The Minority Report and Other Classic Stories (39 page)

Bump bump-bump BUMP-BUMP buuump bump, ba-bump-bump bup-bup-bup-bup-bupppp. Nicole giggled.

We’ve failed, Ian thought. God, the worst has come about: we’re ludicrous. He ceased playing; Al continued on, his cheeks red and swelling with the effort of playing. He seemed unaware that Nicole was holding her hand up to cover her laughter, her amusement at them and their efforts. Al played on, by himself, to the end of the piece, and then he, too, lowered his jug.

“The papoola,” Nicole said, as evenly as possible. “It didn’t dance. Not one little step—why not?” And again she laughed, unable to stop herself.

Al said woodenly, “I—don’t have control of it; it’s on remote, right now.” To the papoola he said, “You better dance.”

“Oh really, this is wonderful,” Nicole said. “Look,” she said to her husband, “he has to
beg it
to dance. Dance, whatever your name is, papoola-thing from Mars, or rather imitation papoola-thing from Mars.” She prodded the papoola with the toe of her moccasin, trying to nudge it into life. “Come on, little synthetic ancient cute creature, all made out of wires. Please.” The papoola leaped at her. It bit her.

Nicole screamed. A sharp
pop
sounded from behind her, and the papoola vanished into particles that swirled. A White House security guard stepped into sight, his rifle in his hands, peering intently at her and at the floating particles; his face was calm but his hands and the rifle quivered. Al began to curse to himself, chanting the words over and over again, the same three or four, unceasingly.

“Luke,” he said then, to his brother. “He did it. Revenge. It’s the end of us.” He looked gray, worn-out. Reflexively he began wrapping his jug up once more, going through the motions step by step.

“You’re under arrest,” a second White House guard said, appearing behind them and training his gun on the two of them.

“Sure,” Al said listlessly, his head nodding, wobbling vacuously. “We had nothing to do with it so arrest us.”

Getting to her feet with the assistance of her husband, Nicole walked toward Al and Ian. “Did it bite me because I laughed?” she said in a quiet voice.

Slezak stood mopping his forehead. He said nothing; he merely stared at them sightlessly.

“I’m sorry,” Nicole said. “I made it angry, didn’t I? It’s a shame; we would have enjoyed your act.”

“Luke did it,” Al said.

“ ‘Luke.’ ” Nicole studied him. “Loony Luke, you mean. He owns those dreadful jalopy jungles that come and go only a step from illegality. Yes, I know who you mean; I remember him.” To her husband she said, “I guess we’d better have him arrested, too.”

“Anything you say,” her husband said, writing on a pad of paper.

Nicole said, “This whole jug business… it was just a cover-up for an action hostile to us, wasn’t it? A crime against the state. We’ll have to rethink the entire philosophy of inviting performers here… perhaps it’s been a mistake. It gives too much access to anyone who has hostile intentions toward us. I’m sorry.” She looked sad and pale, now; she folded her arms and stood rocking back and forth, lost in thought.

“Believe me, Nicole,” Al began.

Introspectively, she said, “I’m not Nicole; don’t call me that. Nicole Thibodeaux died years ago. I’m Kate Rupert, the fourth one to take her place. I’m just an actress who looks enough like the original Nicole to be able to keep this job, and I wish sometimes, when something like this happens, that I didn’t have it. I have no real authority. There’s a council somewhere that governs … I’ve never even seen them.” To her husband she said, “They know about this, don’t they?”

“Yes,” he said, “they’ve already been informed.”

“You see,” she said to Al, “he, even the President, has more actual power than I.” She smiled wanly.

Al said, “How many attempts have there been on your life?”

“Six or seven,” she said. “All for psychological reasons. Unresolved Oedipal complexes or something like that. I don’t really care.” She turned to her husband, then. “I really think these two men here—” She pointed at Al and Ian. “They don’t seem to know what’s going on; maybe they are innocent.” To her husband and Slezak and the security guards she said, “Do they have to be destroyed? I don’t see why you couldn’t just eradicate a part of their memory-cells and let them go. Why wouldn’t that do?”

Her husband shrugged. “If you want it that way.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’d prefer that. It would make my job easier. Take them to the medical center at Bethesda and then let’s go on; let’s give an audience to the next performers.”

A security guard nudged Ian in the back with his gun. “Down the corridor, please.”

“Okay,” Ian murmured, gripping his jug. But what happened? he wondered. I don’t quite understand. This woman isn’t Nicole and even worse there is no Nicole anywhere; there’s just the TV image, the illusion, and behind it, behind her, another group entirely rules. A council of some kind. But who are they and how did they get power? Will we ever know? We came so far; we almost seem to know what’s really going on. The actuality behind the illusion… can’t they tell us the rest? What difference would it make now? How—

“Goodbye,” Al was saying to him.

“What?” he said, horrified. “Why do you say that? They’re going to let us go, aren’t they?”

Al said, “We won’t remember each other. Take my word for it; we won’t be allowed to keep any ties like that. So—” He held out his hand. “So goodbye, Ian. We made it to the White House. You won’t remember that either, but it’s true; we did do it.” He grinned crookedly.

“Move along,” the security guard said to them.

Holding their jugs, the two of them moved down the corridor, toward the door and the waiting black medical van beyond.

It was night, and Ian Duncan found himself at a deserted street corner, cold and shivering, blinking in the glaring white light of an urban monorail loading platform. What am I doing here? he asked himself, bewildered. He looked at his wristwatch; it was eight o’clock. I’m supposed to be at the All Souls Meeting, aren’t I? he thought dazedly.

I can’t miss another one, he realized. Two in a row—it’s a terrible fine; it’s economic ruin. He began to walk.

The familiar building, Abraham Lincoln with all its network of towers and windows, lay extended ahead; it was not far and he hurried, breathing deeply, trying to keep up a good steady pace. It must be over, he thought. The lights in the great central subsurface auditorium were not lit. Damn it, he breathed in despair.

“All Souls is over?” he said to the doorman as he entered the lobby, his identification held out.

“You’re a little confused, Mr. Duncan,” the doorman said, putting away his gun. “All Souls was last night; this is Friday.”

Something’s gone wrong, Ian realized. But he said nothing; he merely nodded and hurried on toward the elevator.

As he emerged from the elevator on his own floor, a door opened and a furtive figure beckoned to him. “Hey, Duncan.”

It was Corley. Warily, because an encounter like this could be disastrous, Ian approached him. “What is it?”

“A rumor,” Corley said in a rapid, fear-filled voice. “About your last
relpol
test—some irregularity. They’re going to rouse you at five or six A.M. tomorrow morning and spring a surprise quiz on you.” He glanced up and down the hall. “Study the late 1980s and the religio-collectivist movements in particular. Got it?”

“Sure,” Ian said, with gratitude. “And thanks a lot. Maybe I can do the same—” He broke off, because Corley had hurried back into his own apartment and shut the door; Ian was alone.

Certainly very nice of him, he thought as he walked on. Probably saved my hide, kept me from being forcibly ejected right out of here forever.

When he reached his apartment he made himself comfortable, with all his reference books on the political history of the United States spread out around him. I’ll study all night, he decided. Because I have to pass that quiz; I have no choice.

To keep himself awake, he turned on the TV. Presently the warm, familiar being, the presence of the First Lady, flowed into motion and began to fill the room.

“…and at our musical tonight,” she was saying, “we will have a saxophone quartet which will play themes from Wagner’s operas, in particular my favorite, ‘Die Meistersinger.’ I believe we will truly all find this a deeply rewarding and certainly an enriching experience to cherish. And, after that, my husband the President and I have arranged to bring you once again an old favorite of yours, the world renown cellist, Henri LeClercq, in a program of Jerome Kern and Cole Porter.” She smiled, and at his pile of reference books, Ian Duncan smiled back.

I wonder how it would be to play at the White House, he said to himself. To perform before the First Lady. Too bad I never learned to play any kind of musical instrument. I can’t act, write poems, dance or sing—nothing. So what hope is there for me? Now, if I had come from a musical family, if I had had a father or brothers to teach me how…

Glumly, he scratched a few notes on the rise of the French Christian Fascist Party of 1975. And then, drawn as always to the TV set, he put his pen down and turned to face the set. Nicole was now exhibiting a piece of Delft tile which she had picked up, she explained, in a little shop in Vermont. What lovely clear colors it had… he watched, fascinated, as her strong, slim fingers caressed the shiny surface of the baked enamel tile.

“See the tile,” Nicole was murmuring in her husky voice. “Don’t you wish you had a tile like that? Isn’t it lovely?”

“Yes,” Ian Duncan said.

“How many of you would like someday to see such a tile?” Nicole asked. “Raise your hands.”

Ian raised his hand hopefully.

“Oh, a whole lot of you,” Nicole said, smiling her intimate, radiant smile. “Well, perhaps later we will have another tour of the White House. Would you like that?”

Hopping up and down in his chair, Ian said, “Yes, I’d like that.”

On the TV screen she was smiling directly at him, it seemed. And so he smiled back. And then, reluctantly, feeling a great weight descend over him, he at last turned back to his reference books. Back to the harsh realities of his daily, endless life.

Against the window of his apartment something bumped and a voice called at him thinly, “Ian Duncan, I don’t have much time.”

Whirling, he saw outside in the night darkness a shape drifting, an egg-like construction that hovered. Within it a man waved at him energetically, still calling. The egg gave off a dull
putt-putt
noise, its jets idling as the man kicked open the hatch of the vehicle and then lifted himself out.

Are they after me already on this quiz? Ian Duncan asked himself. He stood up, feeling helpless. So soon… I’m not ready, yet.

Angrily, the man in the vehicle spun the jets until their steady white exhaust firing met the surface of the building; the room shuddered and bits of plaster broke away. The window itself collapsed as the heat of the jets crossed it. Through the gap exposed the man yelled once more, trying to attract Ian Duncan’s faculties.

“Hey, Duncan! Hurry up! I have your brother already; he’s on his way in another ship!” The man, elderly, wearing an expensive natural-fiber blue pin-stripe suit, lowered himself with dexterity from the hovering egg-shaped vehicle and dropped feet-first into the room. “We have to get going if we’re to make it. You don’t remember me? Neither did Al. Boy, I take off my hat to them.”

Ian Duncan stared at him, wondering who he was and who Al was and what was happening.

“Mama’s psychologists did a good, good job of working you over,” the elderly man panted. “That Bethesda—it must be quite a place. I hope they never get me there.” He came toward Ian, caught hold of him by the shoulder. “The police are shutting down all my jalopy jungles; I have to beat it to Mars and I’m taking you along with me. Try to pull yourself together; I’m Loony Luke—you don’t remember me now but you will after we’re all on Mars and you see your brother again.
Come on.”
Luke propelled him toward the gap in the wall of the room, where once had been a window, and toward the vehicle—it was called a jalopy, Ian realized—drifting beyond.

“Okay,” Ian said, wondering what he should take with him. What would he need on Mars? Toothbrush, pajamas, a heavy coat? He looked frantically around his apartment, one last look at it. Far off police sirens sounded.

Luke scrambled back into the jalopy, and Ian followed, taking hold of the elderly man’s extended hand. The floor of the jalopy crawled with bright orange bug-like creatures whose antennae waved at him. Papoolas, he remembered, or something like that.

You’ll be all right now, the papoolas were thinking. Don’t worry; Loony Luke got you away in time, just barely in time. Now just relax.

“Yes,” Ian said. He lay back against the side of the jalopy and relaxed; for the first time in many years he felt at peace.

The ship shot upward into the night emptiness and the new planet which lay beyond.

That morning, as he carefully shaved his head until it glistened, Aaron Tozzo pondered a vision too unfortunate to be endured. He saw in his mind fifteen convicts from Nachbaren Slager, each man only one inch high, in a ship the size of a child’s balloon. The ship, traveling at almost the speed of light, continued on forever, with the men aboard neither knowing nor caring what became of them.

The worst part of the vision was just that in all probability it was true.

He dried his head, rubbed oil into his skin, then touched the button within his throat. When contact with the Bureau switchboard had been established, Tozzo said, “I admit we can do nothing to get those fifteen men back, but at least we can refuse to send any more.”

His comment, recorded by the switchboard, was passed on to his co-workers. They all agreed; he listened to their voices chiming in as he put on his smock, slippers and overcoat. Obviously, the flight had been an error; even the public knew that now. But—