The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

Behind Rugge appeared two plainclothes members of the City Police. They fixed their gaze on Dr. Superb, waiting. The reporting machines extended their hose-like receptors, sucking in data rapidly. For an interval no one moved or spoke. “Let’s step into my inner office,” Dr. Superb said to Mr. Rugge. “And pick up where we left off last Friday.” “You’re under arrest,” one of the two plainclothes police said at once. He advanced and handed Dr. Superb a folded writ. “Come along.” Taking hold of Superb’s arm he started to lead him toward the door; the other plainclothes man moved to the other side so that they had Superb between them. It was all done neatly, with no fuss. To Mr. Rugge, Dr. Superb said, “I’m sorry, Gordon. Obviously there’s nothing I can do by way of continuing your therapy.” “The rats want me to take drugs,” Rugge said bitterly. “And they know that pills make me sick; they’re toxic to my particular system.”