The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

What a wonderful place Mars must be, the man and woman were no doubt thinking, as the papoola poured out its recollections, its attitude. Gosh, it’s not cold and schizoid, like Earth society; nobody spies on anybody else, grades their endless relpol tests, reports on them to building Security Committees week in, week out. Think of it, the papoola was telling them as they stood rooted to the sidewalk, unable to pass on. You’re your own boss, there, free to work your farm land, believe your own beliefs, become yourself. Look at you, afraid even to stand here listening. Afraid to— In a nervous voice the man said to his wife, “We’d better . . . go.” “Oh no,” the boy said pleadingly. “I mean, gee, how often do you get to talk to a papoola? It must belong to that jalopy jungle, there.” The boy pointed, and Al found himself under the man’s keen, observing scrutiny. The man said, “Of course. They brought it here to sell jalopies. It’s working on us right now, softening us up.” The enchantment visibly faded from his face. “There’s the fellow sitting in there operating it.”