The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

  There was no response. Kongrosian was completely alone; he no longer had any contact with other life.

  I've got to get out of here, he decided. Seek help -- I'm not getting any help, here; they've been unable to arrest the illness-process.

  I'll go back to Jenner.

  See my son.

  There was no point in seeking out Dr Superb or any other medical man, chemically-oriented or not. The period of seeking therapy was over. And now -- a new period. What did it consist of? He did not know, yet. In time he would know, however. Assuming that he lived through it. And how could he do that when, for all intents, he was already dead? 'That's it, he said to himself. I've died. And yet I'm still alive.

  It was a mystery. He did not understand it.

  Perhaps, he thought, what I must seek then is a rebirth.

  Effortlessly -- after all, no one could see him -- he made his way from his room and down the corridor to the stairs, down the stairs and out the side entrance of Franklin Aimes Hospital. Presently he was walking along the sidewalk of an unfamiliar street, somewhere in a hilly section of San Francisco, surrounded by vastly high apartment buildings, many of them dating from before World War Three.

  By avoiding stepping on any cracks of cement pavement he cancelled, for the time being, the trail of noxious odour which otherwise he would have left in his wake.

  I must be getting better, he decided. I've found at least a temporary ritual of purification to balance my phobic body odour. And except for the fact that he was still invisible. How am I going to play the piano this way? he asked himself. This means, evidently, the end of my career.

  And then all at once he remembered Merrill Judd, the chemist with A.G. Chemie. Judd was supposed to be going to help me, he recalled; I completely forgot about it, in the excitement of becoming invisible.

  I can go by auto-cab to A.G. Chemie.

  He hailed an auto-cab which was passing, but it failed to see him. Disappointed, he watched it go on by. I thought I was still visible to purely electronic scanning devices, he thought. Evidently not, however.

  Can I walk to an A.G. Chemie branch? he asked himself.

  I guess I'll have to. Because of course I can't board the ordinary pubtrans; it wouldn't be fair to the others.

  I've got quite a task for Judd, he realized. Not only must the man eradicate my phobic body odour but he has to make me invisible once more. Discouragement filled Kongrosian's mind. They can't do it, he realized. It's too much; it's hopeless. I'll just have to keep on trying for rebirth.

  When I see Judd I'll ask him about it, see what A.G. Chemie can do for me in that line. After all, next to Karp they're the most powerful economic syndrome in the entire USEA. I'd have to go back to the USSR to find a greater economic entity.

  A.G. Chemie is so proud of its chemical therapy; let's see if they have a drug which promotes rebirth.

  He was walking along, thinking those thoughts while avoiding stepping on the cracks in the pavement, when all at once he realized that something lay in his path. An animal, flat, platter-shaped, orange with black spots, its antennae waving. And, at the same instant, a thought formed in his brain.

  'Rebirth ... yes, a new life. Begin over, on another world.'

  Mars!

  Kongrosian halted and said, 'You're right.' It was a papoola, there on the sidewalk before him. He looked around and saw, sure enough, a jalopy jungle parked not far off, the shiny jalopies sparkling in the sunlight. There, in the centre of the lot, in a little office building, sat the operator of the lot, and Kongrosian moved step by step towards him. The papoola followed, and as it followed it communicated with him.

  'Forget A.G. Chemie ... they can't do anything for you.'

  Right, Kongrosian thought. It's entirely too late for that.

  If Judd had come up with something right away it would have been different. But now. And then he realized something.

  The papoola could seehim.

  Or at least it could sense him with some organ or apperception, in some dimension or other. And -- it did not object to his smell.

  'Not at all,' the papoola was telling him. 'You smell perfectly wonderful to me. I have no complaints at all, absolutely none.'

  Kongrosian halting, said, 'Would it be that way on Mars? They could see me -- or at least perceive me -- and I wouldn't offend them?'

  'There are no Theodoras Nitz commercials on Mars,' the papoola's thoughts came to him, forming in his eager mind.

  'You will gradually shed your contamination, there. In that pure, virgin environment. Enter the office, Mr Kongrosian, and speak to Mr Miller, our sales representative. He is eager to serve you. He exists to serve you.'

  'Yes,' Kongrosian said, and opened the door of the office.

  There was, ahead of him, another customer waiting; the salesman was filling out a contract form. A thin, tall, balding customer who looked ill-at-ease and restless; he glanced towards Kongrosian and then moved a step away.

  The smell had offended him.

  'Forgive me,' Kongrosian mumbled in apology.

  'Now, Mr Strikerock,' the salesman was saying to this previous customer, 'if you'll sign here -- ' He turned the form around and held up a fountain pen.

  The customer, in a spasm of muscular activity, signed, then stepped back, visibly shaking from the tension.

  'It's a big moment,' he said to Kongrosian. 'When you decide to do this. I'd never have had the courage on my own, but my psychiatrist suggested it. Said it was the best alternative for me.'

  'Who's your psychiatrist?' Kongrosian said, naturally interested.

  'There's only one. These days. Dr Egon Superb.'

  'He's mine, too,' Kongrosian exclaimed. 'A darn good man; I was just talking to him.'

  The customer now studied Kongrosian's face intently.

  He said then very painstakingly and slowly, 'You're the man on the telephone. You called Dr Superb; I was in his office.'

  The salesman for the jalopy jungle spoke up. 'Mr Strikerock, if you want to step outside with me I'll go over the handling instructions with you, just to be on the safe side. And you can pick out whichever jalopy you want.' To Kongrosian he said, 'I'll be able to help you in just a moment Please be patient, if you will.'

  Kongrosian stammered, 'C-can you see me?'

  'I can see everybody,' the salesman said. 'Given tune enough.' And he left the office with Strikerock, then.

  'Calm yourself,' the papoola said, within Kongrosian's mind; it had remained in the office, evidently to keep him company. 'All is well. Mr Miller will take good care of you and very, very sooooon.' It crooned to him, lulling him.

  'Alll is welllll,' it intoned.

  Suddenly the customer, Mr Strikerock, re-entered the office. To Kongrosian he said, 'Now I remember who you are! You're the famous concert pianist who's always playing for Nicole at the White House; you're Richard Kongrosian.'

  'Yes,' Kongrosian admitted, pleased to be recognized.

  Just to be on the safe side, however, he moved carefully back from Strikerock, so as not to offend him. 'I'm amazed,' he said, 'that you can see me; just recently I've become invisible ... in fact that's what I was discussing with Egon Superb on the phone. Currently, I'm seeking rebirth. That's why I'm going to emigrate; there's no hope for me here on Earth, obviously.'

  'I know how you feel,' Strikerock said, nodding. 'Just recently I quit my job; I've got no ties to anyone here, any more, not to my brother nor to -- ' He paused, his face dark.

  'To anyone. I'm leaving alone, with no one.'

  'Listen,' Kongrosian said, on impulse, 'Why don't we emigrate together? Or -- does my phobic body odours offend you too much?'

  Strikerock did not seem to know what he meant. 'Emigrate together? You mean go in for a land-stake as partners?'

  'I have plenty of money,' Kongrosian said. 'From my concert appearances; I can finance both of us easily.' Money was certainly the least of his worries. And maybe he could help this Mr Strikerock, who, after all, had just quit his job.


  'Maybe we could work something out,' Strikerock said thoughtfully, nodding slowly up and down. 'It's going to be lonely as hell on Mars; we wouldn't have any neighbours except perhaps simulacra. And I've seen enough of them as it is to last me the rest of my life.'

  The salesman, Mr Miller, returned to the office, looking a trifle perturbed.

  'We need only one jalopy between us,' Strikerock said to him. 'Kongrosian and I are emigrating together, as partners.'

  Shrugging philosophically, Mr Miller said, 'I'll show you two a slightly larger model, then. A family-sized model.' He held the door of the office open and Kongrosian and Chic Strikerock stepped out on to the lot. 'You two know each other?' he asked.

  'Not before now,' Strikerock said. 'But we both have the same problem; we're invisible, here on Earth. So to speak.'

  'That's right,' Kongrosian put in. I've become totally invisible to the human eye; obviously it's time to emigrate.'

  'Yes, if that's the case I would say so,' Mr Miller agreed tartly.

  The man on the telephone said, 'My name is Merrill Judd, of A.G. Chemie. I'm sorry to bother you -- '

  'Go ahead,' Janet Raimer said, seating herself at her neat, small idiosyncratically-arranged desk. She nodded to her secretary, who at once shut the office door, cutting out the noises from the White House corridor outside. 'You say this has to do with Richard Kongrosian.'

  'That's right.' On the screen, Merrill Judd's miniature face image nodded. 'And for that reason it occurred to me to contact you, because of the close ties between Kongrosian and the White House. It seemed reasonable to me that you'd want to know. I tried, about half an hour ago, to visit Kongrosian at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco. He was gone. The staff there couldn't locate him.'

  'I see,' Janet Raimer said.

  'Evidently he's quite ill. From what he said to me -- '

  'Yes,' Janet said, 'he's quite ill. Do you have any other information for us? If not, I'd like to get started on this right away.'

  The A.G. Chemie psych-chemist had no other information. He rang off, and Janet dialled an inside line, trying several White House stations until at last she managed to reach her nominal superior, Harold Slezak.

  'Kongrosian has left the hospital and vanished. God knows where he may have gone, possibly back to Jenner we should check that, of course. Frankly, I think the NP should be brought in; Kongrosian is vital.'

  ' "Vital," ' Slezak echoed, wrinkling his nose. 'Well, let's say rather that we like him. We'd prefer not to have to make do without him. I'll obtain Nicole's permission to involve the police; I think you're right in your estimate of the situation.' Slezak , with no amities, rang off then. Janet hung up the phone.

  She had done all she could do; it was now out of her hands.

  The next thing she knew, an NP man was in her office, notebook in hand. Wilder Pembroke -- she had run into him many times when he held lesser positions -- seated himself across from her and began to take notes. 'I've already checked with Franklin Aimes.' The Commissioner regarded her thoughtfully. 'It seems that Kongrosian made a phone call to Dr Egon Superb -- you know who he is: the sole remaining psychoanalyst. He left not much after that. To your knowledge, was Kongrosian seeing Superb?'

  'Yes of course,' Janet said. 'For some time.'

  'Where do you think he would go?'

  'Except for Jenner -- '

  'He's not there. We've got somebody in the area, now.'

  'Then I don't know, Ask Superb.'

  'We're doing that,' Pembroke said.

  She laughed. 'Maybe he's joined Bertold Goltz.'

  The Commissioner, not amused, his flat face hard, said, 'We'll look into that of course. And there's always the possibility he ran into one of those Loony Luke lots, those fly-by-night jalopy jungles. They seem somehow to show up at the appropriate time and place. God knows how they manage it but they do, somehow. Of all the possibilities -- ' Pembroke was speaking half to himself; he seemed quite agitated. 'As far as I'm concerned that's the very worst.'

  'Kongrosian would never go to Mars,' Janet said.

  'There's no market for his talents, there; they don't need concert pianists. And underneath his eccentric, artistic exterior, Richard is shrewd. He would be aware of that.'

  'Maybe he's given up playing,' Pembroke said. 'For something better.'

  'I wonder what sort of farmer a psychokinetic would make.'

  Pembroke said, 'Maybe that's exactly what Kongrosian is wondering at this moment, too.'

  'I -- would think he'd want to take his wife and son.'

  'Perhaps not. Maybe that's the entire point. Have you seen the boy? The offspring? Do you know about the Jenner area and what's happened, there?'

  'Yes,' she said tightly.

  'Then you understand.'

  They were both silent.

  Ian Duncan was just seating himself in the comfortable leather-covered chair across from Dr Egon Superb when the squad of NP men burst into the office.

  'You'll have to disburse your healing a little later,' the young, sharp-chinned NP squad leader said as he briefly showed Dr Superb his credentials. 'Richard Kongrosian has disappeared from Franklin Aimes and we are trying to locate him. Has he contacted you?'

  'Not since leaving the hospital,' Dr Superb said. 'He called me earlier while he was still -- '

  'We know about that.' 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.'

  The NP leader closed his notebook, turned to his squad and said, 'Then that's it. The lots will have to be closed.'

  Into his portable corn-system he said, 'Dr Superb concurs with the lot idea but not with the Sons of Job. I think we should go along with him; the doctor seems to be certain. Check at once in the San Francisco area, see if a lot has shown up there. Thanks.' He rang off, then said to Dr Superb, 'We appreciate your help. If he does contact you, notify us.' He laid his card on Dr Superb's desk.

  'Don't -- be rough on him,' Dr Superb said. 'If you do find him. He's very, very ill.'

  The NP man glanced at him, smiled slightly, and then the squad of them left the office; the door shut after them. Ian Duncan and Dr Superb were again alone.

  In a peculiar, hoarse voice Ian Duncan said, 'I'll have to consult with you some other time.' He rose unsteadily to his feet. 'Goodbye.'

  'What's wrong?' Dr Superb said, also rising.

  'I've got to go.'

  Ian Duncan plucked at the door, managed to open it, disappeared; the door slammed.

  Strange, Dr Superb thought. The man -- Duncan, was it? -- didn't even have an opportunity to begin discussing his problem with me. Why did the appearance of the NP upset him so? Pondering, but finding no answer, Dr Superb reseated himself and buzzed Amanda Conners to send in the next patient; a whole waiting room full of them waited outside, the men surreptitiously (and many of the women, too) watching Amanda and every move she made.

  'Yes, doctor,' Amanda's sweet voice came, cheering up Dr Superb more than a little.

  As soon as he was out of the doctor's office Ian Duncan searched frantically for an auto-cab. Al was here in San Francisco; he knew that. Al had given him a schedule of the Number Three Lot's pattern of appearances. They would get Al. It was the end of Duncan & Miller, Classic Jugs.

  A sleek, modern auto-cab called to him, 'KinIhelpya, fella?'

  'Yes,' Ian Duncan gasped, and started out into traffic to meet it.

  This gives me a chance, he said to himself as the auto-cab streaked for the destination he had given it. But they'll get there first. Or will they? The police would have to comb virtually the entire city, and b
lock by block; whereas he knew and was heading for, the exact spot where Lot Number Three could be found. So perhaps he had a chance -- a slim one -- after all.

  If they get you, Al, he said to himself, it's the end of me, too.

  I can't go on alone. I'll join Goltz or die, something dreadful like that. It doesn't matter what.

  The auto-cab hurtled across town, on its way to Loony Luke's Jalopy Jungle Number Three.

  CHAPTER 11

  Nat Flieger wondered, idly, if the chuppers had any ethnic music. EME was, in its impartial way, always interested. But still, that was not their task, here; ahead now lay the home of Richard Kongrosian, a pale green wooden frame building, three storey, with -- incredibly -- an ancient, brown, untrimmed, ragged palm tree growing in the front yard.

  'We've arrived.' Molly murmured.

  The antique auto-cab slowed, gave forth a grating, indecisive racket, and then shut itself entirely off. It coasted to a stop and then there was silence. Nat listened to the far-off wind moving through the trees, and the faint spattering rhythm of the mist-like rain as it fell everywhere, on the cab and the foliage, the unkempt old wooden house with its tarpapered sun deck and many small, square windows, several of which were broken.

  Jim Planck lit a Corina corona and said, 'No signs of life.'

  It was true. So evidently Goltz had been correct.

  'I think,' Molly said presently, 'we've come on a wild goose chase.' She opened the door of the auto-cab and hopped gingerly out. The soil, under her feet, sank squashily. She made a face.

  'The chuppers,' Nat said. 'We can always record the music of the chuppers. If they have any.' He too, climbed out; he stood beside Molly and they both gazed at the big old house, neither of them speaking.

  It was a melancholy scene; no doubt of that. Hands in his pockets, Nat walked towards the house. He came up on to a gravel path which passed between elderly fuchsia and camellia bushes. Presently Molly followed. Jim Planck remained in the car.

  'Let's get it over with and then let's get out of here,' Molly said, and shivered, terribly cold in her bright cotton blouse and shorts.