The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

According to your biographical data you two made a thorough study of primitive disc recordings from the early nineteen hundreds, as early as 1920, of jug bands surviving from the U.S. Civil War, so you’re authentic juggists except of course you’re classical, not folk.” “Yes sir,” Al said. “Could you, however, slip in one folk work?” Slezak asked as they passed the NP guards at the service entrance and entered the White House, the long, quiet corridor with its artificial candles set at intervals. “For instance, we suggest ‘Rockaby My Sarah Jane.’ Do you have that in your repertoire? If not—” “We have it,” Al said shortly. A look of repugnance appeared on his face and then immediately was gone.

“Do they have to be destroyed? I don’t see why you couldn’t just eradicate a portion of the memory-cells of their brains and then let them go. Why wouldn’t that do?” Slezak glanced at Janet Raimer, then shrugged. “If you want it that way.” “Yes,” Nicole said. “I’d prefer that. It would make my job easier. Take them to the Medical Center at Bethesda and after that release them. And now let’s go on; let’s give an audience to the next performers.” A NP man nudged Ian in the back with his gun. “Down the corridor, please.” “Okay,” Ian managed to murmur, gripping his jug. But what happened? he wondered. I don’t quite understand. This woman isn’t really Nicole and even worse there is no Nicole anywhere; there’s just the TV image after all, the illusion of the media, and behind it, behind her, another group entirely rules. A corporate body of some kind. But who are they and how did they get power? How long have they had it? Will we ever know? We came so far; we almost seem to know what’s really going on. The actuality behind the illusion, the secrets kept from us all our lives. Can’t they tell us the rest? There can’t be much more. And what difference would it make now?

“All Souls over?” he said to the doorman as he entered the lobby, his identification held out to the official reader. “You’re a little confused, Mr. Duncan,” Vince Strikerock said. “All Souls was last night; this is Friday.” Something’s gone wrong, Ian realized. But he said nothing; he merely nodded and hurried on toward the elevator. As he emerged from the elevator on his own floor, a door opened and a furtive figure beckoned to him. “Hey, Duncan!” It was a building resident named Corley, who he barely knew. Because an encounter like this could be disastrous, Ian approached him with wariness. “What is it?” “A rumor,” Corley said in a rapid, fear-filled voice. “About your last relpol test—some irregularity. They’re going to rouse you at five or six A.M. tomorrow and spring a surprise relpol quiz on you.” He glanced up and down the hall. “Study the late 1980s and the religio-collectivist movements in particular. Got it?” “Sure,” Ian said, with gratitude. “And thanks a lot. Maybe I can do the same—” He broke off, because Corley had scuttled back into his own apartment again and shut the door. Ian was alone.

The elevator stopped. The doors slid back. They were in the subsurface level of the White House. Kongrosian and Pembroke stepped out into the hall— A man, whom both of them recognized, stood waiting for them. “I want you to listen, Kongrosian,” Bertold Goltz said to the pianist. Swiftly, in a fraction of a second, the NP Commissioner had his pistol out. He aimed at Goltz and fired. But Goltz had already vanished. A piece of folded paper lay on the floor where he had stood. Goltz had dropped it. Stooping, Kongrosian reached for it. “Don’t touch that!” Pembroke said sharply. It was too late. Kongrosian had it, was unfolding it. It read: Pembroke leads you to your death.

Sweat stood out on his forehead as he thought, So now my career, like that of every other psychoanalyst in the USEA, ends. What’ll I do now? Some of his colleagues had fled to Communist countries, but surely they were no better off there. Several had emigrated to Luna and Mars. And a few—a surprisingly large “few”—had applied for work with A.G. Chemie, the organization responsible in the first place for the stricture against them. He was too young to retire and too old to learn another profession. Bitterly, he thought, So actually I can do nothing. I can’t go on and I can’t quit; it’s a true double-bind, the sort of thing my patients are always getting themselves into. Now he could feel more compassion for them and the messes which they had made of their lives.

“Don’t give your source, doctor. I’ll come back inside with you, I think.” Pembroke urged Dr. Superb back up the steps of the building, to the front door of his office. “Just say that one of your patients, a Ge, revealed it to you in confidence, but you feel it’s too important to be kept quiet.” “All right,” Superb said, nodding. “And don’t worry about the psychological effect on the nation,” Pembroke said. “On the masses of Bes. I think they’ll be able to withstand it, once the initial shock has worn off. There will be a reaction, of course; I expect it to demolish the system of government. Wouldn’t you agree? By that I mean there will be no further der Altes and no more so-called ‘Nicole,’ and no more division into Ge and Be. Because we’ll all be Ges, now. Correct?” “Yes,” Superb said, as step by step he walked through the outer office, past Amanda Conners who stared speechlessly at him and Pembroke.