The Minority Report
Written by Philip K. Dick
Editor’s Note
Hello again, O Constant Reader. This is the third in my series of digitised American classics of literature.
This text comes out about a month after the release of the movie Minority Report, which played no small part
in its selection for conversion to eBook format. Those of you who enjoy science fiction and are tech savvy will
undoubtedly notice the somewhat vague or antiquated word usage as far as the technology in the story is
concerned. At present, I am working on a revised and expanded version of this story, to reflect the state of
current technology and some of the possible avenues that are being pursued; you can expect to see that
sometime later this year.
On the topic of source, the text has been extracted from the book The Minority Report and Other Classic
Stories by Philip K. Dick and, as always, the spelling conforms with my native British English, but doesn’t at all
detract from the feeling of the story. Of course, if you wish to edit this, please feel free. I hope you enjoy
it thoroughly.
God Bless
— Bastylle
I
The first thought that 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 my 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 as 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. “If 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. We 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 organisation? 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 realise, punishment
was never much of a deterrent, and could scarcely have afforded the comfort to a victim already dead.”
They had come to the descent lift. As it carried them swiftly downward, Anderton said: “You’ve probably
already grasped the basic legalistic drawback to precrime methodology. We’re taking in individuals who have
broken no law.”
“But surely, they will,” Witwer affirmed with conviction.
“Happily, they don’t — because we get to them first, before they can commit an act of violence. So the
commission of the crime itself is absolute metaphysics. We can claim they are culpable. They, on the other
hand, can 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 analysed, 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 shadows of today. The three gibbering, fumbling creatures with their enlarged head 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 name 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 confined 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.
“Fiver 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
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 the 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 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 code
punches, Precrime Commissioner John A. Anderton was going to kill a man — 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 officer 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 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 hand
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 hotels
downtown. 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 began backing off. What were the chances of his wife’s friendliness being benign,
accidental? Witwer would present the balance of the evening, and would now have and 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 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 things you’re — ”
She checked herself. “I mean, you’re acting 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 young 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 colour 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 the 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 fell 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 head 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 live five, the machine had neatly stamped another name.
LEOPOLD KAPLAN
Numbly, he pocketed the card. He had never head 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
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