The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

A certain amount of hucksterism would have to be brought into such a pressing as this. The public had a short memory, as was well-known; it would have to be forcibly reminded of Kongrosian’s existence and musical cum Psionic talents. But EME’s publicity department could readily handle it; after all, they had managed to sell many an unknown, and Kongrosian, for all his momentary obscurity, was scarcely that. But I wonder just how good Kongrosian is today, Nat Flieger reflected. The memo was trying to to sell him on that, too. “. . . everybody knows that Kongrosian has up until quite recently played before private gatherings,” the memo declared fervently. “For bigwigs in Poland and Cuba and before the Puerto Rican elite in New York. One year ago, in Birmingham, he appeared before fifty Negro millionaires for benefit purposes; the funds raised went to help with Afro-Moslem lunar type colonization. I talked to a couple of modern composers who were present at that; they swore that Kongrosian hadn’t lost any of his pizazz. Let’s see . . . that was in 2040. He was fifty-two, then. And of course he’s always at the White House, playing for Nicole and that nonentity, der Alte.” We had better get the F-a2 up there to Jenner and get him down on oxytape, Nat Flieger decided. Because this may be our last chance; artistic Psis like Kongrosian have a reputation for dying early.