The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

Stone groaned and once more attached the intricate system of electrodes to his scalp. “All right,” he grated. “I hate Ian Duncan because he’s artistically gifted and I’m not. I’m willing to be examined by a twelve-resident jury of my neighbors to see what the penalty for my sin is; but I insist that Duncan be given another relpol test! I won’t give up on this—he has no right to be dwelling here amongst us. It’s morally and legally wrong.” “At least you’re being honest, now,” Doyle said. “Actually,” Stone said, “I enjoy jug band playing; I liked their little act, the other night. But I have to behave in a manner which I believe to be in the public interest.” The confessionator, it seemed to him, snorted in derision as it popped a second card. But perhaps it was only his imagination. “You’re just getting yourself deeper and deeper,” Doyle said, reading the card. “Look at this.” He grimly passed the card to Stone. “Your mind is a riot of confused, ambivalent motives. When was the last time you confessed?” Flushing, Stone mumbled, “I think—last August. Pepé Jones was the skypilot, then. Yes, it must have been August.” Actually, it had been early July. “A lot of work will have to be done with you,” Doyle said, lighting a cigarillo and leaning back in his chair.