The Simulacra (5 page)

“We need not settle this matter right now,” Stark said, then. “I’m sure you have other matters on your mind, Mrs. Thibodeaux. Planning the evening White House entertainment, perhaps. I received an invitation,” Stark tapped his coat pocket, “as I’m sure you’re aware. We are promised a fine parade of talent, are we not? But that is always true.” His voice was a murmur, gentle and soothing. “May I smoke?” From his pocket he brought a little flat gold case, from which he removed a cigar. “I am trying these for the first time. Philippine cigars, made from Isabela leaf. Handmade, as a matter of fact.”

“Go ahead,” Nicole said grumpily.

“Does Herr Kalbfleisch smoke?” Stark inquired.

“No,” Nicole said.

“He does not enjoy your musical evenings either, does he? That, I think, is a bad sign. Recall Shakespeare,
Julius Caesar.
Something about ‘I distrust him for he hath no music.’ Recall? ‘He hath no music.’ Does this describe the present der Alte? I have never met him, unfortunately. In any case it is a pleasure to deal with you, Mrs. Thibodeaux; believe me.” Emil Stark’s eyes were gray, extremely bright.

“Thanks,” Nicole groaned, wishing he would leave. She felt his domination of their colloquy and it made her weary and restless.

“You know,” Stark continued, “it is very difficult for us—for us Israelis—to deal with Germans: I would no doubt have difficulty with Herr Kalbfleisch.” He puffed cigar smoke; the smell made her wrinkle her nose with distaste. “This one resembles the first der Alte, Herr Adenauer, or so I gather from history tapes shown me as a boy in school. It is interesting to realize that he ruled far longer than the entire period of the Third Reich . . . which was intended to last a thousand years.”

“Yes,” she said, dully.

“And perhaps, if we assist it through von Lessinger’s system, we will enable it to do so.” His eyes were oblique, now.

“You think so? And yet you’re still willing to—”

“I think,” Emil Stark said, “that if the Third Reich is given the weapons it needs it will survive its victory by perhaps five years—and very possibly not even that long. It’s doomed by its very nature; there’s absolutely no mechanism in the Nazi Party by which a successor to der Führer can be produced. Germany will fragment, become a collection of small, nasty, quarreling states as it was before Bismarck. My government is convinced of this, Mrs. Thibodeaux. Remember Hess’s introduction of Hitler at one of the great Party rallies. ‘Hitler ist Deutschland.’ ‘Hitler is Germany.’ He was correct. Hence after Hitler what? The deluge. And Hitler knew it. As a matter of fact, there is some possibility that Hitler
deliberately
led his people to defeat. But that is a rather convoluted psychoanalytic theory. I personally find it too baroque for credence.”

Nicole said thoughtfully, “If Hermann Goering is brought out of his period, here to us, do you want to confront him and participate in the discussions?”

“Yes,” Stark said. “In fact I insist on it.”

“You—” She stared at him.
“Insist?”

Stark nodded.

“I suppose,” Nicole said, “that’s because you’re the spiritual embodiment of World Jewry or of some such mystic entity as that.”

“Because I am an official,” Stark answered, “of the State of Israel, its highest official, in fact.” He was silent then.

“Is it true,” Nicole asked, “that your people are about to launch a probe of Mars?”

“Not a probe,” Stark said. “A transport. We will set up our first kibbutz there, one of these days. Mars is, so to speak, one great Negev. We will have orange trees growing, someday.”

“Lucky little people,” Nicole said, under her breath.

“Pardon?” Stark cupped his ear; he had not heard.

“You’re lucky. You have aspirations. What we have in the USEA is—” She reflected. “Norms. Standards. It’s very mundane, and I don’t mean that as a pun having to do with space travel. Damn you, Stark—you rattle me. I don’t know why.”

“You should visit Irsael,” Stark said. “It would interest you. For instance—”

“For instance I could become converted,” Nicole said. “Change my name to Rebecca. Listen, Stark; I’ve talked long enough with you. 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.”

For an interval Stark said nothing; he smoked his Philippine handmade cigar and regarded her somberly. Then he shrugged. “I will bow out, I think, Mrs. Thibodeaux, at this point. Perhaps you are right. I’d like to ponder this and also confer with other members on my staff. I’ll see you at the musicale tonight, here at the White House, then. Will there be any Bach or Handel? I enjoy both composers.”

“We’ll have an all-Israeli night, just for you,” Nicole said. “Mendelssohn, Mahler, Bloch, Copland; all right?” She smiled, and Emil Stark smiled back.

“Is there a copy of General Wolff’s report which I can take?” Stark asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s Geheimnis—top secret.”

Stark raised an eyebrow. And ceased smiling.”

“Even Kalbfleisch is not going to see it,” Nicole said.

She did not intend to budge in her position, and Emil Stark could undoubtedly perceive that. After all, the man was professionally astute. Going to her desk she seated herself. Waiting for him to go, expecting him to, she sat examining a folio of abstracts which had been placed for her attention by her secretary, Leonore. They were boring—or were they? She read the top abstract once more, carefully.

It informed her that White House talent scout Janet Raimer had been unable to sign the great but morbidly neurotic concert pianist Richard Kongrosian for tonight after all, because Kongrosian had suddenly left his summer home at Jenner and gone voluntarily into a sanitarium for electroshock therapy. And no one was supposed to know.

Goddam, Nicole said to herself, bitterly. Well, that puts an end to this evening; I might as well go to bed right after dinner. For Kongrosian was not only the foremost interpreter of Brahms and Chopin but was in addition an eccentric, flashing, colossal wit.

Emil Stark puffed on his cigar, regarding her with curiosity.

“Does the name ‘Richard Kongrosian’ mean anything to you?” she demanded, looking up.

“Certainly. For certain Romantic composers—”

“He’s sick again. Mentally. For the hundredth time. Or didn’t you know about that? Hadn’t you heard the rumors?” Furiously, she spun the abstract away from her; it slipped to the floor. “Sometimes I wish he would finally kill himself or die from a perforated colon or whatever it is he’s really got. This week.”

“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. But her eyes flickered; Stark saw that, the sudden, temporary doubt. He grimaced again, this time involuntarily. A grimace of concern. Nicole shuddered.

FIVE

In the little building at the back of Jalopy Jungle Number Three, Al Miller sat with his feet up on the desk, smoking an Upmann cigar and watching passers-by, the sidewalk and people and stores of downtown Reno, Nevada. Beyond the gleam of the new jalopies parked with flapping banners and streamers cascading from them he saw a shape waiting, hiding beneath the huge sign that spelled out LOONY LUKE.

And he was not the only person to see the shape; along the sidewalk came a man and woman with a small boy trotting ahead of them, and the boy, with an exclamation, hopped up and down, gesturing excitedly. “Hey, Dad, look! You know what it is? Look,
it’s the papoola.
”

“By golly,” the man said with a grin, “so it is. Look, Marion, there’s one of those Martian creatures, hiding there under the sign. What do you say we go over and chat with it?” He started in that direction, along with the boy. The woman, however, continued along the sidewalk.

“Come on, Mom!” the boy urged.

In his office, Al Miller lightly touched the controls of the mechanism within his shirt. The papoola emerged from beneath the LOONY LUKE sign, and Al caused it to waddle on its six stubby legs toward the sidewalk, its round, silly hat slipping over one antenna, its eyes crossing and uncrossing as it made out the sight of the woman. The tropism being established, the papoola trudged after her, to the delight of the boy and his father.

“Look, Dad, it’s following Mom! Hey Mom, turn around and see!”

The woman glanced back, saw the platter-like organism with its orange bug-shaped body, and she laughed. Everybody loves the papoola, Al thought to himself. See the funny Martian papoola. Speak, papoola; say hello to the nice lady who’s laughing at you.

The thoughts of the papoola, directed at the woman, reached Al. It was greeting her, telling her how nice it was to meet her, soothing and coaxing her until she came back up the sidewalk toward it, joining her boy and husband so that now all three of them stood together, receiving the mental impulses emanating from the Martian creature which had come here to Earth with no hostile plans, no capacity to cause trouble. The papoola loved them, too, just as they loved it; it told them so right now—it conveyed to them the gentleness, the warm hospitality which it was accustomed to on its own planet.

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.”

But, the papoola thought, what I tell you is still true. Even if it is a sales pitch. You could go there, to Mars, yourself. You and your family can see with your own eyes—if you have the courage to break free. Can you do it? Are you a real man? Buy a Loony Luke jalopy; buy it while you still have the chance, because you know that someday, maybe not so long from now, the NP is going to crack down. And there will be no more jalopy jungles. No more crack in the wall of the authoritarian society through which a few—a few lucky people—can escape.

Fiddling with the controls at his midsection. Al turned up the gain. The force of the papoola’s psyche increased, drawing the man in, taking control of him. You must buy a jalopy, the papoola urged. Easy payment plan, service warranty, many models to choose from. This is the time to sign; don’t delay. The man took a step toward the lot. Hurry, the papoola told him. Any second now the authorities may close down the lot and your opportunity will be gone forever.

“This—is how they work it,” the man said with difficulty. “The animal snares people. Hypnosis. We have to leave.” But he did not leave; it was too late: he was going to buy a jalopy, and Al, in the office with his control box, was reeling the man in.

Leisurely, Al rose to his feet. Time to go out and close the deal. He shut off the papoola, opened the office door and stepped outside onto the lot—

And saw a once-familiar figure threading its way among the jalopies, toward him. It was his onetime buddy Ian Duncan and he had not seen him in years. Good grief, Al thought. What’s he want? And at a time like this!

“Al,” Ian Duncan called, gesturing. “Can I talk with you a second? You’re not too busy, are you?” Perspiring and pale, he came closer, looking about in a frightened way. He had deteriorated since Al had last seen him.

“Listen,” Al said, with anger. But already it was too late; the couple and their boy had broken away and were moving rapidly on down the sidewalk.

“I didn’t, um, mean to bother you,” Ian mumbled.

“You’re not bothering me,” Al said as he gloomily watched the three prospects depart. “Well, what’s the trouble, Ian? You sure as hell don’t look very well. Are you sick? Come on inside the office.” He led him inside and shut the door.

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.

“And you still have that job with that Bavarian cartel? You’re still a gear inspector?” He could not understand why Ian Duncan was so upset. “Hell, if worst comes to worst you can emigrate. Jug-playing is out of the question. I haven’t played for years, since I last saw you, in fact. Just a minute.” He dialed the knobs of the mechanism which controlled the papoola; near the sidewalk the creature responded and began to return slowly to its spot beneath the sign.

Seeing it, Ian said, “I thought they were all dead.”

“They are,” Al said.

“But that one out there moves and—”

“It’s a fake,” Al said, “a simulacrum, like those things they use for colonizing. I control it.” He showed his old-time buddy the control box. “It brings in people off the sidewalk. Actually, Luke is supposed to have a genuine one on which these are modeled. Nobody knows for sure and the law can’t touch Luke. The NP can’t make him cough up the real one, if he does have it.” Al seated himself and lit his pipe. “Fail your relpol test,” he said to Ian. “Lose your apartment and get back your original deposit. Bring me the money and I’ll see that you get a damn fine jalopy that’ll take you to Mars. How about it?”

“I tried to fail my test,” Ian said, “but they won’t let me. They doctored the results. They don’t want me to get away. They won’t let me go.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The man in the next apartment at The Abraham Lincoln. Edgar Stone, his name is—I think. He did it deliberately. I saw the expression on his face. Maybe he imagined he was doing me a favor. . . . I don’t know.” He glanced around him. “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.”

“Doesn’t your building have a skypilot? Go talk with him.”

Ian said bitterly, “That’s no good. Right now it’s Patrick Doyle and he’s as bad off as I am. And Don Tishman, our chairman, is even worse off; he’s a bundle of nerves. In fact our whole building is shot through with anxiety. Maybe it has to do with Nicole’s sinus headaches.”

Glancing at him, Al saw that he was actually serious. The White House and all it stood for meant that much to him; it still dominated his life, as it had years ago when they had been buddies in the Service. “For your sake,” Al said quietly. “I’ll get my jug out and practice. We’ll make one more try.”

Speechless, Ian Duncan gaped at him.

“I mean it,” Al said, nodding.

With gratitude, Ian whispered, “God bless you, Al.”

Somberly, Al Miller puffed on his pipe.

Ahead of Chic Strikerock the small factory at which he worked grew to its full but meager proportion; this was as large as it was going to get—this hatbox-like structure—of late a light green, modern enough if one’s standards were not too critical. Frauenzimmer Associates. Soon he would be in his office, at work, and fussing with the blinds of the window in an effort to restrict the bright morning sun. Fussing, too, at Miss Greta Trupe, the elderly lady secretary who served both him and Maury.

It’s a great life, Chic thought. But perhaps, since yesterday, the firm had gone into receivership; it would not have surprised him—and it probably would not have much saddened him, either. Although, of course, it would be a shame for Maury, and he liked Maury, despite their ubiquitous clashes. After all, a small firm was much like a small family. Everyone rubbed elbows in close, personal fashion and on many psychological levels. It was much more elaborately intimate than the depersonalized human relationship held by employees and employers of cartel-sized operations.

Frankly, he preferred it. Preferred the closeness. To him there was something horrible about the detached and highly reified bureaucratic interpersonal activity in the halls of the mighty, within the
geheimlich
powerful corporations. The fact that Maury was a smalltime operator actually appealed to him. It was a bit of the old world, the twentieth century, still extant.

In the lot he parked, manually, beside Maury’s elderly wheel, got out and walked, hands in his pockets, to the familiar front entrance.

The small cluttered office—with its heaps of unopened unanswered mail, coffee cups, work manuals and crumpled invoices, tacked-up girly type calendars—smelled dusty, as if its windows had never at any time been opened to fresh air and the light of day. And, at the far end, taking up most of the available space, he saw four simulacra seated in silence, a group: one in adult male form, its female mate and two children. This was a major item of the firm’s catalog; this was a famnexdo.

The adult male style simulacrum rose and greeted him with civility. “Good morning, Mr. Strikerock.”

“Maury arrived yet?” He glanced around.

“In a limited sense, yes,” the adult male simulacrum answered. “He’s down the street getting his morning cup of coffee and doughnut.”

“Jolly,” Chic said, and removed his coat. “Well, are you folks all ready to go to Mars?” he asked the simulacra. He hung up his coat.

“Yes, Mr. Strikerock,” the adult female said, nodding. “And we’re cheerful, too. You can count on that.” Obligingly, she smiled in a neighborly way at him. “It will be a relief to leave Earth with its repressive legislation. We were listening on the FM to the news about the McPhearson Act.”

“We consider it dreadful,” the adult male said.

“I have to agree with you,” Chic said. “But what can one do?” He looked around for the mail; as always it was lost somewhere in the mass of clutter.

“One can emigrate,” the adult male simulacrum pointed out.

“Um,” Chic said absently. He had found an unexpected heap of recent-looking bills from parts suppliers; with a feeling of gloom and even terror he began to sort through them. Had Maury seen these? Probably. Seen them and then pushed them away immediately, out of sight. Frauenzimmer Associates functioned better if it was not reminded of such facts of life. Like a regressed neurotic, it had to hide several aspects of reality from its percept system in order to function at all. This was hardly ideal, but what really was the alternative? To be realistic would be to give up, to die. Illusion, of an infantile nature, was essential for the tiny firm’s survival, or at least so it seemed to him and Maury. In any case both of them had adopted this attitude. Their simulacra—the adult ones—disapproved of this; their cold, logical appraisal of reality stood in sharp contrast, and Chic always felt a little naked, a little embarrassed, before the simulacra; he knew he should set a better example for them.

“If you bought a jalopy and emigrated to Mars,” the adult male said, “we could be the famnexdo for you.”

“I wouldn’t need any family next door,” Chic said, “if I emigrated to Mars. I’d go to get away from people.”

“We’d make a very good family next door to you,” the female said.