“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.

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—“