The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

  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 Centre 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 seemed 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? 'Goodbye,' Al was saying to him.

  'W-what?' he said, horrified. 'Why do you say that? They're going to let us go, aren't they?'

  Al said, 'We won't remember each other. Take my word for it; we won't be allowed to keep any recollections like that. So -- ' He held out his hand. 'So goodbye, Ian. We made it to the White House, didn't we? You won't remember that either, but that's still true; we did do it.' He grinned crookedly.

  'Move along,' the NP man said to the two of them.

  Still -- pointlessly -- holding their jugs, Al Miller and Ian Duncan moved step by step down the corridor, in the direction of the outer door and the waiting black medical van which they knew lay beyond.

  It was night, and Ian Duncan found himself at a deserted street corner, cold and shivering, blinking in the glaring white light of an urban pubtrans loading platform. What am I doing here? he asked himself, bewildered. He looked at his wristwatch; it was eight o'clock. I'm supposed to be at the All Souls Meeting, aren't I? he thought dazedly.

  I can't miss another one, he realized. Two in a row -- it's a terrible fine; it's economically ruinous. He began to walk.

  The familiar building, The Abraham Lincoln with all its network of towers and windows, lay extended ahead, it was not far and he hurried, breathing deeply, trying to keep a good steady pace. It must be over, he thought. The lights in the great central auditorium were not lit. Damn it, he breathed in despair.

  '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 towards the elevator.

  As he emerged from the elevator on his own floor, a door opened and a furtive figure beckoned 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 rumour,' 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 1980's 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.

  Certainly very nice of him, he thought as he walked on.

  Probably saved my hide, kept me from being forcibly evicted right out of here, forever.

  When he reached his apartment he made himself comfortable, with all his reference books on the political history of the United States spread out around him. I'll study all night, he decided. Because I have to pass that quiz; I have no choice.

  To keep himself awake, he turned on the TV. Presently the warm, familiar being, the presence of the First Lady, flowed into existence and began to permeate the room.

  ' ... and at our musical tonight,' she was saying, 'we will have a saxophone quartet which will play themes from Wagner's operas, in particular my favourite, die Meistersinger. I believe we will all find that a deeply rewarding and certainly an enriching experience to cherish. And, after that, I have arranged to bring you once again an old favourite of yours, the world-renowned cellist, Henri LeClerc, in a programme of Jerome Kern and Cole Porter.' She smiled, and at his pile of reference books, Ian Duncan smiled back.

  I wonder how it would be to play at the White House, he said to himself. To perform before the First Lady. Too bad I never learned to play any kind of musical instrument. I can't act, write poems, dance or sing -- nothing. So what hope is there for me? Now, if I had come from a musical family, if I had had a father or a mother to teach me ...

  Glumly, he scratched a few notes on the rise of the French Christian-Fascist Party of 1975. And then, drawn as always to the TV set, he put his pen down and turned his chair so that he faced the set. Nicole was now exhibiting a piece of Delft tile which she had picked up, she explained, in a little shop in Schweinfurt, Germany. What lovely clear colours it had ... he watched, fascinated,' as her strong, slim fingers caressed the shiny surface of the baked enamel tile.

  'See the tile,' Nicole was murmuring in her husky voice. 'Don't you wish you had a tile like that? Isn't it lovely?'

  'Yes,' Ian Duncan said.

  'How many of you would like someday to see such a tile?'

  Nicole asked. 'Raise your hands.'

  Ian raised his hand hopefully.

  'Oh, a whole lot of you,' Nicole said, smiling her intimate radiant smile. 'Well, perhaps later we will have another tour of the White House. Would you like that?'

  Hopping up and down in his chair, Ian said, 'Yes, I'd like that!'

  On the TV screen she was smiling directly at him, it seemed. And so he smiled back. And then, reluctantly, feeling a great weight descend over him, he at last turned back to his reference books. Back to the harsh realities of his daily endless life.

  Against the window of his apartment something bumped and a voice called to him thinly, 'Ian Duncan, I don't have much time!'

  Whirling, he saw outside in the night darkness a shape drifting, an egg-like construction that hovered. Within it a man waved at him energetically, still calling. The egg gave off a dull putt-putt noise, its jets idling as the man kicked open the hatch of the vehicle and lifted himself out.

  Are they after me already on this quiz? Ian Duncan asked himself. He stood up, feeling helpless. So soon ... I'm not ready, yet.

  Angrily, the man in the vehicle spun the jets until their steady white exhaust-firing met the surface of the building; the room shuddered and bits of plaster broke away. The window itself collapsed as the heat of the jets crossed it.

  Through the gap exposed the man yelled once more, trying to attract Ian Duncan's dulled faculties.

  'Hey, Duncan! Hurry up! I have your buddy already; he's on his way in another ship!' The man, elderly, wearing an expensive natural fibre blue pinstripe suit which was slightly old-fashioned, lowered himself with dexterity from the hovering egg-shaped vehicle and dropped feet-first into the room. 'We have to get going if we're to make it. You don't remember me? Neither did Al.'

  Ian Duncan stared at him, wondering who he was and who Al was.

  'Mama's psychologists did a good job of working you over,' the elderly man panted. 'That Bethesda -- it must be quite a place.' He came towards Ian, caught hold of him by the shoulder. 'The NP's are shutting down all the jalopy jungles; I have to beat it to Mars and I'm taking you along with me. Try to pull yourself together; I'm Loony Luke you don't remember me now but you will after we're all on Mars and you see your buddy Al again. Come on!'

  Luke propelled him towards the gap in the wall of the room, the opening which had once been a window, and towards the vehicle -- it was called a jalo
py, Ian realized -- drifting beyond.

  'Okay,' Ian said, wondering what he should take with him. What would he need on Mars? Toothbrush, pyjamas, a heavy coat? He looked frantically around his apartment, one last inspection of it.

  Far off, police sirens sounded.

  Luke scrambled back into the jalopy, and Ian followed, taking hold of the elderly man's extended hand. The floor of the jalopy, he discovered to his surprise crawled with bright orange bug-like creatures whose antennae waved at him as he sprawled among them. Papoolas, he remembered. Or something like that.

  You'll be all right now, the papoolas were thinking in unison.

  Don't worry; Loony Luke got you away in time, justbarely in time. Relax.

  'Yes,' Ian agreed. He lay back against the side of the jalopy and relaxed, as the ship shot upwards into the night emptiness and the new planet which lay ahead.

  CHAPTER 13

  'I certainly would like to leave the White House,' Richard Kongrosian said peevishly to the NP men guarding him. He felt irritable and also apprehensive; he stood as far from Commissioner Pembroke as possible. It was Pembroke, he knew, who was in charge.

  Wilder Pembroke said, 'Mr Judd, the A.G. Chemie psychchemist, will be here any minute. So please be patient, Mr Kongrosian.' His voice was calm but not soothing; it had a hard edge which made Kongrosian even more unstrung.

  'This is intolerable,' Kongrosian said. 'You guarding me like this, watching everything I do. I simply can't tolerate being watched: I have paranoia sensitiva; don't you realize that?'

  There was a knock at the door of the room. 'Mr Judd to see Mr Kongrosian,' a White House attendant called in Pembroke opened the door of the room, admitting Merrill Judd, who entered briskly, official briefcase in hand. Mr Kongrosian. Glad to meet you face to face, at last.'

  'Hello, Judd,' Kongrosian murmured, feeling sullen about everything which was going on around him.

  'I have here with me some new, experimental medication for you,' Judd informed him, opening the briefcase and reaching within. 'The imipramine hcl -- twice a day, 50 mg each. That's the orange tablet. The brown tablet is our new methabyretinate oxide, 100 mg per -- '

  'Poison,' Kongrosian broke in.

  'Pardon?' Alertly, Judd cupped his ear.

  'I won't take it; this is part of a carefully laid plot to kill me.' There was no doubt of it in Kongrosian's mind. He had realized it as soon as Judd had arrived with the official A.G. Chemie briefcase.

  'Not at all,' Judd said, glancing sharply at Pembroke. 'I assure you. We're trying to help you. It's our job to help you, sir.'

  'Is that why you kidnapped me?' Kongrosian said.

  'I did not kidnap you,' Judd said cautiously. 'Now as to -- '

  'You're all working together,' Kongrosian said. And he had an answer for it; he had been preparing for the exact moment when the time was right. Summoning his psychokinetic talent he lifted both his arms and directed the power of his attention towards the psych-chemist Merrill Judd.

  The psych-chemist rose from the floor, dangled in air; still clutching his official A.G. Chemie briefcase, he gaped at Kongrosian and Pembroke. Eyes protruding, he tried to speak, and then Kongrosian whisked him at the closed door of the room. The door, wooden and hollow-core splintered as Judd swept against it and through it; he disappeared from Kongrosian's sight then. Only Pembroke and his NP men remained in the room with him.

  Clearing his throat, Wilder Pembroke said huskily, 'Perhaps -- we should see how badly he's hurt.' As he started towards the ruined door he added, over his shoulder, 'I would think that A.G. Chemie will be somewhat upset by this. To put it mildly.'

  'The hell with A.G. Chemie,' Kongrosian said. 'I want my own doctor; I don't trust anybody you bring in here. How do I know he was actually even from A.G. Chemie? He was probably an impostor.'

  'In any case,' Pembroke said, 'you hardly have to worry about him, now.' Gingerly, he opened the remains of the wooden door.

  'Was he truly from A.G. Chemie?' Kongrosian asked, following him out into the corridor.

  'You talked to him on the phone yourself; it was you who called him into this initially.' Pembroke seemed angry and agitated, now, as he searched the corridor for a sign of Judd. 'Where is he?' he demanded. 'What in the name of God did you do with him, Kongrosian?'

  Kongrosian said, with reluctance, 'I moved him downstairs to the subsurface laundry room. He's all right.'

  'Do you know what the von Lessinger principle is?' Pembroke asked him, eyeing him tensely.

  'Of course.'

  Pembroke said, 'As a member of the higher NP, I have access to von Lessinger equipment. Would you like to know whom you'll next mistreat by means of your psychokinetic ability?'

  'No,' Kongrosian said.

  'Knowing would be to your advantage. Because you might want to stop yourself; it will be a manoeuvre you'll regret.'

  'Who's the person?' Kongrosian asked, then.

  'Nicole,' Pembroke said. 'You can tell me something if you want. Under what operating theory have you refrained, up until now, from using your talent politically?'

  ' "Politically"?' Kongrosian echoed. He did not see how he had used it politically.

  'Politics,' Pembroke said, 'if I may remind you, is the art of getting other people to do what you want them to, by force if necessary. Your application of psychokinesis just now was rather unusual in its directness ... but nevertheless it was a political act.'

  Kongrosian said, 'I always felt it was wrong to use it on people.'

  'But now -- '

  'Now,' Kongrosian said, 'the situation is different. I'm a captive; everyone's against me. You're against me, for instance. I may have to use it against you.'

  'Please don't,' Pembroke said. He smiled tightly. 'I'm merely a salaried employee of a government agency, doing my job.'

  'You're a lot more than that,' Kongrosian said. 'I'd be interested in knowing how I'm going to use my talent against Nicole.' He could not imagine himself doing that; he was too awed by her. Too reverent.

  Pembroke said, 'Why don't we wait and see.'

  'It strikes me as strange,' Kongrosian said, 'that you'd go to the trouble of using von Lessinger equipment merely to find out about me. After all, I'm utterly worthless, an outcast from humanity. A freak that should never have been born.'

  'That's your illness talking,' Pembroke said. 'When you say that. And down inside your mind somewhere you know that.'

  'But you must admit,' Kongrosian persisted, 'that it's unusual for someone to use the von Lessinger machinery as you evidently have. What's your reason?' Your real reason, he thought to himself.

  'My task is to protect Nicole. Obviously, since you will soon be making an overt move in her direction -- '

  'I think you're lying about that,' Kongrosian interrupted. 'I could never do anything like that. Not to Nicole.'

  Wilder Pembroke raised an eyebrow. And then he turned and rang the elevator button to begin his trip downstairs to search for the psych-chemist from A.G. Chemie.

  'What are you up to?' Kongrosian asked. He was highly suspicious of the NP men anyhow, always had been and always would be, and particularly so ever since the NP had shown up at the jalopy jungle and seized him. And this man impelled an even greater suspicion and hostility in him, although he did not understand quite why.

  'I'm just doing my job,' Pembroke repeated.

  And still, for reasons he did not consciously know, Kongrosian did not believe him.

  'How do you now expect to get well?' Pembroke asked him as the elevator doors opened. 'Since you've destroyed the A.G. Chemie man -- ' He entered the elevator, beckoning Kongrosian to join him.

  'My own doctor. Egon Superb; he can still cure me.'

  'Do you want to see him? It can be arranged.'

  'Yes!' Kongrosian said eagerly. 'As soon as possible. He's the only one in the universe who isn't against me.'

  'I could take you there myself,' Pembroke said, a thoughtful expression on his flat, hard face. '

 
If I thought it was a good idea ... and I'm not very certain of that, at this point.'

  'If you don't take me,' Kongrosian said, 'I'll pick you up with my talent and set you down in the Potomac.'

  Pembroke shrugged. 'Doubtless you could. But according to the von Lessinger equipment, you probably won't. I'll take the chance.'

  'I don't think the von Lessinger principle can deal properly with us Psis,' Kongrosian said irritably as he also entered the elevator. 'At least, I've heard that said. We act as acausal factors.' This was a difficult man to deal with, a strong man whom he actively did not like. Like -- or trust.

  Maybe it's just the police mentality, he conjectured as the two of them descended.

  Or maybe it's more.

  Nicole, he thought. You know darn well I could never do anything to you; it's utterly out of the question -- my entire world would collapse. It would be like injuring my own mother or sister, someone sacred.

  I've got to keep my talentin check, he realized. Please, dear Lord, help me keep my psychokinetic ability in check whenever I'm around Nicole. Okay? As the elevator descended he waited, fervently, for an answer.

  'By the way,' Pembroke broke into his thoughts suddenly. 'About your smell. It seems to be gone.'

  'Gone!' And then the implication of the NP man's remark struck him. 'You mean you could detect my phobic body odour? But that's impossible! It can't actually be -- ' He ceased talking, confused. 'And you say now it's gone.' He did not understand.

  Pembroke eyed him. 'I would certainly have noticed it here, cooped up with you in this elevator. Of course, it may come back. I'll be glad to let you know if it does.'

  'Thank you,' Kongrosian said. And thought, Somehow this man is getting the upper hand over me. Constantly. He's a master psychologist ... or is it that, by his definition, he's a master political strategist?