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.

The buzzing, super-alert, obnoxiously persistent reporting machine said, “Is it true, Dr. Egon Superb, that you’re going to try to enter your office today?” There should have been some way to keep reporting machines out of one’s house, Dr. Superb reflected. However, there was not. He said, “Yes. As soon as I finish this breakfast which I am eating I will get into my wheel, drive to downtown San Francisco, park in a lot, walk directly to my office on Post Street, where as usual I will give psychotherapy to my first patient of the day. Despite the law, the so-called McPhearson Act.” He drank his coffee. “And you have the support—” “The IAPP has fully endorsed my action,” Dr. Superb said. In fact he had talked to the executive council of the International Association of Practicing Psychoanalysts just ten minutes ago. “I don’t know why you picked me out to interview. Every member of the IAPP will be in his office this morning.” And there were over ten thousand members, scattered throughout the USEA, both in North America and in Europe.

“You know what’s going to be happening here in a little while,” Superb said. “Don’t you?” “Oh yes. But the IAPP will provide bail, won’t it?” She brought him the small paper cup, carrying it with shaking fingers. “I’m afraid this means the end of your job.” “Yes.” Mandy nodded, no longer smiling; her large eyes had become dark. “I can’t understand why der Alte didn’t veto that bill; Nicole was against it and so I was sure he would, right up to the last moment. My god, the government’s got that time travel equipment; surely they can go ahead and see the harm this’ll cause—the impoverishment to our society.” “Maybe they did look ahead.” And, he thought, there will be no impoverishment.

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.”

At once he hurried outside onto the loading platform where the police were preparing to begin processing of the individual in question. “Doctor,” he said. “I’m Wilder Pembroke. I’d like to talk to you a moment.” He nodded to the police and they fell back, leaving Dr. Superb unhanded. “Come inside; I’ve got temporary use of a room on the second floor. This won’t take long.” “You’re not one of the City Police,” Dr. Superb said, eyeing him acutely. “Or perhaps you’re NP.” He looked uneasy, now. “Yes, that must be it.” Pembroke, as he led the way to the elevator, said, “Just consider me an interested party.” He lowered his voice as a group of police officials passed them. “Interested in seeing you back in your office, treating your patients.” “You have authority to do that?” Superb asked. “I think so.” The elevator came and the two of them entered it. “It’ll take an hour or so to get you back there, however. Please try to be patient.” Pembroke lit a fresh cigar. He did not offer one to Superb. “May I ask—what agency you are with?” “I told you.” Pembroke felt irritable. “You’re simply to consider me an interested party; don’t you understand?”

“The opening prayer,” he called huskily, cleared his throat and brought forth a small card. “Everyone please shut your eyes and bow your head.” He glanced at Tishman and the trustees, and Tishman nodded for him to continue. “Heavenly father,” Doyle read, “we the residents of the communal apartment building Abraham Lincoln beseech you to bless our assembly tonight. Um, we ask that in your mercy you enable us to raise the funds for the roof repairs which seem imperative. We ask that our sick be healed and that in processing applicants wishing to live amongst us we show wisdom in whom we admit and whom we turn away. We further ask that no outsiders get in and disrupt our law-abiding, orderly lives and we ask in particular that lastly, if it be thy will, that Nicole Thibodeaux be free of her sinus headaches which have caused her not to appear before us on TV lately, and that those headaches not have anything to do with that time two years ago, which we all recall, when that stagehand allowed that weight to fall and strike her on the head, sending her to the hospital for several days. Anyhow, amen.” The audience agreed, “Amen.”

On the stage the Fetersmoeller girls sang in their scratchy voices, and Stone wondered why he had come. Perhaps for no more reason than to avert a fine, it being mandatory for the residents to be here tonight. These amateur talent shows, put on so frequently, meant nothing to him; he recalled the old days when the TV set had carried entertainment, good shows put on by professionals. Now of course all the professionals who were any good were under contract to the White House, and the TV had become educational, not entertaining. Mr. Stone thought of the glorious old golden age, long since gone, of great old movies with comics such as Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine, and then he looked once more at the Fetersmoeller sisters and groaned. Vince Strikerock, ever on duty, hearing him, glanced at him severely.

Risking the severe fine, small, gray, nervous Mr. Ian Duncan missed the assembly and remained in his apartment that evening, studying official Government texts on the political history of the United States of Europe and America. He was weak in that, he knew; he could barely comprehend the economic factors, let alone all the relpol ideologies that had come and gone during the twentieth century, directly contributing to the present situation. For instance, the rise of the Democratic-Republican Party. Once it had been two parties (or was it three?) which had engaged in wasteful quarrels, in struggles for power, just the way buildings fought now. The two—or three—parties had merged, about 1985, just before Germany entered the USEA. Now there was just the one party, which had ruled a stable and peaceful society, and everyone, by law, belonged to it. Everyone paid dues and attended meetings and voted, each four years, for a new der Alte—for the man they thought Nicole would like best.

When did the position of First Lady begin to assume stature greater than that of President? the text inquired. In other words, when did our society become matriarchal, Ian Duncan said to himself. Around about 1990; I know the answer to that. There were glimmerings before that—the change came gradually. Each year der Alte became more obscure, the First Lady became better known, more liked, by the public. It was the public which brought it about. Was it a need for mother, wife, mistress, or perhaps all three? Anyhow they got what they wanted; they got Nicole and she is certainly all three and more besides.

It had been done, he told them. Jesse Pigg, the fabulous jug-artist from Alabama, had gotten to the White House first, entertaining and delighting the dozen and one members of the Thibodeaux family gathered there with his versions of “Derby Ram” and “John Henry” and the like. “But,” Ian Duncan had protested, “this is classical jug. We play late Beethoven sonatas.” “We’ll call you,” the talent scout had said briskly. “If Nicky shows an interest at any time in the future.” Nicky! He had blanched. Imagine being that intimate to the First Family. He and Al, mumbling pointlessly, had retired from the stage with their jugs, making way for the next act, a group of dogs dressed up in Elizabethan costumes portraying characters from Hamlet. The dogs had not made it, either, but that was little consolation.

I wanted to fail, he realized. Why? So I can get out of here, so I would have an excuse to give up all this, my apartment and my job, say fork it and go. Emigrate with nothing more than the shirt on my back, in a jalopy that falls to pieces the moment it comes to rest in the Martian wilderness. “Thanks,” he said glumly. In a rapid voice, Stone said, “Y-you can do the same for me, sometime.” “Oh yeah, be happy to,” Duncan said.

There was something about this particular der Alte, President Rudi Kalbfleisch, which always irritated him, and it would be a great thing when Kalbfleisch, in two more years, reached the end of his term and had, by law, to retire. It was always a great thing, a good day, when the law got one of them out of office; Vince always found it worth celebrating. Nonetheless, Vince felt, it was best to do all that was possible with the old man while he remained in office, and so he put down his razor and went into the living room to fiddle with the knobs of the TV set. He adjusted the n, the r and b knobs, and hopefully anticipated a turn for the better in the dire droning-on of the speech . . . however, no change took place.

Savagely, he went to the TV set and pressed the’s knob; if enough citizens pushed it, the old man would stop entirely—the stop knob meant total cessation of the mumbling speech. Vince waited, but the speech went on. And then it struck him as odd that there should be a speech so early in the morning; after all, it was only eight A.M. Perhaps the entire lunar colony had gone up in a single titanic explosion of its fuel depot. The old man would be telling them that more belt-tightening was required, in order to restock the space program; these and other quaint calamities had to be expected. Or perhaps at last some authentic remains of a sentient race had been unearthed—or was the term unmarsed?—on the fourth planet, hopefully not in the French area but in, as der Alte liked to phrase it, “one’s own.”

What was marriage, anyhow? An arrangement of sharing things, such as right now being able to discuss the meaning of der Alte giving an eight A.M. speech and getting someone else—his wife—to fix breakfast while he prepared to go to his job at Karp u. Sohnen Werke’s Detroit branch. Yes, it meant an arrangement in which one could get another person to do certain things one didn’t like to do, such as cooking meals; he hated having to eat food which he had prepared himself. Single, he would eat at the building’s cafeteria; he foresaw that, based on past experience. Mary, Jean, Laura, now Julie; four marriages and the last the shortest. He was going downhill. Maybe, god forbid, he was a latent queer.

Even as recently as five years ago he could have possessed a pet bird in The Abraham Lincoln, but that was now ruled out. Too noisy, really. Building Rule s205; thou shalt not whistle, sing, tweet or chirp. A turtle was mute—as was a giraffe, but giraffes were verboten, too, along with the quondam friends of man, the dog and cat, the companions which had vanished back in the days of der Alte Frederich Hempel, whom Vince barely remembered. So it could not have been the quality of muteness, and he was left, as so often before, merely to guess at the reasoning of the Party bureaucracy. He could not genuinely fathom its motives, and in a sense for that he was glad. It proved that he was not spiritually a part of it.

Could Dr. Jack Dowling, leading psychiatrist of the Vienna School in Bonn, Germany, cure me? Free me? Or this other man they’re showing, this—he listened to the newscaster, who droned on as the police vehicle drove away—Egon Superb. He had looked like an intelligent, sympathetic person, gifted with the balm of empathic understanding. Listen, Egon Superb, Vince thought, I’m in deep trouble; my tiny world collapsed this morning when I woke up. I need a woman whom I’ll probably never see again. A.G. Chemie’s drugs can’t help me with this . . . except, perhaps, a mortal overdose. And that’s not the sort of help I’m after.

Something sizzled to the right of him. A commercial, made by Theodorus Nitz, the worst house of all, had attached itself to his car. “Get off,” he warned it. But the commercial, well-adhered, began to crawl, buffeted by the wind, toward the door and the entrance crack. It would soon have squeezed in and would be haranguing him in the cranky, garbagey fashion of the Nitz advertisements. He could, as it came through the crack, kill it. It was alive, terribly mortal; the ad agencies, like nature, squandered hordes of them. The commercial, fly-sized, began to buzz out its message as soon as it managed to force entry. “Say! Haven’t you sometimes said to yourself, I’ll bet other people in restaurants can see me! And you’re puzzled as to what to do about this serious, baffling problem of being conspicuous, especially—” Chic crushed it with his foot.

I don’t enjoy this Wolff Report business—I think it’s too risky, this idea of tinkering with the past on a grand scale, even if it might mean saving six or eight or even ten million innocent human lives. Look what happened when we tried to send assassins back to kill Adolf Hitler in the early days of his career; something or someone balked us every time, and we tried it seven times! I know—I’m convinced—that it was agents from the future, from our time or past our time. If one can play with von Lessinger’s system, two can. The bomb in the beerhall, the bomb in the prop plane—” “But this attempt,” Stark said, “will delight neo-Nazi elements. You will have their cooperation.” Nicole said bitterly, “And that’s supposed to ease my worry? You, of all people, should see what a malign harbinger that is.”

“Kongrosian is a major artist,” Stark nodded. “I can appreciate your concern. And in these chaotic times, with such elements as the Sons of Job parading in the streets, and all the vulgarity and mediocrity which seems ready to rise up and reassert itself—” “Those creatures,” Nicole said quietly, “will not last long. So worry about something else.” “You believe you understand the situation, then. And have it firmly under control.” Stark permitted himself a brief, cold grimace. “Bertold Goltz is as Be as it’s possible to be. Out, un and Be; he’s all three. He’s a joke. A clown.” “Like Goering, perhaps?” Nicole said nothing.

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.”

Ian said, “I came across my jug. Remember when we were trying to make it to the White House? Al, we have to try once more. Honest to god, I can’t go on like this. I can’t stand to be a failure at what we agreed was the most important thing in our lives.” Panting, he mopped at his forehead with his handkerchief, his hands trembling. “I don’t even have my jug any more,” Al said presently. “You must. Well, we could each record our parts separately on my jug and then synthesize them on one tape, and present that to the White House. This trapped feeling, I don’t know if I can go on living with it. I have to get back to playing. If we started practicing right now on the ‘Goldberg Variations’ in two months we—” Al broke in, “You still live at that place? That big Abraham Lincoln establishment?” Ian nodded.

“This is a nice little office you have here. You sleep in it, don’t you? And when it moves, you move with it.” “Yes,” Al said, “we’re always prepared to take off.” The NP had almost gotten him a number of times, even though the lot could obtain orbital velocity in six minutes. The papoola had detected their approach, but not sufficiently far in advance for a comfortable escape; generally it was hurried and disorganized, with part of his inventory of jalopies being left behind. “You’re barely one jump ahead of them,” Ian mused. “And yet it doesn’t bother you. I guess it’s all in your attitude.” “If they get me,” Al said, “Luke will bail me out.” So what did he have to worry about? His employer was a powerful man; the Thibodeaux clan limited their attacks on him to deepthink articles in popular magazines harping on Luke’s vulgarity and the shoddiness of his jalopies. “I envy you,” Ian said. “Your poise. Your calmness.”

Getting out his immense Irish linen handkerchief, Maury mopped his forehead. “I’m sorry, Chic.” He eyed his employee anxiously. The adult male simulacrum said, “This is indeed a distressing exchange.” “I feel the same way,” its mate added. Glaring at them, Maury spluttered, “Tough. I mean, mind your own darn business. Who asked for your artificial, contrived opinion?” Chic murmured, “Leave them alone.” He was stunned at the news; emotionally, he had been caught totally by surprise, despite his intellectual forebodings. “If Mr. Strikerock goes,” the adult male simulacrum stated, “we go with him.” Sourly, Maury grunted at the simulacra. “Aw, what the hell, you’re just a bunch of artifacts.

I wonder if I ought to try to get hold of Egon Superb, he said to himself. Despite the McPhearson Act. Hopeless; Superb no longer exists—the law has obliterated him, at least as far as his patients are concerned. Egon Superb may still exist as an individual, in essence, but the category “psychoanalyst” has been eradicated as if it never existed. But how I need him! If I could consult him just one more time—damn A.G. Chemie and their enormous lobby, their huge influence. Maybe I can get my phobic body odor to spread to them. Yes, I’ll put through a call to them, he decided. Ask about the possibility of the super detergent and at the same time contaminate them; they deserve it. In the phone book he looked up the number of the Bay Area branch of A.G. Chemie, found it, and by psychokinesis dialed.

“The predisposition must have been there,” Judd said, “for the Nitz commercial to so influence you.” “On the contrary,” Kongrosian said. “And as a matter of fact I’m going to sue the Nitz Agency, sue them for millions—I’m totally prepared to start litigation. But that’s beside the point right now. What can you do, Judd? You smell it by now, don’t you? Admit you do, and then we can explore the possibilities of therapy. I’ve been seeing a psychoanalyst, Dr. Egon Superb, but thanks to your cartel that’s over, now.” “Hmm,” Judd said. “Is that the best you can do? Listen, it’s impossible for me to leave this hospital room. The initiative has got to come from you. I’m appealing to you. My situation is desperate. If it worsens—” “An intriguing request,” Judd said. “I’ll have to ponder for a while. I can’t answer you immediately, Mr. Kongrosian. How long ago did this contamination by the Nitz commercial take place?” “Approximately one month ago.”

And yet wasn’t this actually the most likely place for the Sons of Job to show themselves? This decadent region reeked of defeat; here lived those who had failed, Bes who held no real role in the system. The Sons of Job, like the Nazis of the past, fed on disappointment, on the disinherited. Yes, these backwater towns which time had bypassed were the movement’s authentic feeding-ground. . . . It should not have surprised him, then, to see this. But these were not Germans; these were Americans. It was a sobering thought. Because he could not dismiss the Sons of Job as a symptom of the ceaseless, unchanging derangement of the German mentality; that was too pat, too simple. These were his own people marching here today, his countrymen. It could have been him, too; if he were to lose his job with EME or suffer some crushing, humiliating social experience— “Look at them,” Molly said. “I am looking,” Nat answered. “And you’re thinking, ‘It could be me.’ Right? Frankly, I doubt if you have the guts to march in public in support of your convictions; in fact I doubt if you have any convictions.

“Is your Ganymedean creature too pure for what I have to say?” The smile was empty of warmth, now; it was fixed starkly in place. Nat said, “I’m a Jew, Mr. Goltz. So it’s hard for me to look on neo-Naziism with much enthusiasm.” After a pause Goltz said, “I’m a Jew, too, Mr. Flieger. Or more properly, an Israeli. Look it up. It’s in the records. Any good newspaper or media news morgue can tell you that.” Nat stared at him. “Our enemy, yours and mine,” Goltz said, “is the der Alte system. They’re the real inheritors of the Nazi past. Think about that. They, and the cartels. A.G. Chemie, Karp und Sohnen Werke . . . didn’t you know that? Where have you been, Flieger? Haven’t you been listening?” After an interval Nat said, “I’ve been listening. But I haven’t been very much convinced.” “I’ll tell you something, then,” Goltz said. “Nicole and the people around her, our Mutter, is going to make use of von Lessinger’s time travel principle to make contact with the Third Reich, with Hermann Goering, as a matter of fact. They’ll be doing it soon. Does this surprise you?” “I’ve—heard rumors.” Nat shrugged. “You’re not a Ge,” Goltz said. “You’re like me, Flieger, me and my people. You’re forever on the outside. We’re not even supposed to hear rumors. There shouldn’t have been a leak. But we Bes are not going to take it—do you agree? Bringing Fat Hermann from the past into our time is just too much, wouldn’t you say?” He studied Nat’s face, waiting for his reaction. Presently Nat said...

“I will discuss this with Maxwell Jamison,” she said finally. “Max will have a relatively clear idea as to how this information about the der Alte will be received by the Bes, by the uninformed public, I have no idea how they would react. Would they riot? Would they find it amusing? Personally I find it amusing. I’m sure it would appear that way to me if I were, say, a rather minor employee of some cartel or government agency. Do you agree?” Neither man smiled; both remained tense and somber. “In my opinion, if I may say so,” Pembroke said, “release of this information will topple the entire structure of our society.” “But it is amusing,” Nicole persisted. “Isn’t it? Rudi is a dummy, an ersatz creation of the cartel system, and yet he’s the highest elected official in the USEA. These people voted for him and for the der Alte before him and so on back for fifty years—I’m sorry, but it has to be funny; there’s no other way to look at it.”

Pembroke said finally, “Perhaps the NP should move in on the Karps before they can put out their white paper. Thereby we’d cut them off from the organs of communication.” “Even under arrest,” Nicole said, “The Karps would manage to gain access to at least one of the media. Better face that fact.” “But their reputation, if they’re under arrest—” “The only solution,” Nicole said thoughtfully, half to herself, “would be to assassinate those officers of the Werke who attended the policy meeting. In other words, all the Ges of the cartel, no matter how many there are. Even if the numbers ran up into the hundreds.” In other words, she said to herself, a purge. Such as one generally only witnessed in times of revolution. She shrank from the idea.

“And,” Pembroke pointed out eagerly, “these eight men, these top officers at Karp, are de facto criminals; they’ve deliberately met and conspired against the legal government. They’re on a par with the Sons of Job. With that Bertold Goltz. Even though they wear black bow ties every evening and drink vintage wine and don’t squabble in the gutters and streets.” “May I say,” Nicole said drily, “that all of us are de facto criminals. Because this government—as you pointed out—is based on a fraud. And of the most primary magnitude.”

The phone on Superb’s desk winked, on off, on off. An urgent call which Amanda wanted him to take. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Strikerock.” Dr. Superb lifted the receiver. And, on the screen, the grotesquely-distorted miniature face of Richard Kongrosian formed, gaping as if the man were drowning. “Are you still in Franklin Aimes?” Superb asked, at once. “Yes,” Kongrosian’s voice came in his ears from the short-range audio receiver. The patient, Strikerock, could not hear it; he fooled with a match, hunched over, clearly resenting the interruption. “I just now heard on TV that you still exist. Doctor, something terrible is happening to me. I’m becoming invisible. No one can see me. They only can smell me; I’m turning into nothing but a repellent odor!” Jesus Christ, Dr. Superb thought.

“You know, doctor,” Kongrosian went on, “sometimes I think the actual basis of my psychiatric problem is that I’m unconsciously in love with Nicole. What do you say to that? I’ve just figured that out; it just came to me, and it’s replete with clarity! The incest taboo or barrier or whatever it is has been called out by the direction my libido has taken, because of course Nicole is a mother figure. Am I correct?” Dr. Superb sighed. Across from him Chic Strikerock fiddled miserably with his match, obviously growing more and more uncomfortable. The phone conversation had to be terminated. And right away. But for the life of him, Superb could not figure out how to manage it.

“Nicole,” Kongrosian was saying rapidly, “is the last true woman in our society. I know her, doctor; I’ve met her countless times, due to my illustrious career. I know what I’m talking about, don’t you think? And—” Dr. Superb hung up the phone. “You hung up on him,” Chic Strikerock said, becoming fully alert. He ceased fooling with the match. “Was that right to do?” Then he shrugged. “I guess it’s your business, not mine.” He tossed the match away. “That man,” Superb said, “has a delusion that’s overpowering. He experiences Nicole Thibodeaux as real. Whereas actually she’s the most synthetic object in our milieu.” Shocked, Chic Strikerock blinked. “W-what do you mean?”

Around the next bend of the road there was a structure; Nat peered at it, wondering what it was. Old, shabby, abandoned-looking . . . he realized all at once that he was seeing a gas station. Left over from the days of internal combustion engine autos. He was thunderstruck. “An antique,” Molly said. “A relic! How bizarre. Maybe we ought to stop and look at it. It’s historical, like an old fort or an old adobe mill; please, Nat, stop the damn cab.” Nat punched buttons on the dashboard and the auto-cab, groaning in an anguish of friction and malconceived self-cues, came to a stop before the gasoline station.

“Vegetables,” he said. “Could you understand him? That’s what he said, isn’t it?” The elderly man mumbled. “I can’t eat meat. Wait.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a printed card which he passed to Nat. The card, dirty and shabby, could barely be read; Nat held it up to the light, squinting as he sought to make out the printed lettering. FEED ME AND I WILL TELL YOU ANYTHING YOU WANT TO HEAR. COURTESY OF THE CHUPPERS ASSN. “I am a chupper,” the elderly man said, and took the card suddenly back, returning it to his coat pocket. “Let’s get out of here,” Molly said to Nat, quietly. A radiation-spawned race, Nat thought. The chuppers of Northern California. Their enclave lay here. He wondered how many of them there were. Ten? A thousand? And this was where Richard Kongrosian had chosen to live.

The three of them re-entered the auto-cab; Nat started it up and they drove on past the gasoline station and the old chupper, who stood expressionlessly, watching them go as if he had once more become inert, turned off like a simulacrum, a mere machine. “Wow,” Molly said, and let out her breath raggedly. “What the hell was that?” “Expect more,” Nat said briefly.

THEODORUS NITZ commercial squeaked, “In the presence of strangers do you feel you don’t quite exist? Do they seem not to notice you, as if you were invisible? On a bus or spaceship do you sometimes look around you and discover that no one, absolutely no one, recognizes you or cares about you and quite possibly may even—” With his carbon dioxide-powered pellet rifle, Maury Frauenzimmer carefully shot the Nitz commercial as it hung pressed against the far wall of his cluttered office. It had squeezed in during the night, had greeted him in the morning with its tinny harangue. Broken, the commercial dropped to the floor. Maury crushed it with his solid, compacted weight and then returned the pellet rifle to its rack.

Rising clumsily to his feet, Maury extended his hand and said, “Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” Shaking hands with him, McRae said, “You’re Frauenzimmer?” “Correct,” Maury answered. His heart labored and he had difficulty breathing. Were they going to close him down? As they had moved in on the Vienna School of psychiatrists? “What have I done?” he asked, and heard his voice waver with apprehension. It was one trouble after another. McRae smiled. “Nothing, so far. We’re here to initiate discussion of the placing of an order with your firm. However, this involves knowledge of a Ge level. May I rip out your intercom?” “P-pardon?” Maury said, taken aback. Nodding to the NP men, McRae stepped aside; the police moved in and swiftly made the intercom inoperative. They then inspected the walls, the furniture; they examined scrupulously every inch of the room and its equipment and then they nodded to McRae to continue.

“All right. Frauenzimmer, we have specs with us for a sim we’d like constructed. Here.” He held out a sealed envelope. “Go over this. We’ll wait.” Opening the envelope, Maury studied its contents. “Can you do it?” McRae asked, presently. Raising his head, Maury said, “These specifications are for a der Alte.” “Correct.” McRae nodded. Then that’s it, Maury realized. That’s the piece of Ge knowledge; I’m now a Ge. It’s happened in an instant. I’m on the inside. Too bad Chic left; poor goddam Chic, what bad timing, bad luck, on his part. If he had stayed five minutes longer . . . “It’s been true for fifty years,” McRae said. They were drawing him in. Making him as much a part of this as possible now. “Good grief,” Maury said. “I never guessed, watching it perform on TV, making its speeches. And here I build the damn things myself.” He was staggered.

We won’t want to take any new orders for a while, so we can be free to concentrate on this.” He hesitated. “As to the cost—” “We’ll sign a contract,” Garth McRae said. “You’ll be guaranteed your costs plus forty percent. The Rudi Kalbfleisch we acquired for a total net sum of one billion USEA dollars, plus of course the cost of perpetual maintenance and repair since the acquisition.” “Oh yeah,” Maury agreed. “You wouldn’t want it to stop working in the middle of a speech.” He tried to chuckle but found he could not. “How does that sound, roughly? Say between one bil and one-five.” Maury said thickly, “Um, fine.” His head felt as if it were about to roll off his shoulders and plunge to the floor.

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.

“You ought to be fired,” Luke said, “but you’re a good salesman so I’ll keep you on. Meanwhile, you’ll have to make your quota without help.” Tightening his grip on the papoola, he started back out. “My time is valuable; I have to go.” He saw Al’s jug. “That’s not a musical instrument; it’s a thing to put whiskey in.” Al said, “Listen, Luke, this is publicity. Performing for Nicole means that the network of jalopy jungles will gain prestige. Got it?” “I don’t want prestige,” Luke said, pausing at the door. “There’s no catering to Nicole Thibodeaux by me; let her run her society the way she wants and I’ll run the jungles the way I want. She leaves me alone and I leave her alone and that’s fine with me. Don’t mess it up. Tell Slezak you can’t appear and forget about it; no grown man in his right senses would be hooting into an empty bottle anyhow.” “That’s where you’re wrong,” Al said. “Art can be found in the most mundane daily walks of life, like in these jugs for instance.”

Al said, “Was Nicole the First Lady that far back?” “Oh yes,” Luke said. “She’s been in office for seventy-three years; didn’t you know that?” “It isn’t possible,” both Al and Ian said, almost together. “Sure it is,” Luke said. “She’s a really old woman, now. Must be. A grandmother. But she still looks good, I guess. You’ll know when you see her.” Stunned, Ian said, “On TV—” “Oh yeah,” Luke agreed. “On TV she looks around twenty. But go to the history books . . . except of course they’re banned to everyone except Ges. I mean the real history texts; not the ones they give you for studying for those relpol tests. Once you look it up you can figure it out for yourself. The facts are all there. Buried down somewhere.” The facts, Ian realized, mean nothing when you can see with your own eyes she’s as young-looking as ever. And we see that every day. Luke, you’re lying, he thought.

“Listen,” Ian said. “If Nicole Thibodeaux is ninety years old no psychotherapy is going to help me.” “You’re that much involved emotionally with her? A woman you’ve never seen? That’s schizophrenic. Because the fact is you’re involved with—” Al gestured. “An illusion. Something synthetic, unreal.” “What’s unreal and what’s real? To me she’s more real than anything else; then you, even. Even than myself, my own life.” “Holy smoke,” Al said. He was impressed. “Well, at least you have something to live for.” “Right,” Ian said, and nodded.

The conference between Nicole Thibodeaux, Goering, and four military advisors abruptly terminated. All turned toward Goltz and the NP man. “Frau,” Goltz said, a parody of Goering’s greeting. He stepped forth, confidently; after all, he previewed this with his von Lessinger gear. “You know who I am. The specter at the feast.” He chuckled. But of course the White House possessed von Lessinger equipment, too; they had anticipated this, just as he had. This exposure had in it the element of fatality. It could not be avoided; no alternate tracks branches off, here . . . not that Goltz wished for them. Long ago he had learned that ultimately there was no future for him in anonymity. “Some other time, Goltz,” Nicole said with distaste. “Now,” Goltz said, walking toward her. The NP man glanced at her for instructions; he appeared highly confused. Nicole waved him away irritably.

The NP man eyed Superb. “What do you think are the chances that Kongrosian has joined the Sons of Job?” Superb said at once, “None whatsoever.” “All right.” The NP man noted that. “In your opinion, is there any chance he might have approached the Loony Luke people? Emigrated, or be attempting to emigrate, by means of a jalopy?” After a long pause Dr. Superb said, “I think the chances are excellent. He needs—seeks perpetually—isolation.”

Nicole Thibodeaux thought, I’ve got too much to do. I’m attempting to conduct delicate, tricky negotiations with Hermann Goering, I’ve instructed Garth McRae to let the new der Alte contract to a small firm and not to Karp, I have to decide what to do if Richard Kongrosian is ever found again, there’s the McPhearson Bill and that last analyst, Dr. Superb, and now this. Now the NP’s hasty decision—made without even attempting to consult me or notify me in advance—to move in on Loony Luke’s jalopy lots in dead earnest. Unhappily, she studied the police order which had gone out to every NP unit throughout the USEA. This isn’t in our interest, she decided. I can’t afford to attack Luke because I simply can’t get at him. We’ll only look absurd. And—we’ll look like a totalitarian society. Kept in existence only by our enormous military and police establishments.

Call your San Francisco unit and tell them to release the lot if they’ve found it. And if they haven’t found it, tell them to give up. Bring them back in and forget about it; when the time arrives to proceed against Luke I’ll tell you.” “Harold Slezak agreed—” “Slezak doesn’t make policy. I’m surprised you didn’t get Rudi Kalbfleisch’s approval on this. That would have been even more like you NP people. I really don’t like you—I find you unsavory.” She stared at him until he shrank back. “Well?” she said. “Say something.” With dignity, Pembroke said, “They haven’t found the lot, so no harm has been done.” He flicked on his com system. “Give up on the lots,” he said into it. At this moment he did not look very imposing; he was still perspiring freely. “Forget the whole damn thing. Yes, that’s right.” He clicked the system off and raised his head to face Nicole. “You should be busted,” Nicole said. “Anything else, Mrs. Thibodeaux?” Pembroke’s voice was wooden. “No. Scram.”

“Maybe things will pick up when the next der Alte takes office,” Janet said. Regarding her keenly, Nicole said, “How is it that you know about that?” “Everybody in the White House is talking about it. Anyhow,” Janet Raimer bristled, “I’m a Ge.” “How wonderful,” Nicole said sardonically. “Then you must lead a truly delightful life.” “May I ask what this next der Alte will be like?” “Old,” Nicole said. Old and tired, she thought to herself. A worn-out stringbean, stiff and formal, full of moralizing speeches; a real leader type who can drum obedience into the Be masses. Who can keep the system creaking along a while longer. And, according to the von Lessinger technicians, he will be the final der Alte. At least, most likely. And they are not certain quite why. We seem to have a chance but it is a small one. Time, and the dialectic forces of history, are on the side of—the worst creature possible. That vulgar buttinski, Bertold Goltz.

Bending, his brother turned on the car radio. “There’s some news about it already.” “I doubt if there would be so soon,” Chic said. “Quiet!” His brother turned up the volume. He had a news bulletin. So everyone, throughout the USEA, would be hearing it, now. Chic felt a little disappointed. “. . . a mild heart attack which doctors revealed occurred at approximately three A.M. and which has given rise to widely-held fears that Herr Kalbfleisch may not live to serve out his term of office. The condition of der Alte’s heart and circulatory system is the subject of speculation, and this unexpected cardiac arrest comes at a time when—” The radio droned on. Vince and Chic exchanged glances and then suddenly both of them burst into laughter. Knowingly and intimately. “It won’t be long,” Chic said. The old man was on his way out; the first of a series of public announcements had now been made. The process ran a regular course, easily predictable. First the mild, initial heart attack, coming out of the blue, thought at first to be merely indigestion; this shocked everyone but at the same time it prepared them, got them used to the idea. The Bes had to be approached in this manner; it was a tradition. And it functioned smoothly, effectively. As it had each time before.

It is kind of funny...