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 frame-up, 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 ...”