The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

  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 on to the lot. And he saw a once-familiar figure threading its way among the jalopies, towards him. It was his one-time 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 practising 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 dialled 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 modelled. 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. 'Tail 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 favour ... 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 got him a number of times, even though the lot could obtain orbital velocity in six minutes. The papoola 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 deep-think 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 to him.'

  Ian said bitterly, 'That's no good. Right now it's Patrick Doyle and he's as badly 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.'

  Sombrely, Al Miller puffed on his pipe.

  Ahead of Chic Strikerock the small factory at which he worked grew to its full but meagre 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 small-ltime 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 catalogue; 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 neighbourly way at him. 'It will be a relief to leave Earth with its repressive legislation. We were listening OH 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 m
ale 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.

  'Look,' Chic said, 'you don't have to lecture me about your virtues. I know more than you do yourselves.' And for good reason. Their presumption, their earnest sincerity, amused but also irked him. As next-door neighbours this group of sims would be something of a nuisance, he reflected. Still, that was what emigrants wanted, in fact needed, out in the sparsely-populated colonial regions. He could appreciate that; after all, it was Frauenzimmer Associates' business to understand.

  A man, when he emigrated, could buy neighbours, buy the simulated presence of life, the sound and motion of human activity -- or at least its mechanical near-substitute to bolster his morale in the new environment of unfamiliar stimuli and perhaps, god forbid, no stimuli at all. And in addition to this primary psychological gain there was a practical secondary advantage as well. The famnexdo group of simulacra developed the parcel of land, tilled it and planted it, irrigated it, made it fertile, highly productive. And the yield went to the human settler because the famnexdo group, legally speaking, occupied the peripheral portions of his land. The famnexdo were actually not next-door at all; they were part of their owner's entourage. Communication with them was in essence a circular dialogue with oneself; the famnexdo, it they were functioning properly, picked up the covert hopes and dreams of the settler and detailed them back in an articulated fashion. Therapeutically, this was helpful, although from a cultural standpoint it was a trifle sterile.

  The adult male said respectfully, 'Here is Mr Frauenzimmer now.'

  Glancing up, Chic saw the office door swing slowly open; carefully carrying his cup of coffee and doughnut, Maury appeared.

  'Listen, buddy,' Maury said in a hoarse voice. He was a short, round, perspiring man, like a reflection in a bad mirror. His legs had an inferior look, as if they just barely managed to support him; he teetered as he moved forward.

  'I'm sorry,' he said, 'but I guess I got to fire you.'

  Chic stared at him.

  'I can't make it any longer,' Maury said. Gripping the handle of his coffee cup with his blunt, work-stained fingers he searched for a place to set it and the doughnut down, among the papers and manuals littering the surface of the desk.

  'I'll be darned,' Chic said. In his ears his voice sounded weak.

  'You knew it was coming.' Maury's voice had become a bleak croak. 'We both did. What else can I do? We haven't turned over a major order in weeks. I'm not blaming you. Understand that. Look at this famnexdo group hanging around here -- just hanging. We should be able to unload them long before now.' 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 artefacts. Pipe down while we thrash this out. We have enough troubles without you getting involved.' Seating himself at the desk he opened the morning Chronicle.

  'The whole world's coming to an end. It's not us, Chic, not just Frauenzimmer Associates. Listen to this item in today's paper: "The body of Orley Short, maintenance man, was discovered today at the bottom of a six-foot vat of gradually hardening chocolate at the St Louis Candy Company."' He raised his head. 'You get that "Gradually hardening chocolate" -- that's it. That's the way we live. I'll continue. "Short, 53, failed to come home from work yesterday, and -- "'

  'Okay,' Chic interrupted. 'I understand what you're trying to say. This is one of those times.'

  'Exactly. Conditions are beyond any individual's power. It's when you got to be fatalistic, you know: resigned-like. I'm resigned to seeing Frauenzimmer Associates close forever. Frankly, that's next.' He eyed the famnexdo group of simulacra moodily. 'I don't know why we constructed you fellows. We should have slapped together a gang of street hustlers, floozies with just enough class to interest the bourgeoisie. Listen, Chic, this is how this terrible item in the Chronicle ends. You simulacra, you listen, too. It'll give you an idea of the kind of world you've been born into.

  "Brother-in-law Antonio Costa drove to the candy factory and discovered him three feet down in the chocolate, St Louis police said."' Maury savagely closed up the newspaper. 'I mean, how are you going to work an event like that into your Weltanschauung? It's just too damn dreadful. It unhinges you. And the worse part is that it's so dreadful it's almost funny.'

  There was silence and then the male adult simulacrum, no doubt responding to some aspect of Maury's subconscious, said, 'This is certainly no time for such a bill as the McPhearson Act to come into effect. We require psychiatric help from whatever quarter we can obtain it.'

  ' "Psychiatric help," ' Maury mocked. 'Yeah, you've put your finger on it, Mr Jones or Smith or whatever we named you. Mr Next-door Neighbour, whoever you are. That would have saved Frauenzimmer Associates -- right? A little psychoanalysis at two hundred dollars an hour for ten years ... isn't that how long it generally takes? Keerist.'

  He turned away from the simulacra, disgusted, and ate his doughnut.

  Presently Chic said, 'Will you give me a letter of recommendation?'

  'Of course,' Maury said.

  Maybe I'll have to go to work for Karp und Sohnen, Chic thought. His brother Vince, a Ge employee there, could get him put on; it was better than nothing, better than joining the pitiful jobless, the lowest order of the vast Be class, nomads who roamed the face of the Earth, now too poor even to emigrate. Or perhaps he should emigrate. Perhaps the time had at last come; he should face it squarely. For once give up the infantile ambitions upon which he had traded for so long.

  But Julie. What about her? His brother's wife made matters hopelessly complex; for example was he now responsible financially for her? He would have to thrash it out with Vince, meet him face to face. In any case. Whether he sought a position with Karp u. Sohnen Werke or not.

  It would be awkward, to say the least, approaching Vince under these circumstances; the business with Julie had happened at a bad time.

  'Listen, Maury,' Chic said. 'You can't lay me off, now. I've got a problem; as I related to you on the phone, I have a girl now who -- '

  'All right.'

  'P-pardon?'

  Maury Frauenzimmer sighed. 'I said all right; I'll keep you on a little longer. So it hastens the bankruptcy of Frauenzimmer Associates. So what. He shrugg
ed massively.

  'So ist das Leben: that's life.'

  One of the two children simulacra said to the adult male, 'Isn't he a good man, Daddy?'

  'Yes, Tommy,' the adult male answered, nodding. 'He most certainly is.' It patted the boy on the shoulder. The whole family beamed.

  'I'll keep you on until next Wednesday,' Maury decided. 'That's the best I can do, but maybe it'll help a little. After that -- I just don't know. I can't foresee anything. Even though I am slightly precognitive, as I've always said. I mean to a certain extent I've generally had valid hunches as to the future. Not in this case, though, not one damn bit. The entire thing is a mass of confusion, as far as I'm concerned.'

  Chic said, 'Thanks, Maury.'

  Grunting, Maury Frauenzimmer resumed reading the morning paper.

  'Maybe by next Wednesday something good'll come along,' Chic said. 'Something we don't expect.' Maybe, as sales manager, I can bring in a huge order, he thought.

  'Say, maybe so,' Maury said. He did not sound very convinced.

  'I'm really going to try,' Chic said.

  'Sure,' Maury agreed. 'You try, Chic, you do that.' His voice was low, muffled by resignation.

  CHAPTER 6

  To Richard Kongrosian the McPhearson Act was a calamity because in a single instant it erased his great support in life, Dr Egon Superb. He was left at the mercy of his lifelong illness-process, which, right at the moment, had assumed enormous power over him. This was why he had left Jenner and voluntarily checked in at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco, a place deeply familiar to him; he had, during the past decade, checked in there many times.

  However, this time he probably would not be able to leave. This time his illness-process had advanced too far.

  He was, he knew, an anankastic, a person for whom reality had shrunk to the dimension of compulsion; everything he did was forced on him -- there was for him nothing voluntary, spontaneous or free. And, to make matters worse, he had tangled with a Nitz commercial. In fact, he still had the commercial with him; he carried it about with him in his pocket.