of behavior no
intelligent man could subscribe to."
        Lisa's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Holding the
pistol tightly, she sat facing him, her eyes fixed intently on him as he
swung the ship in a broad arc. A few loose articles rattled from the
glove compartment as the little craft turned on a radical slant, one
wing rising majestically until it pointed straight up.
        Both Anderton and his wife were supported by the constraining
metal arms of their seats. But not so the third member of the party.
        Out of the corner of his eye, Anderton saw a flash of motion. A
sound came simultaneously, the clawing struggle of a large man as he
abruptly lost his footing and plunged into the reinforced wall of the
ship. What followed happened quickly. Fleming scrambled instantly to his
feet, lurching and wary, one arm lashing out for the woman's pistol.
Anderton was too startled to cry out. Lisa turned, saw the man - and
screamed. Fleming knocked the gun from her hand, sending it clattering
to the floor.
        Grunting, Fleming shoved her aside and retrieved the gun.
"Sorry," he gasped, straightening up as best he could. "I thought she
might talk more. That's why I waited."
        "You were here when - " Anderton began - and stopped. It was
obvious that Fleming and his men had kept him under surveillance. The
existence of Lisa's ship had been duly noted and factored in, and while
Lisa had debated whether it would be wise to fly him to safety, Fleming
had crept into the storage compartment of the ship.
        "Perhaps," Fleming said, "you'd better give me that reel of
tape." His moist, clumsy fingers groped for it. "You're right - Witwer
would have melted it down to a puddle."
        "Kaplan, too?" Anderton asked numbly, still dazed by the
appearance of the man.
        "Kaplan is working directly with Witwer. That's why his name
showed on line five of the card. Which one of them is the actual boss,
we can't tell. Possibly neither." Fleming tossed the tiny pistol away
and got out his own heavy-duty military weapon. "You pulled a real flub
in taking off with this woman. I told you she was back of the whole
thing."
        "I can't believe that," Anderton protested. "If she - "
        "You've got no sense. This ship was warmed up by Witwer's order.
They wanted to fly you out of the building so that we couldn't get to
you. With you on your own, separated from us, you didn't stand a
chance."
        A strange look passed over Lisa's stricken features. "It's not
true," she whispered. "Witwer never saw this ship. I was going to
supervise - "
        "You almost got away with it," Fleming interrupted inexorably.
"We'll be lucky if a police patrol ship isn't hanging on us. There
wasn't time to check." He squatted down as he spoke, directly behind the
woman's chair. "The first thing is to get this woman out of the way.
We'll have to drag you completely out of this area. Page tipped off
Witwer on your new disguise, and you can be sure it has been widely
broadcast."
        Still crouching, Fleming seized hold of Lisa. Tossing his heavy
gun to Anderton, he expertly tilted her chin up until her temple was
shoved back against the seat. Lisa clawed frantically at him; a thin,
terrified wail rose in her throat. Ignoring her, Fleming closed his
great hands around her neck and began relentlessly to squeeze.
        "No bullet wound," he explained, gasping. "She's going to fall
out - natural accident. It happens all the time. But in this case, her
neck will be broken first."
        It seemed strange that Anderton waited so long. As it was,
Fleming's thick ringers were cruelly embedded in the woman's pale flesh
before he lifted the butt of the heavyduty pistol and brought it down on
the back of Fleming's skull. The monstrous hands relaxed. Staggered,
Fleming's head fell forward and he sagged against the wall of the ship.
Trying feebly to collect himself, he began dragging his body upward.
Anderton hit him again, this time above the left eye. He fell back, and
lay still.
        Struggling to breathe, Lisa remained for a moment huddled over,
her body swaying back and forth. Then, gradually, the color crept back
into her face.
        "Can you take the controls?" Anderton asked, shaking her, his
voice urgent.
        "Yes, I think so." Almost mechanically she reached for the
wheel. "I'll be all right. Don't worry about me."
        "This pistol," Anderton said, "is Army ordnance issue. But it's
not from the war. It's one of the useful new ones they've developed. I
could be a long way off but there's just a chance - "
        He climbed back to where Fleming lay spread out on the deck.
Trying not to touch the man's head, he tore open his coat and rummaged
in his pockets. A moment later Fleming's sweat-sodden wallet rested in
his hands.
        Tod Fleming, according to his identification, was an Army Major
attached to the Internal Intelligence Department of Military
Information. Among the various papers was a document signed by General
Leopold Kaplan, stating that Fleming was under the special protection of
his own group - the International Veterans' League.
        Fleming and his men were operating under Kaplan's orders. The
bread truck, the accident, had been deliberately rigged.
        It meant that Kaplan had deliberately kept him out of police
hands. The plan went back to the original contact in his home, when
Kaplan's men had picked him up as he was packing. Incredulous, he
realized what had really happened. Even then, they were making sure they
got him before the police. From the start, it had been an elaborate
strategy to make certain that Witwer would fail to arrest him.
        "You were telling the truth," Anderton said to his wife, as he
climbed back in the seat. "Can we get hold of Witwer?"
        Mutely, she nodded. Indicating the communications circuit of the
dashboard, she asked: "What - did you find?"
        "Get Witwer for me. I want to talk to him as soon as I can. It's
very urgent."
        Jerkily, she dialed, got the closed-channel mechanical circuit,
and raised police headquarters in New York. A visual panorama of petty
police officials flashed by before a tiny replica of Ed Witwer's
features appeared on the screen.
        "Remember me?" Anderton asked him.
        Witwer blanched. "Good God. What happened? Lisa, are you
bringing him in?" Abruptly his eyes fastened on the gun in Anderton's
hands. "Look," he said savagely, "don't do anything to her. Whatever you
may think, she's not responsible."
        "I've already found that out," Anderton answered. "Can you get a
fix on us? We may need protection getting back."
        "Back!" Witwer gazed at him unbelievingly. "You're coming in?
You're giving yourself up?"
        "I am, yes." Speaking rapidly, urgently, Anderton added,
"There's something you must do immediately. Close off the monkey block.
Make certain nobody gets it - Page or anyone else. Especially Army
people."
        "Kaplan," the miniature image said.
        "What about him?"
        "He was here. He - he just left."
        Anderton's heart stopped beating. "What was he doing?"
        "Picking up data. Transcribing duplicates of our precog reports
on you. He insisted he wanted them solely for his protection."
        "Then he's already got it," Anderton said. "It's too late."
        Alarmed, Witwer almost shouted: "Just what do you mean? What's
happening?"
        "I'll tell you," Anderton said heavily, "when I get back to my
office."
VIII
        Witwer met him on the roof on the police building. As the small
ship came to rest, a cloud of escort ships dipped their fins and sped
off. Anderton immediately approached the blond-haired young man.
        "You've got what you wanted," he told him. "You can lock me up,
and send me to the detention camp. But that won't be enough."
        Witwer's blue eyes were pale with uncertainty. "I'm afraid I
don't understand - "
        "It's not my fault. I should never have left the police
building. Where's Wally Page?"
        "We've already clamped down on him," Witwer replied. "He won't
give us any trouble."
        Anderton's face was grim.
        "You're holding him for the wrong reason," he said. "Letting me
into the monkey block was no crime. But passing information to Army is.
You've had an Army plant working here." He corrected himself, a little
lamely, "I mean, I have."
        "I've called back the order on you. Now the teams are looking
for Kaplan."
        "Any luck?"
        "He left here in an Army truck. We followed him, but the truck
got into a militarized Barracks. Now they've got a big wartime R-3 tank
blocking the street. It would be civil war to move it aside."
        Slowly, hesitantly, Lisa made her way from the ship. She was
still pale and shaken and on her throat an ugly bruise was forming.
        "What happened to you?" Witwer demanded. Then he caught sight of
Fleming's inert form lying spread out inside. Facing Anderton squarely,
he said: "Then you've finally stopped pretending this is some conspiracy
of mine."
        "I have."
        "You don't think I'm - " He made a disgusted face. "Plotting to
get your job."
        "Sure you are. Everybody is guilty of that sort of thing. And
I'm plotting to keep it. But this is something else - and you're not
responsible."
        "Why do you assert," Witwer inquired, "that it's too late to
turn yourself in? My God, we'll put you in the camp. The week will pass
and Kaplan will still be alive."
        "He'll be alive, yes," Anderton conceded. "But he can prove he'd
be just as alive if I were walking the streets. He has the information
that proves the majority report obsolete. He can break the Precrime
system." He finished, "Heads or tails, he wins - and we lose. The Army
discredits us; their strategy paid off."
        "But why are they risking so much? What exactly do they want?"
        "After the Anglo-Chinese War, the Army lost out. It isn't what
it was in the good old AFWA days. They ran the complete show, both
military and domestic. And they did their own police work."
        "Like Fleming," Lisa said faintly.
        "After the war, the Westbloc was demilitarized. Officers like
Kaplan were retired and discarded. Nobody likes that." Anderton
grimaced. "I can sympathize with him. He's not the only one. But we
couldn't keep on running things that way. We had to divide up the
authority."
        "You say Kaplan has won," Witwer said. "Isn't there anything we
can do?"
        "I'm not going to kill him. We know it and he knows it. Probably
he'll come around and offer us some kind of deal. We'll continue to
function, but the Senate will abolish our real pull. You wouldn't like
that, would you?"
        "I should say not," Witwer answered emphatically. "One of these
days I'm going to be running this agency." He flushed. "Not immediately,
of course."
Anderton's expression was somber. "It's too bad you publicized the
majority report. If you had kept it quiet, we could cautiously draw it
back in. But everybody's heard about it. We can't retract it now."
        "I guess not," Witwer admitted awkwardly. "Maybe I - don't have
this job down as neatly as I imagined."
        "You will, in time. You'll be a good police officer. You believe
in the status quo. But learn to take it easy." Anderton moved away from
them. "I'm going to study the data tapes of the majority report. I want
to find out exactly how I was supposed to kill Kaplan." Reflectively, he
finished: "It might give me some ideas."
        The data tapes of the precogs "Donna" and "Mike" were separately
stored. Choosing the machinery responsible for the analysis of "Donna,"
he opened the protective shield and laid out the contents. As before,
the code informed him which reels were relevant and in a moment he had
the tape-transport mechanism in operation.
        It was approximately what he had suspected. This was the
material utilized by "Jerry" - the superseded time-path. In it Kaplan's
Military Intelligence agents kidnapped Anderton as he drove home from
work. Taken to Kaplan's villa, the organization GHQ of the International
Veterans' League. Anderton was given an ultimatum: voluntarily disband
the Precrime system or face open hostilities with Army.
        In this discarded time-path, Anderton, as Police Commissioner,
had turned to the Senate for support. No support was forthcoming. To
avoid civil war, the Senate had ratified the dismemberment of the police
system, and decreed a return to military law "to cope with the
emergency." Taking a corps of fanatic police, Anderton had located
Kaplan and shot him, along with other officials of the Veterans' League.
Only Kaplan had died. The others had been patched up. And the coup had
been successful.
        This was "Donna." He rewound the tape and turned to the material
previewed by "Mike." It would be identical; both precogs had combined to
present a unified picture. "Mike" began as "Donna" had begun: Anderton
had become aware of Kaplan's plot against the police. But something was
wrong. Puzzled, he ran the tape back to the beginning. Incomprehensibly,
it didn't jibe. Again he relayed the tape, listening intently.
        The "Mike" report was quite different from the "Donna" report.
An hour later, he had finished his examination, put away the tapes, and
left the monkey block. As soon as he emerged, Witwer asked. "What's the
matter? I can see something's wrong."
        "No," Anderton answered slowly, still deep in thought. "Not
exactly wrong." A sound came to his ears. He walked vaguely over to the
window and
peered out.
        The street was crammed with people. Moving down the center lane
was a four-column line of uniformed troops. Rifles, helmets ... marching
soldiers in their dingy wartime uniforms, carrying the cherished
pennants of AFWA flapping in the cold afternoon wind.
        "An Army rally," Witwer explained bleakly. "I was wrong. They're
not going to make a deal with us. Why should they? Kaplan's going to
make it public."
        Anderton felt no surprise. "He's going to read the minority
report?"
        "Apparently. They're going to demand the Senate disband us, and
take away our authority. They're going to claim we've been arresting
innocent men - nocturnal police raids, that sort of thing. Rule by
terror."
        "You suppose the Senate will yield?"
        Witwer hesitated. "I wouldn't want to guess."
        "I'll guess," Anderton said. "They will. That business out there
fits with what I learned downstairs. We've got ourselves boxed in and
there's only one direction we can go. Whether we like it or not, we'll
have to take it." His eyes had a steely glint.
        Apprehensively, Witwer asked: "What is it?"
        "Once I say it, you'll wonder why you didn't invent it. Very
obviously, I'm going to have to fulfill the publicized report. I'm going
to have to kill Kaplan. That's the only way we can keep them from
discrediting us."
        "But," Witwer said, astonished, "the majority report has been
superseded."
        "I can do it," Anderton informed him, "but it's going to cost.
You're familiar with the statutes governing first-degree murder?"
        "Life imprisonment."
        "At least. Probably, you could pull a few wires and get it
commuted to exile. I could be sent to one of the colony planets, the
good old frontier."
        "Would you - prefer that?"
        "Hell, no," Anderton said heartily. "But it would be the lesser
of the two evils. And it's got to be done."
        "I don't see how you can kill Kaplan."
        Anderton got out the heavy-duty military weapon Fleming had
tossed to him. "I'll use this."
        "They won't stop you?"
        "Why should they? They've got that minority report that says
I've changed my mind."
        "Then the minority report is incorrect?"
        "No," Anderton said, "it's absolutely correct. But I'm going to
murder Kaplan anyhow."
IX
        He had never killed a man. He had never even seen a man killed.
And he had been Police Commissioner for thirty years. For this
generation, deliberate murder had died out. It simply didn't happen.
        A police car carried him to within a block of the Army rally.
There, in the shadows of the back seat, he painstakingly examined the
pistol Fleming had provided him. It seemed to be intact. Actually, there
was no doubt of the outcome. He was absolutely certain of what would
happen within the next half hour. Putting the pistol back together, he
opened the door of the parked car and stepped warily out.
        Nobody paid the slightest attention to him. Surging masses of
people pushed eagerly forward, trying to get within hearing distance of
the rally. Army uniforms predominated and at the perimeter of the
cleared area, a line of tanks and major weapons was displayed -
formidable armament still in production.
        Army had erected a metal speaker's stand and ascending steps.
Behind the stand hung the vast AFWA banner, emblem of the combined
powers that had fought in the war. By a curious corrosion of time, the
AFWA Veterans' League included officers from the wartime enemy. But a
general was a general and fine distinctions had faded over the years.
        Occupying the first rows of seats sat the high brass of the AFWA
command. Behind them came junior commissioned officers. Regimental
banners swirled in a variety of colors and symbols. In fact, the
occasion had taken on the aspect of a festive pageant. On the raised
stand itself sat stern-faced dignitaries of the Veterans' League, all of
them tense with expectancy. At the extreme edges, almost unnoticed,
waited a few police units, ostensibly to keep order. Actually, they were
informants making observations. If order were kept, the Army would
maintain it.
        The late-afternoon wind carried the muffled booming of many
people packed tightly together. As Anderton made his way through the
dense mob he was engulfed by the solid presence of humanity. An eager
sense of anticipation held everybody rigid. The crowd seemed to sense
that something spectacular was on the way. With difficulty, Anderton
forced his way past the rows of seats and over to the tight knot of Army
officials at the edge of the platform. Kaplan was among them. But he was
now General Kaplan. The vest, the gold pocket watch, the cane, the
conservative business suit - all were gone. For this event, Kaplan had
got his old uniform from its mothballs. Straight and impressive, he
stood surrounded by what had been his general staff. He wore his service
bars, his medals, his boots, his decorative short-sword, and his visored
cap. It was amazing how transformed a bald man became under the stark
potency of an officer's peaked and visored cap.
Noticing Anderton, General Kaplan broke away from the group and strode
to where the younger man was standing. The expression on his thin,
mobile countenance showed how incredulously glad he was to see the
Commissioner of Police.
        "This is a surprise," he informed Anderton, holding out his
small gray-gloved hand. "It was my impression you had been taken in by
the acting Commissioner."
        "I'm still out," Anderton answered shortly, shaking hands.
"After all, Witwer has that same reel of tape." He indicated the package
Kaplan clutched in his steely fingers and met the man's gaze
confidently.
        In spite of his nervousness, General Kaplan was in good humor.
"This is a great occasion for the Army," he revealed. "You'll be glad to
hear I'm going to give the public a full account of the spurious charge
brought against you."
        "Fine," Anderton answered noncommittally.
        "It will be made clear that you were unjustly accused." General
Kaplan was trying to discover what Anderton knew. "Did Fleming have an
opportunity to acquaint you with the situation?"
        "To some degree," Anderton replied. "You're going to read only
the minority report? That's all you've got there?"
        "I'm going to compare it to the majority report." General Kaplan
signalled an aide and a leather briefcase was produced. "Everything is
here - all the evidence we need," he said. "You don't mind being an
example, do you? Your case symbolizes the unjust arrests of countless
individuals." Stiffly, General Kaplan examined his wristwatch. "I must
begin. Will you join me on the platform?"
        "Why?"
        Coldly, but with a kind of repressed vehemence, General Kaplan
said: "So they can see the living proof. You and I together - the killer
and his victim. Standing side by side, exposing the whole sinister fraud
which the police have been operating."
        "Gladly," Anderton agreed. "What are we waiting for?"
        Disconcerted, General Kaplan moved toward the platform. Again,
he glanced uneasily at Anderton, as if visibly wondering why he had
appeared and what he really knew. His uncertainty grew as Anderton
willingly mounted the steps of the platform and found himself a seat
directly beside the speaker's podium.
        "You fully comprehend what I'm going to be saying?" General
Kaplan demanded. "The exposure will have considerable repercussions. It
may cause the Senate to reconsider the basic validity of the Precrime
system."
        "I understand," Anderton answered, arms folded. "Let's go."
        A hush had descended on the crowd. But there was a restless,
eager stirring when General Kaplan obtained the briefcase and began
arranging his material in front of him.
        "The man sitting at my side," he began, in a clean, clipped
voice, "is familiar to you all. You may be surprised to see him, for
until recently he was described by the police as a dangerous killer."
        The eyes of the crowd focused on Anderton. Avidly, they peered
at the only potential killer they had ever been privileged to see at
close range.
        "Within the last few hours, however," General Kaplan continued,
"the police order for his arrest has been cancelled; because former
Commissioner Anderton voluntarily gave himself up? No, that is not
strictly accurate. He is sitting here. He has not given himself up, but
the police are no longer interested in him. John Allison Anderton is
innocent of any crime in the past, present, and future. The allegations
against him were patent frauds, diabolical distortions of a contaminated
penal system based on a false premise - a vast, impersonal engine of
destruction grinding men and women to their doom."
        Fascinated, the crowd glanced from Kaplan to Anderton. Everyone
was familiar with the basic situation.
        "Many men have been seized and imprisoned under the so-called
prophylactic Precrime structure," General Kaplan continued, his voice
gaining feeling and strength. "Accused not of crimes they have
committed, but of crimes they will commit. It is asserted that these
men, if allowed to remain free, will at some future time commit
felonies."
        "But there can be no valid knowledge about the future. As soon
as precog-nitive information is obtained, it cancels itself out. The
assertion that this man will commit a future crime is paradoxical. The
very act of possessing this data renders it spurious. In every case,
without exception, the report of the three police precogs has
invalidated their own data. If no arrests had been made, there would
still have been no crimes committed."
        Anderton listened idly, only half-hearing the words. The crowd,
however, listened with great interest. General Kaplan was now gathering
up a summary made from the minority report. He explained what it was and
how it had come into existence.
        From his coat pocket, Anderton slipped out his gun and held it
in his lap. Already, Kaplan was laying aside the minority report, the
precognitive material obtained from "Jerry." His lean, bony fingers
groped for the summary of first, "Donna," and after that, "Mike."
        "This was the original majority report," he explained. "The
assertion, made by the first two precogs, that Anderton would commit a
murder. Now here is the automatically invalidated material. I shall read
it to you." He whipped out his rimless glasses, fitted them to his nose,
and started slowly to read.
        A queer expression appeared on his face. He halted, stammered,
and abruptly broke off. The papers fluttered from his hands. Like a
cornered animal, he spun, crouched, and dashed from the speaker's stand.
        For an instant his distorted face flashed past Anderton. On his
feet now, Anderton raised the gun, stepped quickly forward, and fired.
Tangled up in the rows of feet projecting from the chairs that filled
the platform, Kaplan gave a single shrill shriek of agony and fright.
Like a ruined bird, he tumbled, fluttering and flailing, from the
platform to the ground below. Anderton stepped to the railing, but it
was already over.
        Kaplan, as the majority report had asserted, was dead. His thin
chest was a smoking cavity of darkness, crumbling ash that broke loose
as the body lay twitching. Sickened, Anderton turned away, and moved
quickly between the rising figures of stunned Army officers. The gun,
which he still held, guaranteed that he would not be interfered with. He
leaped from the platform and edged into the chaotic mass of people at
its base. Stricken, horrified, they struggled to see what had happened.
The incident, occurring before their very eyes, was incomprehensible. It
would take time for acceptance to replace blind terror.
        At the periphery of the crowd, Anderton was seized by the
waiting police. "You're lucky to get out," one of them whispered to him
as the car crept cautiously ahead.
        "I guess I am," Anderton replied remotely. He settled back and
tried to compose himself. He was trembling and dizzy. Abruptly, he
leaned forward and was violently sick.
        "The poor devil," one the cops murmured sympathetically.
        Through the swirls of misery and nausea, Anderton was unable to
tell whether the cop was referring to Kaplan or to himself.
        Four burly policemen assisted Lisa and John Anderton in the
packing and loading of their possessions. In fifty years, the
ex-Commissioner of Police had accumulated a vast collection of material
goods. Somber and pensive, he stood watching the procession of crates on
their way to the waiting trucks.
        By truck they would go directly to the field - and from there to
Centaurus X by inter-system transport. A long trip for an old man. But
he wouldn't have to make it back.
        "There goes the second from the last crate," Lisa declared,
absorbed and preoccupied by the task. In sweater and slacks, she roamed
through the barren rooms, checking on last-minute details. "I suppose we
won't be able to use these new atronic appliances. They're still using
electricity on Centten."
        "I hope you don't care too much," Anderton said.
        "We'll get used to it," Lisa replied, and gave him a fleeting
smile. "Won't we?"
        "I hope so. You're positive you'll have no regrets. If I
thought- " "No regrets," Lisa assured him. "Now suppose you help me with
this crate."
        As they boarded the lead truck, Witwer drove up in a patrol car.
He leaped out and hurried up to them, his face looking strangely
haggard. "Before you take off," he said to Anderton, "you'll have to
give me a break-down on the situation with the precogs. I'm getting
inquiries from the Senate. They want to find out if the middle report,
the retraction, was an error - or what." Confusedly, he finished: "I
still can't explain it. The minority report was wrong, wasn't it?"
        "Which minority report?" Anderton inquired, amused.
        Witwer blinked. "Then that is it. I might have known." Seated in
the cabin of the truck, Anderton got out his pipe and shook tobacco into
it. With Lisa's lighter he ignited the tobacco and began operations.
Lisa had gone back to the house, wanting to be sure nothing vital had
been overlooked.
        "There were three minority reports," he told Witwer, enjoying
the young man's confusion. Someday, Witwer would learn not to wade into
situations he didn't fully understand. Satisfaction was Anderton's final
emotion. Old and worn-out as he was, he had been the only one to grasp
the real nature of the problem.
        "The three reports were consecutive," he explained. "The first
was 'Donna.' In that time-path, Kaplan told me of the plot, and I
promptly murdered him. 'Jerry,' phased slightly ahead of 'Donna,' used
her report as data. He factored in my knowledge of the report. In that,
the second time-path, all I wanted to do was to keep my job. It wasn't
Kaplan I wanted to kill. It was my own position and life I was
interested in."
        "And 'Mike' was the third report? That came after the minority
report?" Witwer corrected himself. "I mean, it came last?"
        " 'Mike' was the last of the three, yes. Faced with the
knowledge of the first report, I had decided not to kill Kaplan. That
produced report two. But faced with that report, I changed my mind back.
Report two, situation two, was the situation Kaplan wanted to create. It
was to the advantage of the police to recreate position one. And by that
time I was thinking of the police. I had figured out what Kaplan was
doing. The third report invalidated the second one in the same way the
second one invalidated the first. That brought us back where we started
from."
        Lisa came over, breathless and gasping. "Let's go - we're all
finished here." Lithe and agile, she ascended the metal rungs of the
truck and squeezed in beside her husband and the driver. The latter
obediently started up his truck and the others followed.
        "Each report was different," Anderton concluded. "Each was
unique. But two of them agreed on one point. If left free, I mould kill
Kaplan. That created the illusion of a majority report. Actually, that's
all it was - an illusion. 'Donna' and 'Mike' previewed the same event -
but in two totally different time-paths, occurring under totally
different situations. 'Donna' and 'Jerry,' the so-called minority report
and half of the majority report, were incorrect. Of the three, 'Mike'
was correct - since no report came after his, to invalidate him. That
sums it up."
        Anxiously, Witwer trotted along beside the truck, his smooth,
blond face creased with worry. "Will it happen again? Should we overhaul
the set-up?" 
        "It can happen in only one circumstance," Anderton said. "My
case was unique, since I had access to the data. It could happen again -
but only to the next Police Commissioner. So watch your step." Briefly,
he grinned, deriving no inconsiderable comfort from Witwer's strained
expression. Beside him, Lisa's red lips twitched and her hand reached
out and closed over his. "Better keep your eyes open," he informed young
Witwer. "It might happen to you at any time."

un fake di Alberto wrote :
(snip)
85 k? lo sai che qualcuno ti crocifiggera' per questo? (non io, ci ho messo
due secondi a scaricarlo)
Corrado



Mi spiegate cosa significa bene questa storia della banda? Cioè, una
qualsiasi homepage pesa di più; qual'è il problema (non mio e nemmeno
tuo, mi pare, ma qualcuno, come hai detto, crocifiggerebbe qualcun
altro per questo).
Ciao
@:::::§:::::@
~::ADAMSKI::~
@:::::§:::::@
n°1 - "Al di là dello sfondo cinematografico nell'opera, vi è uno sfondo culturale nell'uomo"

 Cosi' la smettiamo di discutere una volta per tutte. Chi vuole legga.
(cut)
Per questo post credo che ben presto verrai divorato dai piů. Non da me
perň, visto che ho molto gradito il pensiero. C'č anche da dire che non ci
ho impiegato piů di 2 secondi a scaricare tutto...
Cap.Ripley
--
"Hey,  you  sass  that  hoopy  Ford  Prefect? There's a frood who
really knows where his towel is."
D. Adams - THGTTG

 altro per questo).
In realta' e' una cosa molto soggettiva. Io, ad esempio, ho difficolta'
ad andare su web perche' ho un computer molto lento e i browser
arrancano. In posta ho problemi con attach grossi (diciamo sopra i 200K)
e cosi' filtro tutto quello che supera i 6K e decido dopo se scaricare o
meno. Col newsreader, per evitare di scaricare tonnellate di thread,
scelgo sulla base dei subject e dei nomi dei postatori.
Qualche volta -credo con molta moderazione- posto cose lunghe.
In questi casi, se non avverti in tag che il post e' "Lungo", coloro che
hanno i newsreader piu' lenti e che prima si scaricano gli headers e poi
taggano quello che vogliono leggere rischiano di trovarsi da scaricare
roba molto lunga senza esserselo aspettato. Qualcuno a volte si irrita,
quindi e' meglio avvertirlo prima.
-- 
UFV: Pinocchio/Possession-Una storia romantica
Heaven/Pornologists(VHS)/Minority Report/11.09.01

 ho impiegato piů di 2 secondi a scaricare tutto...
Siete gia' in tre ad aver gradito, mi saro' sacrificato volentieri. :-)


Siete gia' in tre ad aver gradito, mi saro' sacrificato volentieri. :-)
Io sono molto, molto contrariato, sia chiaro.
_
Riccardo Caiazzo                 "I'm afraid,
r.ca...@libero.it
                    Dave."

 ha scritto nel messaggio
(snip)
Buona idea!
Peccato che sia in inglese, ci mettero' il doppio a leggerlo..
ciao,
bax

 Io sono molto, molto contrariato, sia chiaro.
Ti chiedo perdono. 
-- 
UFV: Charade(DVD)/Pinocchio/Possession-Una storia
romantica Heaven/Pornologists(VHS)/Minority Report/11.09.01

Ti chiedo perdono. 
Ego te absolvo, figliuolo.


 Ti chiedo perdono.
Qui c'e' la sceneggiatura di Pinocchio, NON postarla :-)
http://www.pinocchio.it/Pages/Pinocchio.doc

 Ego te absolvo, figliuolo.
Grazie, padre.
Me la sono cavata, temevo di dover espiare dicendo bene di "Al di la'
dei sogni".
